It was high school when I started to label myself a writer. Teenage angsty is so conducive to emotional poetry; the best way to get back at my parents was to fill in the blank spaces of my bed frame with words strung together to really show them how wrong they were. Ya know, the usual stuff. I had a binder that I filled wth pieces of paper that I had scribbled down poems. A few other friends were writers and we would share with one another, commiserate together, feel ourselves on higher ground somehow, because we knew how to express ourselves. My first experience with a poet I could connect with was during my senior year, a study of Anne Sexton. She was dark and sinister, sexy and raw. She haunted me, and I loved it. My favorite line stays with me still: "I am a watercolor; I wash off."
Back in college, when I was making some not-so-great choices, I wrote a lot. Poetry, prose, personal essays-- daily, I took pen to paper. Not just for class (which I did plenty of), but I kept a serious journal and at that time, all those years ago (ya know, a whole decade ago), blogs were not the rage they are now, so it was a real paper journal (shocking!). I wrote about the my lack of a real relationship, about the sort-of relationship I was involved in; I wrote to process and to make sense of the unexpected turns my life had taken. I had anticipated meeting the man of my dreams in college, planning a wedding, having a career and at the rate I was going, none of that was about to happen. It was okay, truly, and I was having a good time, but I was still dealing with some sense of disillusionment. So I did what any good English major does and I wrote. Bad poetry, great poetry, poetry that I would read out loud to myself to gauge the rhythm, the cadence. And I read. I read as much as I could get my hands on and wish I had taken advantage of the opportunities that a collegiate atmosphere presents and pushed then to submit my work to competitions. Who stays with me now? Sharon Olds; T.S. Eliot, Yusef Komunyakaa; Nikki Giovanni, Samuel Coleridge.
I had a few years in my mid twenties where life was unsure, unbalanced. I wrote a lot then, too. I read and reread the poets I had loved, finding myself in their lines, their words and wrote then, inspired by them. I repeatedly came back to the idea of a "Quarter Life Crisis." Here I was at 25 and I had no idea. I loved my career, and had bought a house all on my own and wondered if I had somehow condemned myself to a life alone. Not lonely, necessarily, but just alone. My friends were partnered off and/or having children, and my life was just in a different place. So I wrote to make sense of it all.
So now, five years later, things are dramatically different. I am married to my best best friend, a musician who is not afraid to open up and share his feelings, but can also build a kickass bookshelf and fix whatever needs fixing. I have children-- one we brought in, one stepson and one biological child. A teenager, a school aged child and a toddler. They are all beautiful and smart and funny and have taught me something different about myself and continue to do so. I truly love being a teacher and actually look forward to Monday mornings. In short, life is as sure as it can ever be, life is balanced. I feel good and happy and content, while knowing that I always want to be a better person than I am today, and that I will continue to grow and change. So what do I do? I don't write.
What gives?!? This is the happy life I always wanted, and while I can say that I don't have time or I'm too tired, the reality is that I don't make time for writing. I blog here once every two weeks or so, which I know isn't enough to keep a real readership going. But who really wants to hear about my kids' obsession with poop? Or what things I find on Etsy? Some of you (and I know that I read blogs about the same things-- yay for being an adult and being a mom!) But I definitely don't write the poetry I used to because happy poetry just isn't as interesting and I'm happy. So readers, if you stick with me, you'll get to hear about potty training success (if it ever comes), my sudden onset of desiring another child, my exciting Etsy finds, the joys of teaching and reading, and all of the stuff in between. Maybe I'll really get to a point of writing for serious again someday (maybe next fall when E is in school and I still have Fridays off?) Or maybe I'll just write about how much I love Glee and Criminal Minds and how exciting it is when my almost-three year old "reads" a book to me. And you're welcome along for the ride!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The End
It has officially been 5 weeks since E$ last nursed. I think that I am ready to say that he has weaned, and like I expected, I'm feeling very bittersweet about the conclusion.
