Mommy Numbers in My Head

6 lbs., 15 oz, 19 1/2 inches long.
100.4 and above is a fever, and at his current age and weight, 17 lbs. and 14 oz, a little over 10 months, 2.5 mL of Tylenol.
Can only have additional doses every 6 hours.
If he's fever free for 24 hours without medication, then he can go back to daycare.
He still takes 5 oz of formula twice a day when he's not with me (sippy cup, we're moving away from bottle), but he's also getting 3 "meals" of solid food and still gets mother's milk once in the morning and twice in the evening.
His current car seat should last us up until he weighs 30 lbs.
I gotta say, our guy is a good sleeper (except when he's sick, of course). We usually put buddy down between 6-6:30, and he sleeps until 6:30 the next morning.

A Saturday at Home

This is the first weekend in a while I didn't have a conference to go to, a husband's defense to attend or various other sundry things which may have otherwise impeded my ability to have the presence of mind to blog.

If you're still around, attending to my now once-a-month posts, you the real MVP.

This Friday, P and I took advantage of our daycare provider's $20 date night and got all dolled up for a night out. We went to a new Brazilian place (quite a rarity in small-town, rural Kentucky, I must say), killed some time at Starbucks with hot chocolate, then went to catch a movie. (Best movie snack: buttery popcorn eaten with M&Ms). We hadn't been on a date in a while. It's nice to set aside mommy and daddy duty for a few hours every once in a while.

Date night!

Today we just chilled hard. Didn't even leave the house. I love these lazy Saturdays. Sleeping in, cuddling with our son. Pancakes and coffee. It's the day we experiment with different foods with the little one. Today he ate chunks of apple, bits of ham, boiled egg yolk and chopped up boiled egg white. He finally learned to sip from his spoutless, spill-proof sippy cup and we got a video, of course.

 I can't believe he'll be 10 months old in a matter of days. 

Lots of good things: P defended his dissertation last Friday, so, he's officially a doctor. We're officially doctors together. He's walking in his graduation ceremony next month (since I've already bought the regalia and he's graduating from the same school, same department as I did, he can just borrow mine! No need to shell out an additional obscene amount of money! Woo hoo! ). Baby's first Thanksgiving this month (my folks), first Christmas next month (P's folks) and first birthday the month after that (us). Yup. It will have been a whole entire year since I gave birth in literally 2 months. And that's insane. 

P's on the job market and has had a couple of preliminary interviews so far. Things are still up in the air. It can be unsettling, but right now, it's exciting. I'm choosing to see things as "full of possibility" instead of "full of uncertainty." Next year around this time, we could still be here or we could be somewhere else. Time will tell.

Fall "Break"

Today I find myself in the incredibly rare position of not being about to teach, not just coming from teaching, not feverishly grading quizzes, not agonizing over my mid-pro review statement, not pumping, not chopping up veggies to puree, not seasoning meat or boiling pasta and not glued to a baby. Nice.

We have today and tomorrow "off." Not really off because I have mid-pro hanging over me until Monday, quizzes and compositions to grade, grades to input. I'll just say, I have two days to procrastinate not doing these things while also not teaching. Otherwise known as Fall Break.

I wish I had more exciting things to talk about other than I'm busy, blah, blah, the baby, blah, blah. Don't get me wrong, though, the baby is a cutie:

Those cheeks! Those eyes! That wispy curly hair! Those kissable lips! It's too much, it's just too much.

My husband is defending next month. I know he is so glad to have this monster of a dissertation nearly behind him. Lord knows how I felt when I sent off that draft to the committee:

via GIPHY

But then comes the next steps. There's always the next steps.

We've found a bit of stability here and would like to stay, but things are still up in the air. (sigh.)

Hello. It's me.

Our little family at a recent wedding

Still here, just not having time to write like I used to. I don't know if I still have any readers since so much has changed about people's social media habits since I started this thing (more than 10 years ago) and since I update it so infrequently now.

Personal blogs aren't a thing anymore, unless you're a social media personality or if you're trying to promote yourself, your brand or do product reviews and stuff. Especially blogs on Blogspot. Like, don't people do Wordpress or Wix these days?

Somehow, I just can't let it die. It'll always have a purpose, I suppose. It will always represent something special and singular. It's this thing that has unwittingly traced my trajectory. From a single college undergrad on the cusp of graduation to a married professor mom in the thick of yet another transition.

Quick rundown of what's up:

1. I'm coming up on my third-year review. It's a pretty big deal and, ultimately, an indicator for whether you'll eventually achieve tenure. The biggest feat is writing a personal statement, which I've done many times over in many different contexts, but I just can't seem to get it going.

2. I was recently informed that I have access to a very generous grant for the purposes of research and travel. I have to take advantage of it and I already have some plans percolating in my mind. The first major one is a trip to Spain next summer. By that time, little boy will be 18 months old and I'll no longer be nursing him, which would make it easier to leave him for longer amounts of time. My husband and I have both been to Spain separately, but never together. I'll be able to bring him along and I'm looking forward to traveling abroad together.

3. P is just about finished with his dissertation. Defense in November, graduation in December. Which means he'll be on the job market this fall. We're just praying that something permanent, preferably tenure-track, with benefits, opens up in this area so that we don't have to move, so that we can start seriously paying down debt and realistically think about buying a house.

