Tag: parenting

The Holidays: the start of a New Year, the start of New Goals

The holidays.  Christmas.  Truly my favorite season of the year—and I do mean “season” because in my household, it’s at least a 6-8 week timeframe of nothing but baking cookies, wearing Christmas sweaters, watching Christmas movies on repeat, indulging in Christmas parties and sweet treats, sharing drinks and elaborate meals with new friends and old, drinking cocoa on cold mornings, having everything be peppermint flavored, lighting fires in the fire place, and praying for snow.  The season of perpetual hope—the season for loving and giving, family and friends.  I love it all.

The holidays sure flew by this year.  When they were over, I found myself conflicted: both sad that the festivities were over yet also exhausted and ready to get back into a more “normal” routine.  I found myself, more than once this season, dreading some of the tasks that come along with all of that festive joy.  For example, our “Elf on the Shelf.”  Last year I was pregnant and nauseous, and since I spent most evenings praying at the porcelain throne, I did a very iffy job with our elf, whom we named Clark.  I basically just moved him every night from one shelf to another.  There was no creativity or extra effort.  I felt like he was a burden in my nightly routine of getting home from work, putting the kids to bed, throwing up, and then putting myself to bed.  I vowed to do better this year.  And so, I did.  This year, Clark went on all sorts of adventures—he made a swing out of an old paper towel tube and some twine, and went swinging from our chandelier.  He made himself an “igloo” out of a discarded tissue box with cotton balls stuck to the outside.  He hid candy canes around our house for the kids to find when they woke up.  He wrote them notes.  He drew smiley faces on our bananas.  And as the pièce de résistance, he went swimming in a bath of chocolate candies inside a candy dish.  Clark had quite a season indeed. 

Yet while I felt better about my effort this year, as the days wore on, my ability to be creative in designing Clark’s next great adventure waned.  I was turning to Pinterest for ideas.  I was sitting down on the sofa at night only to stand back up again, begrudgingly, because I had forgotten about Clark and needed to move him. 

And aside from the nightly Clark adventures, I also needed to buy gifts for the kids school teachers, the gymnastics coach, the Sunday School teachers, the mailman, the relatives, etc. and also ensure that the Christmas cards got addressed and mailed, ensure the kids were signed up for a visit to see Santa and tell them their little hearts desires, and also RSVP for the 19 different Christmas gatherings that we’d been invited to (I’m not exaggerating), and figure out which ones we could attend, what child care we would need, etc.  I needed to wrap all of the gifts.  I needed to ship some of the gifts (meaning a visit to the always unpleasant post office).  I needed to get the kids to their rehearsals for the Christmas pageant at school, and the totally separate Christmas pageant at Church.  I needed to go to the grocery store and make sure we had ingredients on hand to make cookies over the weekend.  I needed to figure out whether the kids had special outfits for Christmas Eve service, and if not, go shopping to buy them something so that we could get a great family photo.  I needed to DO things, every night.  My perpetual to-do list, instead of shrinking each time I completed a holiday task, just seemed to expand.   (And this doesn’t even include grading papers for my law school students because the semester had ended, or working my day job of being a divorce attorney, or pumping milk for our 8 month old baby, or the cleaning, the laundry, or any other of life’s circuitous tasks… and there was certainly no time for myself, to sit and write something meaningful for this hobby of mine called “The Forgotten Trimester.”  My mind was too busy swimming with thoughts of holiday to-do’s.)

Everything about the season was fun at the beginning; burden by the end.  It was too much.  The season, my normal time of joy, was stressing me out!  And in case everyone is wondering—of course I had help from my wife.  We divided and conquered as much as we could.  But the ability to just sit and watch the twinkle of the Christmas tree lights while having adult conversation with my wife over a glass of cabernet sauvignon disappeared.  And I felt oh-so-guilty about not being able to create holiday magic 24/7, and not enjoying every minute of every task.

Fast forward, and we survived.  Our Christmas photos may not have turned out picture-perfect, we inadvertently left a few people off our Christmas card list, and didn’t make all of the cookie recipes we were planning on making, we only made it to about 3 Christmas parties, our middle daughter faced backward for the entirety of the Christmas pageant so we never saw her face, we dealt with a round of Strep Throat, and we were up until midnight on Christmas Eve (despite promises that we would get everything done well in advance) wrapping Santa gifts and putting the finishing touches on everything for the big day.  But we made it.  And I’m sure if you asked my kids—they had a blast. 

The rest of our time off from work and school flew by, and New Year’s Eve was a blur.  Before we knew it—January 1, 2020 was upon us.  Back to reality and routine.

As I walked into my office in the New Year (after being out of the office for approximately 2 weeks enduring the flurry that was the holidays), I opened my email, to find one of those emails you’re never prepared for and hope to never receive.  One of my clients, a troubled man with alcoholism, had committed suicide, leaving behind a 5 year old daughter.

My heart broke.  I left to go for a walk to clear my head.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the holidays, however stressful they may be, are made bearable for me because I’ve got a loving family and friends.  My children and my wife are my greatest joys.  Coming home to them every night, and having those little moments of reading a book as a family before bedtime, or snuggling up with a cup of cocoa in front of the fire after sledding at the park—those are the real joys of Christmas and the holidays.  What if I didn’t have those moments?  What if I didn’t have my kids or my wife at the holidays?  It would be lonely.  Oh-so-lonely.  And depressing.  And hard to get through.  And in the case of my client, literally impossible to get through.

So for next year, I vow to do better.  I’m not talking about doing a better job with Clark’s “Elf on the Shelf” adventures, which was what I vowed to do better this year.  No… I’m talking about doing better by those in need.  Those who are lonely and depressed and without family or friends to help guide them through what is supposed to be the season of perpetual hope.  Being there for each other, saving each other, is what the focus should really be… after all, wasn’t that the reason for that darling Baby Boy lying in a manger?  To save us all. 

I won’t be able to save us all… but I will try my best to do my bit this New Year.  Because everyone goes through their own “Forgotten Trimester” at some point in life; and yet no one deserves to feel “forgotten,” especially at the holidays. Let’s all do as Ellen DeGeneres suggests and “be kind to one another.” We all deserve that.

“Merry Christmas to ALL, and to ALL a goodnight—babies included!”

Now that Halloween is over, it feels like the holiday season is officially upon us.  Walking around downtown Chicago, the window displays are in full effect at Marshall Fields (yes, I know that it’s now known as Macy’s).  They’re setting up the German Kristkindl Market at Daley Plaza.  The stores are now carrying décor for every aspect of your life.  You can’t walk anywhere without being reminded that Christmas, and the holidays, are upon us.

