Here it comes

As an employee at a university, I get to enjoy the lull that is inherently present in the summer months. Sure, there are students around but much less than in the fall and winter. At lunch time, there are plenty of available benches and tables to sit at and enjoy the sunshine. And I am much less likely to be found eating at my desk and catching up on paperwork. I even enjoy the occasional visit with a loved one who travelled downtown to see me for lunch. To put it simply, it’s the most joyous time of the year and I sing praises to my employer from May to August.

But you may have noticed that we are in September. It’s still nice enough for me to look out my window and long to head outdoors for lunch. However, here’s what you would hear if you had a cozy place in my head to hang out. “That intake report isn’t gonna write itself and I have another one scheduled for tomorrow so I better get to it. Back to back clients are scheduled for the rest of the day so it’s now or never.”

Ho Hum, it’s September again. People are everywhere and I mean everywhere. Even if I had a moment to wander outside my office, I would find hoards of young adults busying themselves with going to class, eating, socializing, and doing homework. There are no benches open, no tables available. The “kids” have once again taken over their rightful place as a student on a small but very busy campus.

And with the combination of college and late September comes STRESS. The early days of the semester are over and those who are vulnerable to poor coping are feeling the anxiety, only to be followed by depression in another four weeks or so if they don’t “get their self together”. And that’s where I come in. As a helping professional, I try to remember that I am serving those in need. This is my calling. People need what I have to offer and I should be HAPPY to provide that for them. But after two back to back crises in one day (that occurred yesterday), and a particularly difficult long-term client with a personality disorder, I admittedly want to go home and crawl in bed….for a week. And let me quickly inform you that when I say “crisis”, I mean people who are contemplating committing suicide. REAL crisis. And it’s my job to help them.

So when people say that fall is their favorite season. I get it. It’s pretty outside. Not too hot or too cold. There’s football, warm food, and comfy clothes. But when I see the leaves start to change color, I brace for myself for impact. Because it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

I won't miss you

Prior to my son’s birth, I had made a commitment to myself that I would give my son breast milk for at least the first year. I had no idea how that commitment would be tested. I knew with my return to work that pumping would be necessary but I had envisioned that I would nurse otherwise. Then…life happened.

After birth, as I patiently waited for my milk to come in, my son lost 12 ounces in weight (11% of his birth weight). For his Day 3 doctor’s visit, it was recommended that we supplement with formula. Given his weight, I was happy to oblige. He nursed first, followed by a bottle. The dry nursing resulted in horrible sores and a frustrated baby. Day 5 came and finally so did the milk. So much so, that it backed up into my armpit! Didn’t know that could happen! I figured, “Great, now we can settle into a routine”. Unfortunately, Cole’s latch never quite worked and both of us struggled with thrush for weeks despite multiple treatments and no relief. I distinctly remember dreading every feeding and crying because of the pain of nursing. Certainly not what I had envisioned for my first two months of motherhood.

Finally, I decided to pump instead of nurse because I was desperate for a resolution and my nursing consultant suggested that the baby and I may be trading the infection back and forth between us during nursing. What I witnessed thereafter was a baby that was happier after meals because the bottle gave him more milk with fewer struggles. He slept very well, which allowed me to “catch up” by extra pumping while he was asleep. With this solution, I settled on becoming what I have read is called an “EPer” (exclusive pumper).

            What followed was ten months of hauling a small black backpack with me everywhere I went. I never really gained a healthy supply of milk so had to pump often in order to keep up with demand. After a while, I truly began to despise that machine. Not only did I constantly worry about supply (since I could measure every ounce), it came with such anxiety about when and where I would pump. I found myself jealous of nursing mothers who got the convenience of a simple cover up and can sit comfortably in any chair. Other than at home, I found myself hiding in bathrooms hoping no one could hear the motor running. Having to make sure I was somewhere convenient every few hours or so made for limited social contact. A recent trip for a family funeral had me pumping in the back row of my in-laws SUV and thanking God for tinted windows. In short, it was a LONG ten months. But that commitment stayed true and my boy received all of the benefits of breast milk (minus the breast) for an entire year.

Now that birthdays and parties have passed, I get to say good-bye to my little black backpack. I needed you but never liked you. You were both convenient and a horrible inconvenience. Although it reminds me that my baby is now eating “big boy food”, I still could not be happier to see you go.

