How am I supposed to do this?

In 3 months I'm going to be a mom of two.  I feel like I haven't even gotten the hang of one yet.

In my head, I know that's not fair.  My sweet, precious big girl is doing great.  She is developmentally right on track, she is kind, she is funny.  I know that I must be getting it right, that I am not failing her, that we are doing just fine.

But that's not how it feels in my heart.

Almost every day lately, I feel overwhelmed.  I feel like I can't handle her.  Everything seems Big and Important.  Everything is a crisis.

We watch a lot of TV.  A really lot.  We still take swim lessons, we still go to playgroups, we still read books.  But I don't know how to play with her.  When I'm alone with her and there's nothing planned to do, I panic a little.  I don't know how to possibly fill the time.  I lose my patience quickly.  I cry more than I'd like to.

And in the back of my head, there's always a voice that says, "If you can't even handle this, how are you ever going to survive with two?"

When there are two small people I don't know what to do with.  When I haven't had any sleep and still have to chase BG around and stop her from scaling everything.  When the three of us are stuck in the house all winter staring at each other, and I'm the one who's expected to know what to do.

People say that once you have two, you should expect to be in survival mode for a while.  But I kind of feel like I'm already in survival mode, so where do I go from here?

Two

I can't believe we're here already.  And yet, I feel like this is the place we've been forever.

My sweet Baby Girl, if I can even still call you that, you are going to be two tomorrow.  Two years ago, I was putting my hand to my stomach and asking you to please come meet me, wondering who you were going to be.

Now I know.

Today, you call me mommy.  You say "Oh yeah!" when I make you dinner and "Oh noooo!" when you drop something on the floor. You say letters by name when you see them, and you know that lions roar.  You can climb on anything in the whole house, and you have no fear of the tallest slide at the playground.  You give the best hugs, and you give them generously, just like mama.

Sometimes I look at you and I see a caricature of myself.  I mean, I know I'm a hugger, but I don't go so far as to hug the coffee table . . . do I?  You put your sunglasses in your purse before climbing on your ride-on car and saying "byebye!" and I shake my head, wondering if that's what I look like to you.  You feel your feelings so strongly, both the highs and the lows.

But you aren't me.  You are you, your own brave, social, goofy self.  You know what you want and how to get it.  You love to be around other people, and you know how to make all of them love you.

There are days when I'm not sure what do do with you in all your spiritedness, but there are no days when I know what I'd do without you.

Happy birthday, my sweetest big girl.  Thank you for coming into our lives, and thank you for being exactly who you are.

My ramblings on breastfeeding.

A few weeks ago, at my MOMs Club meeting, one of the new second time moms was talking about breastfeeding.  She was agitated, flustered, exhausted - everything I would expect from a mom of a newborn.  But this was more than that.  When she talked about breastfeeding, she said "I have to do it for a year.  Because that's what I did with my oldest.  It wouldn't be fair to her if I don't.  I have to."

That makes me so sad.

Sometimes, when I read about breastfeeding - even and especially from breastfeeding advocates - it feels like they're talking about an obligation.  You owe it to your baby.  You owe it to the national health debate.  It's the right thing to do, and you should should should.

Ugh.

I breastfed.  For 19 months.  And I intend to again with #2.  Truthfully, I will be very sad and disappointed if something prevents me from doing it.

But not because it's the "right" thing to do.  Not because I have to or because I owe it to anyone else.  Because I really, really want to.

So, here's my breastfeeding manifesto.  Consider this my letter of advice to my best friend (ahem, are you reading, ET? ;)):

In my heart, I want you to breastfeed.  I want you to try.

Because I don't want you to have to pay for formula.  It's exorbitant, and I know there are things you'd rather do with that money - time and experiences and security you would rather buy.

Because I want your baby to have all possible health benefits.  It really is the best source of nutrition and improves immunity.  Formula is fine, really, but there's nothing that can compare to liquid gold.

Because in truth once you get the hang of it, it's so EASY.  Because you don't have to carry formula.  You don't have to warm bottles at 2 AM.  You have an almost foolproof tantrum stopper.