Nursing was one of the most difficult challenges I faced when E was born; we certainly didn't take to it easily. It was a lot of work and I'm so thankful that I had friends who helped me through it all-- people who were willing to help me with position and his latching, who answered the questions I had that seemed trivial (what is a tongue tie? Does it look like he has hit?) and most importantly, who encouraged me. Thankfully, one friend confided that she didn't feel comfortable with nursing her newborn for weeks-- not just the one week deadline they tell you before you leave the hospital. 8 weeks, she told me-- 8 weeks before she felt confident. That took so much pressure off and so when at week 3, I broke down, I knew it was okay and that I could keep working on it. At 6 weeks, when I pretty much thought we were okay, but my nipples still sometimes were raw and sore, I knew we would make it. At 9 weeks, when we got thrush-- the most painful two days of my entire life. I could keep going and know that this was the best for my child. I could look down at him and see his eyes closed as he nursed, full and content, two hands gently cupping what nourished him and feel full and content myself.
Because we were nursing, I felt more comfortable with traveling. When E was just over two months old, we drove to see J's family in Kansas, to be there when his grandmother passed away. I remember sitting in the backseat of our Subaru, pulling my shirt to the side and leaning over the carseat to nurse E so we wouldn't have to stop every two hours. I remember nursing him on the beach, underneath an umbrella. We nursed at Barnes and Noble, the library, in restaurants. We nursed in dressing rooms, at both the Kite Festival and the Strawberry Festival, at parks. He was a quick nurser, but liked to snack. It was never a 20 or 30 minute session for E; he would nurse for just five or ten minutes and was then onto other things. He was six months old when I went back to work and I pumped twice a day. He always had enough milk for a morning bottle, but was eating solids for lunch by then, and would sometimes take a small bottle in the afternoons. Over winter break, when he was 10 months old, I stopped pumping at work and he just had water and solids during the day.
As he neared his first birthday, I contemplated weaning him. It was time, I thought. Most moms wean at a year, right? He was a great eater, I thought. He would always choose fresh fruits and vegetables over anything else. He would sleep through the night, I thought, if he didn't wake up to nurse. I would sleep through the night. But his first birthday came and went and we didn't wean. I was working full time, and those cuddles at night were okay with me. He was a great eater, but I knew he was still getting important nourishment from mama's milk. And I'm sure a lot of moms weaned by one, but not all of them. It's certainly more common in other parts of the world for babies to nurse for several years, until age 4 or 5 even. I could wean him over the summer, I thought, when we had more time together and it wouldn't be so traumatic.
But that didn't happen either. If anything, being together everyday made it more challenging to wean. If he was sad or hurt, he asked for nursies. If he was tired, he wanted his nursies. If just needed to be close, he needed his nursies. So I thought when he was two, we would wean.
Guess what? We didn't wean at two. We started the process; a few weeks before his birthday, we talked about how he wouldn't be able to nurse at night anymore, that mama's milk goes away when the sun goes down. For months, he would wake up every night and ask to nurse and every night, we would offer to sing him a song or read him a book. We would offer him a cup of cow's milk or water and a snuggle, but no nursies. It took forever, but he finally stopped asking for nursies at night. That doesn't mean, though, that he started sleeping through the night. E has never been a great sleeper; he often cries out, even if doesn't wake up. He's restless, always kicking covers off of his legs and then trying to pull them back up. Some nights, he can't sleep if he has on socks or pajama pants. Other nights, he won't sleep unless he has them both on. So while he was still waking up most nights, he finally stopped asking for nursies this past summer and it was such a relief to me. We were even able to drop the morning nursing session and told him he could only have nursies at night, just before bed. This was probably the easiest transition for him. He only asked two or three mornings before accepting that we were no longer nursing when we woke up.
And so since August, we've just been nursing before bed. He would still slip his hand down my shirt, resting it on my breast as he fell asleep, for comfort I suppose, or habit. He has spent the night at Granna and Papa's, or with his cousin a few times and never fussed or asked for me. I set the date for the real end at his third birthday. I knew-- or was hoping, really-- that by then, he would be ready and it would go smoothly. I knew, and was hoping, that I would be ready then, too. Three just felt right to me.
