Militant Mommyhood

Is your baby wearing white after Labor Day? Oh my...
           Is your baby wearing white after Labor Day? Oh my…

The Beginning

I think I’m pretty firmly out of the baby-having years of my life. I mean, it is probably still physically possible, if not mentally abhorrent. If it were to happen… well, I can’t even bear to entertain the possibility of starting again at the completely clueless, worried-about-every teeny-thing phase of parenthood. Because that was totally me.

You know what I’m talking about. Anyone who has ever stared into the open and unguarded eyes of a tiny baby knows. That life, every infinitesimal thing that makes up that human existence, is quite literally in your hands. And if you’re a new mom, you’re handed this ginormous responsibility at a moment in time when your body is in the worst shape it’s ever been, your hormones are out of control and you may be right on the verge of sanity—thanks to total exhaustion and the sheer enormity of it all.

But it doesn’t matter how tired you are, or if you’re basically wearing a grownup diaper and hopped up on Motrin, because the most important job of your life starts now. If you’re like me, you read ninety-seven books about what to expect while you were pregnant. But I read maybe, oh, half a book about what to expect once I had this defenseless human being actually in my arms as the rest of the world felt like it was spinning slowly out of my control and my identity receded so far beneath my nursing bras and swaddling blankets that I wasn’t even sure who I was. I was unprepared. And even the new moms I know who read ALL the right books about how to handle that 6-pound squalling world-disruptor were pretty damned lost once the time really came.

Dads are part of the equation—of course they are. But dads, at least most dads I know, manage to be a bit outside the frenzy and tornadic shitstorm that is managing a new human life. Maybe it’s because they traditionally take just a few days or weeks off and then their lives essentially go back to normal while the moms take on most of the new-baby stuff. (In this country, at least.)

All the Ways You’re Doing it Wrong…

And so it is confusing to me that so many moms—all of whom have shared the life-altering shock, pain and confusion of having a first child to some degree—are willing to pile on one another when it comes to figuring out how this should all be done.

Why is there a legion of moms standing at the ready to pour on the guilt when a new mom realizes that breastfeeding is not going to work for her? Why are there dozens of websites and Facebook groups positioned as being there to help and assist new mothers, that will quickly deride and condemn them for deciding that baby-wearing or co-sleeping isn’t right for them? Or that they are right? There are militant mommies on BOTH sides. Why are cloth diapers the only way to go – or wait, you live in the desert (or California) where water is scarce? Then how dare you use cloth diapers when it takes so much of that precious resource to clean them and reuse them? (see? Both sides, I tell you.)

When I was a frightened new mom, with a sparkly new human life in my hands—at a time when I should have been enjoying my baby and my new definition of self—I was completely paralyzed by fear, guilt and shame. I couldn’t breastfeed. I did it for eight whole weeks—three weeks after the doctor advised me to stop. I remember when the Major came home from work one day and I was sitting on the couch crying as I pumped blood and milk into a bottle. The mastitis and yeast infections were so bad that feeding felt like pulling glass through my breast, and much of the milk I made couldn’t be fed to my new baby anyway. But I knew that “breast was best,” and I’d be damned if I was going to take the easy way out for something this important.

I hope you see the insanity in the above statement.

My baby was losing weight. But my lactation consultant said I just needed to persevere. It would certainly get easier. It would become second nature. But it didn’t. And Turbo was hungry. But formula was the enemy, right?

No.

Formula was the right choice for us. And when Lunchbox’s turn came, I tried again, but we had the formula ready to go. And he was a fat and happy little guy, well fed and sweet.

And neither of my formula-fed boys has shown any sign of harm from my choice. By the way, my brother the rocket scientist was also formula fed. He’s over six feet tall. I don’t think formula stunted his intelligence or development. I was formula fed, too…

Don’t Listen to the Militant Mommies Around You

Here are the things I want new mommies to know, and I hope that hearing THIS from a mommy who has been there might help counter some of the messages that surround new moms, the propaganda put forth by the Militant Mommyhood:

  1. Feed your babies however you choose, but hold them tight when you do it, and look into their tiny faces, and smile. And know that you are taking care of them. (Having Mom smiling while holding a bottle of formula HAS to be more soothing than having Mom sob while you suck frantically at a scabbed nipple that barely makes milk, right?)
  2. Diaper your kids in whatever way works for you. Make your choice based on your beliefs and capabilities. Don’t let anyone pressure you in one direction or the other.
  3. You DO NOT have to make your own baby food and freeze it in ice cube trays. Don’t you have enough crap to do right now?? But if you DO have time to do this, then be proud that you’re doing what works for your family.
  4. Goldfish crackers are not the devil. Your kid will probably prefer carbs to veggies once they hit three or four, no matter how diligent you are at introducing healthy foods first. I speak from experience.
  5. Put the baby on a schedule. Or don’t. You have to do what works in your house, for your life. Don’t be bullied.
  6. Putting your tiny one in the swing and taking a minute to read a magazine doesn’t make you a bad mom. Good moms are happy moms. Find ways to get time for you and relax. Happy moms don’t spend every waking moment with their children. Happy moms regain their identity and independence over time. Don’t be afraid to do the things you enjoy doing WITHOUT a baby strapped to your chest.
  7. Babies are resilient. I think mine are made of rubber. You will make mistakes. And it will be okay.
  8. Most of all – SURVIVE. The first year is about getting your feet back under you and adjusting to the biggest change you’ll ever endure. Survive it. And if you can find those bright gleaming moments of wonder and joy in there, treasure them! Do it your way, and know that you are doing it right FOR YOU.