For many (myself included), this is a season of stress—getting the Christmas cards made, addressed, and mailed; making sure that the decorations get put up; and trying to plan a thousand holiday parties with friends, family, co-workers, professional organizations, and the kids’ schools.  Not to mention the nativity plays and holiday performances that kids have to attend rehearsals for!  Oh, and did we forget buying gifts?  That’s a thing, too.

And yet, for many (again, myself included), all of this stress somehow fuels us to do more, enjoy more, and make this season magical. 

I was trying to schedule a time for my older two kids to see Santa (that’s how you do it where we live—it’s not like when I grew up and you just showed up and stood in line—now, there are fast passes and reservations required).  I was planning that one of us (my wife or myself) could stay home with our 6 month old baby girl, because she won’t get much from the experience, and it will interfere with her nap schedule, and it might detract from the experience for our older two, and besides, this is the FIRST TIME seeing Santa for our older two… so if they waited this long, she could wait too.

And then I got an email: our Church wanted our sweet baby girl to play the part of Jesus in the nativity pageant on Christmas Eve.  Apparently, she’s the youngest member of the congregation.  Either my wife or I would therefore play the part of Mary.

“Well…” I thought to myself… “I’m not sure this is a good idea.  It’s late in the evening, it will add another component of stress to the festivities (after all, if she cries while we’re just sitting in Church, we can walk her out into the hallway… but if she’s baby Jesus, it’s a little harder to slip away unnoticed), etc. etc.”

But then, in talking to my wife about it, she reminded me that (for those of us who celebrate Christmas), this is the season of celebrating Jesus.  A BABY.  And we were basically coming up with reasons to eliminate our BABY from any and all festive outings, on the basis that she was a BABY. 

So that settled it.  We will have ourselves a baby Jesus in the pageant.

In this, the season of celebrating the birth of a baby, we will do our part to make sure our own baby will be included.  While she may not remember anything, and while it might add an extra element of stress, it’s her Christmas, too—and we can’t let our baby girl be forgotten during this Christmas season of the forgotten trimester.

(And on a lighter note—if anyone has tips on how to help a baby sit quietly while playing the part of baby Jesus, I’m all ears…)

No one can do it like you.

No one can raise your child like you can, quite literally, because no one is you.  And yet, you know what?  It will be okay.

This is something that I have to constantly remind myself of, as recently as this morning. 

You see, our daughter turned 6 months old over the weekend (I can hardly believe it), so we decided it was time for our Au Pair to begin giving her food during the day. 

As a disclaimer before anyone jumps in with advice about introducing a baby to solid food– we started giving her a tiny bit of food about 6 weeks ago—just for fun, and for exposure to potential allergens (like peanut butter, eggs, soy, etc.).  As I may have mentioned in prior posts, my wife is a pediatrician—so we know how to do it safely, and understand that it’s not for nutrition (nutrition is what my seemingly endless hours of pumping at the office and at home are for—that liquid gold!)

Anyway…

Last night we “trained” our Au Pair on how to give our sweet baby food, what spoon she prefers, where the bibs are, how to ensure at least some of it gets into her mouth (as opposed to being on her face, the floor, her hands, etc.) and what foods we know she likes thus far.  Our Au Pair smiled and nodded, and confirmed that she understood what to do.  It’s not rocket science, so I told my type-A worried mind to relax, and that her endeavors to feed our baby some food today would probably go swimmingly.

Wrong. 

First, I got a text message asking which bib to use—to which I replied that it really didn’t matter.  They were all washable anyway.  Then, I got another message with a picture, showing our baby girl eating with the wrong spoon—it wasn’t her favorite spoon, and wasn’t even a baby spoon.  It was a standard soup spoon.  Finally, after the meal was completed, I got a message that our sweet baby girl wouldn’t take any of her bottle, which is what pushed me over the edge (in my mind, not outwardly).  Outwardly, I responded with a polite text simply saying “next time, please ensure she gets her bottle first, before you try any food.”  My inward thoughts, however, were not so calm.  I immediately launched into “Of course she wouldn’t take any bottle!  You filled her up with tons of prunes and spinach first, so there isn’t any room left in her teeny tiny stomach!  This isn’t rocket science!  And clearly you weren’t listening to the instructions last night, which included a specific disclaimer that milk always needed to take priority, and she should have a bottle before her food; not after!” 

Rage was happening in my mind, and I soon spiraled into other thoughts of guilt:  No one can do it like I can do it.  I should be at home feeding her and not working/having a career.  Maybe we should just feed her at dinner, and not have our Au Pair ever try to feed her.  Even with being spoon-fed the instructions (pun intended), our Au Pair still managed to mess it up.  Now our baby girl (who isn’t great about taking her bottles to begin with) was essentially behind an entire 4-5 ounces of milk for the day.  She might get dehydrated.  She might get constipated.  I wonder if I can sneak in another bottle at some point this evening to make up for the missed bottle.  Etc. etc.

And then I paused on one of those thoughts; specifically, the “no one can do it like I can do it” thought, because it’s something that was extremely hard for me when going back to work and leaving our baby in the care of someone other than me (or my wife), and it’s something I still struggle with.  Some people call it “mom-guilt” or some variant thereof—I call it being a control freak.  (Hey, at least I have insight into myself.)

I slowed down and tried to remember that “no one can do it like me… literally… because no one is me!”  Even my wife and I probably have slightly different methods for feeding our daughter.  And you know what?  Her methods work just fine, too.  Just as our Au Pair’s methods will likely work fine with a little fine-tuning.  I needed to provide the feedback about giving the bottle first, before food, and maybe tell her to use a baby-appropriate spoon next time, but the rest I needed to let go.  Because our Au Pair is not me, and doesn’t do things like I would do them, and that’s okay.  In letting these small things go, I’m teaching my daughter that others can care for her.  And that it’s oaky to be flexible, and not do everything the exact same way every single time.  Life isn’t perfect and doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.  She can still have her needs met, even when I’m not there (or my wife isn’t there), which I firmly believe to be a crucial lesson.  And, while I may think that I have everything to offer, I know that isn’t true—there are so many things our Au Pair can offer on a daily basis that I can’t.  Like speaking Spanish.  Exposing our sweet baby to a different culture.  Different music.  Adorable Pinterest crafts that I wish I had time for, but just don’t.  She’s learning things that I can’t teach her, and being exposed to wonderful enriching things, which is a gift that outweighs the small critique of using the wrong spoon and being behind on 4-5 ounces of milk for one isolated day.  It’s all okay; and, in all likelihood, I will get home tonight to find what I always find: a happy baby, anxious to see me, who is safe, healthy, and has had nothing but love and attention all day… and hopefully more milk. 😉

So, to all the other Mama’s out there thinking “no one can do this like I can!” You’re not alone.  And you’re right.  And yet, it will be okay.

How to not “forget” your other children during the “forgotten” trimester.

