The Pregnancy Progression: Lessons from One to Three

My kids don't even wear Luvs diapers, and I promise you I am not on the company's payroll, but if you haven't seen the series of "First Kid, Second Kid" commercials, and you have at least two children, please look them up. You will not be disappointed. From our labor plans to breastfeeding to the foods we allow them to eat and things we allow them to play with, our attitudes change significantly from the first child to the second, and, from what I've heard, to any subsequent children after that.

The same, it seems, is true of pregnancy. Let's do a quick recap:

Pregnancy #1
After waiting the requisite 12-13 weeks, I announced my pregnancy in person to as many people as possible in order to up the "specialness" factor. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting. (I tried to get my husband to read it too, but I'm pretty sure that was a fail.) Each week I looked up my growing child's milestones to find out if he or she was the size of a grape, a kiwi, or an eggplant. I did my best to follow all of the typical pregnancy rules: no soft cheeses, deli meat, sushi, etc. I went so far as to scour the grocery store for pasteurized blue cheese dressing which, by the way, exists, and is disgusting. A glass of wine was a rare treat; I think I snuck a glass of champagne at a wedding.

The focus of pregnancy #1 was mainly on taking care of myself and, by extension, our baby. I recall with extreme nostalgia coming home from work and napping on the couch while Matt made dinner. I slept in on Saturdays and then got up and went to the gym. If I were to find a picture of what my arms looked like when I was pregnant with Maggie, I would probably cry. Chin-ups and dips… two words that have not been in my vocabulary since 2010.

And oh, the fearful anticipation of labor, of actually welcoming baby and bringing him or her home to keep. Maggie was due on October 2nd, a Sunday, and I had taken off of work for the entire previous week because I was so afraid of going into labor while teaching. So, for nearly two weeks I spent an hour or more each day walking, hoping it would speed up the process, and much of the rest of the day either napping or watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix.

When labor finally did kick in I went to the hospital hilariously early and was sent home with instructions to wait "until the pain became MUCH more intense". I spent the next day and a half feeling humiliated and willing myself to last until my next doctor's appointment so as to avoid another dread encounter with the labor and delivery night shift. After about a total of 48 hours in labor, it was a girl! and we began the difficult transition between a family of two and a family of three, a change for which not even nine months can prepare you.

Pregnancy #2
After Maggie we went through a crisis of "Do we or don't we?" Both my husband and I had always envisioned ourselves with more than one child, but we had started to feel pretty comfortable with the ease of finding a babysitter for one, which left us able to enjoy some of the experiences of our pre-baby existence. On top of that, Maggie was a willful child, and the thought of having to tend to the needs of an infant while supervising timeouts and tantrums was incredibly overwhelming.

Still, we decided to go for it, thinking that it would be better in the long run for Maggie to have a sibling. The feeling, upon learning of my second pregnancy, was more hesitant than jubilant, but when I started to bleed heavily around six weeks, all I wanted was for my new little not-quite-a-person-yet to pull through. I called my parents and tearfully told them the news, wishing I could have waited but needing their prayers and support. We did the same with Matt's family, saying something along the lines of, "There are complications, but we want you to know." It was a terrifying ten days or so until the bleeding stopped, but with continued observation and frequent ultrasounds my doctor finally coaxed me into believing that everything was going to be okay and, miraculously, it was.

After our initial scare, the second pregnancy very much revolved around reassuring Maggie of our love for her and preparing her for sisterhood. We spent a great deal of quality time together in the months leading up to Ceci's birth, eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream (my craving of choice for #2), getting Maggie situated in her new "big girl" room, working on potty training, and cuddling on the couch while I napped and Maggie watched back-to-back episodes of Sesame Street.

Did I feel 100% read for Ceci to arrive? Not really. Was I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Did I feel confident that we would seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But a planned induction (for the sake of convenience, which I probably would not do again) took some of the anxiety out of the equation, and in the end everything ended up entirely hunky-dory. Yup, I said it: Hunky-dory.

