lesbian mom

World Breastfeeding Week 2021

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She gave me a gift. One last nurse.

My first child, Pidge, loved nursing. She wanted to nurse at every possible moment, and she never wanted to stop. Pidge nursed from both her Mama and me, so there was always plenty of milk. Weaning was a production. We were ready to stop, but we wanted to respect Pidge. Her last nurse was on the day of her third birthday.

Piper was different. She was born with a significant lip and tongue tie, and nursing was a challenge. Until she was six months old, she preferred expressed milk fed to her from a bottle. Then she returned to nursing. I was overjoyed. I was also busy and overwhelmed. Having a 3-year-old and a baby during a pandemic is hard. But Piper kept nursing.

Until one day, she didn’t.

I woke up one morning and realized that I couldn’t remember the last time Piper nursed. On the one hand, I was thankful for the reprieve and also thankful to avoid a difficult weaning. On the other hand, I was heartbroken. How could it be over? How could I have missed it? How is my baby not a baby anymore? I tried to focus on the positives and move on.

Then, about two weeks later, she gave me one final, beautiful moment. We were walking down the boardwalk after a delightful summer day on the beach. We were tired, but sun kissed and happy. I looked down at Piper. She smiled. She put her pudgy little fist in the air and opened and closed her fingers. The sign for milk. Tears welled up in my eyes. Thank you, Piper. Thank you. We sat on the bench together, gazing into each other’s eyes, nursing and cherishing our closeness.

Back to it.

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Piper will be 15 months tomorrow, which means that we have been struggling through COVID-19 for 15 months. That we are all still here with even a portion of our mental health is a miracle. This past year has been unbelievably difficult.

When I last wrote, my wife was going through a mental health crisis. Although the crisis has receded, the struggles continue. At one point, her ADHD diagnosis was a glimmer of hope. We knew what the issue was, so now we could fix it, right? Unfortunately, no. She tried medication after medication and nothing seemed to work. She became more anxious, more irritable. I became more despondent. Will nothing ever get better? She is working on it, and I am working on it. Sometimes it feels like we will get through it, and other times it feels like a treadmill.

In this time of darkness, our children have been bright spots. Pidge has come into her own, strongly advocating for her likes and clearly articulating her desires and needs. She is the femmest of femme, preferring all things pink and sparkly and girly. She asks us to refer to her as Lady. She started dance in the late fall, and fell in love. This June we had the pleasure of watching her perform three numbers in her very first recital. She was amazing! I played the role of Stage Mom, helping all the little ladybugs out onto the stage.

Piper has grown like a weed. She went from infant to toddler seemingly overnight. She is feisty and funny, resilient and confident. You would never know that she has spent her entire babyhood under lockdowns and shutdowns and fear and with everyone around her in masks. She is a firecracker and makes us smile every day.

More light: the vaccine. Vermont has now vaccinated 80% of its eligible population and I am hopeful that means that we’re pulling out of this. I feel cautious optimism, which I am thankful for. It would be easy, very very easy, to let myself get pulled down in the fear of additional strains and other people’s vaccine hesitancy. But I just can’t do that. Not now. I have to have some hope. Of course, that hope is tempered with reasonable risk mitigation. We are not dining indoors and I am careful where we travel with the children. But there comes a time that we need to balance physical needs with mental health needs, and our high vaccination rates and low infection rates make that possible.

As the vaccine has become available and more has opened up, we have been able to spend time with extended family. To be honest, it’s been a bit of a mixed bag. We had a very pleasant visit with my parents in Florida. It was nice to get into the sunshine and the pool. A few weeks ago, my wife’s parents came to visit. It was a surprisingly difficult visit, where all parties felt judged. We couldn’t pinpoint what the problem was, but we felt it. We felt it deeply. It was heartbreaking to have such a strained visit because we knew that we would not see them again for at least six months or more. And yet, we could change it.