One of the hardest things, that I did not correctly anticipate, was how hard it would be to spend time with my older children once we welcomed our new baby girl.  While I relished snuggling a sleeping newborn, and I couldn’t quite seem to get enough of that newborn-baby-smell (it was more powerful than even the strongest pain meds for me!), I was also hurting inside—and I’m not just talking about the physical recovery after a c-section.

Why was I hurting?

Because I missed my older kids!  There is so much pressure on a new mom to bond with her baby, to breastfeed on command (if you’re a nursing mom), to cluster-feed 24-7, and to otherwise comfort and be with your new baby.  And while all of these things are precious, and the newborn phase is fleeting in the grand scheme of life, it doesn’t mean that your other kids can just be “put on hold.”

I could see how excited our 4 year old son and 2 year old daughter were to have a new sister, but I could also see that they couldn’t quite understand why I wasn’t around anymore.  To them, I’m sure it felt like they had been replaced.  Whenever the baby was sleeping, I needed to sleep (or pump, or shower, or do one of a million other things that I couldn’t do while holding a baby).  And whenever she was awake, I needed to have skin-to-skin time, or breastfeed her.  We all lived in the same house, and yet for the first couple of weeks, I felt like I rarely saw my two “big kids.”

Don’t get me wrong– we tried the best we could to make sure they still had time with me, and that I still had time with them.  My wife helped out as much as she possibly could, both with our older children and with the baby.  It still didn’t feel like enough.  I felt like my older kids were being “forgotten” in the forgotten trimester.

How did we fix the issue?  Honestly, the most helpful “fix” was just the passage of time.  Now that our sweet baby girl is 5 months old, I can look back on those first few weeks and reflect that there’s not much I could have done differently, or would have wanted to do differently.  Our newborn needed me.  Period.  I showed my other kids as much love and attention as I possibly could for that phase of life.  And now that we are through that phase and into the next, and now that our sweet baby girl is sleeping through the night, taking predictable naps, and having greater lengths of “awake” time, it’s easier to budget time so that everyone feels like they’re getting their “mama time.”  When our baby girl is napping, I make a concerted effort to just play with the older kids (as opposed to using the time to work, cook dinner, do the laundry, etc.) 

I also try, once per week, to pick up either my son or my older daughter from school just 30 minutes early, and walk home.  It’s amazing how much they’ll tell you, and how valued they feel, from something as simple as holding your hand and getting 30 minutes of undivided attention.  Sometimes we stop off for ice cream on our walk home—or pass by their favorite park and play for a while.  Whatever it takes—because no one should be “forgotten” in the forgotten trimester—particularly children.

While not everyone can have all of your time, you can make time for everyone.

What to give a family with a new baby.

Someone emailed me yesterday asking, “What would you recommend we give as a gift to a family we know who just had a baby?  Chew toy?  Clothes?  Something else?”  Such a great question.  And while the answer might differ depending on who you ask (post-partum mom versus their partner) and what their circumstances are, there are a few solid “go-to’s” that I like to recommend, either because they were things that were gifted to us after the arrival of our kids, or because they weren’t (but I wish they had been). 

My first tip is: new parents do not need that adorable onesie you’re thinking of buying them.  They don’t need any more clothes for the baby, actually.  Or toys.  Or even books.  If you want to get them something tangible at all, the only thing I’d recommend is an Amazon gift card, because then they can use it to buy anything they really need (diapers, wipes, etc.) 

In truth, the most useful and under-gifted things new parents need, particularly those first few weeks/months of the forgotten trimester are much simpler, often intangible, and fall into a few basic categories:

1.         Time. 

First and foremost, give new parents the gift of time!  Whether it’s giving them enough alone time, without visitors, those first couple weeks as they adjust, or giving them the gift of your time so that they can have time for themselves.  Or time for their partners.  Or time for their older children.  Or time to write thank you notes or sip a latte while it’s still hot.  One of the things that is hardest to come by and most appreciated by new parents is just that simple—time.

            One of the things I severely underestimated this “time” around (pun intended) was how much time I would NOT be able to spend with my older two kids.  When you’re constantly trying to nurse a baby, and pump, and get in a little sleep, and change diapers, etc. it is inevitable that you’re going to have less time with your older kids—which for me took a huge emotional toll.  I missed them.  And they missed me.  We would be in the same house all day, and yet I barely saw them, because my wife would be busy helping them with things, and I would be in a different room trying to nurse the baby (because trying to nurse in the same room as my older kids was a disaster for all involved—the older kids were jealous, I was distracted, and the baby was so over-stimulated that latching was even more difficult).  One of the best things my wife did for me?  There was one afternoon where she pre-measured all of the ingredients and set up everything we would need to make cookies.  Even the cookie sheets were ready, and the oven was pre-heated.  She timed it well.  As soon as I was done nursing and the baby was ready for a nap, she said to me, “Okay.  Now, I’ve got this.  You go make cookies with the kids (ages 2 and 4).  And don’t worry about the clean-up.  I’ll do it later—you just have fun.”  And you know what?  It was exactly what I needed, without even knowing how much I needed it; and it was exactly what my older kids needed.  Time.  The whole activity was maybe 30 minutes, start to finish, but it was so nice to just have some time with them to reconnect.  It was healing.

2.         Help. 

Another thing new parents need?  Help!  It’s one of the things they need most, yet likely the hardest thing to ask for.  New parents are supposed to be loving every minute of having a new baby at home.  That’s what society tells us.  And when guests arrive, they’re supposed to offer refreshments and entertain.  But you know what they actually need?  They don’t need someone to come drink all of their beverages and eat all of their food and coo at the baby for a while and then leave—nope.  They need help!  They need someone to come and wash their dishes after they finish making cookies with their kids.  They need someone to run their errands (like making that Amazon return that they can’t seem to manage to get done; or picking up more toilet paper because it’s an emergency and even Amazon Prime same-day delivery won’t cut it).  They need someone to hold a cranky baby while they take a nap, or take a shower, or even just take a 5 minute walk around the block to decompress.  They need someone to get groceries for them.  They need someone to vacuum their rugs, wash and sterilize baby bottles, etc.  The list goes on and on. 

One mom commented to me that the best gift she received was her mother signing her up for 6 months of house-cleaning services from a professional cleaning company.  That sounds heavenly!  One of the best gifts that we got was from my father-in-law—he came over once per week and mowed our very large yard, basically all summer, so that we wouldn’t have to worry about it.  And my mother-in-law was kind enough to stay with our kids for the days when we were in the hospital adding our newest bundle of joy, which was such a blessing.  Also, when my mom and her husband came to stay with us about two weeks after our daughter’s birth, we literally made them a list of things around the house that would be helpful, at their request, (changing lightbulbs, greasing squeaky door hinges, helping us re-arrange some furniture, etc.) that they worked on whenever they could—and it was AMAZING!