Pregnancy #3
It snuck up on me, it really did. Two kids seemed to be going well, and hey, why not? Let's have another! So, shortly after Ceci's first birthday, there was the plus sign on the stick yet again. When I found out, Matt was on an overnight concert trip with some friends, and it's a testament to the third pregnancy and the state of my brain that I honestly can't remember if I texted him or called him to share the news. Either way, he was in great spirits, and so was I, and we kind of just figured, "Hey, why not?- Can you tell this has been kind of the theme of this whole pregnancy? -  Let's spread the joy!" We wasted no time in telling whoever we felt like telling.

There have been a host of other differences between this pregnancy and the others. As I said before, this has been the "Hey, why not?" time around. While my life with a four-year-old and a one-year-old is certainly NOT relaxing, my attitude toward the child I'm carrying has had to be. For example: Pregnancy rules? Seriously? If there is food in front of me, I am going to eat it. I like goat cheese. I like to lick the bowl after I make cupcakes, regardless of the presence of raw eggs. I mean, I'm not going to go out and eat ten cans of tuna and OD on mercury, but I am also not going to be made to feel guilty for eating a turkey sandwich.

Mostly (and I hope my unborn child won't take this the wrong way), I have just not had the luxury of being able to focus much on this pregnancy. I have two kids who demand a lot of my time and attention, and I know that with number three, this is the easiest part. She's contained. She doesn't talk back or stand on tables or cry inconsolably because I place the wrong cup in front of her. I don't have to chase her or worry that I will lose my patience with her.

At this point, I'm six-ish weeks from meeting my newest little girl, and do I feel 100% ready? Not really. Am I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Do I feel confident that we will seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But what I've learned by this point is that part of what makes being a mom so amazing is the ability to adapt and accept and make each child feel as special and loved as the next, and I do feel 100% ready to do that.

In Praise of the Pregnant Selfie

In general, I am not a huge taker of selfies. I admit to posting the odd selfie when I make a major alteration to my appearance, and I have commemorated a few major events with my husband or friends by snapping an "ussie", a term that seems dumb and that I hope I never have to write again. Overall, though, I see selfies as belonging to the generation just after mine, the middle and high school students who have grown up with a device in their hand and just can't resist grabbing it every time they look in a mirror.

However, I do want to touch upon one type of selfie which comes up occasionally in my news feeds on Facebook and Instagram, but, in my opinion, is not prevalent enough: the pregnant selfie. (Note: I am dying to give this a nickname, like the "Prelfie" or the "Bellfie"- belly + selfie - but let's face it, there probably is a term out there already that I'm not cool enough to be aware of.)

I did not document my first pregnancy in photos, and I regret it. I was worried that people would view me as being self-indulgent, and feeling insecure about the changes in my body anyway, I talked myself out of it. Since then, I have seen some beautiful transformations happen before my eyes on social media, and the more I thought about it, why shouldn't I be proud of this huge, important undertaking? So, with my second and third pregnancies, I have tried to be more intentional about capturing the various stages of my maternity.

A few arguments for the pregnant selfie:

1) The people who think your pregnancy photos are annoying have never been pregnant. They simply don't get it, and they will surely change their minds as soon as they have a child of their own.

2) Pregnancy is hard. Lugging around anywhere from 25-50 extra pounds is exhausting and takes a toll on your self-esteem. Why not accept the positive comments from friends and family on social media as a reminder of what pregnancy is really about: the joy of a new life? Without the ordeal and responsibility that is pregnancy, there would be no cute little baby pictures for everyone to ooh and ahh over. The journey is just as important as the destination!

3) Your child will be able to look back on the time you carried him or her and know without a doubt that mommy was excited and happy, that despite all the hard stuff she still relished the knowledge that a new life was about to begin and would be forever joined to hers.

With that said, I encourage those of you who are expecting or hope to be one day to put it all out there. Well maybe not ALL of it, but you know what I mean. These are some of the most important months of your life, and let's be honest- you're more photogenic now, with your pregnancy glow, than you will be in the sleepless weeks ahead of you!

The Whole Work Thing… Part II

Almost two full years ago I published my third post ever, a somewhat anguished plea for advice about the classic mom question: to work or not to work? Since then, I've settled into a position teaching social studies at a public magnet middle school for the visual and performing arts. It's a nice small community, with colleagues I respect and relatively well-behaved students, by middle school standards at least. I have been, for the most part, pretty happy.

