Life worth living

I had started writing a post about how desperately I want the sleep situation in our house to resume some semblance of normalcy. I've been sleeping in the nursery for a few months now, trying to let my husband get some sleep and make it easier for me to nurse in the middle of the night (occasionally we'll switch spots when I'm working a few days in a row so that I can get a bit more sleep and he can do some feeds). Baby girl is a horrible napper and has taken to getting up in between feeds at night to play. And the best sleep I've gotten in weeks is either in the call room at work, or in my parents' bed while my mom watches her. Most days I feel like it will never end. If I'm honest, I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself.

Then I read this article, shared by Jenny over at Mama Needs Coffee (you should subscribe if you don't already). And it broke my heart. I kept waiting for the author to say "But then I realized that my son is beautiful and perfect and his life is worth living," but she never did. As a fairly new mom, and someone who takes care of these kids with a "terminal disease", I had to close the window before I finished reading. It made me physically sick. How anyone could think that loving someone who is suffering means trying to eliminate their very life is beyond my comprehension. It's taking our modern society's aversion to suffering to a whole new level. A sickening, despairing level.

And then this morning Jenny shared this, which sure seemed like a direct response, though it may not have been. Someone with a terminal disease choosing to celebrate her life. The same life some people might want to eliminate, for her own sake. I wanted to rub it in the first author's face. How dare you decide that your son's joys and triumphs and growth will automatically be outweighed by his suffering. But more than that, I rejoiced because there were more than malice and indignation in the response (she's a bigger person than I). There was true delight in life. She lists many things in her life that make the suffering worthwhile: "That I'm breathing...learning to knit...tickling babies...Christmas shopping...The Wizard of Oz...Elizabeth Bennet...fish and chips..." and so on.

My heart lifted as I read her list. Yes. Yes to all of it. I thought about my own preoccupation with the four month sleep regression and my fatigue, and I made my own list.

Baby giggles.

Goat cheese.

Not wearing socks in November.

My pillow.

Game-winning field goals.

Being there for a friend.

Drinking wine on the couch with my husband.

A really good massage.

Laughing until you cry. 

I mean, the list is literally endless. The number of good things in my life is un-countable. Even the list of good things born of my suffering is un-countable. Ask any mother who has gone through child birth (the author above notwithstanding).

So with some perspective tucked under my belt, do I still long for the day when I can sleep in my own bed and my daughter will sleep (even mostly) through the night? Of course. But would I trade those gummy smiles because it's hard? Not for a second. Suffering is not the worst thing in this world. And even if it were, it does not have the final word.

Today, I choose gratitude. I choose life. I choose love.

Lifeline

A few good chunks of sleep (for me, not for my insomniac daughter) and a good day for her means I have a little more reserve in my tank today than yesterday. It doesn't mean it's not still hard. In fact, days like today where more things go right than not make it even harder the next bad day, because wasn't it getting better? Nonetheless. There were less tears today (again, for me, not her), and I felt more like myself.

A big part of my ability to get through days like yesterday lies in my network of amazing mamas who are only a text or phone call away. They tell me it does get better, drive way too far to meet me for dinner, commiserate, listen to me vent, send me totally cute pictures of their little ones, and yes, even send Ben and Jerry's to my doorstep. Those are real friends, people.

When I was in the haze of the fourth trimester, these women were my lifeline. When I was housebound because nine-pound-baby-with-ninety-ninth-percentile-head-in-40-minutes-of-pushing, they texted me, brought meals, gave me padsicles (google it the next time you don't know what to bring a new mom), and generally made life more tolerable. More crucial than that, they told me that everything I was feeling was totally normal. Isolation? Normal. Inadequacy? Normal. Cabin fever? Normal. Amnesia? Normal. Guilt? Normal. Boredom? Normal. Thinking my baby was totally adorable and wanting to document every day with a dozen pictures? Normal. Resenting my husband because cluster feeding? Normal. Couldn't remember the last time I showered? Normal.

Nothing in my training as a pediatrician helped get me through those first few weeks, and every week since, but these friends did. Dads, bless their hearts, for all their rough-housing, raspberry-blowing, rub-some-dirt-in-it wonderfulness, just don't get it. But other moms do.