Help really ties back into the notion of item #1 on this list— at least for me, there was an overwhelming sense of not having enough time to get things done, because I was constantly nursing, pumping, or trying to cram food down my own throat in the 15 minutes before I was sure the baby would wake up again.  If you can’t give someone the gift of time, give them the gift of help.

3.         Food. 

New parents need food.  And lots of it! 

But, they don’t need it all at once, within the first week of baby’s arrival!  While this is a common thing to give new parents, and can be oh-so-helpful, so many people give new parents food within 2 or 3 days of the baby’s birth that a lot of it ends up wasted, because there is just too much and people’s freezers and refrigerators run out of space.  Instead, it’s more helpful to space things out—set up a meal train for a family with a new baby where people can sign up to bring over a meal on set days at set times.  Or just tell the family that you’d like to bring them a meal and ask when they’d like it.  Staggering the timing can be incredibly helpful, to avoid a family being overwhelmed.

If you’re going to gift food—be sensitive to any food allergies.  When our newest was born, a friend of ours baked us a loaf of bread that was not only beautiful and delicious, but was also dairy, soy, and allergen free.  Just salt, flour, water, and yeast.  Perfect.  We don’t happen to have any food allergies, but the gesture was appreciated, because anyone could have eaten that bread.

Other tips—if you’re going to gift a meal, it’s best if the meal is pre-made and in disposable dishes or containers that you do not expect returned.  The whole point of giving a meal is to simplify the new parents’ lives for at least one meal.  So make it simple—something that can be put in the oven, or quickly heated in a pot or pan, and then easily disposed of.  Avoid things that have more than 1 step required, or things that take an exorbitant amount of time.  Fast, filling, and nutritious is the way to go.  Make sure you include all of the ingredients, if there are things to be added on later.  For example, if you gift a taco kit, have all of the toppings pre-chopped.  And don’t send over meat and taco shells, but then note that the tacos are “best served with salsa and cheese” if you haven’t also included said salsa and cheese.  You don’t want the new family to have to make a special trip to the grocery store—since that defeats the purpose of bringing them the meal.  Finally, don’t gift a meal in a dish that you want back.  My sister-in-law made us enchiladas for dinner and brought them to us.  They were delicious!  Unfortunately, they were in a glass dish of hers, meaning that it was one more thing in our state of chaos to be careful not to break, try to keep track of, clean, try to remember to whom it needed to be returned (and now that I write this—I’m not sure that we ever did return it), etc.  Disposable dishes are a must (or, a sturdier Tupperware dish with a note that says, “This dish is yours to keep!  Please don’t return it.”) 

Another one of my favorite food gifts to give new moms if you don’t feel like dropping off a meal—lactation cookie mix.  Here’s why: even if you’re not sure whether a mom is breastfeeding or not, the ingredients in lactation cookies are safe for anyone to eat (kids and spouses included).  They’re just good cookies that are semi-nutritious.  And bonus—they’re a simple thing that a mom can also take a few minutes to bake with older kids while the baby sleeps, that everyone in the family can later enjoy.  Mixes are readily available on Amazon in a variety of flavors, and as someone who has tested quite a few—most are very tasty.

4.         Companionship. 

Last but not least, new parents need companionship.  As much joy as a new baby can bring, loneliness also presents itself.  Feelings of being overwhelmed, having no one to talk to all day, missing events that you would have attended had you not just given birth, missing your spouse once they return to work and you continue to be at home with the baby all day, etc. are common.  And here’s the thing people forget—companionship is not just needed at the beginning of the forgotten trimester; in fact, it’s needed even more a few weeks after the baby’s birth, because that’s when most visitors stop coming.  That’s when working spouses often return to work.  Once people have “seen the new baby,” it’s like they forget that there is also another person in the house, the new mom, who needs companionship, and needs to been truly “seen.”  Now, all new moms are different in terms of how much companionship they need.  Some moms love having people come over every single day, for several hours at a time.  For me, I liked my “alone time” with our new baby girl, and having someone come over just once or twice per week for an hour or two was sufficient to make me feel like I was still a part of society.  The trick is just to make sure that new mom’s don’t feel forgotten—as much as you probably want to go see the adorable new baby, don’t forget there is someone else you need to pay attention to, also—that new mom. 

(And as a disclaimer—if you ever think that you or a new mom are struggling with post-partum depression or post-partum anxiety, the topic for a future post, reach out and get help, or have someone reach out and seek help on your behalf.)

So, the next time you’re thinking of buying that adorable onesie, or toy, or other gift for a new baby, take a pause and try to think about the above.  Toys will eventually wear out, or be given away, lost, or tossed in the trash.  Same for clothes—they have a limited lifespan.  The gifts that a family with a new baby will truly cherish and remember are those that help them in their time of need, make their lives easier, are sometimes intangible, often don’t cost any money at all, and instead involve giving a little of your time, effort, and, most importantly, love. 

Self-care.

After the two weeks that I’ve just had, it’s time to take a pause and discuss “self-care.” 

I know what you may be thinking—it’s a very in-vogue term that is actually unattainable (or maybe that’s just me.)  It’s kind of like the term “work-life balance.”  It’s the parenting goal a la mode.  It’s something that everyone wants, and struggles to achieve, yet it means something completely different to everyone—and everyone who is striving for it perpetually feels like they’re not quite “there yet,” or are “still working on it.” 

So, what is self-care?  Is it making sure that you’re eating right?  Exercising enough?  (Or in my case, exercising at all?)  Drinking enough water?  Getting that manicure/pedicure that you’re desperately wanting?  Getting your hair cut and highlighted?

Or is it taking 5 minutes in the morning to make that Nespresso latte that you crave?  Or taking an extra 15 minutes at night, when the whole house is asleep, to read a few chapters of that book that you enjoy but seem to never be able to finish?  Or taking a 10 minute walk around the block when you’re at work for no reason other than getting some fresh air?  Or maybe it’s writing a blog post, to vent some of your thoughts/feelings/emotions that are taking up so much space in your mind that you need to clear them out to make room for new thoughts/ideas…

Whatever it is, self-care is necessary, and attainable; albeit not necessarily in the “perfect” way envisioned (but, channeling the message of my last blog post—I’m striving for progress, here; not perfection). 

