The Chair

Crib, check. Changing station, check. Closet organizers, check. We went down the Babies R Us list line by line and scanned away with a determination that couldn’t be quantified. I am a checklist person and this was the ultimate experience. I had scoured the internet and collected advice on must-have’s and don’t-waste-your-money’s to create a comprehensive list of items we would register for. I checked out reviews and price matched on line. All that was left was to pick that final piece of furniture for her nursery.
Rocker or Glider? Ottoman or no?
I sat in at least ten different options, waddling my pregnant self down the row in the back of the store. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, imagining rocking that new bundle of joy. This one didn’t have enough head support. I put my legs up on the ottoman and glided back and forth. That one made my butt slide down when I used the foot rest. I sat in a large arm chair style glider and pretended I was holding a book. This one doesn’t have high enough arm rests. We ended up at a cream cushioned white glider with a rocking foot rest. I sat down, put my arms on the arm rests and imagined holding my sweet girl while nursing her. The arms were perfect. I could clearly see the nights I would stay up with her when she got hungry. The head rest allowed my head to lean to the side a tad in case I fell asleep rocking her. This was the one.
My parents so lovingly ordered our newly chosen glider online and set it up in the nursery as a surprise for us. It fit perfectly. We placed baskets of books on either side for bed time stories and we were ready. Everything we needed to welcome home baby was set up. We could do this.
In the following 2 months I would go into her room and sit in that glider. I spent so much time just relaxing, rocking, and looking around. I could perfectly see myself holding her; nursing her. This chair was going to hold such amazing memories. I was going to learn every tiny inch of her beautiful face and she would listen to my heart in this chair.
My Dr. suggested some classes, and I attended, notebook in hand. We went over all the benefits of breastfeeding and I learned so many tricks. We talked about freezing breast milk and how long you could store any extra.
They tell you all about how to handle an excess of production, but they never tell you what it’s like when your body simply won’t cooperate. I didn’t believe it when the lactation consultant, who had fought our pediatrician for 2 weeks so that I wouldn’t have to supplement, finally caved and told me it was time to break out the formula. This didn’t make sense. I was prepared. I went to the class, I knew all the secrets. I had the chair.
Rather than a relaxing and loving time in the glider to nurse baby, like you see in the ads, I had a routine that consisted of nursing for 15 minutes on each side, then pumping for another 20 minutes, while bottle feeding for the balance of her needed calories. I set up shop in the corner of our couch where I could watch TV and distract myself from what I considered my failings as a new mom. I had my pump, covers, extra flanges and bottles and some rags. This was business.
Whenever I would walk into her nursery, that chair was there. It stared at me. That damn cream cushioned glider that was supposed to hold so many sweet memories had now become a symbol of moments lost. I found myself avoiding even looking at it because of what it represented.
By the time I stopped pumping at 6 months, we were at about 25% breast milk per bottle with the balance being formula and I had exhausted all options, tips, and tricks. I had started using the glider to rock her at night with a bottle so she would be asleep before going into her crib. Slowly but surely I found myself more “in the moment” for her night-time bottle. I would watch her eye lids get heavy with each rock back and forth. I watched her little chest rise and fall as she drifted off toward the end of the bottle. I would brush the hair off her face after putting her pacifier in her mouth. I already knew every little inch of that amazing little girl’s face but I realized that there was still so much to notice and I hadn’t even started.
My husband and I unintentionally fell into a routine where I would hold her with a bottle and he would sit on the ottoman, my legs on his lap, and he would rock us both back and forth while he read a bed time story.
It must have been about two months into the routine that it hit me. She had almost finished her bottle, her daddy rocked us back and forth (bed time story finished) and I sang our night-time song. All of a sudden, my eyes filled with tears. I realized that this chair which had, for months, been a reminder and symbol of how I put my daughter at a disadvantage, had actually been intended for something completely different from the beginning. It was never meant for stolen moments in the middle of the night for the two of us. It was meant to bring our family together every evening before bed; to surround this precious little package with love and support on a daily basis; to let her know from the beginning that she would always have her mommy and daddy by her side.
I sit in that glider almost every day when I get home from work and I watch her play with the toys in her room. She brings me a book and shows me a stuffed rabbit. We make noises back and forth at each other. Sometimes we clap if one of the cats runs through and she gets excited. I spend as much time in that chair as I can because it is a different kind of reminder now. It is a reminder that my daughter’s life will not be dictated by the things that happen to her, but by the people that surround her. Her abilities in life will not be decided by the fact that she is a formula baby, but by the fact that she is loved and cared for from the bottom of our hearts. Her life will be shaped by the moments we spend rocking in her room.
I love that damn chair.
Disclaimer: I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of losing a child or the struggle of raising a child with mental and/or physical difficulties. I know that I am truly blessed to have a healthy little girl and that there are things MUCH harder as a mother than not begin able to breast feed. I am in no way insinuating that my struggles should even be cast in a similar light to those that many other mothers face.

