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.