I told one of these great friends that just like we do safety plans for suicidal kids, making them write down the names of adults they trust that they will tell if they feel unsafe, we should make pregnant women write down the names of at least three other moms that they feel comfortable texting when they're sleep-deprived crazy zombies and thinking they're about to throw in the towel. This should be standard pregnancy care so that after delivery, it's automatic. They're already on speed dial.

I'm so, so grateful for those mamas that continue to be my lifeline (seriously, you guys, Ben and Jerry's on the front porch!), that continue to respond to my middle of the night texts, that keep telling me I'm not alone, that I'm a good mom. If you are a new mom, find those women in your life. If you were one of those women for me, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

When it's hard

I'm in the midst of some of the most trying weeks of my life. I'm going on four months now with one hand's worth of chunks of sleep greater than 4 hours. I'm working at least one day of every weekend this quarter save one, and many of those weekends, it's both days, or worse, both nights. My husband is working more than 40 hours a week in a traditional schedule for the first time since we've met. And in the midst of it all, I'm trying to keep up with the laundry, the cooking, and the shopping, not to mention some semblance of physical activity, spiritual discipline, or creative work. Many days it feels like I'm a failure on all fronts.

And in times like this, it's easy to resent the main reason why life is so hard right now. It doesn't feel okay to say it, but today, and other days, it's true: I resent my daughter. I resent the fact that her neediness means I almost never remember to brush my teeth in the morning, or that I burn half the things I cook, and the other half sit cold on the table until I have time to eat, or that I have no time to decorate our house into a home (or complete any of the dozen other projects I keep tucking away). I resent the changes in my body that bear witness to her existence. I resent the loss of autonomy, of freedom, of rest, of spontaneity. I resent that I only have 10 minutes to write because this is the 7th time today I've tried to lay her down for a nap, all without success.

And I resent the fact that I resent her. I know it's not always butterflies and sunshine, but I should have the heart to struggle. I should be able to look past the pain to the gift. Past the cross to the Resurrection. But today I can't. I don't have an answer, or a solution, or a quaint Bible verse to make it all okay. Today it's just hard to be a mom.

Suck(l)ing

Most of the time, even though I adamantly support it, I'm kind of annoyed by breastfeeding. I have to wear specific clothes and bras, always carry the nursing cover if we're out of the house, make sure I'm able to pump if I'm away from the baby for more than 4 hours, remember to take my lecithin (quite a help for clogged ducts, for those of you that care), drink more water than I'm used to, even get woken up at night when she does manage to sleep more than 5 hours because I'm full and need to pump (okay, this only happened once). Even though my waist line is getting back to normal, many of my shirts don't fit because of my much fuller chest (I know, I know, most people wouldn't consider this a problem per se, but I don't want to buy a whole new wardrobe. I hate shopping as it is.). So in many ways, I'd be more than happy to give up nursing, and look forward to July of 2018 when I can make the transition to whole milk.

And yet.

Earlier this week, I was getting ready for bed and found myself quite sad that she was already asleep by the time I got home and I wouldn't get to nurse her. Then lo and behold, she woke up right as I was turning in, and I got to hold her and caress her head while she nursed anyway. And I found myself grateful for this "annoyance." I have actually acutely felt the oxytocin release during let down, becoming suddenly overwhelmed with love for this tiny creature. I love that I get to nourish her with my very body, that I am all she needs (though she benefits greatly from a very loving and creative daddy, and very generous extended family). I love the health benefits of breastfeeding--immunity, IQ points, emotional bonding, SIDS risk reduction, etc. And yeah, the cost savings don't suck either.

In short, everything I love about breastfeeding is because it's what is best for my daughter. And everything I loathe about breastfeeding is a hindrance to my convenience and lifestyle choices. It's a perfect microcosm of life as a mom in general, the sacrificing of much lesser goods for a much, much greater good. The laying down of what I want for the good of a very tiny other. And aside from all the benefits, is probably why God designed it this way from the beginning. So that I'm reminded every day that it's not about me or what I want. Like most things.

