Half Year, Full Awesome

I got my first piece of unsolicited advice from a stranger regarding how to take care of my child. After a long day of fussing and not being able to get him to nap, I threw Everett in the carrier and we went for a walk. It was a beautiful day. I knew the walk would put him to sleep in short order, and would also be great for me. I walked and walked, and then I got tired, so I sat on a bench. A few older ladies strolled by, and one felt compelled to tell me that I needed to put something on him so he didn't get sunburned. Looking back, I really wish I would have said, "No thank you, I like him extra crispy." But instead I said the truth, "Yep, it's on my list." But getting him to sleep was higher on my list. And he didn't get sunburned.

Benefits of a global health crisis: it took 6 months to be told by a stranger how I should be taking care of my child!

6 months. I have a 6 month old in my house. I am unsure about how this happened. How has it been half a year? He is 15lbs 2 oz and 26 3/4 inches tall. He has two teeth and a whole lot of personality! Being home with him over Spring Break for 10 days was an absolute gift. It also gave me lots of time to reflect on the past 6 months. Here are some thoughts to share.

Being a parent changes you. It changes everything.

Before he was born, I thought I would only breastfeed for 6 months. I mean, I was really sure about it. I knew breastfeeding was something I wanted to do for my boy, but was still feeling a little weird about it. It seemed okay for when he was little--I mean, really little. But as he got older and became "aware"--nah, I was out. Or so I thought. If you've been following along, you know that breastfeeding has not been an easy journey. The beginning was especially tricky. Frustrating, even, at times. But somewhere along the way, something changed. I think it started when I went back to work. He was 14 weeks old, and it was really hard. Coming home to him became the best part of my day. As we continued to settle into life and figure him out, we began to move his bedtime earlier, so he could get enough sleep. This meant that my time with him in the evenings slowly decreased. I began to look forward to his night time feeds. I missed him while he was asleep. Even now that he's sleeping for much longer stretches, I miss him.

We recently found out that part of our path to having another baby requires me to be done breastfeeding for a few months. And even though I started out thinking that this was a 6 month journey, I am really sad thinking about a time when it will come to an end. 

Before he was born, I thought I couldn't be there when he got his vaccines. I distinctly remember going with my mom to an appointment with my twin brothers when they were small. They got vaccines that day, and their little cries broke my heart. And I knew--I just knew--there was no way I could be the one to be there when my son got his. I also didn't ever imagine I would be parenting in a pandemic. Only one parent has been allowed at his check ups since he was two months old. Since I'm always the one with a list of questions, I'm the one who goes. Rotovirus, DTaP/Hep B/IPV, PCV13...one oral, and one shot in each thigh. 2, 4, 6 months. And it's the saddest thing in the world to watch his little face go from content to panicked, as he turns red and soundlessly amps up for a big cry.  The first time, I think I cried more than he did. And this last time, I think he still recovered before I did. It still breaks my heart, but in that moment, I am his person. As soon as he is done, I nurse him and he calms down and stops crying, and everything is right in the world again. 

Before he was born, I knew I would be parenting in a pandemic. I mean, I had certainly hoped it would be over by the time he got here, but the closer we got, the clearer it became that that was not in the cards. But it was alright. I had become accustomed to not going anywhere. Masks for visitors were a standard. Grocery delivery was a godsend. What I did not anticipate was having to make the decision about whether or not to get a vaccine that had little to no research for pregnant and breastfeeding women. I had done everything I could to protect my baby while he grew inside of me. And was doing everything I could to keep him safe, happy, and healthy now that he was here. I consulted several doctors. I spent weeks and weeks thinking about it. I agonized over it. And finally, I decided to get it.

A 6 month funny:

Most days I feel like I have it pretty together. During Spring Break, Everett and I got into a nice routine. He would wake up and eat, then we'd go downstairs and I'd plop him on his play mat while I made my breakfast. Well on this particular morning I was making breakfast and I happened to drop my yogurt, which of course splattered everywhere. I quickly wiped down the floor, cabinets, and counter, and realized I also had to ditch the shirt I was wearing. Does yogurt stain? Not sure, but I put a little cold water on it anyway. Everett was still playing, making sweet little baby sounds, including a sweet little baby toot. Those of you who have taken care of babies know there is a difference between sweet little baby toots and slick, wet baby farts that make you afraid to check their diaper. This was the former. A few more minutes of play and I realized that I have to go to the bathroom. This is trickier now that he's mobile, and also tippy. But we have a system. So I scooped him up with the Boppy and a toy and trucked him upstairs and set him up on the bathroom floor. I sit down, glance down, and notice a large yellow ish smear on my bare tummy. It took me a second to reason out what it was. I looked over at my son and see the same yellow stain on the Boppy. And the floor beneath him was also smeared with the same stain. Poop. Poop everywhere. I nearly had to throw out the whole baby and start over. Instead, I ran a bath--which he now really enjoys. He played, my breakfast grew cold on the table downstairs, and we call that parenting.

A 6 month serious:

I have started seeing a therapist for my anxiety. I didn't realize that's what I needed until I was talking with one of my besties one day, and the words came out of my mouth: "I think I need to talk to someone about my anxiety." In my head I was thinking about a doctor--my general physician? OBGYN? I had thought about it prior to that moment, but talked myself out of it by self-diagnosing: the symptoms of postpartum depression and anxiety didn't seem to fit what I was feeling. My friend responded to my statement by reminding me that therapy/counselling had been helpful in the past, and it sounded like a great idea. Why hadn't I thought of that! A conversation with Chelsey validated my feelings--she said my anxiety was the worst she had seen it. I'll say it again: Being a parent changes you. It changes everything. 

I know that I am doing the absolute best I can as a mom. My son is safe and happy and healthy. He's growing at what seems like warp speed. And I know I'm going to miss these days. But the anxiety that comes with keeping him safe and happy and healthy is overwhelming. And some times, paralyzing. On days when he is fussy and I can't figure out what he wants, I can't make simple decisions. When we leave him with a sitter--whether it's family or friends--I don't miss him, because I'm just worried about him. I worry about if he'll sleep, if he'll eat. And the thoughts just spiral. So I'm working on it. Because I need to. In order for babe to keep being safe and happy and healthy, mama has to be those things, too.