Good riddance.

By the way, anyone wanna buy a breast pump? J  

Lest we forget...

After significant events, we tell the story of what happened many times over, to anyone who will listen. But after a while, we move on and the story can remain untold for some time. Because untold stories tend to change over time and I want to remember this one just the way it happened, here’s what I experienced this time last year. 

It was Monday. I had been off work for 7 days due to back pain. A 3pm massage appointment had me comfortable and relaxed. The therapist had asked if I wanted her to work on pressure points that might induce labor. Given the pain I was in and that I was already full-term, I was ready. So she did. It was only four hours later that a tiny but noticeably different contraction occurred. Followed by another every 25 minutes or so for the rest of the evening. I told my husband, who smiled calmly, “It’s happening soon”, he said. “Not tonight”, I replied. 

It was 2:30am when I woke to go to the bathroom. It was a nightly routine at that point so no need for alarm. A full 15 minutes past as I analyzed, “Was that water?” “What about that?” It was just a trickle. “That couldn’t be it, right”, I thought to myself. 

“Are you alright?” I hear from behind the closed door. After some discussion and a call to the hospital, it was determined that we should go in. A calm was in the house. We both showered, packed, got on comfortable clothes, and prepared for a day of unknown. It was 4am by the time Dan dropped me off at the door to go park the car. “Okay, THAT was water!” I realize as I wait for him at the door VERY wet. There goes wearing my nice comfy pants.

Check in. More water. Walk to the observation room. More water. “Are you kidding me? How much is in there?” Despite the soaked pad on the bed, they still found it necessary to run a test to see if my water broke.  “It’s baby day!” the nurse exclaimed too cheerily for 4am. 

It’s baby day.

I turned in my birth plan and struggled a bit with the nurse about the necessity of an IV. I didn’t want to be tied to the bed so she placed it but didn’t hook me up right away.  My contractions were getting steadier but nothing I couldn’t handle. Dan and I found ourselves making several laps around the ward, which made for nice chats. Around 7am, we decided that calls could be made to family. My mom arrived shortly after, ready to stay for the day.  My stepmom, who works in the hospital, stopped by for a check in. The most recent update was cervix dilated to 3, contractions 1 minute apart. “Dad, will be coming up, soon”, she said and we promised to keep her updated. 

For the next several hours, the doctors and I were embroiled in a battle of wills. Their position: “This is not moving fast enough. You need Pitocin.” My position: “I’m fine. Please let me be.” I was working my plan. No meds. No anesthesia. Do it, old school. At 12:30pm, now 10 hours after my water broke, the doctors begin to express their concern for infection and state that the baby needs to be delivered within 18 hours of the water breaking to prevent complications. But my cervix hadn’t moved a bit. Still 3 centimeters. Since they played the “Your baby could be in danger card”, I caved and took the medicine. 

Shortly thereafter… HELLO, contraction! That’s what those women on TV are screaming about? I get it now. Poor Dad, arrived just before the Pitocin. Not the pretty sight he could’ve witnessed a few hours before when I was bouncing happily on an exercise ball only pausing slightly to breathe through a contraction. 

The next visit from the doctor came with the announcement that I was now at 6 cm. My mixed reaction of “Yay, progress!” and “Seriously, only 6?”rang loud in my head but I just nodded because at this point, talking was out of the question. Suddenly, my back started cramping. I thought it was from strain but the knowing eyes of my mother said “back labor”, which meant I was in for more. I heard whispers between my mom and the nurse that the baby may be face up but honestly there was no room in my mind for worry. I just had to get through the next one. I was compelled to turn over to a “hand and knee” position just to relieve the pressure in my back. It ended up being more like “face in pillow, arms barely holding me up” position but that’s just semantics. 

Time seemed to slow as waves of contractions came right on top of each other. Thoughts of “4 more centimeters of this” were breaking my resolve and the nurse could tell. She leaned in and said to me, “Amanda, listen to me. Once you lose it, it is very difficult to get it back. You are doing great. You have to keep breathing all the way through.” Our eyes met briefly and I asked for help. As a nurse, her instinct was to offer the best help she knew…pain medication. And in that moment, I accepted the help. She instructed that I would have to turn over to my back so that I wouldn’t fall over when the medication took its effect. 

