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