4. Having a baby is so much work. That doesn't even begin to explain how hard it is and how much it reconfigures your entire body and life. So why in the name of all things sane am I already thinking about having another one?! I don't seriously want to have another one until at least 2 or 3 years from now. But I can see how quickly my son has already grown and when I see brand new babies, it hits me right in the ovaries.

Anyway, that's kind of it for now. Our little guy is 7 months old and totes adorbs. I'm already imagining annoying little crush-laden girls coming up to me and asking,"Are you Josiah's mom?" Little girl, if you don't get up out of my face and up out of my son's face and go sit your little self down somewhere. Wow. If I'm not careful, I'm going to turn into the mom version of my dad. Yikes.

Postpartum: "Are you ready to come back?" or Somehow

I think this will be my last official "postpartum" post. Little boy will be 7 months old in 3 days. This week was the first week he's been going to daycare on a full-time schedule (9 to 4) and he's doing perfectly fine. Thankfully, the way our schedules are set up this semester, I teach MWF and P teaches Tues/Thurs, so every day of the week, one of us will be more flexible and be responsible for pick up and drop off.  Although I officially head back to work in a little over a week, it feels like the semester has already started. Program retreat, Humanities workshops, faculty retreat, meetings, meetings and more meetings. During this time of reconnecting with colleagues I haven't seen all summer, in addition to the requisite questions about the baby and subsequent phone slideshow, the newest oft-asked question: Are you ready to come back?

Let's unpack this a little.

Before academics launch into their nerdy screeds, the most important thing they start off with is defining their terms. What does "ready" mean? Ready as in, ready to "leave" my son? Ready as in looking forward to teaching, going to meetings, holding office hours, going to conferences and performing various and sundry tasks of "service"? Ready as in feeling capable of "balancing" career and motherhood (something men are NEVER expected to do concerning fatherhood)? What does "ready" mean, pray tell?

I know our son is going to be fine. We have a pretty perfect daycare situation. It's a small in-home daycare extremely close to our home and my job. Our provider is very attentive and she uses an app which updates parents on literally everything, including pictures of what the little one is doing throughout the day. I'm not worried about little boy and I'm not wracked with guilt for "leaving" him. I know that he's getting a lot of attention and is being well-cared for.

What I do question is myself. I come back to the same question I revisit from time to time, and that is, Am I cut out for this? Perhaps, in the academic tradition, I should define "this" before proceeding. For me, "this" is being a professor and doing what it takes to be a successful one. When I reflect on where I am now, I always come to the conclusion that I stumbled into academia. I went down roads I didn't anticipate going down and just kept going. I don't mean to say that life taking unexpected turns is negative. Overall, in my case, it's been pretty amazing. All I'm saying is that I can't shake the feeling that I somehow ended up here not due to my own volition or effort. Even though I rationally know that's patently false.

Somehow things happen and turn out fine. Somehow, I ended up in a PhD program. Somehow, I met P and got married in the middle of it. Somehow, I finished writing my dissertation. Somehow, I got a job. Somehow, even though I didn't initially get the job I applied for, I ended up with a tenure-track position. Somehow, the timing was such that I was able to spend the most time possible at home with our son. I know the "somehow" is God's grace and I'm grateful for it. I just have to somehow not just reflect on the grace of the past but believe He will provide the same grace for the present.

Postpartum: Baby Food Maker Heaven, Sleep Training Purgatory

Carrot eating 6-month old

So, before I got pregnant, long before I ever met my husband, I had a baby food making fantasy. I imagined that I'd have this lush, organic garden in my backyard and that I'd pick ripe, fresh vegetables to steam and puree to make homemade baby food for my child. I'm happy to say that at least the latter part of this fantasy has become reality. No organic backyard garden, but I was gifted this awesome baby food maker, and I'd been dying to try it. Little boy turned 6 months 5 days ago, so I giddily whipped it out and fed the little guy pureed carrots as his first veggie. He's quite partial to them. Green beans...not so much.

We also finally got with the sleep training program and meted out some tough love last night. No more night feedings, let him cry with check-ins at 5 minute intervals. My husband was the one to do the check-ins because if I went in there, the baby would expect to nurse. We agreed that we wouldn't pick him up out of the crib, just shush him, pat him, try to get him to take the pacifier, say, "Mommy and Daddy love you, but nighttime is for sleeping," and then leave and close the door. It was pretty tough when he first started crying. But we stuck to it and eventually, he did go back to sleep. As the night wore on and he woke up again, my husband only had to go in twice until he settled back down. Eventually, he would wake up and whine, but then go back to sleep on his own. Tonight, I rocked him for a little bit after nursing him and when I laid him down in the crib he woke up. I thought he was going to cry like he normally does, but when I put the pacifier in his mouth, he just settled down on his own. Maybe that one night was all it took to teach him to fall back to sleep on his own. I was totally dreading the idea of sleep training, but once we did it because we were totally becoming #teamnosleep, it wasn't as bad as I thought. Better to get it out of the way now while we have time instead of waiting until the semester starts for both of us. We didn't get a ton of sleep last night, but I'm hoping for minimal check-ins tonight.