I tried to process what went wrong in therapy because (hooray!) I finally have a therapist. I think what it boils down to is this: my wife and I have some serious childhood trauma. Some of it is religious trauma, and some of it stems from the culture in which we were raised – a culture that focuses on body image and shame and guilt. My wife and I have worked tirelessly to escape that history and to build a new life together, insulated from much of the harmfulness of our pasts. We have chosen to live in the least religious state in the nation, and the state with the least amount of materialism. We don’t discuss weight and calories. We try to protect ourselves and our children. Having my wife’s parents here felt somewhat like a security breach. Suddenly, that trauma came flooding back. Suddenly there were discussions about disliking bodies and avoiding calories and “fat.” There was yelling and “sternness” directed at the children. I felt terrified and defensive and protective for my children. I don’t know what to do. They aren’t going to change, but these interactions are just so triggering. I’m scared for myself and for my children. What will we do if my in-laws actually fulfill their goal of moving to the area?

Another new development: I’m pregnant! Our family is overjoyed. In an ideal world, we probably would have spaced out the kids a little more. But I’m getting old and I don’t want to be much older before I have another baby. My wife and I (and Pidge!) really want a big family. Of course, we are getting grief about it from our families. They told us we were being selfish. My wife’s grandmother and aunt refuse to acknowledge the pregnancy. It is hurtful. My parents are excited, and my wife’s parents are starting to get excited, too. They all got more excited when they found out that we are having a boy. I don’t know why that makes a difference to them, and to be honest, it felt a bit patriarchal. I am looking forward to having a son (until and unless he tells us that he is really our daughter, which of course we would support), but I am also a little intimidated by the idea. I feel like I don’t know or understand men or boys at all. My whole world is women. But, I’m sure I can figure it out and I’m sure that I’ll adore our little guy. He will be OUR little guy after all.

All that is to say, there has been a lot going on. And there have been so many feelings about it all that I’ve been a bit stifled in my ability to convey it all. This has led me to not write at all. But I don’t want that. I want to document this fleeting and impossible time of new parenthood. I want to get back to writing. Hopefully, this is my start.

Birth, again.

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March 14th, 11:30 PM.

I’m awake again. Every night for the past several weeks it has been the same—exhaustion, early bedtime, then two to three hours of sleeplessness in the middle of the night. Pregnancy is the worst, I think to myself as I attempt to heave my massive body out of bed. But before I do, a twinge hits me in the lower abdomen. A cramp of sorts. It’s in my back, too. I pause. Could this be it? I am past my due date so it might be. . . No, I tell myself. That’s just wishful thinking.

I hobble downstairs and sit on the couch. A cramp again. That’s strange, I think. Again, I dismiss it. I turn on the television. Frozen II. Let’s see what the fuss is about.

Twenty minutes go by. Ow. Another pang. I go to the bathroom.

Blood.

Oh my god, so much blood.

My heart sinks. My mind immediately flashes back to my miscarriage. The cramping, the bleeding. Just like this. Just like this. Oh my god.

I go wake my wife. “What’s wrong?” she asks, panicked as she reads my face. I tell her about the blood. She tries to calm me by telling me that it might be the “bloody show,” or the start of labor. “No,” I say. “There was too much blood for that.” We text the midwives.

Over the next several hours, I monitor the blood loss. It slows a bit, which brings me some comfort, but not enough. The cramps continue. My mind whirls.

More hours, no blood. Thank goodness. But cramping. Painful cramping. Patterned cramping. Labor! This is it!

As night transitions to dawn, my worry begins to transform into excitement. We are going to meet our baby today. March 15th—Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s birthday. I love it.

The contractions start coming every four minutes. Despite the pain, I try to do everything I’m supposed to. I eat well. I hydrate. I go for a walk with my family. I can do this, I tell myself. I’m ready.

The day continues and the contractions progress. By 5:00 PM, they’re coming every minute and they are intense—nothing like I have ever felt before. I move between the yoga ball and the tub. I am on my knees a lot.