But then there was our trip to Kansas, for Thanksgiving. Our whole routine was off; we were sleeping in a different bed; there were lots of different people and so may other things going on. A few evenings he nursed, but most of the time, he just wanted to play with his cousins. I never offered or asked him if he wanted to nurse, I just let him go about his business. Sometimes he would remember and I would remind him that he could nurse before bed, but he was often exhausted and fell asleep on my chest. Three evenings in a row he went without nursing. When we came home from Kansas and went to sleep in our own bed, he forgot, too and I just held him, his head resting in the crook of my elbow, brushed his blonde locks from his eyes and leaned in to breathe him in. An entire week went by and he didn't ask to nurse before bed and at that point, I knew we were done. I knew that I could just offer him something else to drink and he would be okay.
His evening drink of choice now is often pink milk, strawberry milk, and he hasn't even asked to nurse before bed in weeks. He sometimes jokes about it now, sitting on my lap and pretending to nurse. He'll tell me he's a baby and that he needs his nursies, but always with a glint in his eye and a twinkling smile on his face. He still caresses my breasts lovingly and if he sees me getting in the shower or changing my clothes, he might ask to smell the nursies (which he reports smell like ice cream), but he's done. He weaned himself, on his own, really, without me setting a date or forcing him. He did it because he was ready, not because I made,him. As a parent, I've always felt that I should follow my child's lead, that children listen to their instincts, often better than adults, and that I could trust E to know what he needed. Despite the criticisms from some family members and some friends, despite the curious looks or dismissals from people who have chosen a different path for their children, I trusted my own maternal instincts to listen to what my child needed. It was easy, really, and there have been no tears. He's growing up and this closure is just one of the many we'll face together in our journey. And now that we're done nursing, I can say even more that I am thankful to have had the courage to follow my heart, my maternal instinct and trust that E and I could figure this out together.
Nursing was one of the most difficult challenges I faced when E was born; we certainly didn't take to it easily. It was a lot of work and I'm so thankful that I had friends who helped me through it all-- people who were willing to help me with position and his latching, who answered the questions I had that seemed trivial (what is a tongue tie? Does it look like he has hit?) and most importantly, who encouraged me. Thankfully, one friend confided that she didn't feel comfortable with nursing her newborn for weeks-- not just the one week deadline they tell you before you leave the hospital. 8 weeks, she told me-- 8 weeks before she felt confident. That took so much pressure off and so when at week 3, I broke down, I knew it was okay and that I could keep working on it. At 6 weeks, when I pretty much thought we were okay, but my nipples still sometimes were raw and sore, I knew we would make it. At 9 weeks, when we got thrush-- the most painful two days of my entire life. I could keep going and know that this was the best for my child. I could look down at him and see his eyes closed as he nursed, full and content, two hands gently cupping what nourished him and feel full and content myself.
Because we were nursing, I felt more comfortable with traveling. When E was just over two months old, we drove to see J's family in Kansas, to be there when his grandmother passed away. I remember sitting in the backseat of our Subaru, pulling my shirt to the side and leaning over the carseat to nurse E so we wouldn't have to stop every two hours. I remember nursing him on the beach, underneath an umbrella. We nursed at Barnes and Noble, the library, in restaurants. We nursed in dressing rooms, at both the Kite Festival and the Strawberry Festival, at parks. He was a quick nurser, but liked to snack. It was never a 20 or 30 minute session for E; he would nurse for just five or ten minutes and was then onto other things. He was six months old when I went back to work and I pumped twice a day. He always had enough milk for a morning bottle, but was eating solids for lunch by then, and would sometimes take a small bottle in the afternoons. Over winter break, when he was 10 months old, I stopped pumping at work and he just had water and solids during the day.