Delancey Stewart’s Newest Book

Yeah, I know. That title is a blatant plug for my alter ego. But it’s still true. She, er, I mean I…did release a book today!

It’s the third book in the Girlfriends of Gotham series, and it really is a super fun book, called Cosmos and Commitment. This whole series is loosely based on the time in my life when I was young and single and living in NYC as the Internet really began to take hold (think 1998). It was a strange time compared to now — cell phones were not a given, there was no texting, no facebook, and Match.com was just launched (they were one of the first clients of the company I worked for and I had a free account, which I eventually used to locate the Major… another story, another time).

If you think it sounds like fun, go grab the first book in the series — Men and Martinis. Or jump straight into the third — the stories are standalone!

cosmosandcommitmentsmall

Lunchbox and the Breatharians

Our little Lunchbox is not really living up to his name lately. Like. At. All.

He won’t eat anything composed of fruit or vegetables. Except for applesauce (must be in a pouch) or celery (with peanut butter) or edamame. (We start sushi early in this house and edamame always goes with. He also eats rice. Big surprise.)

But otherwise, he’s carbo-loading like a triathlete or abstaining altogether. And evidently the kid didn’t get my sweet tooth, so threats of missing dessert don’t faze him.

The Major jokes that he’s part of the Breatharian society. Have you heard of this? Here’s an informative link to the description on Wikipedia. (It’s on the Internet so it must be accurate.)

Female hand refusing the fast food meal

I swear the kid exists on fruit rollups (which he smashes into a festive little ball and shoves into his mouth in one fell swoop) and the occasional pistachio. (He only eats nuts so that he can make jokes about “touching his nuts” “stealing his nuts” “hiding his nuts”… you get the idea.)

Anyway, I do what all good moms do and make sure he eats sugar-loaded gummy vitamins in the morning to make up for the fact that his diet consists mainly of vitamins S (sugar) and B (bread) … but I’m hoping soon he’ll give up his subsistence on only air and return to our dinner table. Because I’ll be honest…dinner is my LEAST favorite time of day. I’ve been known to stand up and carry my plate into the dining room just to escape the mayhem that is family dinner at our house. Between Lunchbox insisting that everything in front of him is “yukky” and Turbo wheeling and dealing to see how much he has to eat to earn dessert, I’m too exhausted and annoyed to eat. (if only this were true, I’d lose 15 pounds. Sadly, I just eat elsewhere. And drink. Don’t forget the drinking.)

How do you get through the difficult days of food abstinence and junk-dependency? I have two boys, so I know there will come a time soon when I won’t be able to keep food in the house to keep up with their appetites. But I’m hoping that when they start grazing through the kitchen, they’ll make a few healthy choices, too. And how will that happen if all I ever present for dinner is Kraft Mac’n Cheese? (don’t get me wrong. I worship at the altar of the M&C regularly.) But I want the boys to know that real food is good for them and will make them feel better in the long run, and that crap (as most of their preferred snacks are called around here) will only sustain you for so long. We talk about protein and sugar, about how our bodies work and what food does for us… are these messages getting through?

I’ll let you know in about ten years.

Home Improvement

The definition of “settle” – according to my go to site, Google (did you know they had a dictionary feature??) can be one of many things. The two definitions I identify with and use most often are:

  1. accept or agree to (something that one considers to be less than satisfactory
  2. adopt a more steady or secure style of life, especially in a permanent job and home

Maybe not in that order.

So the Major and I bought a house in December. It’s a great house, near the base where we both work. Our current location offers a great quality of life, a safe neighborhood, and lots of outdoor-type stuff that we all enjoy. The neighborhood even has a private beach, where we spend pretty much every single Sunday afternoon, sipping cocktails and talking about life while the kids putter around next to the dock.

This wonderful neighborhood is also about three thousand miles away from what I still think of as “home.” California.

The Major will likely retire soon, and this is a great place for post active-duty employment. The kids are happy, the weather is usually good, and life is pretty easy. We have a lot more house than we could afford in many parts of the country, and there’s no Homeowners’ Association, so the Major can pursue his many interesting hobbies without fear of the neighbors being annoyed about the trailer/antenna/RC airplane in our yard. (yeah, we’re kinda leaning white trash. I’ve come to terms with it. I just buy expensive wine to try to counter the trend.)