Sometime around November or December, however, I suddenly stumbled upon a realization: I am about to have a third child. I mean, I knew what the end result of my pregnancy would be, but for some reason it had never occurred to me to revisit the whole working question. I was going to finish out this school year on maternity leave and continue humming along in my usual routine. Easy.

Trying to imagine one more kiddo working at this table...

I can't remember what triggered the panic. It could have been a frantic morning, the kids screaming about something as I rushed out the door, leaving their dad to deal with the aftermath because I was already running twenty minutes late. It could have been a larger than usual pile of grading to tackle, knowing that the only way to reduce the number of papers on my desk would be to stay after school, sacrificing any hope of going to the gym, or to stay up late, sacrificing any hope of spending a little quality time with my husband after the girls went to bed. Maybe it was one of those classes that just falls flat on its face, when my students don't seem to care about learning and I don't really blame them because the lesson I've planned on the industrial revolution is even boring ME. Honestly, I don't know why one day it just dawned on me: I'm not sure I can keep doing this.

It's not that I don't want to keep teaching. There are so many things that I love about my job. I love when my students laugh about historical humor, like the fact that one of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand's would-be assassins threw a bomb at the motorcade and immediately attempted to jump to his death in a nearby river that happened to have only four inches of water in it at the time. I love how even seventh-graders can be sweet and adorable: just the other day a girl ran up to tell me that one of her friends would be absent that day - "But she told me to tell you she'll miss you and hopes you have a great day!" I love teacher camaraderie. I love knowing that even though I'm underpaid and overworked, and my job is SO hard, it's important. But is it more important than being able to be there for my own kids?

There is no reason for me to make a decision right now. I have almost two months until baby arrives, and then another two until the school year ends. Yet every day the decision weighs on me as my heart and mind swing wildly from one side to the other. Don't I want my daughters to see their mom doing important work outside the home? Won't I go stir-crazy stuck in my house without adult conversation? Am I seriously willing to let go of the benefits of being a state employee? Those questions are there all the time, but so are these: Am I crazy enough to think that, with three kids, I can fit in all the work I currently do and still spend any quality time with my family? What about all the doctor's appointments, school pick-ups, extracurriculars? Shouldn't I have a better knowledge of my husband's business, considering that it's technically mine as well? When was the last time I even stopped by his office? Or he and I had lunch together? What's more important: the money I make at my job, or the time I could be spending with my family? The pride I feel in my work outside the home, or the pride I could feel in actually having some organization within my home?

There are many women out there who don't have the luxury of even debating these questions, so please be clear that I am not complaining. I know that there are no bad choices here, and no permanent ones either. I know that my fabulous husband is supportive of whatever I decide to do. So why does this still feel so hard?

The subtitle of this blog reads, "Mom. Wife. Teacher. Me." To take one of those descriptors away feels a bit terrifying. Without it, after nearly ten years devoted to the profession of education, I'm afraid that the others won't sufficiently add up to "Me". But a girl can always reinvent herself, can't she?

Our Children Are Not Ours

It's the Christmas season: a time to bake cookies, watch crappy Hallmark, Lifetime, or ABC Family movies, and stress over Christmas lists, hoping upon hope that I haven't somehow forgotten someone or something. It's a season of joy, but a hectic, bustling season, a time when days fly by and to-do lists only get longer, students only get crazier, and pants only get tighter.

Since becoming a parent, Christmas has also been a time when I attempt to steer my family away from the inevitable commercialism and make the holiday about something other than Santa Claus and presents. We try to spend time together, to think carefully about what we can do for others, and to keep the focus on the birth of Christ.

During this season, my adult Sunday school class has been engaged in a study of what Christmas meant to Mary. A couple of weeks ago we spent some time discussing whether we thought Mary really thought of her newborn child as the Son of God, the savior of all mankind. We wondered if she understood what she was signing up for, that she would have to watch her child go through a living hell and eventually die in agony. When did she come to the realization that although she brought him into this world, she could not protect him or stop his suffering?