Turns out God is pretty smart after all.

Pagers and phantom cries

The last time I had to carry a pager was in residency. We each had our personal pager, each inpatient team had a pager, and the code team had pagers, so that, at any given time, one person could have up to 4 pagers they were responsible for answering. At the beginning of the shift, those of us neurotic enough to do so would change the ring tone of each pager so that we knew which one was going off without having to pull the pager out. The benefit of this was paramount if you were carrying the code pager. The code pager going off meant you started running for the stairwell before you even read the page to know which room you were headed for. All the other ringtones could wait for you to finish whatever you were in the middle of before responding. I so dreaded being on the code team, and it got to the point that I dreaded the sound of the code pager going off. So much so that if I ever forgot to change the team pager ringtone and it was the same as the code pager, I would suffer a minor panic attack the first time it went off during my shift. And then I would immediately change it. The code pager ring tone gave me so much anxiety. I would think about it going off and my world would get small, my breath would get short, and my stomach would start doing flip flops. It got to the point that I would hear phantom code pager tones as I tried to go to sleep.

Now I no longer carry a pager. Instead, I have a newborn. And the anxiety of waiting for the other shoe to drop is even worse. As I lay her down and tiptoe out of the room, I cringe every time I hear a noise. Is she awake? Is she crying? Have I lost my 25 minutes of peace? (Because that's how long every. single. one. of her naps are right now.) I turn the shower on, or lay down for a nap, or start cooking dinner, and I start to hear phantom cries. I even hear them in the car when I know I've left her at home with Daddy. I'm always on high alert, trying to listen for her. And I can feel my cortisol spiking. It's the same claustrophobia, the same shortness of breath, the same sense of dread. But this time, there's no end of shift coming when I can pass the code pagers off. There's no end of the rotation, or even end of residency. Parenthood doesn't have days off. And I think that's why it's even more stressful. Even if she does stay blissfully asleep until I'm ready for bed, there's no telling when she will get up in the middle of the night. And even if she doesn't get up (much) in the middle of the night, there's always the crappy napping tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day.

Yet just like in residency, I can't control when the interruptions will come. I would rather lay down and be woken up than sit up all night waiting for the pager to chime or the baby to cry. I tell myself it is just a phase, that someday, hopefully, I can get more than 25 minutes to myself during the day, or get more than 3 hours of sleep in a row at night. But I may not. And that's the lifestyle I've chosen. Truthfully, it's the life I've been blessed with. And I wouldn't trade it for all the sleep in the world.

Wait, is that an option?

Mom of the year

I think every mother, at some point, feels inadequate. I'm pretty sure for many mothers, it's a frequent occurrence. Like I should be reading my daughter stories instead of blogging. Or I should have just bought a nail file instead of clipping her fingertip a second time while trying to trim her nails. Or I should be able to get her to nap without throwing her in the car seat and letting the rhythm of the ride work its magic. I get the sense these are pretty normal.

This week though, I took a new foray into inadequacy. And I feel ashamed. But the ever popular Brene Brown says that "shame cannot survive being spoken" and that one way to beat shame is to tell your story. So in the interest of beating shame, here it is: I was careless. And because of it, my daughter got hurt. Thankfully, everything turned out to be fine. Except my psyche. I relive the injury over and over in my head, which makes me nauseated. I think over and over if I had just done things a little differently, it wouldn't have happened. I wonder if there will be any long-term consequences. I doubt myself as a mom. I want to cry.  I feel like I shouldn't be allowed to be a mom or a pediatrician. I am awash in shame. I hate it. I hate thinking about it. I hate writing about it.

I told some co-workers what happened, and the first thing that happened? One of them shared a similar story that happened to her daughter. Everyone nodded understanding. No one judged. No one tried to revoke my motherhood. And I felt a little of the weight lift. Maybe in a few decades, I'll even be able to joke about it.

Shame is a lie. And I know the truth, even if I don't feel it. The truth is I am a good mom. The truth is good moms make mistakes. The truth is I can't control everything. And the truth is that I have a God, a husband, and friends and family that love me no matter what. And I am exceedingly grateful. And the next time I have to put her to sleep by driving, I don't think I'm going to feel quite so inadequate.