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My wife works to keep me hydrated and as comfortable as possible. Pidge has been precious all day, and continues to be. Earlier in the day, she bathed with me, pouring water over my back while singing, “Oh my doula” to the tune of “Oh my darling, Clementine.” As I bent over the yoga ball, she rubbed my lower back and kissed me sweetly. When I began to get more audible during contractions, she grabbed her headphones. Naked, wearing only a bag to hold her music and donning large blue headphones over her ears, she gave me a little pat and explained to my wife about what was happening. “She having a birf, Mama.” Adorable.

We text the midwives. I worry that we’re texting them too early. I worry that we’re texting them too late. I have no sense of time and no sense of how much progress I have made during labor. All I know is that after this many hours of labor, my wife had already had Pidge.

The first midwife arrives and begins arranging the supplies. She checks baby’s heartbeat—all good. She checks my blood pressure—all good. Good, I think. Things are good.

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Labor continues. And continues and continues. A second midwife arrives. A third arrives.

March 15th, 11:30 PM.

24 hours of labor have passed and it’s not looking like we’re having this baby tonight.

The contractions intensify. Pidge is asleep now, and honestly I have no idea how she is managing it as I am completely unable to control my volume. I start throwing up. A little at first, but then I realize that it’s happening with every contraction. We start keeping bowls next to me.

March 16th, 4:00 AM.

How much longer will this continue? My body is sore, I am exhausted. My throat is hurting from persistent vomiting. One of the midwives tells me that they rarely do cervical exams during home births, but that she can perform one if I want to know where I am. Do I? If I’m far along, that will really help me. But if I’ve hardly made any progress. . . I decide I want to know. I lay back on the couch and the midwife reaches in. She feels around. Then she smiles. 9 cm.

Nine. NINE. I’m so close!

I continue to labor. I feel my body start to push. I remember when this happened with my wife. She gave birth two hours later! Maybe I only had two hours left. . .

Two hours roll by. Three.

The midwife does another exam. I’m told that she can feel her head, right up against the cervical opening. However, the bag of waters has not yet broken. “It is possible,” the midwife says, “that the bag is preventing her from moving down. Without the bag, her head might be small enough to make it through the opening. We never recommend this, but if we break the bag, there’s a chance she could be born very quickly.” I weigh my options. I don’t really want to start interventions, but the idea of labor being over soon is too appealing to dismiss. I agree to have the midwife break the bag.

SPLOOSH! Amniotic fluid gushed out of my body. Not just a little—a lot. And when I would think it was over, more poured out. I could not believe how much water was inside me! Then the vomiting came. Not just a little—a lot.

The contractions intensify. The pushing becomes unbearable. The vomiting continues. I begin experiencing extreme soreness. Why hasn’t she come yet?

More hours go by. I ask the midwife to check again. I watch her face drop. “This isn’t what you want to hear,” she said. Baby’s head did not slide through the cervix. Instead, her head dropped at a slightly incorrect angle and had begun ramming against my cervix. In response, my cervix hardened and started swelling. I was now at 7 cm.

No, I cried. No. I had to stop pushing in order to relax and re-dilate my cervix. But how can I stop something that’s involuntary? I get back in the pool, hoping the warm water could soothe me. With every contraction, pain sears through my body. 34 hours of labor. I cry. I vomit. I try to breathe through the contractions. I collapse with exhaustion. Our friends come over and pick up Pidge.

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At hour 36, the midwife checks my cervix again. 10 centimeters, and the head is close. Oh my god, thank you. I gather my strength and prepare to push.

With each contraction, I push with everything I have in me. I moan and growl and yell and turn red in the face and burst capillaries in my cheeks and push and push and push. After each contraction, I vomit.

My wife offers encouragement. “You’re so close,” she says. “I can see the head!” She shows me a photo she took on her phone. But as I look at the photo, all I see is the teeniest bit of the baby’s hair. I want to be encouraged, but I can’t believe that was all I had pushed out so far! With all the pressure, all the pain, I really thought I had made more progress. Ugh!

I keep pushing. I change positions and push again. You can do this, I tell myself. You are so close. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and repeat the chant I had been thinking but not saying throughout the whole labor: I’m breathing her down. Down through my pelvis, and into my arms.