As the one former Catholic present, the group looked to me to answer their questions about the elevated role of Mary in the Catholic Church. I'm no scholar, so all I could think to say was, "Of all the humans in the Bible- other than Jesus, obviously- she was hand-picked for the most important job there was. She had to give birth to a child and raise him knowing that in the end he wasn't really hers." Or something like that- I'm probably improving my wording in hindsight.

As I said it, I realized how true this statement is for all parents. Our children are not ours. Unlike possessions, they cannot be stowed away for safe-keeping, though our greatest wish is to protect them from pain. The life of a mother is a life of fear completely unlike any fear experienced prior to becoming a parent. The fear of what others think of me, the fear of failure, the fear of all the possible things that might cause me physical harm- a vicious dog, a stranger on the street at night, a reckless driver- none of these compare to the fear that at some point my children may be the ones to experience pain or hurt at the hands of another.

From the moment my oldest daughter was born I sought to control her environment and make the best possible choices for her well-being. Breast-feeding as long as possible. Organic baby food. A consistent schedule. As she grew, I struggled (and still do) to enforce discipline so that she would learn healthy boundaries and have positive social interactions. I encourage creative play, limit screen time, moved her to a new pre-school that I thought would better suit her precocious nature. I'm attempting to follow suit with her sister, though let's be honest, the second one has it a little better than the first.

But when it comes down to it, as much as the thought terrifies me, there is only so much about my daughters' lives that I can control. Today happens to be the anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. The mothers of those twenty little boys and girls probably had done everything in their power to bring their children up to be healthy, polite, smart. Perhaps, at this time of year two years ago, these parents were even struggling with some of the same holiday-related issues that I am having: Why does inundating my children with presents have to be what makes Christmas "magical"? How can I get them to think of others? How can I make it special for them without losing sight of what Christmas is actually celebrating?

We can agonize over every choice we make that deals with our children. We can, and should, take precautions to teach them how to keep themselves healthy and safe. But our children are not ours. In Sandy Hook, these parents' beloved babies were senselessly ripped from them in an event that none of them could have foreseen or stopped.  Even if we get to keep our children and watch them grow into adults, we are going to see them hurt. Despite our fear and watchfulness they will fall down stairs, burn their fingers on the stove, have choking scares with food that we could have sworn we cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Other kids will be mean to them. At some point they will feel that they aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough. They will get their hearts broken. They will move away from home and call us when their car breaks down or their purse gets stolen or they didn't get the job they really really wanted.

The lesson I need to learn from all of this is that while I make dozens of parenting decisions each day, the most important questions are these: Was I present for my children today?  When I go to bed tonight, can I at least say "I did my best"? If an unthinkable tragedy were to befall our family tomorrow, could I find peace in the thought that my children knew I loved them, not from the foods I put in their lunch or what time I put them to bed, but from my words and actions?

Christmas is no doubt a time of miracles, when angels speak to the lowliest among us and the world's greatest king comes in the form of a baby boy. But for me there is also the miracle of time spent with my children, my greatest gifts, and that is a miracle that I will try to treasure fully, without letting fear or worry get in the way.

Photo Credit: http://www.newsweek.com/dont-forget-children-massacred-sandy-hook-290250

A Thank You Letter to My Children

To My Daughters:

In a few days it will be Thanksgiving. In school, daycare, and church you have been reading stories about turkeys, crafting cornucopias, and making lists of all the things you are grateful for. On the wall in one of your classrooms is a brainstorm chart that reads: my bed, my room, the food I eat, my mommy, my daddy, my teachers. You are told to think of all the people you love and things you are lucky to have. I'm doing the same thing.

What am I thankful for? Obviously I'm thankful for both of you, and the brother or sister that you'll get to meet in the spring. But it's not enough to stop there, because being your mom has made me more grateful than any other experience possibly could. It has amplified my appreciation of everything. Let me try to explain what I mean:

I was thankful the minute I knew about you. It was so hard to believe that I could have been granted such a gift that I often found myself anxious without knowing why, counting the days until the next doctor's appointment just to prove that you were still there. When I heard your little heartbeats I could breathe easier for a while. Sometimes when the worry set in I would prop my feet up and eat gummy worms, just to wake you up and feel you kicking.