And mostly because there is no other experience in the world like it, in terms of bonding and connection.  I know you can bond with your baby without doing it.  I have no doubt that you can raise a happy, brilliant, securely attached child on formula.  I've seen it, many times.  But for me, breastfeeding was such a moment of joy and peace.  I want you to have that.  For your baby, yes, but for you mostly.

But here's the thing.

I don't want you to ever feel bullied.  By anyone on either side.  Bullied into supplementing when you don't want to, bullied into breastfeeding when you don't want to.

I don't want you to feel guilty, or think there's something wrong with you, if for some reason you can't.  If it's really hard.  If it doesn't work out the way I'm describing, or the way other people tell you it "should."

I don't want you to feel like you HAVE TO love it.  Like there's something wrong with you if it doesn't make you happy.

And if, for any reason, you start to resent it, to hate it, to feel like you're only doing it because you owe it to someone, that you're doing it for any reason other than you're own, like it is doing more harm than good to you or your relationships, then I want you to consider stopping.  I'm not telling you what to do.  You have to make that choice yourself.  But I want you to know that it's okay.

Because what you and your family deserve most is love and happiness.

And I will fight until I'm bloody to protect your right to that, whatever choices that means you have to make.

On blogging and belonging

When I first discovered blogs and blogging I was all alone.  I didn't know a lot of moms in real life, and I was sure I didn't know anyone who felt like I did.  And then suddenly I did.

I read these blogs - mid level blogs, I guess you'd call them, not tiny like me but I never once read Dooce or the Blogesss - and I fell in love.  I wanted to read all their words, leave them meaningful comments, join their lively conversations on twitter.

I wanted to be their friends.

The Internet is a strange place.  It makes you think you know people when you really don't.

Some of them were extremely sweet and patiently answered my emails and tweets.  But not all of them.  And even the ones who did, I quickly realized, were being polite and didn't really care that much what I had to say.

I was crushed.  I was humiliated. I was angry.  I was heart broken that they didn't like me as much as I liked them.  I thought for sure it was because I wasn't good enough, wasn't big enough, was a crazy annoying stalker, didn't deserve their friendship.

But I see now that isn't what it was at all.

You never really know what's going on with someone.  You don't know how busy or overwhelmed she is, how much pain she is, what her limitations are when it comes to socializing and communicating.

And people flock to who and what they know, especially when they're struggling.  You can't fault a person for talking to her best friend instead of to a stranger.

And over time I built up my own community on twitter.  People who I consider some of my best friends in the world.  And I still follow and read and admire some of those bigger bloggers.  But they aren't the first place I look anymore.

But I worry.  I still remember that feeling, of just wanting a place to belong.  I see people who think I'm "big,"  who leave me comments and tweets because there's something they're looking for too.  And I wonder how it is that I come across, whether I make anyone feel more alone than when they started.

I dont' want to let everyone down.  I want to spread kindness to everyone.  And I'm trying, even when I'm struggling, even when I'm overwhelmed.

But the Internet, it really is a tricky thing, isn't it?

Right now

Right now I am writing this with a 28 pound toddler snuggled against my chest and sleeping.

She fell asleep in the car on the way home from the grocery store, and when she woke up in her crib an hour later, she wasn't happy about it.  She stood up and screamed "MoMMEEEEEEE" at the top of her lungs until I came.

I had things to do.  Paperwork to take care of.  Laundry to wash.  Writing to do.  I wanted to have a cup of tea in quiet.

But I went.

I walked into her room and her face lit up.  "Hii Mommyy!!"

I picked her up.  She nestled her head into my shoulder.  Five minutes late we were on the couch and she was asleep.

And that's okay.

It doesn't seem like that long ago that I would have been breaking dishes over this.  I would have been inconsolable that my plans were ruined.  I would have been frustrated and angry and disappointed, and no one could gave convinced me that it was okay.

She won't be standing in a crib waiting for me much longer.  I don't know when she'll stop wanting to curl up on my chest to sleep.  I don't know how much longer her hair will smell like baby shampoo.

And it won't be just me and her for much longer.

So today I can sit here.  I can wrap her in my arms and kiss her head and she can sleep here as long as she wants.