That move served as a catalyst. My very next contraction had me yelling, “I’m pushing!” and the nurse yelling, “Don’t push!” There was frantic movement and I heard her tell my husband, “Don’t let her push”. I met Dan's eyes for the first time in what felt like forever and I saw so much sympathy in them. “Honey, don’t push, just breathe”. With his help, I made it through the next contraction without pushing and the nurse did a quick check.  10 cm. It was 2:30pm. 

I can only tell you what happened next through the stories of my family because my mind was not completely in the room to remember these things. The nurse’s frantic page to the doctor was met with a “We’ll be there soon” kind of attitude. The slow labor had them set for a slow delivery so they did not feel the rush that was in the room. Her pleas got them in the room where a quick check prompted them to get in line with the baby’s schedule and pick up the pace. From that point, it was 6 pushes and 20 minutes. My husband at my right. My mother just behind, supporting my head. Together, we witnessed the birth of our baby boy at 2:49pm, August 10^th, 2010.

And yesterday, we celebrated his first birthday. And at that, I am speechless. 

Reflection

Yesterday, my husband and I completed a three-day celebration of our birth 35 years ago thanks to our parents who sequentially treated us to very nice dinners. At each dinner, sitting between us comfortably placed in his grandmother-made highchair cover sat our dear little son, who is feeding himself and pushing out tooth number two as I write. I witnessed his developing personality as he smiled at waitresses, talked to those who passed by, and waved at friendly people in the parking lot. Thank God he didn’t inherit my tendency to be introverted. It has been a life struggle of mine and I’m happy to see him without it.   

As I begin plans for his first birthday party, which occurs in just over three weeks, I find myself reflective. Of course, as occurs to every mother, this year has gone by with G-force speed. I’ve done my best to document what I could and savor what I feel are the few moments I get with him as a working mother. I compare myself to my own arbitrary standards, hoping in the end that I measure up to the mother I want to be.

At the same time, as my shared birthday with my husband passes (Yep, born on the same day), I also reflect on my time with him. Friends in middle school…high school sweethearts…friends again…time lost…and God-inspired reconnection. We have packed a decade worth of living into the three short years that we’ve been married. We had a lot of catching up to do and sometimes I can forget about the time lost and feel that we’ve never been apart. I can’t imagine living this life without him and his service as a father and mate inspires me.  

I may have started my dream life at 31 years old, but hey…at least I started it.

Boycott For Peace of Mind

Most of us have lives that seemingly require us to do more than one thing at a time. This is getting increasingly more common as we carry our lives, I mean our technology, around in our pockets. You can send an email while you picnic, surf the web in the car, and post a Facebook status any minute, anytime, anywhere. Obviously, multitasking has simply become a way of life and is almost an expected part of our daily functioning. Unfortunately, feelings of being stressed, worried and overwhelmed are also becoming a part of our daily lives. As a mental health professional, I obviously read up on issues related to wellbeing. I recently read this quote from “The Mindful Way through Anxiety” by Susan Orsillo and Lizabeth Roemer.

“Multitasking on a regular basis, particularly in an automatic, habitual way, increases stress and decreases productivity…In addition to interfering with our concentration and productivity and diminishing our connections with others, moving through life on autopilot can prevent us from making significant life changes.”

When we find ourselves frequently multitasking, we often miss out on truly enjoying the moments we have been given to enjoy. Instead, if we put our energy into one thing at a time, we enjoy it more, get it done quicker, and feel more satisfaction in its accomplishment. I know this might be hard for you hardcore multitaskers to accept but if you find yourself drained, unable to concentrate, disconnected, or “just going through the motions”, maybe multitasking has gotten the best of you.

Did you know that you can also multitask in your head? We can entertain an endless stream of overlapping thoughts every minute. Have you ever found that you have driven all the way to your destination but didn’t remember how you got there? How about catching yourself (or more embarrassingly someone else catching you) staring off into space for several minutes? That is your mind multitasking! It’s running on auto-pilot with a seemingly random train of loosely connected thoughts. 

So this is my official launch of Project Boycott Multitasking (Should I make signs? Maybe T-shirts?)

The Mission: Keep attention focused on what is happening right now. Reject pressure to continuously do more than one thing at a time.