As he neared his first birthday, I contemplated weaning him. It was time, I thought. Most moms wean at a year, right? He was a great eater, I thought. He would always choose fresh fruits and vegetables over anything else. He would sleep through the night, I thought, if he didn't wake up to nurse. I would sleep through the night. But his first birthday came and went and we didn't wean. I was working full time, and those cuddles at night were okay with me. He was a great eater, but I knew he was still getting important nourishment from mama's milk. And I'm sure a lot of moms weaned by one, but not all of them. It's certainly more common in other parts of the world for babies to nurse for several years, until age 4 or 5 even. I could wean him over the summer, I thought, when we had more time together and it wouldn't be so traumatic.
But that didn't happen either. If anything, being together everyday made it more challenging to wean. If he was sad or hurt, he asked for nursies. If he was tired, he wanted his nursies. If just needed to be close, he needed his nursies. So I thought when he was two, we would wean.
Guess what? We didn't wean at two. We started the process; a few weeks before his birthday, we talked about how he wouldn't be able to nurse at night anymore, that mama's milk goes away when the sun goes down. For months, he would wake up every night and ask to nurse and every night, we would offer to sing him a song or read him a book. We would offer him a cup of cow's milk or water and a snuggle, but no nursies. It took forever, but he finally stopped asking for nursies at night. That doesn't mean, though, that he started sleeping through the night. E has never been a great sleeper; he often cries out, even if doesn't wake up. He's restless, always kicking covers off of his legs and then trying to pull them back up. Some nights, he can't sleep if he has on socks or pajama pants. Other nights, he won't sleep unless he has them both on. So while he was still waking up most nights, he finally stopped asking for nursies this past summer and it was such a relief to me. We were even able to drop the morning nursing session and told him he could only have nursies at night, just before bed. This was probably the easiest transition for him. He only asked two or three mornings before accepting that we were no longer nursing when we woke up.
And so since August, we've just been nursing before bed. He would still slip his hand down my shirt, resting it on my breast as he fell asleep, for comfort I suppose, or habit. He has spent the night at Granna and Papa's, or with his cousin a few times and never fussed or asked for me. I set the date for the real end at his third birthday. I knew-- or was hoping, really-- that by then, he would be ready and it would go smoothly. I knew, and was hoping, that I would be ready then, too. Three just felt right to me.
But then there was our trip to Kansas, for Thanksgiving. Our whole routine was off; we were sleeping in a different bed; there were lots of different people and so may other things going on. A few evenings he nursed, but most of the time, he just wanted to play with his cousins. I never offered or asked him if he wanted to nurse, I just let him go about his business. Sometimes he would remember and I would remind him that he could nurse before bed, but he was often exhausted and fell asleep on my chest. Three evenings in a row he went without nursing. When we came home from Kansas and went to sleep in our own bed, he forgot, too and I just held him, his head resting in the crook of my elbow, brushed his blonde locks from his eyes and leaned in to breathe him in. An entire week went by and he didn't ask to nurse before bed and at that point, I knew we were done. I knew that I could just offer him something else to drink and he would be okay.
His evening drink of choice now is often pink milk, strawberry milk, and he hasn't even asked to nurse before bed in weeks. He sometimes jokes about it now, sitting on my lap and pretending to nurse. He'll tell me he's a baby and that he needs his nursies, but always with a glint in his eye and a twinkling smile on his face. He still caresses my breasts lovingly and if he sees me getting in the shower or changing my clothes, he might ask to smell the nursies (which he reports smell like ice cream), but he's done. He weaned himself, on his own, really, without me setting a date or forcing him. He did it because he was ready, not because I made,him. As a parent, I've always felt that I should follow my child's lead, that children listen to their instincts, often better than adults, and that I could trust E to know what he needed. Despite the criticisms from some family members and some friends, despite the curious looks or dismissals from people who have chosen a different path for their children, I trusted my own maternal instincts to listen to what my child needed. It was easy, really, and there have been no tears. He's growing up and this closure is just one of the many we'll face together in our journey. And now that we're done nursing, I can say even more that I am thankful to have had the courage to follow my heart, my maternal instinct and trust that E and I could figure this out together.
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