Natural Home Pesticides

Since we have an adventurous two and half year old, who likes to lick EVERYTHING, I have embraced more natural methods and solutions to resolving various pest invasions.

Thankfully, the internet is full of tried and true suggestions, with comments to boot.

Here is what worked for our fruit fly invasion:

We used the Apple Cider Vinegar solution featured on this blog.

For ants, we are trying a few various things, but a family member did the Powdered Sugar & Baking Soda solution featured on this blog.

On Being a Bad Feminist

Seven months ago I gave birth the most beautiful baby girl that has ever existed (maybe I’m a little biased…). I had an uneventful pregnancy where I gained less than 20 pounds, in a healthy fashion, was wearing my pre-pregnancy jeans with a “belly band” two days after coming home, and hit my pre-pregnancy weight at around 2 months without doing anything special (seriously… I am NOT an exerciser). My little girl was healthy, I was feeling good, and then it happened. The unthinkable. Today, a woman who sees me on a semi-regular basis exclaimed, “Oh my gosh! Are you pregnant with another one!?”

*Blink Blink*

I had no idea how to respond. The world froze and I just stood there for what seemed like forever. Thankfully my smart ass survival reflexes saved me and in what was actually a matter of seconds I replied, “Nope, this is still the last one… just hangin’ around.”

Did that just happen? Did another woman – another mother for God’s sake – just ask me the one thing that you are NEVER supposed to ask someone? Good Lord, do I look pregnant?

I spent the rest of the day feeling like a cloud was just sort of hanging over my head. All of sudden, this issue of baby weight which I thought I had skillfully eluded was following me like that cloud in an animated anti-depressant commercial. I reasonably decided that I simply wouldn’t eat more than 500 calories a day until it was obvious that I was, in fact, NOT pregnant. Thankfully the idiocy of that idea became very clear once lunch time rolled around and I was hungry. I went through the rest of the day fighting how I would deal with this. The feminist in me was screaming, “Why yes, my body has changed a little since having a baby and even though I weigh the same, my tummy hangs a bit now. And by the way, this body just built a human being. This body just spent nine months providing for and literally building another person. So I love this body and every flabby part of it!” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say, right? That’s what all the parenting magazines and mommy blogs and supportive articles tell you. Don’t stress about getting your body back right away; every stretch mark is a reminder of that bundle of joy; love each little thing that has changed about you after pregnancy because you were part of a miracle.

But is that really fair? Is it really that easy? We have spent  our entire pre-pregnancy lives being sold this idea of beauty. We are constantly taught what is good enough and what isn’t and even though we fight it, that image is programmed into us hundreds of times a day and after a full day of work and a baby, I’m just too damn tired to fight that image. The reality is that I’m simply not strong enough to love every stretch mark, value every pound, and revel in the new shape of my body. But my little girl deserves better. She deserves a mommy who can raise her with the example of something different. She deserves for me to find a way around this.

So as I stood in the shower contemplating how I would tackle this problem, I thought about all the things in my life that were different since having that beautiful bundle of joy: My body (as previously discussed), my marriage (stronger but still different than before), my sex life (very enjoyable, even if a little slower), and other countless things. I began to realize that all these things had something in common. They are in transition. None of them are stagnant. The bad, the good, the things that are neither – they are all transitioning to something different.

My body is different than before and that has nothing to do with what I eat or how often I do or don’t exercise. It has everything to do with the fact that I spent 9 months giving my daughter everything I had and then spent the last 7 months continuing to do that. My body is in transition; it is in recovery. I may not be able to look at myself in the mirror and be happy and in love with what I see, but I can recognize and understand what I see and that is an ever-changing, tired but happy, body in transition. My transition and recovery may take longer than yours, or it may be quicker – but it doesn’t matter. We all recover at our own pace. Right now I’m choosing to recover by spending my free moments with a laugh that melts my heart – and that’s a body I can love when I look in the mirror.

My little secret

I’m a very private person.

I’m not an introvert and I don’t find it hard to communicate my feelings (just ask my husband). But when it comes to the outside world, I’m a very private person. I don’t have a Twitter account, snap chat freaks me out, I have no idea how to ‘insta’ something, and my Facebook is void of check ins at restaurants, constant updates on my life, and has very few photos of my baby girl.

I’m a very private person, but there is something you need to know about me. There is something so personal that the thought of sharing it with the world makes me cringe, but I have to do it. It needs to be said.

I can’t breastfeed.