I was thankful when you were born and you were just fine, much better than fine, the images of perfection. I was thankful to bundle you into your carseat for the very first time and introduce you ceremoniously into our home and family, making you officially ours.

I have been so thankful to watch you grow and learn, from first smiles and laughs to first steps, first words, even first tantrums. Every day, in some way, you bring joy into my life. You make me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times without knowing what you said that was so funny. You are amazing. You are awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. I am awed by your beauty and brilliance. I have been since day one, and I don't think I'll ever stop.

I am thankful for you because I get to watch my husband be your dad. I watch him pick you up and make you squeal. I listen to him read to you, sing to you, and try to coax you into your pajamas. I hear your delighted cries of "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" and I couldn't be more thankful that you get to grow up with a dad as proud and loving as he is.

I am thankful that you have each other. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the two of you playing together. I love to sneak up and spy on you as you hide behind the crib and "read" each other books, or chase the dog, or try to do somersaults.
I am so grateful that you will always have one another.

I am thankful for every single person involved in raising you, every person who loves you or has helped me when I needed help taking care of you. The list is long. I am thankful because I want to be with you all the time and when I can't be, I know that you are in good hands, and my mind is at ease.

I am thankful for all that you have taught me. As your mom, I have learned how to be patient, creative, efficient with my time. You have taught me that splashing in puddles during a rainstorm really is more fun than sitting inside by the TV. I have had to sort through and reexamine my beliefs and priorities as I've realized that everything I say or do, every decision I make, may impact who you both become. Consequently, I know more about myself now than I did before I was your mom.

I thank you for giving me the experience of motherhood, for helping me join a community of wise, brave, exhausted women with whom I can connect and empathize. Because admit it, darlings, you can be rough on your mama, and sometimes I just need someone to tell me that they get it and you will inevitably grow out of whatever stage is driving me bananas.

Honestly, I am an ooey-gooey, rain-boot-worthy puddle of gratitude. You made me that way, and even though a couple of hours ago you were both screaming your heads off for a reason that only you know (or perhaps you don't), I wouldn't want to be any other way.

Me Day: Is Just Being a Mom Enough?

This past Friday was declared the 2nd Annual You Day at the school where I work. On this day, students and faculty are asked to bring in props and dress in clothing that represents who they are, then have their picture taken for the yearbook. Last year, for the inaugural You Day, I was totally game. I strapped on a Baby Bjorn, stuck a baby doll in the front, and with a shrug showcased a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee in one hand and a copy of A Tale of Two Cities in the other. There I was: a disheveled but happy mom making things work with the consumption of caffeine and even making time to cultivate my love of literature.

This year, the task of choosing how to stage my picture was much more difficult. I haven't changed in any major way since this time last year, and as a chronic over-thinker I couldn't bring myself to just replicate what I did the first time around. I racked my brain: What are my hobbies and interests? What do I do for fun? To relax?

Here's what I came up with: Well, I used to write. I blog maybe once every few months. Does that still count? But do I want to have to explain to students what type of writing I do? What if they Google me? Ok, so, other hobbies… I used to be pretty into yoga. I haven't been to a class in over four months, but once in a while I set my alarm fifteen minutes early and sit on my mat to stretch. Sometimes, when both of my kids are screaming, I take deep cleansing breaths to keep myself from joining in. Yoga is totally one of my hobbies. What else? I really love wine, but as a pregnant lady that might send the wrong message. Oh, and obviously they're not going to publish a picture of me pretend-guzzling a bottle of Old Vine Zin next to pictures of twelve and thirteen-year-olds brandishing Minecraft swords and inexplicably wearing cat ears. Seriously though, what do I do for fun? Can I bring in a couch and get my picture taken sprawled on it with my eyes half open as I try to stay awake long enough to find out who the Bachelorette is going to eliminate next? 

In the end I opted for a Syracuse basketball Final Four shirt, a travel guide to Europe, and my passport, despite the fact that I only watch basketball during March Madness and the last time I was in Europe was ten years ago. So in a way, a day that was supposed to be about celebrating all the various talents and interests that make me who I am became something else entirely. It made me even more aware of how I should have posed for my picture: wearing a sweater streaked with toddler snot, toting a giant bag full of work to grade, and clutching my iPhone, my outlet to stay in touch with other people who have some sense of where I'm coming from when I need to vent about this wonderful, stressful, joyful, maddening life of mine.