Postpartum: I never thought I would

be the kind of mom who thinks her baby is cuter than all the others. I mean, I honestly thought I would be more objective about it. Like, take myself for example. I think I am relatively attractive. There are people less attractive than me and there are people more attractive than me (keeping in mind, of course, that attractiveness all around is extremely subjective). What I'm trying to say is that I feel that I have an objective view of my appearance. I know I'm not a supermodel, yet I know that I'm not considered unattractive. I feel like I'm aight. I felt that I would have the same approach to my baby's appearance. Like, babies are generally cute. Some are more or less attractive than others, and I figured I would place my baby somewhere in the range of reasonable attractiveness. But no. I think my son is THE CUTEST. I really do. I surprised myself with how strongly I feel about how adorable he is. Like, when I'm scrolling through on social media (worst pastime in the world) and see pictures of other babies, I think they're cute for the most part, but I honestly always think my son is cuter. He just is. And I can't believe I believe that.

I never thought I would be nonchalant about getting baby slobber all over me. On my face, hands, shoulders, even occasionally in my mouth. Seriously, getting saliva all over you is gross. And when I would handle other people's slobbery babies in the past, I thought it was gross. But now, I'm just all up in it. His two little cute bottom teeth poking through with drool pouring out. I will literally kiss his little slobbery lips and not think twice about it.

I never thought I would be as chill as I am about having a baby in my life. I thought I would be more overprotective or hyper or something, but when it comes to him, I usually think, "He'll be fine." I don't worry about schedules or sleep training or making sure he's doing enough or getting enough blah, blah, blah. Maybe I'm this way because I've had the privilege to spend a lot of time at home with him. I do give him a Vitamin D supplement regularly, I did make sure to get in extra feedings when the pediatrician said he'd like to see him gain a little weight (he gained a whole pound!), and I am pretty adamant about him exclusively breastfeeding for 6 months (he's already 5), but I feel like I don't generally nit pick. Now, I did freak out about childcare. But that's not nitpicking. On a slightly unrelated note, can I be honest and say that overprotective moms who call themselves "mama bear" annoy me? "Mama bear" is one of those terms that get under my skin, kind of like "hubby" or "preggo." Ugh. Like, if you use the term "mama bear" to describe yourself, to me, that's code for "mom who wants to justify outbursts and other jerk-hat behavior towards others for perceived slights to her kid." I'm a mama bear and if you mess with my kid, I'll mess with you! RAAARRWWW! Like, if you call yourself "mama bear," you might as well call yourself "I want to speak to your manager."

I never thought I would enjoy using the baby as an excuse not to do stuff or to leave early from social events. Oh, you'll have to excuse us, we've got to get the baby to bed. Our lives are "busy" now because we have a baby, so whoever you wanted to ask to do that thing, it's not us. Babies are so time consuming. Oh, my gosh. We never get any sleep. You know how it is. (wink, wink) Ha. It's the polar opposite of when I was single, therefore I had all the time, ever. You ain't got no husband and no kids, girl, you don't have a life, you got time! Not anymore, suckas. I am SO BUSY now. I have like, negative time in my bank account.

Postpartum: Chronicles of a Cosmopolitan Professor Mom in Hicktownville

I see you there. You've got your little library t-shirt (door prize for those who stayed at a technology workshop till the end) and knock-off Toms on (Old Navy), shielding your eyes from the sun with cheap sunglasses (Target?), pushing a parent-purchased stroller (Graco) containing a you-made baby. Well, half-you.

You're on your way to the most wannabe hipster place imaginable in this rural college town. A place where professional aspirations and literal cow pastures collide. A yoga studio/smoothie bar/cafe/happy hour haven. With an open mic stage.

You, professor mom. The kind of person overpriced smoothies were designed to ensnare. Your plan is to read a few Zadie Smith essays while sipping a Pineapple Beach smoothie (pineapple + organic coconut oil + almond butter + protein powder), the kind of smoothie that makes professor moms like you feel righteous about shelling out that much money for. Look at me, I'm so privileged and sophisticated, drinking a healthy smoothie. You even throw in an additional overpriced muffin for good measure. Banana chocolate chip.

You sit on the couch, replete with overstuffed pillows, adjoining a projection of the World Cup on the wall. Because Americans who do yoga and drink organic protein powder smoothies care about soccer, like the rest of the world. But before you can take the first sip, a wail. Oh, no he woke up! Well, what's a cosmopolitan (as cosmopolitan as one can be in Hicktownville) professor mom to do? Whip out the girls and feed him, of course! But you're not the kind of professor mom who literally whips 'em out in plain view. No, you're not that crunchy and free-range and enlightened and vegan and La Leche League, no. First, you don your Bebe au Lait (Target registry) nursing cover and then whip 'em out. But still, you're inundated with waves of self-congratulatory maternal self-righteousness: You're nursing in public and you dare anyone to give you the stink eye. You're FEEDING YOUR BABY for God's sake!

But of course, in an enlightened safe space like the yoga studio/smoothie bar/cafe/happy hour haven, no one would dare give you the stink eye, so you cease to rehearse snappy zingers in your head. Honestly, you don't even get a chance to finish your smoothie or even take a bite of the muffin because little boy isn't satisfied. He's tired and not having it. So, you strap him back in, put your smoothie in the little cup holder thing and go back home, a two-bedroom apartment attached to your landlord's more spacious house in a historic neighborhood (a.k.a "place where the houses are older and more expensive").

You sip the smoothie on the way home, and by the time you arrive, it's gone. You open the door and peek inside the stroller. He's asleep. You sit down on your couch, down the muffin and contemplate whether you have enough time to pump before he wakes up again.

Postpartum: Babies cry.

A failed attempt at a 4-month belly badge pic

Allow me a moment of maternal venting, if you will. Ahem.