The Expected Result: Take more opportunities to grow, be a friend, show love, feel peace, and so on.

39 Weeks

It’s official. Cole has been out of my belly for as long as he was in. Motherhood has meant the world to me. I wanted it. I longed for it. I went out and grabbed it. I got it.

Having my first (and only thank you) child  at age 34 has been such a blessing. I was able to get so much of life that this feels like a wondrous continuation of a journey I started long ago. Childhood grew to young adulthood and I was blessed with those experiences. Over the years I have had the chance to try out my skills as a college student, single woman, educated woman, married woman, career woman, and now mother. Each phase of this journey came with it experiences, both painful and joyous, none of which I would take back even for a moment. It has been a natural unfolding of events that led me right to where I was going. I happily leave my “childless” status behind because I ate up that life already. I did what I wanted to do with it and was ready to move on.

Cole is a joy I only read about experiencing. Every cliché phrase that has been said by every mother in existence comes to my mind and rings true in my heart but I won’t bore you with them. If you are a mother, you already know. If you are not, my description will not help. Words just pale in comparison so I’ll leave them unsaid. My journey now turns to focus on someone else’s journey. Someone that I helped create and a journey that I will happily shape until the time comes when his own wisdom will guide him. At that time, I will happily leave this phase having enjoyed everything there was to experience and be ready for what comes next.

Happy 9 months, Cole. I hope you have enjoyed them as much as I.

Widening the Lens

You may have heard people say things like, “seeing the forest through the trees” or “getting lost in the details”. It’s usually in the form of some abstract advice on a problem you might be having. In looking so closely at an issue, sometimes the focus limits us in finding a solution.

I have found that I am a detail-oriented person. I cannot ignore the details. It is so inherent in my DNA that I am compelled to point out things such as editing errors in movies, or grammar/spelling errors in absolutely everything I read, and cringe internally when people mispronounce words or use them incorrectly. I can’t help it. To me, the errors leap into my awareness. I couldn’t ignore them if I tried. The most recent example that comes to mind is when I corrected my step-daughter (ever so sensitively) on her use of the word library. After years of hearing “Lie-berry”, I felt it was time. :)

For most of my life, it seems that this trait has served me well. It helps me be accurate and conscientious. I notice the subtleties in the complexity that is human nature and it has helped me to understand and empathize with others. However, I’ve come to also realize how this trait can narrow my attention and distract me from experiencing some of the more joyful and spontaneous things in life. I can get so focused on details that I miss out on opportunities to just live life...to just…be. 

My husband will confirm that I have this sort of tunnel-vision sometimes. I walk around with this weird scowl on my face. I don’t look at anybody. I just gaze into the air and I appear rather annoyed at it. Naturally, he’s convinced I’m upset despite my protests that I’m not. During the times when I’m able to pull myself out of it, I realize I was just…thinking.  My mind had focused itself on every little thing that was happening, that had happened, and that was going to happen all at once. All of that thinking had completely pulled my focus away from engaging with the people around me. The same people whose relationships I cherish. Suddenly, I’m faced with the down-side to my detail-orientation.

So in my effort to experience more than just a series of life’s details, I’m encouraging myself to “widen my lens”. Much like a camera pulls away to zoom out, I want to view “the big picture” of life.  Rather than getting lost in the details, I will strive to let in some of the beauty and joy that is included in every moment we have. I don’t contend that I’m going to be good at it. But every time that I succeed will be a moment where I feel free.

Put on your hat!

A few weeks ago, I was triggered by one of those ever-increasing Facebook polls. The question was posed by StepMom Magazine, an online monthly magazine and support group forum to which I subscribe. The question asked what I struggle most with as a stepmom. Of the possible choices available, the one that stood out to me was, “Understanding my role in the family”. As I contemplated this, I was moved to consider other roles in my life and the expectations of these roles. I was left wondering where I misplaced my manuals. I’m sure there was a daughter manual around here somewhere. What about my sister manual? Maybe that would give me some ideas. Seriously though, wouldn’t that be nice? If it were that easy.