Let’s take it back a step and examine my last two weeks in a nutshell:

“Hellish” would be barely scraping the surface of how the last two weeks felt.  We had some landscaping done at our home, which required coordinating on my part, our son started speech therapy, which threw off our morning routine, the kids were transitioning from their “summer” school schedule to their “fall” school schedule (differences in meal times at school, and differences in required wardrobe for the day, and supplies, etc.), our sweet baby girl started working on her solid foods (homemade pureed butternut squash for the win!), I jumped back in to teaching a legal writing class one night per week, we had a bout of either food poisoning or a stomach bug at our house, our Au Pair informed us that she would be leaving later this year (prompting a search for a new Au Pair, pronto!), my wife’s medical institution went through the reaccreditation process (a splendid treat that thankfully occurs only once every 10 years, that requires many early mornings), I was on trial for a divorce case involving millions of dollars that required a little weekend work, and I hate to give up my weekend time, (have I mentioned I’m a divorce attorney?), I had my semi-annual partner review at work, our kids started their fall gymnastics classes and fall Sunday School classes at church, we took our annual family photos which required everyone to be up early and looking their best on a Sunday morning, and then there was all of the “normal” stuff like Amazon returns, routine dentist appointments for the adults and kids, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and still trying to fit in family time.  My wife and I were like ships passing in the night.  Every day my brain felt achy from the amount of logistical gymnastics performed throughout the day, making sure that everyone in our house made it to where they needed to go, and accomplished what they needed to accomplish.

And then there was the unexpected—I’ll skip the details, but I had some symptoms suggesting that I should really see a gastroenterologist, thanks to a strong history of colon cancer on both sides of my family.  My response when my wife told me to go see a specialist was literally, “I don’t have time.”  Accurate?  Yes.  Acceptable?  No.

And that’s when it hit me: sometimes self-care is literal.  It’s not about being able to get the manicure you want—it’s about taking care of your physical health! 

So often as mothers we prioritize everyone and everything else above ourselves.  We prioritize our kids (for good reason), and our spouses (also usually for good reason).  We also prioritize our friends, family, bosses, jobs, commitments, schedules, and never-ending to-do-lists; yet so often we fail to prioritize our own most basic needs—the need for health care, for example.

Why is this?  Is it cultural?  Or does it have to do with personality type?  For example, if you’re type-A like me, does that make you more prone to wanting to be superwoman and wanting to “do it all?”  Or is it situational?  Maybe there are times in life when self-care is just not a viable part of the weekly plan? 

I think the answer, like so many things in life, lies somewhere in between all of simple clear-cut possibilities.  Sure, being a type-A personality doesn’t make self-care easier, but it’s circumstantial and a part of our culture.  Americans tend to strive to be self-supporting, not dependent upon anyone else, make the most out of everything, and want the best for everyone in their lives.  In other cultures, they’re more open to accepting help (the topic for an entirely separate blog post at some future time) and do a better job enjoying the moment.  Maybe “self-care,” and “work-life-balance” and other similar terms are so in-vogue right now for a really simple reason: because we, as a culture, used to naturally work things into our lives that took care of our basic self-care needs (for example- women in the 1950’s taking hours every week to get their hair permed; men in the 1950’s coming home and having a cocktail while relaxing before dinner), and in our “go-go-go” and “must-do-more” society, we forget or otherwise don’t make time for these simple moments of self-care.

While I don’t have all the answers as to why “self-care” is such a struggle for some of us, my challenge to all of us today (mostly myself), particularly in this forgotten trimester, is to make time for self-care at least once per week—ideally every day—even if only for 10 minutes.  Whether it’s a long walk to clear your mind, sitting down to write a blog post, having a cocktail before dinner, taking that exercise class you’ve been thinking about, reading a few pages of a good book, or (in the busier weeks) something as simple as prioritizing getting yourself seen by a doctor, let’s all get out there and do some “self-care.”  Define self-care however you need to today or this week, depending on your circumstances and daily logistical gymnastics game; but just get out there and do it!  We will all thank ourselves for it, and we’ll all be better mothers/spouses/employees/friends, etc. because as someone wise once told me, “you can’t give that which you do not possess.”  In other words—you can’t care for others if you can’t care for yourself.

Post-Partum? Or Post-Party? (Damn you, auto-correct.)

In the weeks immediately following the birth of our precious daughter in April, 2019, I got lots of emails.  I mean tons.  Hundreds.  And the fact that I had on an “OOO” (Out-of-office) auto-reply didn’t seem to do me much good (likely my own fault, because I didn’t want to mention “maternity leave” and instead opted to simply state that I was on “a prolonged leave”, out of my own insecurity that potential clients might see those words and run away—a thought that now, in hindsight, seems both baseless and irrelevant.  After all, if someone isn’t okay with me having children and a life beyond the office, then it probably isn’t a good attorney-client match!) 

So, when a potential new client would contact me, and receive my extremely vague out-of-office reply, they would naturally follow-up to ask whether I was okay, and when I might be back.  This inevitably led to me explaining that I was “post-partum,” which in my mind was less stigmatizing than just saying that I was on “maternity leave.”  The problem?  Responding to emails through my iPhone led to the age-old problem of autocorrect.  And, as I learned the hard way, auto-correct plus sleepless nights plus responding to emails while distracted by a new baby can lead to some pretty hilarious mix-ups…

The biggest mix-up, by far, is when I would explain to people via email that I was out because I was “post-partum.”  Auto-correct instantly decided that “post-party” must have been what I meant, and it would change it Every.  Single.  Time.  Being somewhat technologically challenged, I couldn’t figure out how to make it stop!  And being sleep deprived, I didn’t catch the error the first few times it happened, leading to potential clients getting an email from me that read something like this:

“Dear (John):

Thanks for reaching out.  I’m out of the office because I’m actually post-party right now (hence the strange hour of the day you might be receiving this email), and I plan on being out for another several weeks recovering.  I’d be happy to have a phone call, however, and meet you in person when I’m no longer post-party.”

Stupid?  Yes.  Embarrassing?  Double-yes.  Avoidable?  Triple yes.  If I had just gotten over my fear of what stigma may or may not be associated with taking time away to birth a human and heal my body, it never would have happened.  I should have just been honest and straightforward, and said that I was on maternity leave (and deep in the throes of the forgotten trimester).

Although stupid and avoidable, was it also funny?  Yes.  It lightened my own mood when I realized the mistake.  And it actually led to some light-hearted conversations with people who found the typo endearing—which in turn led to some great attorney-client relationships. 

And, lastly, was it also ironic?  YES.  Oh-so-ironic. Because no matter how you give birth, I think we can all agree it is the opposite of a “party.”  And, I would hardly call the “post-partum” period of life a “post-party,” unless referring to the feelings of exhaustion, body soreness, and need for hydration and pain killers—in which case “post-partum” and “post-party” might actually be, on balance, identical.

Keep on post-partying, my fellow forgotten trimester tribe.  Try to find the humor in the little things, and always know that you’re not post-partying alone. 

Find your tribe.

One of the most crucial lessons I learned when experiencing my forgotten trimester was the importance of finding your tribe.  I’m not talking about “Mama Tribe Chicago,” or any one of the hundreds of other Facebook groups dedicated solely to the topic of mothering and all that goes along with it.  And I’m also not talking about your “normal” tribe, who are permanent fixtures in your world.  I’m talking about the tribe of people, some of whom may only be in your life for a short time, that make you feel more “normal” during your maternity leave and forgotten trimester.