I think it's safe to say there's a general consensus that one of the most frequent things babies do is cry. Like, this is not an earth-shattering revelation, a counter-intuitive discovery, or some sort of paradigm shift to conventional wisdom. Literally, baby in your presence = high probability you will hear it cry. We get this, right? We're all on the same page with this, are we not?

As a church-goer, one of the places my baby tends to cry in public is in the middle of church. Again, not a shocker.

So, if I may so humbly ask, why the heck do people feel the need to

1. Watch your every maneuver to a. soothe your baby or b. exit the sanctuary with your baby?
2. Inform you after service that your baby cried/Jokingly suggest that you (the parent) "did something" to "their baby" (not the parent) to make them cry/Ask if the baby is okay/Comment on the volume and/or pitch of your baby's cry?

Bruh. Babies cry. Especially teething 4-month olds. Often loudly. Almost always at the most inopportune times. I get it if the baby starts wailing and people fail to suppress their involuntary response to crane their necks to determine the source of the disturbance. I understand that. As a parent, I agree that part of what I signed up for is accepting the initial looks of innocent bystanders when your little one decides to disturb the peace. But what I don't understand is the subsequent ogling of my every move once it's been determined that the sound is my baby crying. What I didn't sign up for was my baby's crying to be the theme music to The Attempted Baby Soothing and Eventual Exit Show. I don't need you to tune in, my friend. There are no Nielsen ratings to be kept track of. No witty recaps to seek out. No #spoileralerts to avoid. So, get your eyeballs off of me and little boy and back on the deliverer of the Word of God. Which is supposedly a large part of the reason you're at church to begin with, is it not? I swurr.

Additionally, the fake smiles and empty laughs I offer in response to your inane questions and commentary (e.g. "He's got a set of lungs on him, don't he?" "Wow, he was fussy today!" "Y'all better leave my baby alone! Haha." "Awww, what was the matter with little man today?") mask a deep, barely-contained wave of annoyance which courses through my entire being. Truly, what is the purpose of reminding me of not only the obvious, but the virtually unforgettable: My son behaved like an entirely normal human baby during service by crying? Does it give you a little thrill, a sense of satisfaction, a source of condescending entertainment?  Haha, look at the poor little new parents struggling to manage their baby. Perhaps I should comment or ask a question to remind them their child made a ton of noise during service. It'll be so fun! You, ma'am and sir, can go saddown. In fact, you can go have a stadium full of seats. Surriously. Like, you ain't helping, so you can keep your little funny commentary after the fact to yourself.

This message has been brought to you by Passive-Aggressive Mothers of America.

Postpartum: Mom’s Club

We celebrated our third anniversary a few weeks ago. I posted on social media about the fact that on our last anniversary we found out that we were expecting and that this year was our first anniversary as parents, and included a family portrait. Throughout the day, I found myself looking at the picture of us on my phone again and again. I’m slightly leaning into my husband and have the baby on my lap. Is this me? Later on that day, a friend messages me about the picture, suggesting that I’m now who I always wanted to be.  After a bit of back and forth, I had to admit that overall, he was right; although being a wife and mother is not all I want to be, nor do they completely define me, they are major things that I’d longed for.

One of my best friends sent me a Mother’s Day card this year. We’ve been friends for a long time, but this year is the first year that we’ve both been mothers together. I had a sense of being able to understand my friend in a way that maybe I hadn’t been able to for a while and of her maybe being able to relate to me in a way she hadn’t before. Now, we’re in the same club.

It’s strange. This knowledge that now, whether you want to be or not, you’re in a club.

I participated in a pedagogy workshop a little over a week ago and saw lots of my colleagues that I hadn’t seen since having the baby. Of course, I was ready with pictures on my phone and regaled them with tales of my little one’s latest—he can roll over from his stomach to his back, he sleeps in his crib now, he’s slept through the night. To people without kids, this bit of developmental minutiae is kind of boring. But for people with kids, there’s an immediate understanding of how big a deal these things are. There’s an instant recognition, a bond, even, that I now have with colleagues who are parents that I didn’t have before. People that I sort of knew of but never really talked to before were now talking to me at length about their children and their parenting experiences. It comes with being in the club.

Just as I’m now a part of the mom club, I’m also no longer a part of the no-kid club. Before, my colleague next door to me and I were both in the no-kid club. But when I go back to work, will we not be as close as we were before? Will things be weird /different between us because I’m a mom now?

I still find it hard to grasp the fact that I have a son. I’m a mom. A baby literally came out of my body and made me a mom. Sometimes it’s almost as if I’m watching myself go through the motions of caring for my child. I see myself holding him, nursing him, changing him, cuddling him, bathing him, rocking him to sleep. Is that me? Is he mine?

I’m the same person. No matter what, I’m the same person. Becoming a mom hasn’t transformed me into someone somehow more confident, more secure, more grown-up. Yes, I have more responsibilities now, and yes, my priorities have shifted even more than they did when I got married. But no matter what club I find myself in, I will never not be the me I’ve always been.

Postpartum: What I Miss

Me and my little tyrant

Moms aren't supposed to talk about what they miss about being childless. It goes against the rules of the Sacred Cult of American Motherhood. Nevertheless, I was thinking about the things I miss and how much things have changed since my son arrived on the scene.

I miss my unrestricted time. Literally everything revolves around my son. How much sleep I get a night, how long I can be away from home, when I can eat, take a shower and go to the bathroom. He's the boss. An adorable little tyrant.