After three hours of pushing, she finally emerges. She comes out with her hand up by her face, resulting in three separate lacerations that tear through skin and muscle. But I don’t even notice. I am so happy she is born that I burst into tears.

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The midwife places the baby, who I will refer to as Peach, on my chest. Her tiny, hazy eyes gaze up at me. She latches immediately and begins to suckle. My baby. Our baby. My wife is crying, too.

We did it.

 

 

Happy

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If it’s positive, I told myself, I will keep it a secret and then surprise my wife on June 6, our anniversary.

I placed the cap over the tip of the pregnancy test, setting it down on the counter face-up as the directions on the insert instructed. In the movies they always put it face-down, I thought. I understood why. It seemed safer, less anxiety-producing. Not wanting to compromise accuracy, I placed it face-up. Not wanting the stress, I tucked it behind a picture frame.

I walked out into the kitchen. I picked up Pidge and gave her a little nuzzle. My wife poured us some coffee – mostly decaf, of course. We talked about something, I don’t know what. My mind kept thinking about the test and my eyes kept wandering over to the clock. Three minutes has never felt so long.

My close childhood friend has been trying to get pregnant, too. We both started trying around the same time. Five days ago, I learned that this try worked. She was pregnant. I was ecstatic, but also a little jealous. It happened so quickly for her! Of course, she had a husband and what seemed like infinite opportunities for insemination whereas we only had two tries each month. I worried about how long it would take me. Would our donor get tired of helping us out? My mind was awhirl. The two-week wait between ovulation and when you can learn whether you are pregnant is just awful.

Shortly after I got off the phone with my friend, hopeful and experiencing what seemed like pregnancy signs, I took a test and it was negative. I knew it was an early test, and that sometimes early tests will come back negative even if you are pregnant. I took it after I had been getting mastitis-like symptoms. Given that Pidge has been gradually decreasing the amount she is nursing, this seemed odd. Maybe it means I’m pregnant. . . But no matter how hard I squinted, the test displayed only one pink line, dark and stark in contrast to the white space where the other line could have appeared. I hadn’t told my wife.

I set down my coffee – three minutes were up. I walked back into the bathroom. I was hopeful, but doubtful. The other test was probably right, I thought to myself. I reached back behind the frame.

TWO LINES.

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It was faint, but it was unmistakably there. I could hardly believe my eyes. My hand started to tremble.

Suddenly, all my planning about waiting to tell my wife went out the window. I sprinted into the kitchen, shaking. My wife knew before I could say anything. I beamed, she shrieked. We hugged and held each other. We were overcome with joy.

I took another test, a digital one this time. Pregnant. We could barely contain ourselves.

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My cycle-tracking application gave me the option to switch into pregnancy mode. “You are 4 weeks and 6 days along. Your embryo is currently the size of a red lentil.” The app gave me the option to choose a nickname for my growing baby. While Pidge was developing inside my wife, we called her Sprout. What should we call this one?

I picked up Pidge. “You’re going to be a big sister!” I told her. She smiled. I asked, “What should we call your baby sibling?” She paused and said “hmm,” putting her pointer finger up against her chin like she does when she’s being extra thoughtful. A few moments later she held her little finger up in the air, indicating she had an idea.

“Happy.”

Pidge grinned at me and I grinned back. Happy. It was perfect.

Mother’s Day

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“Good morning, beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” My wife gave me a pained smile and hoarsely responded with her own version of the phrase. She was sick. A stomach bug.

I knew the best gift I could give her would be to let her rest, and so began a day focused solely on Pidge and me. Together we cooked breakfast, read books, played with puzzles, danced, sang, baked cupcakes, made videos for my wife (“Happys day Mamaaaa!”), hiked with the dogs and tromped bare-bummed through wet grass. It was exhausting and beautiful; hard work and magic.

It was perfect.