For me, my tribe consisted of Wanda, the crossing guard at the elementary school down the street.  Wanda was 66 years old, retired, mother of 3 and grandmother of 8 from New Orleans.  She had a sing-song Southern accent and a smile that lit up her whole face.  Every morning, when I took our baby girl out for a walk, Wanda was there to ask me how I was doing, and to comment, albeit briefly, on how much our baby girl was changing.  She’d say things like “oh, look at how her beautiful eyelashes are filling in,” or “she’s looking bigger!” or “I see she learned how to smile over the weekend!” or “I love that color on her.”  She’d also ask me how I was doing, and offer some inspirational quote like “you reap what you sew, and you’re sewing a beautiful garden, honey.”    

We would only speak for maybe 15 seconds every morning (after all, it doesn’t take long to cross a street, and we only spoke when I was crossing at her crosswalk), but I found myself intentionally crossing the street at “her” crosswalk each day, not out of necessity (there were about 1,000 different routes I could have chosen), but because she offered me the ability to converse with another adult each and every morning.  It made me feel like my life was a bit more normal.  She made me feel happy.  Returning to work, I don’t see Wanda every morning anymore, but I still try to make the effort, on those rare days when I work-from-home, to take our baby girl past Wanda so that she can see her and comment on our progress in her sweet Southern accent.

My tribe also consisted of Chris, the barista at our local Starbucks.  I probably went to Starbucks about twice per week, just to pick up a quick coffee and then continue walking with our baby girl.  But it was the same story with Chris—he learned my name, our baby’s name, my “standard order” of a decaf latte with almond milk, and no matter how many people were in line, he would ALWAYS step away for 10 seconds to hold the door for me so that I could roll the stroller through.  Even after insisting that I was okay, and that I could manage, and he could get back to his customers, he would simply smile and say, “We all could use more help in this world.  The pleasure is mine.”  Such true words, Chris.  I doubt he knew that he was helping me in more ways than one.

Of course, my wife and children were a huge part of my tribe, and served as obvious and constant reminders of how much I enjoy family time, and how much I am loved.  And my friends (particularly other “mom” friends that we met through our kids’ preschool) were wonderful and supportive in their own ways.  And my extended family that came to visit and help.  But for some reason, it was those smaller interactions, with Chris the barista and Wanda the crossing guard, that helped me achieve more normalcy and routine, and happiness.

Interestingly, some of my longest time friends, including friends of mine from law school, or friends from college, were not a big part of my forgotten trimester “tribe.”  Of course they were (and still are!) there for me, but they were more in my periphery vision and not my direct line of sight.  And that’s okay!  The occasional text messages, requests for updated photos of the baby, etc. were all very nice, but to some extent it began to feel like work to me, rather than pleasure.  I think the difference was that the interactions I had with Chris and Wanda were all very light, required zero effort on my part (I didn’t have to respond to a text, or search for the cutest pictures of the baby to forward onward), and the interactions were at my leisure.  I chose to make them a part of my routine; but I didn’t feel a sense of obligation.  I knew they’d be there.

The lesson learned: you may have a different “tribe” during the forgotten trimester.  And while it’s great to maintain your friend and family relationships and keep them in solid condition, it’s also helpful to find those other “tribe members” who may not be a part of your tribe forever, but who help you feel normal, important, and happy.  I probably didn’t say it enough, but when I next see Chris and Wanda I’ll be sure to tell them how much they brightened my day, and how grateful I am that they cared.

What is the “forgotten trimester?”

Pregnancy.  A phase of life generally divided into three neat and tidy trimesters, each consisting of approximately 13 weeks.  During the first, most women experience morning sickness (though for a lucky few like myself, the sickness is all-day, every-day).  During the second, most women rave about their energy returning, and the baby preparations kick into high gear.  And during the third and final, most women enjoy the baby kicks, while at the same time visiting the bathroom several times per day (or in some cases, per hour), sleeping moderately comfortably at best, and counting down the days until baby’s arrival.  And then… boom.  There is a new baby, and the world rejoices.

But what happens next?  What happens AFTER the new bundle of joy rocks the world of the parents?  What do we call this time of extreme highs and lows, of contentedness and anxiety?  The fourth trimester.  Or in American society particularly, the “forgotten trimester.”  The “trimester” that is actually the longest, and the hardest, during which some American women receive the least amount of support.

In thinking about my own experience, when our son arrived 4 years ago, his entry into the world was magical.  After a pregnancy fraught with hyperemesis, a protracted 20+ hour labor, ending with a semi-emergent caesarian section, the only thing that mattered was that he was finally here—healthy, screaming, kicking, and rocking our world.  What followed for me was a week of difficult recovery, followed by a maternity leave where I constantly felt unsure of myself in this new role of “motherhood,” trying to console a colicky baby.  All of the doctors that had followed me closely during pregnancy were gone.  No one was asking me “how are you feeling?” every hour of every day.  I was no longer going to work, to social outings, etc.  Instead, we lived in a 1 bedroom apartment at the time.  While it had beautiful pre-war charm, it was tiny.  Our son actually lived in a converted walk-in closet (before anyone calls DCFS, rest assured that it was beautiful—it fit a micro-crib, a set of drawers, and even had a painting on the wall).  My wife, my rock and support, was in residency at the time and was working literally 100+ hours per week.  Many of her “working hours” were actually night shifts, meaning that I was on my own during the night, and during the day she desperately needed sleep, so I was tasked with keeping our colicky son relatively quiet in the very small space of our apartment.  There were days where the only “person” I talked to was our son, a teeny tiny human who couldn’t respond, and for a while, couldn’t even give me a smile to encourage me in the dark hours (literally and figuratively).  While I loved him immensely, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad for myself.  Thoughts of “maybe this would be easier if we lived in a house with more than 1 bedroom,” and “maybe this would be easier if my wife didn’t work night shifts” often crept into my mind.  I felt isolated because despite living in Chicago, one of the biggest cities in the nation, I rarely left the apartment for fear of our son erupting in public, and me not being able to console him.  We got through my maternity leave, but it was a struggle.  Looking back, I do have fond memories of the bonding time we had—watching Gilmore Girls and The Ellen Show while he slept in my arms (because if I dared put him down, he’d cry immediately!) but I also wondered if there were things I could have done, or things I could have let others do, that would have helped me thrive during my maternity leave instead of just survive. 

Fast forward 4 years later, as we welcomed our youngest—a new baby girl.  This time would be different, I told myself.  For starters, my wife was no longer in residency and was working a “normal” job, so I wouldn’t be alone during the seemingly endless nights.  And, we had also moved.  No more 1 bedroom apartment!  Instead, we were out in the suburbs, with a lovely house wherein everyone had their own room (and no one slept in a closet), a backyard, a porch with a swing on it, etc. 

