We were hoping for some answers this morning. For a week we've been looking forward to these precious moments where we get to see our little bean and watch the heart rate flicker on the screen.
We didn't get what we were hoping for. No baby. No tiny heart beat. No answers.
"Wait a week," they say. "It may be too early." But I know what we should have seen on the screen and laugh as the doctor tells us not to panic...yet.
Today, it was just a normal day. I was out running some errands with my wood thing, when I suddenly knew something was wrong. By the time we got home I was bleeding and panicking.
The doctor had no answers to my frank question. She didn't know what was wrong or if my growing baby was OK. I wanted answers; instead I got bed rest, blood tests, and an ultrasound scheduled in a week. (Can you imagine bed rest with a 35 lb wild thing at home? Not likely to occur.)
This isn't how it's supposed to be. You get pregnant and enjoy/suffer through those early symptoms. Then you have a doctor's appointment and hear your baby's heart beat.
I may never see my little bean or hear his little heart beat.
That very faint line on the stick keeps getting darker. Can it actually be true? Are we expecting another little one?
We spent several days waiting and examining lines before I ended up at the doctor with some minor complications. This pregnancy is not starting out like any of my others, but we are emotional and excited (terrified?) about some new little person joining our family.
Fingers crossed for the little bean.
It's been a while since I've written here. I've been busy and haven't felt the need to write about our crazy life. These last few weeks life has forced me to slow down and given me a story to tell. Not to have other people to read it or understand, but to have a place to vent or process. This is a place to express my feelings, worries, and struggles. Unlike "real" life, I don't have to worry about the feelings of others before I speak or try to protect them from reality because it hurts them.
So, I'm rambling. I'm telling a story for me. I'm telling a story for my emotional well-being.
Update: For those of you reading, this isn't the happy ending we were hoping for. This isn't worthy of congratulations or pity. This is just our life. I'm just hugging my wild thing a little tighter than ever before.
I just read an article about mommy anger, frustration, and losing your cool. The struggle is real, my friends. I know someone else wrote about it well, I feel the need to share. This is like my own personal confession of my AP/gentle parenting failure. It happens to so many of us. And what's worse? We're not supposed to talk about it.
I experienced it last night while shopping with my wild thing and mom. He started biting me and I ended up flicking him in his little cheek each time he escalated the biting because he didn't get the result he wanted (me to put him down). Neither of us was hurt by the biting or flicking; just angry. I hate when I respond this way. It's usually lack of resources; being hungry and tired gets the better of both of us.
Then I realized how I was acting. Yes, how I was acting, not him. He's one. It's normal for him to lash out when he doesn't get what he's asking for. I, on the other hand, am supposed to be a mature adult. I am supposed to be the one who helps him regulate all of these big emotions. People were watching our interaction and I was not modeling gentle parenting or helping him calm down.
I took a deep breath, sat him on the floor, and talked about being gentle with each other (Yes, both of us need to be gentle and I use this as my apology for acting inappropriately). Then we both modeled gentle touches. When he shows me gentle touches he rubs me gently and says, "Nice." (It's cute, and helps me when I was ready to lose my ish with him a few seconds before). The whole interaction took less than a minute and it was over.
Gentle parenting win. At least until the next time toddlerhood meets tired, hungry, stressed mommy. Hopefully I'll do better next time. That's all I can hope for; to constantly improve my interactions with him and others.
I'm a nursing mama. My eighteen-month-old is an avid nurser. I've begun to wonder about the nature of our nursing relationship. It's strong and healthy. But, how long will it last? Longevity was not something I strove for when I began this journey a year and a half ago. Sheesh.
I'm not sure what began my pondering.
-- Maybe it was the woman in the Montana dinner who sneered at me from behind her Elton John glasses and shook her head with disapproval, while whispering to her tablemates.
-- Maybe it was my family beginning to question me as my wild thing neared a year old, then continuing to make sarcastic "subtle" comments.
-- Maybe it was my pediatrician who said he supported my decision, but warned me about the social pressure I would face.
-- Maybe it was me who wanted my body to myself (as my little guy did downward dog while nursing) or longed for a full night of sleep.
Though I can't pinpoint when, the fact is I've begun wondering. When is the right time? Mine, his, society's? There are times I want it to be in my time. I want to be in control. I'm bigger, older, and used to getting my way when it comes to my body. But I wonder about my wild thing. What am I teaching him if I force him to give up something he loves (sometimes the only comfort he has)?
Am I teaching him that his feelings mean nothing?
Am I teaching him that I am attuned to his needs?
In answer to these questions, I'd have to say I wouldn't be the kind of mom I work so hard to be. Nursing or not, I want to be the mom who raises a little boy who: knows he's important to me, knows I listen and try to understand, has the confidence to explore and learn and trust. (Whoa! That's a big one...trust. Trust others to care and meet his needs. Trust himself.)
Nursing will go on until it's our time to wean. When is that? When he's ready, we're ready. When he can understand boundaries and is able to self-soothe, I may feel comfortable nudging him in that direction. Despite all of the tricks I've read about for gentle nursing, I know he's not ready for that. He can't grasp that we only nurse when the sun is out and he certainly doesn't understand when I tell him he can't nurse. It's heartbreaking for him. That's when his big emotions take over and he can't cope. That's when he needs me to comfort him, not turn him away.
I love when my wild thing stirs in his sleep and stretches. His little toes spread out on the ends of his chubby feet.
I love when I've gone somewhere and he sees me come through the door or walking across the room. He gasps, smiles, and says, "Mama." My cowboy did that every time I got him from daycare.
I love when he says a new word or fits in a puzzle piece and yells, "Did it!" He's so proud of his accomplishments and wants us to be too.
I love when my wild thing lays down at night and, sometimes, I get 3 hours of freedom before he needs me.
I love that he wakes up and asks for me (even when I'm in the middle of something and I want hubs to handle it). It makes me smile.
It's the little things, in this time of exploration, volatile emotions, self-assertion, and expanding vocabulary. If there wasn't joy in small moments or accomplishments, these days would be overwhelming indeed.
To toddlerhood. You're bittersweet.
