Nourished

late nights bw

At the end of Jacob’s first week, I hobbled into my midwife’s office, bleeding and crying and snotting all over the place. She asked me how we were doing. “I’m bruised,” I said. “I’m bleeding. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Tell me I don’t have to do this, I begged her with my eyes.

She prescribed me heavy duty nipple cream and sent me off with a hug. “Nursing is a great way to take care of your baby,” she said. “But it is not the only way. What Jacob needs most is to be nourished, and to be loved. Nursing is not the only way to accomplish those goals. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too.”

***

At first, both my boys latched like naturals. For the first hour or so after birth, I congratulated myself on knowing what to do. Such a natural mother.

I was a fool.

Mere hours later with Jacob, my first, I began to experience intense pain when he would latch. One of the nurses encouraged me to self express with my fingers, to use a spoon to make sure he was getting the precious liquid gold, even if he couldn’t latch properly. So I did.

The next morning he was fussy, inconsolable. Another nurse asked me how long it had been since the last feeding. Four, maybe five hours earlier I had expressed some colostrum. Could it really be time to do this again? I was already bruised and discouraged. I registered the shock in her eyes: four to five hours? This baby needs to eat. Apparently I wasn’t a natural after all. A lactation consultant asked me to show her how I was feeding him and to my disbelief she praised me on our technique. Gold star, baby! I began to breathe easily again.

The relief was short-lived.

Once we were home, I dreaded feedings. He wouldn’t latch properly. He’d scream until he was red and then, once latched, would cause me to bleed. Even when we were lucky enough to latch well, I wasn’t producing enough to satisfy his hunger. I began to feel the prickle of fear and resentment every time he cried. And then I felt guilty—wasn’t I supposed to be enjoying this? Weren’t we supposed to be bonding?

At his first pediatric check-up, our doctor came through the door while he latched—well, for the first time in hours—and drank and drank and drank. I was ecstatic – Look! We’re doing this! Even so, we learned he had lost 10% of his birth weight, and they told me I needed to supplement with formula.

I felt like a failure. The words of the instructor of the hospital’s breastfeeding class rattled around in my head. She had told us she wouldn’t even talk about formula because she knew we wouldn’t “give in to the temptation.” She told us to be on the lookout for formula samples that would come in the mail. “Throw them away immediately,” she said. “You don’t want to give in at 3am when you feel like you’re about to lose your mind.” Pre-birth, I resolved to do whatever it took to breastfeed my son, no matter how I felt about it in the moment.

But at 3am, in the face of my screaming, (starving?) newborn, feeling like I was about to lose my mind, I “gave in” and followed the instructions of his doctor, feeding him the formula I had asked my husband to buy at the store that day.

I still felt like a failure—I wasn’t enough for him. But for the first time in his three days of life, he slept soundly and peacefully and longer than 45 minutes. Finally, he was satisfied.

***

I met with a lactation consultant a few days after seeing my midwife, and braced myself for a lecture. When she asked me how it was going, I burst into tears. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I said. I gasped for breath, struggling to find the words to speak the truth I hadn’t wanted to face: “I’m a sexual assault survivor . . . and I just . . . I can’t . . .”

There it was. Nursing my child was a triggering event. I resented my newborn and felt so ashamed.

She handed me a box of tissues and put her hand on my arm. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I don’t say that lightly; it’s my job to convince you otherwise. But you have got to take care of yourself. The most important thing you can offer this boy is your love and your presence. Take care of yourself first so you can give him the love that he needs.”

***

I pumped for a month. Every two hours I’d go up to Jacob’s room, turn on Gilmore Girls, and pump pump pump away. My mom and husband helped hold him and feed him and gave me a break to shower and rest. But then my husband went back to work and my mom went back home. He wasn’t content to sit with me while I pumped. He screamed. And screamed. And suddenly I was faced with a terrible predicament: do I sit here and pump and let him scream? Or do I skip the pump, pick him up, and feed him more formula?

I set the pump down. I made a bottle and brought him to my chest. And I stared into his eyes and sang him songs and told him how precious he was to me.

It wasn’t long before I saw the effects of bottle-feeding: Jacob and I both were sleeping better. The tension in my shoulders released. Rocking him and feeding him became my favorite time. My prayers shifted from laments and requests for peace to songs of quiet praise.

My perinatal therapist diagnosed me with postpartum anxiety, and with her help I learned to re-tell the story of feeding Jacob as one of great hope and love: rather than give in to the fear of failure or let my heart grow bitter from resentment, I had chosen to change course so we could flourish in our new relationship as mother and son.

In those days I began to see how inextricably linked self-care is to the well-being of our children.

***

With Henry, it was different. I wasn’t sure how it would go—would I be triggered again? I told myself I would nurse him for the first three days, at least. I would make sure he received the colostrum. And then I would check in with myself. Three days passed and I continued to nurse. My milk came in and I continued to nurse.