And today, I know I'm okay.  At least for now.  I know I won't be again.  I know I'll get angry, anxious, devastated even.  I know there's at least as much hard ahead of me as behind me.

But I know I can make it through and I know why.

And I can even type about it with one hand.

Building a cathedral

I'm not sure where I heard this story, probably at a teacher inservice at some point, but it has stuck with me especially as I have been on my quest for a purpose.  In case you haven't heard it before, here's my best rendition.

A traveler came upon three men working on a hill, each of them smashing rocks with a hammer.  He approached the first man and said, "what are you doing?" 

"What does it look like?" said the first man, "I'm smashing rocks."

The traveler then approached the second worker and asked the same question.

"I'm working to earn a living for my family, so we can afford to have a better life."

The third man, when asked the same question, lit up with a smile.  "Can't you see?  I'm building a cathedral."

It's a little preachy, I know. I'm inclined to learn best through parables and narratives, so I'm not surprised it stuck with me.  But today it seems to be sticking in my brain a little extra.

So many days of this mom gig, I feel like I'm just smashing rocks.  It's discouraging.  It's disheartening.  I want to do something big, something that matters.  And the truth is, I feel this way even though I know that by raising a child I am doing some of the most worthwhile work in the world, that I am doing something at least as meaningful as building a cathedral.

I'm not going to "should" myself and say that I need to think like that third man all the time, that I need to see the big picture and take pride in my achievements.  Because sometimes I can't.  Sometimes that's just not where I am, and smashing the rocks is the best I can do to get through the day.  And that's okay.

But I also know that everyone needs to feel, at least once in a while, like they're building something that matters.

Some dear friends of mine are stepping out of their comfort zones today, and they're doing it because their families need them to.  They're doing it without any expectation of being able to find purpose or meaning in it.  They're doing it simply because they must, however much they really don't wanna, they're going out to smash rocks and they're doing it to make sure their families have better lives.

And I think that's amazing.  I think that's more than enough.

But I hope that somewhere along the line, they can find cathedrals.

Getting it right

It's been 22 months since Baby Girl was born.  22 hard and exhausting and beautiful and life changing months.

Sometimes I wonder if I did it right.

I'm not talking about what I did for her.  I'm not talking about her sleep or her eating or her mental development and play.  I'm not talking about the magnitude of my love.  Because somehow, whatever mistakes and missteps I may have made, she's doing great.  She's beautiful and smart and funny and PERFECT and she loves me like nothing else.  I know that I am lucky, but I also know that I am doing something right.

But I'm talking about me.

I had a really hard time.  Especially in the beginning, but even still now, I've struggled.  I cried.  I worried.  I got lost.  I forgot how to be me, and had to start from scratch instead of remembering.

I still sometimes get twitchy when someone else is playing with or holding my toddler.  I still sometimes want to scream "Give her to me, she's MINE."

And I know I've come a long way.  I know I'm better.  I know that I've created something for myself in the world, that I've spread the kindness that was so important to me, that I have purpose in a way I never expected.  I started to write and created something here that truly is beautiful and made me proud. I made myself go out into the world, social anxiety be damned, and I'm a better person for it.  I made a lot of choices that really healed me, and they were hard.

But sometimes I still wonder if I did it right.

Maybe it didn't have to be so hard.

I never talked to my doctor.  I never took medicine or went to therapy.  I did make heavy use of online support groups, change my social life, change the way I took care of my body and mind.  And all that is important work, but maybe I didn't have to work so hard.  At least, maybe I didn't have to do it on my own.

I cringe a little when people call me a PPD mom or survivor, not because I'm ashamed of the title but because I don't feel like I earned it.  I don't have a diagnosis.  And if I got so much better on my own, maybe it never really was truly depression.  Maybe becoming a mom is just hard, and I needed to grieve and adjust and learn how to do this totally new thing.

But maybe not.

I don't want to beat myself up.  I don't want to think that any of the trouble I had was because I did anything wrong.  I just want to make sure I do everything right next time.

Because next time is coming in December.

Sorry.  I may have buried the lead on that one a little.