I love my family and I love my job, but can they and will they define me entirely? Is a hobby even a possibility that will fit onto the already loaded plate I am carrying? I know parents who do manage to maintain serious extra-curriculars, but there must be some give somewhere. Maybe they can't always sit down for dinner with their families. Maybe they're content with getting only six hours or less of sleep every night. Maybe they don't collapse onto the couch as soon as the kids are asleep. Or maybe they just have jobs that don't require hours and hours of work outside of the "office".

There are things I really want to do: learn more about photography, try out rock-climbing, take some kick-ass vacations, with and without the kids. But if I beat myself up about not having enough time or energy or willpower to pursue these interests, that'll be just one more thing I'm beating myself up about, and what mom needs that? Maybe in ten or twenty years I'll have some really cool past-time to show and tell, but I think next year, instead of stressing, I'll just hold up a sign that says, "I have 123 kids: 3 at home, 120 at school. I love them all. I do my best. What more can I do?"  

One Thing at a Time

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Miraculously, both of my children are taking naps. I have a good 9-inch stack of papers to grade in my school bag, lessons to plan, household tasks that keep inching their way down to the bottom of my to-do list. At twelve weeks pregnant, I could really use a nap myself. But I've made the decision, six-weeks-plus after my last post, to sit down and focus on this one thing among many that I've been meaning to do. 

I have found, since having children, that my attention to tasks has become extremely limited. Tell me if this scenario sounds familiar: I wake up to my alarm, come downstairs, and take a mug out of the cupboard to pour my coffee. I then notice that the drying rack in the sink is full, so I put away a few dishes. Oh, I think to myself, I might as well sip some coffee while I tidy up. I open the refrigerator door to get out the creamer, and start studying the contents of the fridge. What am I packing in the kids' lunches today? I start opening tupperwares to see if there are any leftovers I can send with them, and pull out some fruit to wash while I'm at it. I still haven't poured myself a cup of coffee, but I'm starting to feel nauseous (morning sickness has kicked my butt this third time around), so I grab a bowl of cereal. I sit down at the kitchen table to eat it, but looking back over at the mess I've created on the counter, I end up eating a few bites in between finishing all of the other tasks that I began. Then I check Facebook and realize that five precious minutes have passed while I scrolled through the news feed. 

This happens literally every morning. I've had to start becoming my own mental coach. As soon as I get the urge to stop doing one thing in order to pick up another, I try to resist. One thing at a time, I repeat to myself. One thing at a time. My new mantra has become incredibly helpful in some ways, and somewhat of a hindrance in others. For one thing, it makes planning almost impossible. My life has become confined to the hours stretching between the current moment and that blessed time when I can crawl into bed and set my responsibilities aside until the alarm rings once more. I've taken an "I'll worry about it when it gets here" approach to most future events, which drives my poor husband crazy most of the time. "I'm sorry honey, I'm just not there" has become my response when he wants to discuss his favorite band's tour next summer or what we're going to serve at Christmas dinner. It's not that I don't want to think about these details- it's just that my desire to think about them is outweighed by my desire to keep my brain from exploding. 

How can I be thinking of the next thing
when these faces are looking back at me?

In just over six months, God-willing, another person will join our family, and obviously "I'll worry about it when it gets here" won't quite cut it in this case. Logistics need to be addressed: finding a car that will fit three carseats, figuring out sleeping arrangements, reworking daily routines. But to be honest, I'm just not there yet. For now I have two little girls that need me, a husband who would like me to be mentally present more often than I currently am, and about 120 students who want a teacher who cares about them, not one who teaches each class like it's one more thing to check off her list. 

The due date will inevitably approach, and at some point before then I will figure out what I need to figure out, as I always somehow do. And after that? When we bring home number three and our lives are once more tumbled into a heap of unknowns? Well, I guess we'll just worry about that when it gets here. Until then all I can do is try my best to appreciate each fleeting "now"without worrying about what comes next. Particularly when it comes to finishing a bowl of cereal in one sitting. 

 

This girl knows a thing or two about living in the moment.