I miss being skinny. I'm not saying I'm obese and I'm not fat shaming, I'm just saying I miss my pre-pregnancy body. When I look at my wedding photos I want to cry. Look at how freaking skinny I used to be. Back in the day, back when I was even skinnier than I was in my wedding photos, I remember returning to work after Thanksgiving break at my first real job, an elite private school where my co-workers were mainly middle-aged women. I remember one of them exclaiming to me,"What did you eat for Thanksgiving? Cottage cheese?" and being so annoyed. Now, a mommy pouch and a radically redefined hip-to-waist ratio later, I long for the irritating days when people would feel it necessary to remark on my thinness. I know if I really wanted to "bounce back" (a term I wish I could burn at the stake), I could. I'd just need to really work at it. It is within the realm of possibility. I'm just saying I miss the days where I would eat a couple of those Toll House ice cream cookies for dinner and wash it down with a bottle of vanilla coke and not gain an ounce. SO BAD, but so good. I guess that has less to do with having a baby per se and more to do with being in my mid-thirties and in possession of a slowing metabolism. Alas.

I miss getting hit on. Well, let me qualify that and state that I don't miss being harassed by boneheaded, stupidmouthed jerkfaces, I'm saying part of me misses harmless, fun flirting. Now, I must also qualify again and say that technically, my flirting days were over till death do us part on May 16, 2015, so this is another case that isn't wholly due to having a baby. But there's something about having a baby that 100% shuts it down. Like, we know that getting married puts you on lock, right? If you have a ring on your finger, and more often than not, a husband beside you, the probability of any one flirting with you has already been drastically reduced. But add a baby in the picture and that probability drops to less than zero. You're not just off the market, the market itself has ceased to exist. I think my husband is hot (obviously) and I'm head-over-heels for my little one, but I'm just being honest and saying that sometimes I miss those days of getting (occasional, welcome) attention from handsome guys with nice smiles.

I miss spontaneity. I remember one day there was an indie film playing at this art house theater in a bigger city about 45 minutes away and my husband and I just up and went. Like, we had decided to do it on a whim.  No more of this spur of the moment stuff. Now, everything has to be planned out, and if we want to do date night or anything without little boy, we have to arrange everything at least a week in advance.

I miss reading for pleasure. The last novel I read was finished while I was pregnant. Once little boy entered the world...fuggedaboutit. I mean, during the day, I'm balancing handling him and crossing off things on my to-do list while he's sleeping (like, this blog entry, which is quickly coming to an end because he just woke up). I sometimes try to sneak in some pleasure reading once I've put him down for the night, but by that time I'm so tired, I rarely crack the book open.

Postpartum: Three Months

Our son is now a little over three months old. Everyone keeps telling us how fast babies grow up, and I'm beginning to see how true it is.

We took our first official family portraits yesterday, and little boy showed OUT. Everything he could've done, he did. Fussed, cried, threw up, pooped...it was a true test of parental fortitude. But once we got a look at the pictures, you could scarcely tell that the shots were taken between bouts of tantrums and regurgitation clean up. Exhibit A above. He looks like a calm, cute little suspendered angel.

In the end, I was happy with our pictures. I still have tons of thank you cards to write and perhaps people will overlook the tardiness if I enclose a picture of the little guy.

Sometimes I still can't believe it. I'm married (coming up on three years next month), and have a child. I don't know if it's quite registered with me yet. I don't know what it will take to register that this is my life. In addition to daughter, sister, friend, wife, and professional, I have officially added "mother" to the facets of who I am. I guess I'm still figuring out what that means.

Every time I hit a milestone, I have this thought or expectation, even, that I'll feel differently. That I'll be a different, better, more secure version of myself. Once I got married. Once I finished my PhD. Once I got a tenure-track job. Once I had a child. But what has proven itself time and time again is the fact that I will always be me. The same me that I've always been. Nothing external will ever make me feel ultimately validated or confident or competent or like an adult.

Three months out, I'm still not where I want to be weight wise. I know it will continue to take time. Regardless, I have to come to terms with my new body. Even if I did accomplish the feat of getting back to my pre-pregnancy weight, my body still wouldn't be the same as it was before. I thought getting up at ungodly hours to nurse a hungry baby would be the hardest thing, but that part wasn't as bad as I anticipated. The hardest thing by far has been coming to terms with my postpartum body.

I'm grateful for a loving husband who cherishes me as I am. I trust him enough to believe that he means it when he tells me that I'm beautiful. I read these horrible little mommy message boards that are connected to the baby/pregnancy apps that I'd downloaded, and some of the women vent about their significant others saying some off the chain things to them about their bodies. I'm sitting there reading that stuff doing a whole lot of smh-ing, not fathoming how these chicks are not karate chopping these dudes in the throat. Entitled, insensitive little sexist jerkfaces. Ugh. Jesus I'll never forget what you done for me. For real.

Postpartum: The Great Daycare Search (Is Over)

My sweet guy is getting bigger. He's smiling now, cooing a lot, being more interactive. Had to show him off in his little Easter outfit.

One of the things I was absolutely dreading was putting him in daycare. I didn't even want to start looking, but we finally did and settled on a place that was one of the larger, more established daycares in town. Well, it was just our luck that it closed down. Not due to anything shady about the facility itself, but because the main hospital in town, which owned it, decided it wanted out of the daycare business and desired to use the building for another healthcare facility. Madness ensued. The biggest daycare in town closed down and open spots at other places became a hot commodity.