It’s not that I don’t want to and it’s not that I haven’t tried. I have done everything I possibly can while (barely) maintaining my sanity, but I can’t breast feed and it’s none of your damn business.

But it needs to be said. Not enough people say it. Too many women hide in fear that they will be judged for pulling out a bottle in public and mixing up that forbidden powder.

I’m a very private person, and I don’t share a lot with people, but this needs to be said.

There are these magical women who seem to be blessed with enough milk that they could feed their own baby, plus mine, plus yours, and still have milk shooting across the room until they slap their breast to make it stop (like my own mother). And no matter how understanding those women may be (because not everyone is a judgy mc-judgerson), they will never be able to truly know what it feels like to open that circular plastic lid and peel back the foil seal for the first time, and know that you can’t provide for your child.

But I do.

They won’t ever have any idea how much time a person can spend researching different medications that may or may not be fda approved. They probably have no idea which Canadian pharmacies will ship to the US and if they require a prescription.

But I do.

While those lucky women might choose to pump so they can have a reserve of milk, they have no idea how much of a science experiment you can feel like when you have to hook up to that damn machine every time your alarm goes off just so you can maybe squeeze out 2/5 of what your child needs, only to add formula to it.

But I do.

They have no idea what it is like for a mom who can’t breastfeed when people ask how old your baby is only to follow it up with the very personal question of ‘And you’re breastfeeding, right?’. They will never understand how you truly contemplate lying because you don’t want to have to explain that you have a brain tumor which inhibits your milk production, or your baby’s latch was so bad you bawled every time she ate (which by the way, you put off for as long as you could because her hungry cry was nothing compared to the thought of that excruciating pain), or because she was in the NICU for a few weeks and your body didn’t respond to the pump, or any number of other reasons. They have no idea what’s it’s like to want to scream it’s none of your damn business.

But I do.

And some of you do too.

And it doesn’t put us in some special club of moms who are better because we struggle but keep going. It doesn’t make us more dedicated to our child than a mother who couldn’t keep trying to breastfeed and it certainly doesn’t make us more loving than a mother who chose formula from the start. It doesn’t mean that we need people to feel sorry for us. It simply means we can understand each others struggles. Not enough people talk about it, and that’s the only way to make it feel even a little bit better.

You are still a great mom.

Putting my feet up

Things got a little scarier with my pregnancy. Two or three weeks ago, after a frightening and stressful 24 hours where we thought we might have lost this baby girl (but we didn’t! whew!), we decided my feeble attempts at fumbling around trying not to lift RJ and trying to take things a little easier (and yet still somehow take care of the kid by myself 12 hours per day) were just not going to cut it. In swooped my AMAZING parents to help, as always. RJ and I are spending 3 (or more!) days a week at Nana & Pappy’s house, where I’m getting around-the-clock childcare, home-cooked meals and all sorts of love and support so that I can keep my feet up as much as possible. Mr. E is also working from home one day per week and has officially taken the role as “default parent” on the weekends. And we’ve hired a sitter to help me with the one remaining day in the week. I’m not on official bed rest, but I’m probably not on my feet for more than a combined hour per day. Are we being a little over cautious? Maybe. I really don’t know. But I do know that if we lost this baby I’d regret not doing everything we could to keep her here safely. So I’m going to proceed in a way that will leave no room for regrets. Thankfully, I have an amazing husband and parents who can help me do that.

And thus, my former, crazy, chaotic days watching a very energetic, almost-2 year old have given way to long, drawn-out, boring days laying around on the couch. It’s kind of a shock to the system! At first, I was a big ol’ cranky pants about the whole thing like: “ZOMG I’m soooo bored” and “Wahhhh! I can’t take care of my own son!!!! I feel so worthless!” and “Booohoooo, I can’t cook or clean or do dishes or — wait a minute — why am I complaining about this?” This is kind of a sweet deal. Mandatory vacation??? I can sit around and let everyone take care of me and I don’t have to feel guilty about it because it’s FOR THE BABY!?  Alright. Bring it. Mission Lazy-Pants has officially commenced! I got so lazy I even stopped posting on my blog. And then I realized I can do that from a semi-reclined position. So yeah, I’m back.

So what am I doing all day? I spend a lot of time (TOO MUCH TIME) on facebook and online forums, etc. I still manage some quality time reading books with RJ or lying on the floor while he whacks me with his toys. My parents are excellent at finding ways for me to still be productive. Last week I spent an hour or so in their La-Z-boy making mini pie crusts for some dessert my mom is preparing for Thanksgiving. And the week before that they had me laying on the couch shucking a bucket full of dried beans.


I know. This thrilling life I lead. It was so exciting I felt the need to document it with a photo.

This week I plan to make homemade christmas ornaments. Stay tuned for photos of that! Hopefully they’ll be a little more exciting than the dried beans.