If you don’t have kids, maybe motherhood just comes across as emotional labor and sleepless nights and exhaustion that somehow brews magic but looks like the usual assortment of diaper changes and tantrums. With the advent of blogging and social media, we’re all given the opportunity to peer into other people’s veneers of motherhood, highlight reels depicting sunshine and laughter and toothless smiles. We caption these moments with hard work and magic, because so much of motherhood lies somewhere in between.

I look over at my daughter. She notices my observance and flashes a smile, tilts back her head, and shakes her curls. She pops up to her feet and puts her hands on her knees. She’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to pat-pat-pat my legs or spread my arms wide, both acts an invitation. She squeals with delight and charges toward me. This game repeats and repeats until she inevitably face-plants, tears immediately streaming down her surprised face. I rush to her, scoop her up, and snuggle the tears away. I ask her if she needs an ice pack and she says, “No. Mom, Mom, Mom. Kiss. Snuggle. Mom.” She just needs me.

And in these moments, as I cradle my daughter who somehow seems so big and yet so very small, I realize something. My daughter didn’t just change me into a mom; she changed the way light hits an object. Everything looks different, not just because she exists, but because my own existence is so valuable to her.

Someday she won’t need me like this. Someday I may watch as she runs wide-armed to someone else, or seeks solace or comfort in another. Next weekend we will focus on my wife and her special relationship with Pidge, and I will rejoice with her as we celebrate her Mama. But not last Sunday. Last Sunday it was Pidge and me and hard work and magic and love. Last Sunday it was my Mother’s Day.

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Cycle Day: March

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“This is the time of year that makes Vermonters strong.”

It was one of the first things said to me when my wife and I moved to Vermont in 2012. At the time, we didn’t understand. How could we? At the time, we were still star struck by our new state, in awe of the bare trees, the shadows they cast, the rock formations proudly jutting out of the landscape, and the snow. The pretty white snow blanketing any misgivings we may have had about moving 3,000 miles away from our families.

Today, we know. Even as people who love winter, the snow and the skiing, the coziness of inside, we understand the meaning of that statement uttered to us seven years ago. March is hard. Winter, despite its beauty, is long. It is dark and cold and icy. Our days are predominantly spent inside and our skin longs for the warmth of the summer sun. Unlike many places in March, Vermont is not abloom. Vermont still vacillates between arctic chill and sloshy mud. The wind howls and everything, including much of the snow, is brown. So much brown. Everything is dirty, everyone is inside.

Our first spring with a toddler, this March has been especially tough. She has no place to run or stretch or dance in our little home. She began experiencing slight delays in her gross motor development.

Adding more mud to March, Pidge is having health issues. She began experiencing a phenomenon where her hands and feet and lips would occasionally turn blue, something called cyanosis. Her pediatrician ordered some tests, and the results were frightening. Hypothyroidism. Possible autoimmune disease. Possible Type I diabetes. Blockage in the heart. We held back our tears but stress and fear welled up.

I was trying to get pregnant and my period was eight days late, but every pregnancy test was negative. What was going on? I felt trapped between waiting and pregnancy. Women who are trying to conceive monitor their cycle days. I felt like I was in cycle day March.

But here’s the thing. March is how you look at it.

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Pidge looking out the window at March

Fifteen years ago, I was living with my brother in Northern California. I remember lounging on my back on the living room sofa reading a book, when I looked up and saw the moon perfectly framed in the highest window. It was full and clear and there was even a redwood tree right next to it, like a postcard picture. I pointed it out to my brother, who was in the kitchen.

Look. The moon.

The only trouble was, from where he was the moon was blocked by a big piece of house. There was no moon, no postcard redwood in his view.

But instead of telling me it wasn’t there, he set down the pan he was washing and walked over to me, leaning and tilting his head until he could see my moon in the window.

And I’m thinking about this because I’m thinking about March, and about what a difference a little perspective can make.

Pidge’s cyanosis led us to have her tested at Dartmouth for a whole host of health issues. We are thankful that we are able to get ahead of these issues, and to treat as necessary. And, according to her pediatric endocrinologist and pediatric cardiologist, her prognosis is actually much better than we thought.