Options, quality options, were limited. Every other place we went, there was just something I wasn't comfortable with. And the thought of leaving my son somewhere I wasn't quite comfortable with made me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

But. After much prayer and tears and hand-wringing, I happened upon a home daycare in town that wasn't even advertising. It just so happened that there's a spot opening up there because a child's family is moving. It just so happens to be within walking distance of our home and of my job. It just so happens that the owner was willing to compromise with us and allow us to put him in part-time for a reduced rate now and transition to full-time when I go back to work. It's spacious, clean and comfortable. No smokers. The director has a Masters degree. Only 6 children total and one other infant. We both felt comfortable and happy with everything about it.

It's still so hard for me to trust God, in spite of everything. In spite of the way everything has worked out in my life. The things that seemed impossible, difficult or unlikely have always worked out according to God's timing. The way I met my husband. The way I went from not getting the job I originally applied for to now having a tenure-track job. The timing of my son's birth. Every time He does it, my faith is built. But what I still haven't figured out yet is how to maintain that level of faith whenever a new challenge arises.

Tomorrow we'll drop little boy off at the new home daycare for the first time. It'll only be for a few hours 3 days a week, but still, I'm struck with this sense of ambivalence I can't shake. While I'm happy to leave him somewhere I'm comfortable with, the fact remains that I'm leaving him somewhere. I'm looking forward to having a few hours alone to do things around the house and gear up for the fall, but I'm feeling weirdly guilty about looking forward to time without the baby. (Sigh.) Like anything new, I guess it'll just take some getting used to.

Postpartum: Two Months

So, I thought I was going to do this regular, perfectly laid out blog "series" reflecting on my birth experience and motherhood...and then I don't update my blog for almost a month. It is what it is. (I used to hate that phrase with a passion, but here we are.)

My son is two months old today. As I write, he's asleep in his swing. For now.

A lot of people comment on how handsome he is, and who am I to disagree? He's got a head full of dark hair, kissable chunky cheeks, almond-shaped eyes, long lashes, cupid's bow lips, a cleft in his little chin, and now that he's starting to smile, I see that he's inherited his dad's dimples. But...(sigh) there's always a but. There's a part of me that wonders if everyone's obsessed with his looks and his "beauty" because he's biracial. Never heard of the whole "mixed kids are always the most beautiful" stereotype? Read this. Anyway, there's no way to know, and I guess at the end of the day, I'd do well not to expend precious mental energy wondering what problematic thoughts are going on in other people's heads.

These are the names we have for him: Buddies, Buds, Milkmouth (you can see traces of milk in his mouth if I've just nursed him and he starts crying), Triangle Mouth (his mouth is legit shaped like a triangle when he's asleep and it's hanging open) Bobblehead (neck muscles still developing), Cutie Guy, Honeybuns, Poopy (when he has a dirty diaper), Bouncy Boy (when I bounce him on the birthing ball to soothe him). He sounds like a piglet when he cries. He does this snorting thing that is hilarious and adorable. He's starting to coo now and sometimes if you make a cooing noise at him, he'll do it back to you.

In addition to "sleeping when the baby sleeps," I'm supposed to "enjoy this time because they grow up so fast." He's definitely growing up fast. He's just about too big for newborn sized diapers and clothes. Bring on the size 1 diapers (not before we use up the rest of the newborns, tho) and the 0-3 months clothes.

The Great Daycare Search is on. I keep having these imaginary dialogues in my head with a stay-at-home mom who, when she finds out I'm placing my son in daycare, says, "Oh, I couldn't imagine letting someone else raise my child." I'd respond with, "Are you planning to send your child to school when he's of age?" and then she'd say she was. And then I'd say, "So, sending your child to daycare is 'letting someone else raise them' but sending them to school isn't?" I haven't yet figured out my response to the hypothetical stay-at-home mom who's homeschooling. I don't want to put my son in daycare. It's not something I'm looking forward to. I'm enjoying the time I get to spend with him while I'm on maternity leave. But to be honest, I don't know if I'd want to be a stay-at-home mom, either. If I get too wrapped up in my ambivalent feelings about being a professional woman who's now a mom, my mind can take me down some pretty dark roads. I just have to believe that God is going to continue to take care of our family.

Postpartum: "Sleep when the baby sleeps"

So, it's been a while. Ahem.

Not like I've been busy or anything. It actually feels like I don't do anything all day. Nothing but take care of the baby. Which IS something. It just goes to show how much we've been socialized to devalue taking care of children. As if it isn't "productive" enough to be valuable, noteworthy or substantive.

Our little guy is now more than a month old.

Quite a handsome little guy, if I may say so myself.

It's been all right. Getting up in the middle of the night to nurse him is tough, but I don't feel like a zombie or anything during the day. I don't always sleep when he sleeps, but I do take a nap once my husband gets home and that helps out a lot.

I had a couple of rough nights when he was first born, before my milk came in, but otherwise it hasn't been this tortuous thing.

I just feel like I've been told negative things about taking care of a child, i.e. "You're not going to get any sleep," "Breastfeeding is hard," etc. And I know people are just being honest with me or trying to prepare me so I'm not blindsided, but once I got to the point of experiencing these things myself, I was expecting them to be so much worse than they actually were.