Milk musings

Our baby girl is down to usually six feeds a day, sometimes seven, depending on how long she sleeps at night, which means that most days I have about 90 minutes of captivity--stuck on the couch with my thoughts and lots of funny noises coming from this tiny miracle. It's my time to reflect, to take a deep breath, and since I got the Nook (and the library app) figured out, time to read. It's my me time, my intellectual time. While I nurse, I think a lot about this crazy journey of motherhood. And one of these days, I'm going to get back into blogging about it. Not because I think the world needs another mommy blog, or because I think my insights are particularly unique. Mostly because I want to write (maybe even need to write), you write what you know, and--right now--this is what I know. I know that I couldn't have understood, even if someone could have explained, how it's possible to love a tiny person so much that it feels like my heart will explode. I couldn't have believed that I could survive on so little sleep, that I had this much of myself to give, that it would be so hard to get one load of laundry folded. I couldn't have known how natural yet miraculous motherhood feels, because I, Laura, was made for it. But here it all is, in a 13 pound package. Right now, we're in a catnapping phase, which severely limits my time to write (or do anything else). But I'm hoping that some of these breastfeeding musings will make it to the page (screen?). Thanks for reading.

On Prayer

Recently, I found myself praying for a particular thing that I pray for often, but this time I felt a particular fervency. As I finished, like with many of my prayers, I followed up my request with “But Thy will be done.” Then something interesting happened. Probably the Holy Spirit--He’s funny that way. I thought, instead of just asking for something, maybe I’ll talk to God about it. So that’s what I did. “Hey God, here’s what’s on my heart and why I’m asking. I know You know better than I do, and I know You ultimately want good for Your children.” He of course already knew all of this, but for me it felt more like talking to a friend than rubbing the magic lamp. And I realized that’s what God wants our prayer to be all the time. May not seem like a big revelation, or maybe you’ve already thought of it, but for me, it was pretty striking. Instead of listing my requests with varying urgency, I can just share my heart with a Father who loves me and will listen. And then rather than feeling like the efficacy of my prayer is based on results, I can know that my prayer is building a relationship, is changing me. Because that’s the whole point anyway.

I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God, it changes me. -CS Lewis

Motherhood

It's amazing how quickly a tiny three-pound baby can change one's identity so irrevocably.*

When I graduated medical school, I had to practice--out-loud--saying that I was a doctor, because that wasn't just a switch I could flip in my brain and suddenly identify as a physician. Same thing with "girlfriend", "fiance", and "wife." It took time to hear those things being said about me without doing a double take. Yet, from the moment that little blue line showed up, I've been a mother, and in many ways it hasn't taken any getting-used-to at all (as A says, "almost as if this is what you were made for." He's pretty smart).

At the end of Mass this past weekend, the priest invited all mothers to kneel for a blessing. Kneeling there, belly right up against the book rack of the pew in front of me, head bowed, it struck me that not only was this my first Mother's Day, but that, no matter what happened from here on out, I would always be a mother. Always. Whether I am blessed to carry this baby girl to term and watch her live a long life with many happy memories, whether I go on to bear many more children, or whether we tragically lose her even before she is born and never have another child. Or anything in between. No matter what, she has changed me.

My identity as a mother was sealed at her conception, even though I didn't know it at the time. It's a daunting title to have, given the example of our Blessed Mother, as well as the many amazing mothers that I know. And while I don't know what all this role holds for me, I know that it will require a gift of myself unlike anything I have experienced thus far in my life, even in marriage. I know that alone, I am not up to the task. Thankfully, God has created me for exactly this role, given me a wonderful, supportive, and patient husband, and a loving community, and He knows far better than I do what He's doing.

So for now I'll just keep relishing her little kicks, tolerating the frequent bathroom trips, offering up the ligament pain, and praying for her every day, grateful for this baby girl who has forever made me a mother.

*baby's average weight at 31 weeks, where I was for Mother's Day

Priorities

"I just don't have time..."