After forty days of waiting, I started my period. I am not pregnant. Not this time. But at least the waiting is finally over. My hope is renewed, and I am excited to try again.

Last Sunday, I redecorated a room in our house. If we are going to be stuck inside, I thought, let’s create some space to move. I got rid of bulky furniture and added a big, bright, colorful rug. When Pidge saw it, her eyes instantly brightened. She ran over to her rug and danced.

Maybe March is tough and beautiful. Maybe the snow is tedious and brilliant. Maybe it is making the most of inside time with a dance on a rainbow rug. Maybe it is just a matter of walking into a new room to come see that there really is a moon in the window.

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First Try

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Just relax, I told myself. I looked at my phone to pass the time and to occupy my mind. I was in the bedroom alone, preparing myself for my first insemination.

A week earlier, after my first period since our daughter was born had come and gone, I began tracking my ovulation. Tests and mucus and body temperature—before trying to conceive, I had no idea how complicated all of this stuff is. And we’ve got one shot each month, so we have to get it right. No pressure.

Then Thursday morning it happened. The digital indicator on our ovulation predictor kit showed a smiling face. My heart stopped. Oh my gosh, I thought. It’s time.

We called our donor who, several months prior, had signed a contract with us to facilitate the process. He agreed to come over that evening and the next day as well.

I spent the next eight hours desperately trying to focus on work, but my mind was elsewhere. I wish we had tried yesterday, I thought. I knew from my copious amounts of research that it is better to inseminate prior to ovulation. The smiling face indicated that it was likely I would ovulate in the next 6-48 hours, but that’s all. If it was later, we still had time. If it was earlier, we missed the window.

But I had to stay positive and relaxed. Everyone tells you not to stress, because stress inhibits conception. From experience I can say that this is much easier said than done.

I waited in the bedroom. I heard our donor come in, greet my wife and daughter, and then head to the bathroom. A little while later, I heard the sink run. He walked downstairs and said to my wife, “I left it on the counter. Good luck!”

As he drove away, my wife and daughter came into the bedroom. “Mom!” my 18-month-old exclaimed. “Mom, Mom, Mooommmm.” She shimmied onto the bed and climbed on top of me, rubbing her face against mine. My wife got the sterile cup and syringe ready. I laughed. Trying for number 2 is so different than trying for number 1, I thought. My daughter giggled and played with a tube of Pre-seed.

“Okay, Pidge. Let’s go.” My wife scooped up our daughter. “Bye bye!” our daughter waved cheerfully.

I took a deep breath and held my legs up in the air. My wife leaned down and kissed my cheek. She smiled. I smiled back, full of nerves and hope. “As of right now,” she said, “we officially have a chance.”

 

Dear Baby

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Dear Baby,

Let me start by saying that you are my world. My sun rises and sets with you. You bring me such joy. Because I am working full-time, I don’t get to spend as much time with you as I’d like, but when I do, it’s so sweet.

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I love waking up next to you each morning. You usually wake me up to nurse shortly before my alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. You make a little searching noise and I know that it’s me you want. I roll on my side and you nurse. Sometimes you coo and grunt while you’re nursing. I feel your tiny little legs kick, kick, kick me under the sheets. Not hard, but rather it’s as if your body is saying, “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

I hear the buzzing of my alarm and I roll out of bed, careful not to wake you. I go through my daily routine — turn on the heat, start the coffee, put away the dishes, clean the cat litter, shower, pump. I wait for you to come down.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and know that it’s Mama. You’re in her arms, bright as a shiny new penny. You look at me with your open little face. Sometimes you give me a big smile. Other times you’re sleepier, staring at me glassy-eyed. Your mama hands you over to me and I melt. We snuggle for a bit and then I put you on your little potty to do your business. You baby-talk and bounce. We tie up your footie jammies in the back and it looks like your donning butterfly wings.

Then we play. We sit together on your rug and play with your book, your stacker, or any other toy. Sometimes you just roll around. I smile and stare into your perfect face, telling you over and over again how much I love you. Sometimes I cry when I have to go to work. Leaving you is really hard.