Here's an unsolicited advice story: My in-laws came to visit last week, and we went to dinner and brought our little guy with us. We had him in his car seat and covered it with a blanket. It was crowded and busy and we were waiting for a table along with several other people. Of course when you have a baby out in public, people are going to ask you questions and offer their two cents. But this old lady sitting near us needed to go saddown. Speaking of the baby in the car seat being covered with a blanket, she said, "He looks hot. You don't want him to get uncomfortable and overheated. You need to get a breathable blanket. My sons and daughters use breathable blankets for their kids and they're so much more comfortable for them. You can get them on Amazon, you should order one." My husband was just like, "He's fine." LOL. Chill out, old lady. Talking about some "he looks hot." Girl, he's covered with a blanket, you can't even see him to begin with. Breathable blanket, schmeathable schmanket.

Oh, and another baby-out-in-public-girl-saddown story: We were at the pediatrician's office, again, with the baby in the car seat and covered with a blanket. He started fussing, so P lifted it to give him a pacifier or whatever, and the people sitting on either side of us leaned in to see him. "Aww, he's so adorable," they said. And that's fine, I mean, you're sitting right next to us, so there's not much for you to do to be able to see the baby. He's right in front of you. But this girl sitting opposite us on the other side of the room got up and walked over to peer inside the car seat to see the baby. Girl, what are you doing? My baby is not a sideshow attraction. Go saddown. Literally.

The same birthing ball I bounced on while I was in labor I now use to soothe little boy. When I'm trying to put him down for the night, I hold him and bounce on it and he loves it. One night bouncing with my son on the ball, I was suddenly overcome with the realization that what my husband and I have done is permanent. Everlasting. Even more lasting than our marriage. God forbid, but a marriage can be undone. Having a child can never be undone. Bringing a new life into the world isn't just OMG, I have a cute baby. He is a living soul. He has an entire life ahead of him.

Postpartum: "Your body will know"

Here I sit, with an apparatus attached to my mammary glands, extracting milk to build up a supply so that people other than me can feed our insatiably hungry little guy. Did you know breast milk can stay good for up to 6 months if frozen? And is this what dairy cows go through day in and day out? Should I moo in solidarity?

One of the things about the whole process of pregnancy, giving birth, and now being a mom is this idea of your body "knowing" things. That your body does things outside of your realm of knowledge, desire or control and that you just have to go with it. That's what I was told about being ready to push right before I delivered our son. "Your body will know when to push." And it was true.

On one hand, your body "knowing" is kind of wonderful. It's instinctual, primal, miraculous. My body knew when I was ready to push. When I felt the urge to push, it was along with my contractions, as if my conscious self and my knowing body worked together. My body knows how much milk to produce for my son. There's nothing I have to do to make sure he gets enough or to make sure he's getting the right nutrients. It just knows.

However, on the other hand, your body "knowing" also indicates that your body has a mind of its own and will do whatever it wants to do without your knowledge or consent. Case in point, my feet still being swollen and not being able to fit into any of my shoes except for some flats I recently bought a whole size bigger. There are things beyond the realm of my control, but one of the things I used to be able to reliably control was my body. But lately (especially when I step on the scale these days), my body has been basically like, "Oh, you thought you were in control? Hahaha...sike." So, I'm stuck with swollen feet, a dark postpartum belly, weird marks in other places (please, God let them fade) and a lot of extra junk, and not just in the trunk.

I know, I should just accept the fact that my body just performed the miraculous a little over two weeks ago and give myself a break. And then here comes my personal trainer brother calling me asking about my postpartum workout plans and talking about some "fasted cardio." Boy, if you don't...

So, although my body and I worked together on the big day, it's continuing to do its own thing. Body, my friend, can we please get back on the same page? Kthxbai.

Postpartum: They Say

Our son, a few hours after birth

On my bed are clean baby clothes that I had to wash from yesterday's diaper blowout. Beside me is a bassinet, and inside of it is my son. My beautiful son, who's sleeping peacefully. For now. He'll be two weeks old on Saturday.

There are so many things about becoming a mother that I'd like to write about, that I'm still processing. What I probably won't do is write a chronological account of the birth from the moment my water broke (and they say it doesn't necessarily gush out like in the movies, but let's just say I had a Hollywood experience) to when I first held him in my arms. What I think I'd rather do is just write a series of vignettes or reflections. So, the next few posts will be a series called Postpartum. 

Nothing will do it justice. Nothing will capture it all. Nothing will explain why I cried on the way home from the hospital. I can try: It wasn't because I was sad to go home or feeling unprepared to bring the baby home. I was ready to go home. It was that I had this singular, ineffable experience at the hospital and leaving was leaving a piece of that experience behind. Leaving was a realization that there are some things you can't take with you.

I still can't believe what took place. I pushed a tiny human being out of my body with no medication and no interventions. To say that I'm pleased I did that or proud I did that would be an oversimplification. Giving birth is giving birth. If a baby came out of you, you gave birth, regardless of whether medication was involved or not, whether it was a C-section or the "natural" way. I don't think of myself as a more righteous person for having done it the way I did. Rather, I just see myself as having a goal and meeting that goal. 

I don't even know where to start. 

The peak: When they laid him in my arms, my husband standing beside me, and I said, "Honey, this is our son! This is our son!"

I was shivering afterward. Was it the IV? I asked the nurse about it. "Oh, you've just got the baby shakes." The baby shakes. Euphoria combined with exhaustion?