And something strange happened. I began to enjoy this time with my son. We had figured it out. We did it together. I quietly rejoiced as he fed, feeling so much pride and love and connection.

Rather than triggering me, he was healing me.

But I still wasn’t producing enough milk. I could tell he wasn’t eating enough. So we began to supplement.

As much as I was (mostly) enjoying the time nursing Henry, I couldn’t figure out how to stick it out for the long term; we had a big move on the horizon and my stress level was at all-time high. Jacob, only 19 months, needed lots of love and attention in the wake of his baby brother’s arrival. I didn’t know how I would make the time to pump to increase my supply.

When, in his second week, Henry began to clusterfeed, my confidence dwindled even further. Feedings became more painful, he became more frustrated, and the old familiar feelings of dread and resentment began to creep their way into my heart each time I heard him cry.

On day ten I made cold cabbage compresses and stuck them in my bra.

***

Today, both kids have oatmeal in their hair and peanut butter on their faces. Jacob hates tomatoes while Henry eats marinara by the spoonful. Both boys are great eaters and generous with their affection.

They are nourished and they are loved.

There are still those moments, as I hold them close before bed, when I dream of how wonderful it could have been. I am wistful as I imagine a calmer, more integrated version of myself who could have handled the stress of the moments that come barrelling so quickly at mothers so soon after birth. It is easy to long for a more idealized version of the mother I wish I was and could have been.

But then I remember I am doing the best that I can. I nourish myself these days with food and sleep and long showers and slow runs by the ocean. I take care of myself well so that in the ever-present stress of motherhood I can attempt to present my children with the best version of the woman I am today.

And that, I am convinced, is enough.

This post originally appeared on the Good Mother Project

Gift from a Stranger

IMG_7299Yesterday, I got on the elevator with a small, bespeckled woman carrying two large bouquets of roses.

“What floor?” she asked.

“Four, please.”

“Ah,” she said. “Me, too.”

I motioned to her flowers. “Those are gorgeous.”

She nodded. “Where are you going?”

My cheeks flushed. “Ah…therapy.” I gave her a sheepish grin.

As the doors began to open, she reached down and pulled out two roses. “Here,” she said. “I have plenty.”

And for a moment, as I sat in the waiting room gazing into the beautiful faces of my new friends, Fear took a step back.

Do I Have Anything in My Teeth?

teeth

Reason #1,457 I need my husband to come home: he would never let me leave a sandwich shop with basil in my teeth.

When Tim first visited me in Seattle, I dragged him around the city because I wanted him to fall in love with it like I had. Pike Place Market was at the top of the list. He had to see the flying fish, of course, but most importantly he had to eat a gyro at Mr. D’s Greek Delicacies.

His pita was filled with meat, mine with veggies and feta; both were the kind of messy you don’t plan for on a date. But they were so delicious we just had to laugh. When I was done, I turned to him and flashed a toothy grin. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

He looked surprised, as though he wouldn’t have anticipated that kind of familiarity. His surprise surprised me, because being together just felt so simple. So easy. Like I didn’t have to overthink everything like I was so used to, especially around guys. He felt like an old trusted friend, not the romantic pen pal who had once kissed me and was now following me around my city.

But this dichotomy wasn’t new to us, this strangeness and familiarity all blending together. He was my missing piece, my long-lost friend, my other reader, the one I had been waiting for.

He grinned right back. “Gross,” he said. “You should probably find a mirror.”

He was teasing me, which I soon learned was an act of love.

 

Last First Kiss

SONY DSCEight years ago this week, Tim kissed me for the first time.

It was a risk for us both: I asked him to be my date. He drove across two states.

It could have been the most awkward weekend of our lives. He didn’t know my friend who was getting married. He didn’t know my parents, who were also there.

The day of the wedding we decided to look for the beach. Pre-smartphone, we never found it. We just drove and drove and talked and laughed. The hours flew.

We ate burgers at a diner and before our first bite he asked if he could pray. He thanked God for friendship and prayed a sweet blessing over my friend’s marriage.

It sounds crazy, but in that moment I knew.

We danced all night, fueled by poppyseed cake and vodka tonics. We sang show tunes in the back of my parents’ car, and later, after more dancing and much laughter, he kissed me.

The next morning he drove back home in a snowstorm and I flew cross country to rainy Seattle. I waited and wondered what would become of us.

And then he sent me an instant message. And another. And another. And then an email with entire soundtrack we had danced to that night.

We waited to see what that kiss would become, and it became everything.

 

Self Portrait: Cozy

cozy

February 28, 2017

There are goosebumps on my arm, and I am relishing them.

The tradewinds are blowing. The hot Hawaiian sun is resting behind the clouds. I’m snuggled up in my favorite pair of sweatpants and sipping hot coffee from a mug the size of my head.

This is me, feeling cozy. This is me, feeling like myself.

Beach Therapy

waikikiYesterday I skipped my weekly therapy session so I could sunbathe, swim, and belly laugh with family.

We drank tropical drinks. We buried our toes in the sand. We took silly pictures. We shared smoothies and brownies and inside jokes.