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But you are there, in my office. Your face adorns my walls and your smile is framed on my desk.

At 5:30 PM, I rush home to be with you. Mama is usually cooking dinner and you’re hanging out in your swing or on your play mat on the floor. Sometimes you give me a big smile but usually you just look up at me like, “Oh, it’s you. You’re supposed to be here.”

I scoop you up and we go upstairs so that I can change out of my work clothes. You sit on the bed and watch me. Once I’ve changed, I bound on the bed. You giggle. I kiss you all over and blow on your tummy. You squeal with delight. I kiss underneath your chin and you chuckle, “heh-heh-heh.” You smile so big that I can see all of your gums and the two small teeth you have on the bottom. After we’ve played, you nurse.

We eat together. I love watching you try out new foods. So far you’re a lot like me — you like things that are saucy. You like to suck the sauce out of broccoli. You like scooping up noodles or rice and slurping out the sauce. You’ve been surprisingly adventurous about spice, but if something is too spicy, you’ll hold your arms straight out to the side and shriek. You’re very good about communicating how you feel about things.

Most nights, we give you a bath before bed. You used to bathe with me but now you’re big enough to sit up in the tub on your own. You splash and play in the water. You like playing with a ping pong ball and with a cup. You watch that ball and you follow its movements in the water. Then you reach hard and grab it, so proud of yourself.

We head upstairs for bed. Mama has gotten everything ready, from your diaper to the sound effects to the twinkly rainbow lights above your bed. I tuck you in and you instinctively roll toward me. We nurse and snuggle and eventually you fall asleep. I kiss your little head and whisper softly, “Sweet dreams, my precious one.”

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Snow Day

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Snuggling under the warmth of a cozy blanket, I watch the snow fall gently through the window. Baby’s sweet murmurs, coos, and simple sounds fill the silence, punctuated by the occasional giggle. I can’t believe she is already six and a half months old.

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This has been a season of firsts. In December, we celebrated Baby’s first Christmas. My wife’s family flew across the country to be with us and we spent our days eating and laughing and attempting to sled through the knee-deep snow in our yard. Our plan was for my wife’s brother and his wife and baby to join us. Unfortunately, their daughter was too sickly to make the journey. They have been struggling a lot with her. My sister-in-law gave up on breastfeeding after four days and our niece has not done well on formula. She developed serious acid reflux and was hospitalized over Christmas. We were all very concerned. My wife and I offered to donate our surplus breastmilk to them, but they were unwilling to accept it. Today, our niece seems to be on the mend, though she is being medicated for reflux and she gets sick often. We feel so fortunate that our daughter has been nothing but happy and healthy during these first few months of her life.

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Although my maternity leave was too short and despite not wanting to work at all, I’ve been fortunate to spend the last six months working from home as a staff attorney for an international animal rights nonprofit. Although this experience was short-lived, it was wonderful while it has lasted.

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The flexibility in my schedule allowed me to be present with Baby as she moved through her early milestones: rolling over, laughing, sitting up, and starting solids. We are trying a Baby-Led Weaning (BLW) approach, having Baby join us during our meals and letting her serve herself selections from some of the foods we are eating rather than spoon-feeding her purees. It has been a joy to watch her discover tastes and textures. So far her favorite foods are green apples, avocado-filled tortillas, and spaghetti.

 

In addition to BLW, my wife and I have implemented other parenting strategies, many that are Montessori inspired. For example, after never using it, we officially returned Baby’s crib in February and replaced it with a full-sized mattress we placed on the floor. We decorated it with bright colors and pillows, but when Baby sleeps on it, all those things come off. We are currently in the process of baby proofing the entire room. For now, the new setup is working great, but we will see how we feel about it when she becomes mobile!

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We have also been practicing Elimination Communication (EC). This approach encourages learning and listening to Baby’s cues, and helping them to the potty when they need to eliminate. The idea is to help Baby avoid sitting in her own mess. Another benefit to doing this is that it often results in getting baby out of diapers much faster. In our experience, not only has Baby been receptive to this practice, she seems to enjoy it. We’re enjoying doing less cloth diaper laundry. In fact, we have not had to launder a poopy diaper in over two months!