They say that recovery is faster with unmedicated births. About half an hour afterward, I was sitting up eating a cheeseburger and fries.

They say it happens when you least expect it. Hasn't that cliche proven true in my life time and time again? 39 weeks to the day. Which is technically 100% full term, but I thought I had at least another week. They say first time moms usually go past their due dates.  I swear I was in bed literally reading about the difference between Braxton-Hicks and labor contractions on my phone because I thought I was possibly feeling...but it couldn't be. Not yet. But then, wait...am I peeing on myself? I must be because there is no freaking way it's...not yet. And when I got out of bed to confirm it wasn't what I thought it wasn't, it was. All over the hardwood floor.

When the contractions got real, during each one, I squeezed my husband's hand to death.

When our son first cried, it sounded like, A-haaaaaa, a-haaaaa, a-haaaaa with vibrato.

Pregnancy Cries

1. The entire first half of Moana, especially the part where the ocean "chooses" her when she's a little toddler and the song the villagers sing, "Where You Are" while Moana grows up.

2. In the shower, imagining my son getting bullied when he goes to school.

3. Waking up one morning with the overwhelming feeling of "not having anything ready for the baby."

4. The end of the video for the song "Glosoli" by Sigur Ros where these little Icelandic children jump off of a cliff and start to fly over the ocean.

5. The end of the movie Coco where the little boy sings "Remember Me" with his great-grandma.

6. Visiting my parents and my mom asking whether we wanted to watch Planet of the Apes or La La Land. (The actual reasons for the crying were more complex, but that is what set me off.)

7. The idea of someone at school telling my friend's little daughter that she's darker-skinned than her twin sister as if it were something to be ashamed of.

(Dis)comfort

37 weeks and 5 days. Less than 3 weeks to go. Supposedly. Only 5 percent of babies are delivered on their actual due dates. So I might have more time. Or less. At this point, who knows?

How are you feeling? Um, fine. I guess I'm getting to that uncomfortable stage, you know, trying to find a comfortable position to get to sleep at night, but otherwise I'm fine. I have sporadic heartburn and my feet are consistently swollen (they look like little loaves of bread), but really, I'm fine.

Oh, honey, you're gonna get to the point where you're so over it, you're just gonna want it to be out. Okay, but I guess I haven't gotten to that point yet, and I don't know if I ever will. I could see if I were uber pregnant at the height of summer all sweaty and hot and bothered, but it's in the dead of winter, and I'm in no rush. Like, hold the cervical checks. For real. I mean, I'm excited to meet our little guy, but I'm not like OMGeeeee, I want to go into labor already. It's still sort of surreal to me. I'm saying, I know the baby is going to come out at some point, but I have no frame of reference for what is about to happen to me.

So, I hired a doula. My ideal is a low-intervention, non-medicated birth, and a doula will help me meet that goal. The idea is that everyone else will be focused on the baby, but the doula will be focused on me. She'll be helping me draw up a "birth plan" beforehand, helping me with pain management while I'm in labor, incorporating P into the process as well (so he's not a helpless guy not knowing what to do), providing breastfeeding support. I'm really glad we made the choice to hire her, especially for a first-time birthing experience. To be clear, I'm not wedded to having a natural non-medicated birth. It's what I want, but sometimes things don't go as planned. And I'm okay with that possibility.

My best friend expressed being annoyed with the fact that the pain women experience (in a medical situation) is often described as "discomfort." Okay, you may feel a bit of discomfort here...Bruh, it's going to hurt.

I don't know how I'm going to react to the pain of childbirth. But I'm going to try to allow my body to do what it was designed to do. And our son is going to come when he's ready to come.

Babaseyi

is a Yoruba name which means "God has done this." It is a name given to my son by a Nigerian family I grew up in church with. There is a Nigerian tradition of naming ceremonies where people give a child a special name that they will personally call him/her. I feel so honored that our family friends would care so much about our son to give him a special name. I don't know where my ancestors came from, but it's likely they were from West Africa, which includes Nigeria. Who knows? I can't help but feel like his Yoruba name is a part of reconnecting with something special and sacred.

For the past week and a half, I've been in my hometown with my husband and my parents chilling hard. I have been a complete bum and have enjoyed every minute of it. Being lazy has been interspersed with meeting up with family and friends, enjoying lots of holiday food and each others' company.

Before arriving to spend time with my family, my husband and I had what I guess you'd call a "babymoon." We spent a couple of days at a bed and breakfast en route to our final destination, got massages, ate some good food, went to a live show, and just generally vegged out. It was probably the last time for a while that we'd get to do something nice together, just the two of us, before the baby comes.

I am currently 36 weeks. As in, literally 4 weeks to go before I reach my due date. I truly can't believe it. It feels like there's still so much to do before I'll feel "ready" for the baby. I don't know if I'll ever feel ready. One of the things I'm looking into is hiring a doula, particularly since my ideal is to have a non-medicated birth. There's furniture yet to arrive—chest of drawers, bookshelf, glider. There are clothes to be washed, child care options to be explored, books to be read. It doesn't seem real.

We head back to home base tomorrow morning. This will be the last time I visit my parents' home before I become a mother. I'm not ready to leave. I've never been good at saying goodbye, even for a little while.

This new year will bring its challenges, for sure. But it will also bring one of the most exciting experiences of my life—bringing our son into the world. May I never forget that God has done this.