How many times have we all uttered those words, or thought those words, lamented those words?

And yet, how much time do we spend (dare I say waste?) doing things that, at the end of the day/week/year, don't really get us any closer to our goals?

Turns out there are such people in the world as time-management experts. Though this particular one, through her own admission, is not always on time, doesn't have any super powers, and instead mostly studies those who are better at using their time. In her TED talk, she reveals that it's not so much about saving time by shaving seconds off of daily tasks, but by redefining our priorities. (Just listen to the talk; I'm not going to rehash the whole thing here...not a priority.)

So, as someone who often feels like my day has been wasted, or like I'm not doing the things I want to do, the things that make me thrive, I decided to take her advice to heart. She suggests picturing your next annual review at work or family Christmas letter and listing what things should be there to have made it a successful year. Then, break those goals into manageable steps and get started. Easy, right?

I imagine most of next year's Christmas letter (for us, New Year's) will be filled with tales and gratuitous pictures of our new little one, and that certainly will be a monumental success. Beyond that, I want to hike more (and once my center of gravity is back to semi-normal, bike more) and write more. I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and I spend more time lamenting that I don't get out more than I do getting out. Also, since my writing class a few years ago, I haven't written nearly as much as I'd have liked. Not that I have an urgent story to tell, but I enjoy it. So those two things will become priorities for me.

Switching to the work camp, at my last annual review, I came in a bit short on two things--spending enough time with families (I'm efficient, what can I say?), and billing appropriately (I tend to undervalue/underbill my services, largely due to lack of understanding of billing criteria, and some general laziness). The latter of these is unglamorous, albeit important, but it's the first one that I feel will really make me feel more successful and fulfilled as a doctor. 

I tend to pride myself on said efficiency, seeing more patients and getting them out faster than my colleagues. After all, it is "urgent" care, right? If you don't need to be here, go home. Yet, I've realized two important things in this job that stand in the face of that mentality. First, each family that comes in to the urgent care needs something. Sometimes that something is just reassurance, or a listening ear, or yes, a popsicle and a sticker. But if I don't take the time to figure out what that something is, they may be back tomorrow, or go somewhere else next time, and they certainly aren't going to trust my recommendations. Secondly, when I take the time to sit down, to get to know my patients as people, to interact with their humanity and not just their physiology, I feel more fulfilled, they are more willing to hear what I have to say, and I don't get quite as burned out. Seems like that might be worth letting the next patient wait two extra minutes.

If I make these my priorities, if I choose to spend time on these things, then at the end of a year, I'm hopeful that I won't have spent so much time saying "I don't have time" and instead will have become a better wife, mother, doctor, and human.

Breaking the chains

I've spent the last 46 days (because this year I determined that it would behoove me more to include Sundays in my Lenten penance) disconnected from facebook (minus one, and only one, foray to retrieve a cell phone number that I had nowhere else...and I didn't even look at my wall).

It has been painful at times. Mindlessly scrolling through the apps on my phone looking for that blue and white logo even though I deleted the app because I didn't trust my self-control (clearly a wise choice), taking a picture to post before I remembered that I couldn't post it anywhere, collecting ridiculous hashtags to share with no one in particular, wondering what was going on in the lives of those people that I only connect with on facebook.

In other ways, it's been freeing. My husband says he notices me present more often. I have read more for pleasure during Lent than I normally do. I was able to commit to prayer time more faithfully, often before the end of day, so that it wasn't the last thing I did as I pulled the sheets up. I learned that I can indeed survive without it.

But I also realized that I am an addict. As I mentioned, my fingers are so used to pulling up the app on my phone that I kept looking for it even though I knew I had deleted it. I felt the urge to get on at multiple times throughout the day. I am still looking forward to getting on tomorrow and seeing what all I've missed in the last seven weeks (I also realized I get most of my news stories from facebook--depressing and embarrassing--because I missed such major things as a doctor getting dragged off a plane, and the US bombing ISIS). And so I want something to change. I don't want this Lent to have been a 46 day interlude that holds no lasting effect.