So basically, we’ve settled. Take it however you like.

But coming back to home ownership means we get to do PROJECTS!!! I LOVE PROJECTS!

The first one I attacked was my office. Since I’m a serious fiction writer and all (ahem… please don’t chuckle), the Major let me have the “real” office. And I immediately decorated it exactly the way I wanted it… Girly colors and birch tree decals and generally just a kickass feminine creative space. What do you think?

OfficeIMG_1087 IMG_1083

The Big Yellow Bus Cometh

IMG_1379
School Supplies. Or maybe I’m stocking school pantries…

School starts next week for my littles. Turbo will be in third grade and Lunchbox is going into Kindergarten. They’re starting at a brand new school, since we moved last year… and they’re both weirdly fine with the entire thing. I keep checking in, probably inspiring anxiety where there is none (because seriously — these are MY kids, right??) But they’re rolling with it and taking it all in stride. It’s unsettling. There’s nothing for me to DO… (except buy ALL the school supplies. 20 glue sticks for two kids? Sure, that makes sense…)

This summer my kiddos have changed. I guess they do that every year — hell, they do it every day, don’t they? But this year Turbo has become calmer, easier to talk with. He’s insightful and smart, and I’m starting to get this glimmering idea that maybe we’ve done some things right.

But he’s changing in other ways, too. He’s also embarrassed when I hug him in front of people, and won’t kiss me if anyone is looking. Still though, in the car in the morning when I drop him off for camp, he’ll look at me as I hug him, and whisper “I love you more.” And there’s something in that look — a longing, an understanding — something that tells me he knows what’s happening, just like I do. Something that tells me we both feel him growing up, growing away. And even if he might not be able to talk about it with me in the terms that I might use, I know he senses that maybe it is something to be mourned, just a little bit. There’s a knowledge in his expression at those moments that breaks my heart a little as I hear my own mom’s voice in my head telling me that I should never wish away their childhoods. “The days last forever, but the years fly by.” And when I hug Turbo as tight as he’ll let me, I look into his eyes to see that knowledge, hoping he’ll see the knowledge I carry now — that I know our time is short. That I know he has to move away from me and become independent. That it breaks my heart a little every day, but that I want him to do it because I can’t imagine anything greater than having created a kid who has the confidence and faith in himself to step away. I just don’t know if I’m ready for it to happen in third grade.

Lunchbox veers wildly between sweet huggable little boy and raging delirious madman. He wants to be held and hugged in a way that Turbo never really did, but he’s also indignant whenever the word “baby” slips out of anyone’s mouth, lest it might be aimed at him. He is quiet in company and ludicrously crass and vulgar — and hilarious — at home. If I have worries about him, they center mostly on his reluctance to let his personality show to those who don’t get to know him well. He has spent the whole summer at camp, and just this week as I dropped him off, one of the counselors asked over his head, “Is he always quiet? He never talks.” I wondered silently if it might be because she was one of those grownups who talked about kids like they weren’t standing RIGHT THERE. I’ve gotten variations on that question a lot, usually with Lunchbox right there to hear it. To me, that’s a version of, “What’s wrong with him?” and I don’t like it at all. He’s cautious and you have to earn his trust. And I just hope that his kindergarten teacher will not be one of those grownups who wants to ask me what’s wrong with him instead of asking HIM what his hopes and desires are for his first year of “real” school.

I guess I’m finally realizing that this whole parenting thing is so much more than I’d ever imagined. I’d thought about family, about having kids. I’d thought about it like a photograph — me standing there with the Major and our offspring. And we’d look happy, and it would just be. I never knew that having children is life eviscerating you, hauling your insides out to be examined and then you slowly figuring out how to put it all back in, but never being able to fit it all back quite right. I never knew I’d be completely undone by a two-year-old Turbo refusing to nap, me standing outside his bedroom door, holding it shut and screaming, “I was the marketing director of a public company!!” Like he cared. Like in the face of his refusal to comply with my rational demands, my past success might make a damned bit of difference. I never knew that I had a wolf inside me who wanted to rip apart the clueless jerk at Walmart who looked at my sweet tiny Lunchbox (who had to wear a helmet as a baby to shape his head) and asked “What’s wrong with your baby?” I never knew that having a kid catapults you into a completely different plane of existence, but it does. And sometimes I get to visit that place I used to live, that other world where different types of things seemed to matter a lot. But what I’m starting to see now, eight years into this journey, is that I’m happy where I am, in this alternate universe called “parenthood.”

Every day I try to remember to hug my little summer-brown boys as tight as they’ll let me. I try to remember to snuggle with them and to lay down on the floor and let them climb on me. I tell myself to take the time… because there are ghosts of the future wandering my house now. And I see one of them standing outside Turbo’s room — not begging him to stay in and sleep, but begging him to come out and just…be with me a bit longer. I want to hold them as tight as I can, all the while knowing I have to let go soon.