Tag: post-partum

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.

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.

Progress; not perfection.

This has been one of those weeks.  You know the kind I’m talking about—when you’re simultaneously proud of your ability to have a case set for trial (have I mentioned that I’m an attorney?) but still be present for your kids in the evenings, complete the pre-school enrollment forms, remember to buy baby oatmeal so that you can start testing foods with your infant, make it to the dentist, juggle your pumping schedule, complete your mid-year partner review (phew!), take your son to speech therapy before said partner review and before said trial, attend that mom’s group happy hour that only comes around once per month, teach that class that you committed to once per week at the law school, get the laundry done, and make sure there are (semi) nutritious meals for your kids for dinner… but you’re also disappointed in yourself for not making a PowerPoint presentation for the class you’re teaching, not remembering to prepare show-and-tell until you’re rushing your kids out the door, arriving 5 minutes later at your office than you wanted to (even though no one checks on me or cares what time I arrive), snapping at your spouse for something small and insignificant, not getting the kitchen counters cleaned this morning before you left the house or taking the trash out, only practicing your son’s speech therapy exercises with him 4 times this week instead of the recommended 7 times per week, running out of time to make homemade baby food, and for not writing that blog post that you so desperately want to write, because it’s your way of releasing tension?  My list could go on and on…

It’s during weeks like this that I have to remind myself of two things: one, to breathe deeply.  And two, that it’s okay to strive for progress and not perfection. 

So many of us want to be perfect parents (or to be perfect people ourselves, or to have perfect lives, perfectly clean houses, etc.)  It’s easy to lose sight of all of the good we’re doing, and the positive forward progress we’re making. 

For example—last night we forgot to practice the speech therapy exercises with our son at dinner, like we usually do.  We were too stressed and distracted by our baby girl trying solids for the first time, and by me having a meeting that I needed to get to once the kids were in bed.  But you know what happened?  Our son (age 4) reminded us during bath time that we should practice.  And having our son be able to demonstrate this small step toward independence was big—actually, it was huge!  It was progress.

Not having time to make homemade baby food this week?  Our daughter still got to try her first foods, and practice her oral motor skills.  It was progress (and we’ll make the baby food this weekend!)

Not making a PowerPoint for the class I teach once per week?  My students actually engaged in better discussion with each other, and with me, without the PowerPoint.  And, they still grasped the points I was trying to make.  It was progress.

And not getting all of the counters wiped down before I left for work?  At least I got a few of them done.  My kitchen was cleaner when I left it than when I found it.  It was progress.

Juggling a pumping schedule in between being at the courthouse and the office?  It was my perfectly timed 3-hour increment schedule.  But it was progress toward my end goal of nursing/pumping for a year.

Not sitting down to write that lengthy blog post that I’ve been thinking about for days and days?  At least I sat down right now and wrote this post.  It may be fraught with typo’s for all I know. But at least it’s progress.

So sit back and breathe.  Sometimes we need to just cut ourselves some slack in this forgotten trimester, focus less on aiming for perfection, and recognize the progress we’re making in our lives. 

Soak up all of your own progress as parents… and don’t forget to soak up your kids’ progress, too. 

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. 

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.