The word "parent" is both a noun and a verb. My boys made me a mom, but Nora made me a parent. The same went for my husband. He always had the title of "Dad" but now he has been able to put into action all the instincts that laid dormant until Nora was brought home. Raising a baby is hard work. Like, really hard. We are designed to have these little babies and care for them and raise them to become fine little people. As a SAHM who breastfeeds and baby wears it can be easy to get caught up in my own journey of motherhood. My rainbow responds to my touch, face, and voice differently than her father. And at this stage of her life that is to be expected. Dad really has ALOT to offer but c'mon.... #worthlessnipples.
Because of this- I found myself stepping in too often. I put this added pressure on myself to intervene when the baby started to fuss and when I did that... I was not allowing her father to parent. I can't expect to be able to take care of myself if I am not willing to accept help, yes. But, a father isn't a "helper", he is a partner. He is a Parent Partner. (I need to get that trademarked). Instead of stripping him of his confidence, help enable him. My husband is a prime example of a man that wants to help, is desperate to calm his baby but feels inept (which, he's totally not) due to lack of experience. It's pretty discouraging to comfort a baby only to be rewarded by louder cries. My parent partner is capable. I just so happen to have the tools that aid me in comforting the baby quicker. I've learned the cues because of all my time spent with her and, let's not discredit the Mom-gut. There is frozen milk in the freezer. There's a solly wrap hanging in the nursery. He can rock and sway just as well as me. ... honestly, probably better because I have no rhythm. He has "Old Town Road" downloaded on his phone as that is an instant baby-shusher (ask me how I know.) Our baby gets more face-time with me. I clearly have the advantage, I'm Mom. But, he's Dad. Let him work out the whimpering. Encourage him. Sometimes, I've found myself nervously outside the door fighting the desire to swoop in and comfort our girl; but, if I wait just long enough they figure it out. Even this past weekend Nora was due for a nap. She was working herself up into "The Danger-zone" aka being overtired. But, instead of whisking her away, I coached her father through what works for me. I taught him what I have learned through being with her throughout the week. I silently worked out of eye sight to position her just right so she would feel secure and comfortable enough to nap. It took several minutes. He wavered slightly but I encouraged him to continue and sure enough he did it! Let their father's parent. Enable your partner to join you in raising your children. Intervening may need to happen sometimes for the sake of the child but help your partner parent, too. I can't be there every moment. I need to take care of myself. I need some time in the gym to be healthy. I need to shower. I need to eat. I need to run errands without a baby getting antsy in a carseat. Gosh, sometimes I need sleep and he can change a middle of the night diaper just as well as me. Allow their father to actively parent. Not only will this allow you the freedom and confidence to focus on other things but it helps foster a healthy and loving relationship between baby and Dad. It will help your relationship too because resentment gets squashed pretty quickly when someone is covered in poo right next to you in the trenches. Let me say though... When it comes to the middle of the night feedings and your parent partner is drooling in dreamland with his #worthlessnippless I have no helpful advice. Except, there's always Amazon Prime, so treat yo'self.
together. - Don't go back to work; do you want someone else to raise your baby?" Oy, vey.
I teetered with my decision. I felt "mommy-shamed" for wanting to stay home cause I didn't want to miss a single moment.... and my trust in the ability for others to take care of my baby was nonexistent (that's another post for another day). I wanted to go back to work because I didn't want to lose who I am in the throes of raising a little. I felt "mommy-shamed" for wanting to return to work and be with the people I Iove to be around. Then I realized I wasn't being "mommy-shamed". I was feeling "mommy-guilt". "Mom-guilt" is real and it feels terrible, y'all. The fear of being a mother that isn't doing enough or being enough for her kids. A mom that isn't enough for her kids; kind of an oxymoron, huh? Yet, time and time again moms everywhere feel the weight of not doing enough... sacrificing enough...being enough for their children. We can control our mom guilt. Sometimes it doesn't feel like it. But, we totally can. Once I looked past what I first perceived as "mom-shaming" I actually saw a sea of mothers who were giving their own experiences and what helped them and what didn't. And that Mommas, is the key. I mistook their passion for their decisions for their children for something it wasn't. Find what works for YOU and YOUR children. YOUR family. And, recognize that it's enough. It is your best in this moment. Do not feel guilt for doing what you can do and what is your best. And, this goes for mother's who breast feed (and the sub group of 'cover vs no cover') and those that formula feed. And mother's who make their babies food and those that buy it pre-packaged. Those that have a beautiful decked out nursery and those that share their room with baby. ...The list goes on forever. Now, many times I've seen mothers unintentionally "mommy-shame" due to their own guilt of wishing and wanting to do things differently. Get out of the cycle. Control your "mom-guilt". Shoo it away, take away its power. Change your perspective. You are doing, and have done, your finest. Recognize you're doing your best and don't feel bad for not awarding your child an opportunity you wished you had provided. I am going to try and take my own advice over the coming weeks, months, and maybe even years. Once I pushed aside what other's thought (and my own feelings of guilt) I made my decision to stay home based on my family and what I could do; based on my family life right now. And, that's MY decision. Make your own. Have confidence in your choices. Be resolute. Because, you are a bad ass mom and you are enough.
But, no. She is not my first. She's actually my third. There are two that came before her. But, no one wants to hear about baby death. No stranger wants to be met with my reality when really all they want to hear is a young, exhausted mother happily speaking of the adorable newborn cooing in her arms. So, there I am met with a dilemma. Do I fake a smile and exchange small talk as to avoid the look of sadness and the stuttering of apologies from someone who doesn't know what their questions truly asks? In a society obsessed with babies, we are stricken with the stigma of silence when it comes to miscarriage and stillbirth. Do I smile meekly and quickly say "yes" as to avoid the awkward exchange, Or, do I tell the truth? Do I respond, "Actually, she's my third. We lost her brothers in 2017. But, they sent us a sister and we are so grateful"? I have chosen both responses. By saying "yes" I have caught myself in a panic of betrayal to my first two children. Guilt could quite literally choke the air from my lungs as I avoided making someone else feel uncomfortable. By saying "no" I am instantly sorry for making this person feel awkward. They quickly apologize and stumble on broken words. I watch as they flounder for the right thing to. I feel bad for making them feel like they do. I am swift to put to ease any of their fear and sympathies. I want to apologize for putting my heaviness onto their shoulders. I do not say that my rainbow is my first anymore, because she is not. I have carried two little boys in my womb. I have created tiny babies that carried the tell-tale family nose that so many have come to recognize as only belonging to my family. My rainbow is not my first. Logan came first. He was too small to survive outside of my body. A cruel joke it seemed since my body's ineptitude is why he was born. Just shy of 20 weeks he was born in panic in an ER. He was perfect. His life counts. Marek came next. We knew of my incompetent cervix and had taken all the medical precautions. Still, his heart stopped beating at 30 weeks and 1 day. He had a shock of strawberry blonde hair. He was perfect. His life counts. Third, came Nora. Our rainbow. Not my first, not even my second. But, my third. I do not say my rainbow is my first because she is not. Despite what you see, I have three children. One I hold in my arms, and two in my heart. So, when you ask your question and are met with the answer you were totally unprepared for, do not apologize. Do not fear that you brought up something that I wasn't already profoundly aware of. Trust me, you're not reminding me of a truth I have forgotten. It is an ache I feel every moment of every day. Instead, ask what their names are. Include them. This will bring more happiness to a loss momma's heart than you could possibly realize. |
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