Instead, we fumble through our various “hats”, changing them numerous times a day depending on what role we are playing in any given moment. As an example, the other morning, I woke up early and put on my student hat as I spent some time studying the bible while everyone else was asleep. Then, the pitter patter of feet brought a sleepy-eyed little girl out to the living room, followed shortly thereafter by little boy feet. I got up to get my stepmom hat. The rise of my husband set me to grab my wife hat. Follow this with a brief moment wearing my mommy hat as my baby boy greets me with his morning smile. Then off to work to twirl on my therapist/teacher hat. Back home for more wife/stepmom/mom. Throw in a little daughter hat as a phone rings. You get the drift.

It seems that most roles come with at least a handful of clear expectations with which to work. But stepmom? My best guess is that it’s some compilation of various roles. Take a chapter from the mommy book, a chapter from the aunt book (you know, positive female role model without any parental power), a few paragraphs from the friend book. Is that it? I do have my own stepmom who is honestly a great role model. I never had any idea how much she must have struggled. I never saw it, not once. She never showed us the difficulties inherent in the role. That is so much more than I’m capable of doing. So in my bewilderment I sit for a moment to reflect on how I can become what I envision for myself, rather than what I see now. How I can define my separate roles with some measure of consistency and adherence to my core values. It is that drive for personal growth that brings me to this expression of myself. Now that I have written it down, maybe I can leave it here. No longer occupying my thoughts but rather allowing me to move on.

What is Nontraditional?

My story starts out traditional enough. My parents were part of a generation when it was still possible for people to work towards a life that was better than their parents’ lives. So, as an up-and-comer from modest means, my father turned to the automobile production industry at 18 to care for his young pregnant wife. He chose a back breaking, blue collar existence but this choice allowed my mother to stay at home until her three little ones were all in school.  Seems traditional enough, for sure.

But that story ends at age 12, when I became one of the first among anyone I knew with divorced parents. I gained a step-father and step-sister at 13, a step-mother at 14, and tried my best to navigate the roles of step-daughter and step-sister as well as maintain a relationship with my father, who was a noncustodial parent. High school was a blur of keeping my grades up for college and a series of weird boyfriends (minus the one that became my husband three years ago but that story is for another time). This was a time when too many of my peers were getting pregnant or generally floating through life with no real direction. Despite risking the label of “nerd”, I focused my attention on trying to make something of myself by attending college. As a student in a public university, my new set of peers were more interested in late night binge drinking than academic success, so I didn’t fit in there. As an art student, followed by psychology major, others did their best to suppress their obvious doubt when discussing my “future”. Possibly for the sole purpose of proving them wrong, I went on to graduate school. From a rare bout of optimism came the thought, “Finally, I’ll be sure to fit in here”… Nope. These new peers were from the privileged upper class. They could hear my “Midwestern accent” and looked at me with, “How did she get here?” eyes.

In my mid-twenties, I found myself separated from family, living in Maryland with years of graduate school ahead of me. How did I pass the time? I got around to marrying one of the few halfway decent men I had met in college. We could not have been more incompatible but we were both nice enough to keep trying…for 7 years. Then I found myself divorced and 30 years old! Oh, the horror! J Follow this with a remarriage to my high school sweetheart where I instantly became a step-mother of two with no prior knowledge or experience with children other than being “Awesome Aunt Amanda” (as named by my niece).  I took on the almost daily chaos of “the ex-wife” with as much dignity and compassion as I could muster. As many in my home state can sympathize, my new husband lost his job after less than one year of marriage. In his infinite grace, God granted me a job with enough to sustain our new family.  When I came to desire my own child, I couldn’t even manage to do that in the traditional way. I had to go by way of in vitro fertilization and now have a 7 ½ month old son. Given our need for that above-mentioned blessing of a job, I was back to work after three months and my husband takes care of the daily childcare duties. Of course, that’s another issue that brings the cocked heads and confused looks from others. I can almost see the smoke coming out of their heads as their brains struggle…”Man at home? Does not compute.” But I digress. 

 In contemplating my new blog, I realized the relative nature of the term “Nontraditional”. It’s certainly possible that the idea of traditional is a simple fallacy. Maybe there is no one whose life fits our cultural ideas about tradition. Regardless of the reality, it seems that many people still try to uphold an illusion that we measure ourselves against. With this blog, I hope to rid myself of this illusion. My path to this point may have been a mess of twists and turns but I have a feeling yours may have been too. That’s why I think it’s important to let go of our ideas of tradition and embrace the nontraditional. Will you embrace with me?