But was my maternity leave really that different?  Yes and no.  Yes, the extra space in our house proved to be helpful, and having my wife be more available and not working night shifts was amazing.  I got out of the house more.  I tried harder to maintain social contacts and establish “routines,” even if they were simple things like making myself a decaf Nespresso latte and then taking the baby for a long morning stroll.  And, this time we were blessed with a very easy-going, happy baby in comparison to our first two.  (Seriously, on the Richter scale, with 1 being a small tremor that was noticeable, but didn’t really disrupt your life, and 10 being a major earthquake that leveled buildings, created maximum destruction, and seriously impacted the ability to carry on with life, our first was about a 7, and our second was a sold 10.  This baby girl was/remains approximately a level 1.)  At the same time, some of those same struggles from my first maternity leave resurfaced—feelings of isolation, not being confident that I was doing “the mothering thing” the correct way (spoiler alert- after 3 babies we’ve learned that essentially they’re all different, what works for one will undoubtedly not work for the next, and sometimes you just have to take a stab in the dark until you figure it out), and wondering when the “mom-guilt” would ease up.  I constantly felt like I wasn’t doing enough for anyone—for myself, my wife, my two “big kids,” my baby, my friends; you name it, I felt like I was failing.

So what is the fourth trimester?  It’s the forgotten trimester—the weeks/months following a birth when all moms, whether first-time moms or seasoned veterans, need a little extra help.  A little extra love and support.  It’s hard.  Contrary to what one of my colleagues said to me before I left for maternity leave, it’s not “a vacation.”  (To which my response was a simple eye-roll.) 

I firmly believe that all moms struggle, at least a little, on maternity leave— but as moms, so many of us try to keep our superhero capes on and not let anyone know we’re struggling.  Our lives might look picture-perfect for Facebook and Instagram, but there’s always more to it.  The logical side of my brain says that there has to be a better way.  There just has to be more we can do to help moms during this time.  And, there has to be more that we can do to help ourselves!  So now I’ve made it my Mount Everest—it’s time to figure out how to better conquer the forgotten trimester.

It all started with Mother’s Day.

It all started with Mother’s Day.  I’ll never forget what I envisioned that beautiful May morning being, versus what reality had in store.  While I had hoped it would be a great celebration of our entry into the land of parenting three children under the age of five, it turned out to be a slippery slope into what would be the harsh reality of the struggles of the forgotten trimester.

You see, Mother’s Day is twice as nice in our household, since we’re a two-mom family.  In my mind, I pictured a quiet Sunday morning— sun shining, birds chirping, flowers blooming.  Maybe we would make pancakes for breakfast.  Our 4 year old son and 2 year old daughter would give us the gifts they slaved over at school that week prior.  Maybe we would go on a family stroll to the park, toting our newly-minted 10 day old baby girl and sipping coffee (decaf for me), and wishing all other mom’s along the way a “happy Mother’s Day.”  I would truly get out of the house for the first time since my c-section, and take our daughter to her gymnastics class.  And by 10:00 a.m., we’d be relaxed at home, popping a bottle of champagne, and indulging in some mimosas while enjoying a very rare schedule-free day, complete with pizza and a Disney movie for dinner, all while enjoying new baby snuggles.  It would be pure bliss.

In reality, that’s not quite what happened.  Not even close, actually.

It started a few days before Mother’s Day.  My wife announced that her sister would like to come over on Sunday and bring her kids to meet our new bundle of joy.  “Sunday?” I asked her.  “Yes, Sunday,” she said.  “That’s Mother’s Day,” I said.  “Yes, it is—is that okay?” she asked.

And herein lies mistake number 1:  I should have said “No.  I would prefer to have Mother’s Day be spent with just us, because we’re both mom’s and we have a new baby, and I’d really like to just have a relaxed day without the pressure of visitors.”  But what did my people-pleasing self say?  “Sure… that’s fine.  How about a QUICK morning visit so that we can enjoy the rest of the day?”  I figured that it would be selfish to be honest and say “no;” after all, it is her Mother’s Day too.  And just like that—my relaxed and unscheduled day suddenly had a schedule.

Saturday fell upon us.  My wife announced that there had been a slight alteration in plans—my wife’s dad (my kids’ Grandfather) would also be joining the gathering.  So now there would be an extra person at my house on Mother’s Day.  Although I adore my father-in-law, and was glad that my kids would see him, my level of anxiety heightened.

The big day arrived—Sunday.  Mother’s Day.  We woke up, I pumped, we all hurriedly ate some pancakes, the big kids gave us their homemade presents (which were lovely), and I scooted out the door with our daughter to gymnastics while my wife stayed behind with our son and new baby girl.  Honestly, I don’t even think either one of us even paused to wish the other a happy Mother’s Day. 

After shepherding our two year old through toddler gymnastics (always chaotic but fun), and trying to ignore the pain in my c-section scar because I kept telling myself that movement was good for me, and that I needed to spend some bonding time with our other kids, and not just the baby, I drove home.  I thought I would have 10 minutes to apply some makeup before our guests arrived.  Instead, I arrived and they were already there.  Shoot.  My opportunity to look presentable was missed.  I instinctively start criticizing myself—despite a sleepless night with the baby, maybe I should have gotten up 20 minutes earlier, and forfeited ever-precious sleep, to ensure I had makeup on.  Next time, I vowed.

So, I unload our two year old, and we walk from the garage into the house where we find… mass chaos.  Our son had just opened a gift—a new toy construction truck large enough to take up all of the space in our playroom (or so it felt to me), there was wrapping paper still scattered on the floor, and there were children running all over the place while eating snacks.  I couldn’t help but keep my type-A personality from thinking, “okay, after they leave we’ll just have to spend a few minutes cleaning up the trash, sweeping the floors, and finding a place for this new giant construction truck to go.  THEN we will enjoy a quiet Mother’s Day.”  I could feel my anxiety rising, yet again. 

I looked around a bit more and spotted our new baby girl in the living room with my wife, looking miraculously contented despite the high noise volume in the house, but clearly looking like she was in need of food.  I say my polite but quick “hello” to my sister-in-law and nephew and nieces, and walk over and offer to feed the baby.  Not being a confident breast-feeder, and having a new baby struggling to get the hang of it, I offer to take her upstairs for a bit, out of the commotion (and to a place where I could have some privacy).  We go upstairs, and I try to get her to latch.  It was no good.  She must have sensed my stress, because after 15 minutes of trying, she barely latched, and I was confident she got close to zero volume.  I vow to try again later, and really devote a “long time” to helping her, once our guests have left.  And THEN we’d enjoy a quiet Mother’s Day. 