So I've been thinking about what I actually enjoy about facebook. I do like keeping in touch with more people, people that it's not feasible to talk to or text all the time, but who I still want in my life. I like being able to share articles, pictures, milestones, etc. And I've been thinking about what I don't like. The comparison of my own very real life to the facades that I measure up against, the mindless trolling that wastes so much time, the resentment that creeps in when my "friends" post inflammatory rants or memes.

I think the internet and social media can be a force for goodness, truth, and beauty. So that will be my new goal. I want to share God as much in that venue as I strive to in my personal life. I want people to see my page as a reflection of me, not a sarcastic or attention-seeking version, but an authentic one. It will probably mean I'm on a lot less often, and that's okay. In fact, I hope that's the case. Maybe it will give me more time to write and blog, which I've been wanting to get back to anyways (I can use the same goals for this venture, I suppose).

And here's hoping that next year, I will have achieved a balance so that I can move on to a different Lenten sacrifice. And here's also hoping that I (and you) can use social media to our purposes, rather than being slaves to it.

The fruits of marriage

When A and I were discerning marriage, I found that one of the more difficult parts to swallow about giving myself completely to another person was not that gift in and of itself, but its consequences. Namely, the babies.

In the Rite of Marriage, the couple answers three questions before proceeding to the vows:

Have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?

Will you honor each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?

Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and His Church?

Those first two aren’t so hard (I mean relatively). I wouldn’t be walking down the aisle if I weren’t ready for those. And even the last one, on the surface, is an easy yes. I wouldn’t be walking down the aisle in a Catholic Church if I didn’t want that. Besides the fact that we were excited to start a family, excited to be parents.

I was looking forward to answering those questions in the affirmative, but what it meant to “accept children lovingly” gave me a bit of hesitation. Because it wasn’t just the children I was saying yes to. It was the process of having children.

If I were to stand at the front of that church and say yes, I would be saying yes to morning sickness, stretch marks, heartburn, swollen ankles, labor pains, and maybe never fitting into that size 4 dress again. Seriously, as we went through our discernment, as I thought about my future with this man, I pictured my friends in the worst throes of pregnancy—everything from having to wear flip flops because no other shoes fit to extreme hyperemesis requiring feeding tubes to weeks of bed rest and NICU stays—and it made me want to take a step back.

More than the physical changes of my body, I would also be saying yes to a very tiny someone else determining my schedule of sleep and socializing, piles of laundry and diapers, an entire change in my identity. Never again would my life be just my own. Or maybe it would be the opposite, and we would struggle with the heartache of infertility, miscarriage, congenital disease, infant death (yes, as a pediatrician, this is what I think about). And all of that was scary. More than just a little bit.

I didn’t expect A to understand, but I told him about my fears anyway, because I wanted him to know that for me, it was more than just saying yes to the wedding night, but also to everything that would follow. And that was the point in my discernment that I knew I could marry this man, because I knew I could answer those questions honestly.

Fast forward just past our six-month anniversary, and it’s all become a beautiful, challenging reality.

Our daughter

It’s a fascinating paradox, like so much in the Catholic life. If I stop and think too hard about growing a tiny soul inside of me, of being responsible for another human life, I might crawl into a hole and never come out. And yet, all of it feels so natural and right, like this was exactly what I was created to do. Because it is.

Yes, the physical parts have been hard (I never wanted an outie, and I hate foot cramps, and being even more clutzy), as have the emotional (What if I’m not a good mom? What if I don’t recognize post-partum depression?), and the financial (I think you get that part). But my husband has been the most wonderful support, reminding me how beautiful I am because I’m pregnant, not in spite of, and that we’re in this together. Always together.

I think the most enduring realization (or at least confirmation) of these last six months has been that God’s plan is really the best. He has plans for our welfare, for “a future with hope” (Jer. 29:11b). It’s different than how I would have written it, but this version is so much richer, so much more fulfilling, and yes, probably more challenging.

It’s letting go of control—notice that question doesn’t say “Will you accept children on your own time when it’s convenient, and raise them in whatever way helps to maintain your comfortable lifestyle?” Turns out life more abundant is a little messier, a little less sure, and a lot more rewarding.

Praise God.