The great news is that there was already much improvement during my last ultrasound (after one full week of Mission Lazy-Pants) so I’m hoping these restrictions won’t last the entire pregnancy. It’s nice to take it easy for a bit, but it’s a challenge for everyone who’s had to pick up the slack for me. And it’s not easy on RJ either. Every time he yells “UP! UP! UP!” at me and starts crying when I tell him again that I can’t pick him up, I start to tear up myself. It’s indescribably frustrating to not be able to fulfill such a simple wish from my son that used to provide both of us such comfort.

I suppose it’s just the first of many sacrifices RJ will have to make for his new little sister. Poor kid. At least while we’re spending all this time at Nana & Pappy’s house, he’s learning some great new skills. Like how to drive Pappy crazy by turning on all the electric blankets in the house. And how to play to his grandparents’ heartstrings to get more time in front of the TV, or to get more catsup with his dinner. And how to use the doggy door to get in and out of the house.


Silver lining, you have been found!


Thanksgiving Baby

In April, I lost a baby that was due on Thanksgiving Day.

pregnancy loss ribbon

I’ve written a post about reaching a miscarried baby’s due date before. And I wrote about my first three miscarriages here. But I have never written about my most recent miscarriage, and I want to take a moment to do that as we hit its due date. This baby was conceived very quickly after my third miscarriage. It was conceived days after a potential diagnosis was made regarding my three previous miscarriages and after a solution had been discussed with my doctor to make sure we didn’t lose the next one. With that positive pregnancy test came so much hope. I was still grieving the tiny baby we’d buried less than two months earlier. But now that we had identified a problem, and come up with a solution, and become pregnant so quickly, with a baby due on Thanksgiving Day, no less, we were incredibly hopeful and even a little cautiously excited.

Less than three weeks later, at my first appointment, we were told the pregnancy was not viable. I lost it a few days after that, naturally, at home, as I had done with the others. I wasn’t far enough along to pass any visible remains, so there was no burial or closure as with the loss preceding this one. But as I’ve done with all of my lost pregnancies, I bought a charm to remember that tiny spark of hope that lived inside of me for a very short time.

This Thanksgiving Day, I can’t help but remember that pregnancy. The hope it brought us, and the devastation we felt when we lost it. I can’t help but remember how gutted I was that the diagnosis we’d thought we’d found was obviously not correct, since the solution had not kept our baby alive. I wondered what was wrong with me, and why the doctors couldn’t figure it out. I wondered if we’d ever bring another baby home.

I sobbed for hours after that doctor appointment. But my tears dried up surprisingly quickly. Within days I was back to normal life, mentally moving on to “what’s next”. I remember feeling that I’d somehow bounced back quickly compared with my other losses. I thought perhaps I was becoming accustomed to this pain, after so much experience with it. I was wrong. In the months following our fourth loss, I found more anger inside of me. More bitterness. I wasn’t getting “better” at dealing with this pain, I was just developing more unhealthy defense mechanisms against it. I didn’t cry as much as I used to over my situation. Instead, I held my emotions more closely. I was more guarded. I was more afraid to hope for another healthy child. Staying optimistic and positive seemed like a dangerous and careless choice.  I knew in my heart that I didn’t want to turn into someone whose pain made them a closed-off, angry, bitter human being. But that’s a process. It’s a constant fight against a very strong urge to close up to the world and hate every happily pregnant woman or new, love-sick parent.

On that baby’s due date I’m also reflecting how far we’ve come. A 100% for-sure diagnosis was made. Months of fertility treatments were endured in order to take advantage of a special testing that could give us a baby who would live. A healthy baby girl was conceived from that process. And now I’m just over a week away from carrying her into that elusive second trimester.

This Thanksgiving, yes, I am still a grieving Mama. I’ve lost four very wanted babies and that will always stay with me in some way. I fight daily against the pessimism that presses in on me, making me feel like the healthy pregnancy I’m carrying now can’t possibly last. But at the same time, I am filled with gratitude. I am appreciative of all six of my pregnancies. I am thankful for the miracle of science, PGD, that made this healthy baby girl I’m carrying possible. I’m grateful for the family and friends that supported us through this, for my husband and our strong marriage, for my son, for our privileged life, for our health, for the peace we live in as a country and the freedom we enjoy. This journey has given me an ugly bitterness to fight through. But it has also given me the gift to see our life and fortune more clearly. I see and feel every amazing thing in our lives more strongly now than ever before. There is something about loss, that reminds you of what you have and how easily it can be taken away from you. There is something about struggle, that makes you more grateful for the things given to you. This Thanksgiving, more than ever before, I’m overwhelmed with an appreciation for the life and love that surround me. So perhaps, through all this struggle, I’m growing, too.