I walk back down stairs where I find… a continuation of mass chaos.  Now, our daughter has opened a gift, new book, and is trying to “read” the book, but in reality is mostly just ripping the pages on accident.  No one is helping her.  There is even more wrapping paper on the floor.  And I can hear some sort of banging noise coming from the basement where our son is playing with his older cousins.  I try to ignore the banging sound, and I approach the room of adults (my wife, sister-in-law, and father-in-law) and ask, likely in a somewhat agitated tone, whether someone can please either help our daughter read the book or else put it away and re-direct her to another toy.  Thinking it would be too absurd to ask that someone else please go downstairs and see what the banging is, I channel my inner Elsa and decide to “let it go.” 

I ask my wife to please heat a bottle for the baby.  I had been pumping frequently, so we had plenty of breastmilk for her.  She willingly complies.  I ask if she would mind feeding the baby a bottle while I pump again, because my engorged breasts needed to be pumped since our nursing session hadn’t really gone well.  “No problem,” she says, with a calm smile on her face.

My father-in-law announces, as I’m heading upstairs to pump, that he’s leaving.  I tell him goodbye, and head upstairs to the quiet sanctuary that is the nursery before my breasts explode. 

About three minutes in to my pump session, just as I’m relaxing and my letdown is finally happening, I get a text from my wife asking if her sister can take our two oldest kids and her three kids to the nearby park to play.  It was meant to be a nice gesture—to keep them out of our hair for a few minutes.  I tell my wife that it’s fine with me, but it needs to be a somewhat abbreviated trip.  So much for my request that we just have a “quick” morning visit with her sister—it’s nearly lunch time.

And then, it happened.  The event that unraveled me.  I was sitting in the nursery, which happens to have a window overlooking our backyard, pumping and trying to calculate how many ounces of milk our baby girl had already had that morning.  I hear commotion, so I look outside.  I see all five kids (our two year old and four year old, and their three older cousins) playing in the backyard, and one of the cousins gets out a wagon (presumably to pull the kids to the park).  Our two kids get in to the wagon.  I keep waiting and watching for an adult to appear—surely someone is either standing in the yard in a place where I just can’t see them, or they’re on their way out the door.  One of the cousins starts to pull the wagon around the yard, at a run, with our kids in the back.  I can hear them squealing with delight, which makes the cousin pull them faster and faster.  Now it’s getting a little precarious—they’re taking the corners quickly, and they keep bumping over the sidewalk that leads from our house to the garage.  I can tell it’s getting dangerous.  But, I’m attached to a pump, not able to move very easily, and I keep thinking that surely an adult will appear outside and tell them to slow down, so I just need to relax and stop being a control freak. 

And herein lies mistake number 2: I should have gotten up immediately, disconnected the pump, and marched my very sore post-c-section body back down stairs to find out why there were no adults in the backyard.  Instead, I wait a fraction of a second too long.  I look outside, see the wagon rounding a corner, and it hits the sidewalk at an odd angle.  Our two precious kids go flying—one hits the sidewalk forehead first, and the other lands on top, with their head also hitting the sidewalk after first bouncing off of the side of our garage.  There is instant crying—and yet, no one appears.

Never before have I torn my pump off so quickly.  I race down the stairs, c-section scar howling in pain, shouting to my wife and sister-in-law that they need to get outside quickly, because the wagon has tipped over and both of our kids were hurt.  In my mind, I’m quite positive that we’re going to be spending the next few hours in the ER getting stitches, if not addressing something worse, like broken teeth or broken bones.  They both rush outside, with me on their heels, to find that now, both of our children have scrapes on their heads (luckily, nothing serious enough to require stitches, but enough to leave bruises for over a week).    I quickly examine our daughter, move on to examine our son, who immediately asks for an ice-pack through his tears, and announce forcefully that I’m going to get an ice-pack for them, and that there will NOT be a journey to the park today.  Today’s visit is officially over. 

My wife follows me as I huff back into the house, clearly livid and stressed (and in physical pain), pump bottles still dangling underneath my shirt, leaving our kids outside with their aunt and cousins.  (If you’re wondering where our 10-day old baby was at the time—don’t worry.  She was safe and sound in a carrier, having finished her bottle).  That’s when the last two hours of stress and anxiety float to the surface and escape in the form of yelling.  I’m not proud of it.  I tell my wife that this is not acceptable.  I ask why two able-bodied adults were inside the house while five young children were outside, completely unsupervised.  I tell her I felt like I had to do everything—supervise, clean up, pump, etc. and that no one else was helping.  I tell her that I need to go finish pumping now.  And I tell her that her sister needs to leave.

As I re-attached my pump, alone and upstairs, still watching the scene unfold in the backyard, I cried.  Giant, alligator-sized tears, complete with sobs.  I cried for our kids (who by now were okay, and enjoying the novelty of having an ice-pack).  I cried for our baby girl (who, although un-phased, heard me yell for the first time at the ripe old age of ten days old).  I cried because of hormones.  I cried because of being overly-tired.  I cried because of being in physical pain from the c-section, and from having bleeding nipples.  I cried because I was disappointed in myself (for not being honest, for losing my temper, for building up a “perfect Mother’s Day” in my mind, for not doing “enough” to protect our kids in that moment).  And I cried because I felt invisible… like no one saw me, or cared that this was my Mother’s Day, too.

Needless to say, the rest of our Mother’s Day was shot.  There were no mimosas.  There was no joyous time with all five of us, just happily playing and bonding.  By the time we got the kids calmed down and fed lunch, and napping, I needed to pump again.  And now in addition to my other physical grievances, I had a splitting headache from crying.  I can pretty much pin-point that Mother’s Day morning as a turning point.  I didn’t feel like my wife and I were on the same page, and I felt robbed of my Mother’s Day.  We spent the rest of the day basically putting on a good face for the kids, so that they wouldn’t know there was tension, and keeping our distance from each other.  Distance.  That’s not what Mother’s Day should be about.  And it’s not the type of relationship my wife and I had ever had before.  Things were so tense that I didn’t even open the Mother’s Day card that she gave to me, instead asking her to put it away for next year.

As I went to sleep that night, however, I did what I always do: I reflect on the day, say my prayers, and think about 3 things (minimum) that I’m grateful for from that day specifically.  It’s a great exercise and I highly recommend it—because even on what seems like a disastrous day, you can ALWAYS find three things to be grateful for.  For me, the things I was grateful for on the worst Mother’s Day I’ve ever had were: (1) later that afternoon our baby girl got her first deep latch, meaning that for the first time since she was born I was able to nurse her pain-free; (2) I was able to take our two year old to gymnastics (which is special because I’m not her preferred gymnastics buddy), and (3) I was able to recognize that I was in a different time in my life now.  Pregnancy, and all that went along with it, was over—I conquered all 3 trimesters (and the hyperemesis gravidarum that came with it for me).  But now it was time for me to accept and conquer a new phase in my life: the forgotten trimester.