We stayed out until the sun went down on Waikiki.

My heart and soul craved connection. Levity. Beauty. And that’s exactly what we found.

Sometimes you gotta dive deep, and sometimes you gotta chase the sun. Yesterday, I think I did both.

My therapist will be proud.

Future Me

lanikai

 

I was walking toward my future self on the sands of Lanikai Beach as the sun rose over the Mokulua islands (a short drive from my house and a favorite spot of mine). She was sitting on a woven blanket, wearing yoga pants and a ponytail, looking healthy and relaxed. I asked her how she got to be so happy and she laughed.

“I’m happy because I chose to come watch the sun rise. I’m still exhausted. Life is still hard. But I’m choosing what makes me happy.”

I sat with her on the blanket and watched the sun as it grew in strength and color, and I was struck by how peaceful and calm we both were. All I was focused on was the sun and the sand and my breath.

Suddenly, she laughed, jumped up, and began sifting through the sand – she had a gift for me but had forgotten where she had hidden it. Finally she unearthed something gold and shiny from  beneath a large weather-beaten log.

She grinned. “Buried treasure!”

She handed me a golden compass hanging from a chain. I asked her what it was for, and she just shrugged and smiled.

***

For the last three Decembers as a part of Stratejoy’s Holiday Council I’ve embarked on a simple guided meditative journey to meet with my future self. She is always thinner than present me,  calmer than present me, and better rested than present me. Her hair is always in a perky ponytail (she’s finally mastered the art of effortless beauty), and she always looks invitingly cozy. The first year she was curled up on the couch in our Tacoma living room wearing a chunky sweater. The second year she was cooking in our Tacoma kitchen, laughing with Jake as he clapped in his high chair. This year she was alone on the Hawaiian shores, soaking in the sunrise, strong and healthy after a year of yoga, running, breathing, and prayer.

It’s always such a grounding exercise for me, to let my mind wander and unlock hopes and fears and questions I have about where I will be the following December. The first year, I was afraid I’d never get pregnant, and it was unclear whether the woman I saw  was reading on the couch while her baby slept or if she was still waiting expectantly. The second year, I had high hopes of learning how to cook and creating a warm welcoming space for our family to grow. This year, I was afraid to ask whether her husband had returned to her, whether her kids were safely tucked in bed under the protective gaze of their father, so I focused on the only thing I know I can control: myself. The past two years I have been seeking family, coziness, and community; this year I was seeking freedom, self-renewal, a release from the anxiety that binds me.

I’m unsurprised I found her on the shores of Lanikai Beach, a beautiful hideaway I first discovered with Tim when we first visited Oahu many years ago. I’ve watched a couple sunrises in my time here and they always leave me feeling more centered, like I’m back to being no bigger and no smaller than I am meant to be.

***

As a Four on the Enneagram, the Individualist, or Romantic, I am what you might call moody, defined by ever-shifting emotions, and motivated by the need to feel heard and understood. No matter the life circumstance, I often feel as though I am missing something – like I lack some fundamental character trait that others possess that allow them to get up every day and live a drama-free life. I often struggle in the tension between wanting to be fully known and fearing that no matter how vulnerable I am with others, I will never truly be loved for who I am. So I withdraw. And I project. And in the confines of my self-protective fantasy world, I imagine a future self who has everything figured out: she has found the mysterious secret others seem to possess, that elusive ability to remain content regardless of her circumstances. She’s calm, unruffled by her ever-changing emotions. She’s free of anxiety and her constant suspicion that others are judging her for being different. She’s self-forgetting and is no longer caught up in the tragic stories from her past or the ideal relationships and accomplishments she dreams about in the future. She just exists. She is connected to her body and she is healthy, happy, whole.

***

This year, I decided my guiding word is breathe. A simple, grounding reminder to a woman whose wheels never stop turning, whose emotions never seem to settle. Faced with deployment, solo parenting, and a lifetime of unknowns, I have finally realized I have got to get a handle on this inner turmoil I have often unknowingly exacerbated. Life is hard enough without trying so hard to emotionally color all of my experiences in the attempt to turn it into an epic work of art.

Further study of the Enneagram has helped me identify all the ways in which I am my own worst enemy, the ways in which I’ve been contributing to this pervasive feeling of melancholy for most of my lifetime — but also the ways in which I can choose to (however slowly) make changes. I’ve begun to see that perhaps the future self I dream of isn’t an emotionless yogi on the beach, but instead an integrated, emotionally intelligent woman who is wise enough to know when to act on emotion, and when to let it go.

So how do I get there?

Perhaps the answer lies in her gift to me. Perhaps, I need to remind myself there is goodness and beauty in the world–whether or not it feels good and beautiful. Perhaps, if I work a little harder at attuning myself to all that is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable*–if I remember I already have the tools to get to where I’m going (even if they are buried deep in the sand)–I won’t worry so much about trying to feel my way to true north.

*Philipians 4:8