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Baby is a traveler. So far, she has been to 15 states! We recently did two trips to New York City and Brooklyn, toured Philadelphia, visited my grandparents’ grave at West Point, and visited my wife’s brother’s family in Virginia Beach. We have taken Baby hiking through the snow and watched as the flakes gathered softly on her long, dark lashes.

 

My wife and I spend every Sunday downhill skiing on our local mountain. We take turns hitting the slopes while the other parent watches Baby. Our daughter spends her time on the mountain charming everyone she meets, from other skiers to the cleaning crew to the lodge bar staff. “A little skier?” people ask. “As soon as she can stand!” we reply.

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I have cherished every moment with Baby. In fact, I have been so present with her that I struggled to find time to update my blog. I am mesmerized by her—the way she discovers the world around her, the hard work it takes for her to do the simplest things such as bring a piece of food to her lips or manipulate her mouth and tongue to form the word, “Mama.” She is a wonder. Her next project is clearly crawling. Baby has been pushing her little hips up in the air from her tummy position, and using her Pikler Triangle to improve core strength.

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As the temperature began to warm (they dropped again this week), I took Baby to watch the ice jams in the river. For those of you who are not familiar, it gets so cold in Vermont that the rivers freeze in thick, icy sheets. As the waters begin to thaw, they crack off loudly and are carried by the current until they are pushed into the river banks. There, they pile up and create what looks like a stone wall. I pointed and explained the phenomenon to Baby. She squinted her eyes in the sunlight and squealed with glee.

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Last week, my mom flew out from California to spend a little time visiting with Baby and with us. We went for long walks, skied, and enjoyed an evening candlepin bowling. My wife decided having a baby on her hip was the key to success!

 

This Monday, I begin a new job with a firm in town. I’ll be focusing on LGBTQ and Family Law litigation, and possibly a little criminal defense. I’m excited to return to community-based practice and to the courtroom, but I am sad to be leaving Baby for nine hours per day. I just need to keep focused on the time I do have with her, remembering that while I may be a lawyer by trade, my primary job is Baby’s Mother. And it is the best job in the world.

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Regret

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

I should have listened to my mother.

My mom was a stay at home mom. She hated the term “housewife” and often referred to herself as a homemaker. My sister and I would roll our eyes. We were too young to understand the value of a home, or the energy and effort it took to create warmth and cleanliness, order and comfort. Hominess. But even then, my mom’s role was not just homemaker, it was mother. She repeatedly claimed that being a mom, being our mom, was the best job in the world. Ungrateful as we were, we rolled our eyes even harder.

I know now what I couldn’t have known then – for me, just as it was for my mom, being a mother is the best job in the world. Being a mother is what drives me. It is what inspires my days. It permeates everything I do. It informs my reading choices, my eating choices, my drinking choices, everything. It is what I want to do. Problem is, it is the only thing I want to do and I can’t do it because I am a lawyer and the sole breadwinner of our family.

I made this bed. As a young adult, I was sure I wanted a lucrative and fulfilling career. I scoffed at women like my mother who warned that I may want to stay home with my children. Not me, I thought. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to have children! I passed over articles about work-life balance or about “having it all.” I didn’t need to have it all, I thought. I just want to have success. And for me, “success” meant a career, not a family.

Then my sister had my nephews and my thoughts on children changed. They might not be so bad. I wasn’t sure that I wanted any, but I wasn’t ruling it out, either. That said, I was still very career-focused and career-driven.

After college, my partner (now wife) put her career objectives on hold so that I could attend law school and pursue a career in law. I worked hard, graduated at the top of my class, and obtained employment. It wasn’t very lucrative. It wasn’t very fulfilling. I tried a different position. But the stress and 80+ hour work weeks nearly killed me. I tried yet another position. I soon came to realize that there were a few things I liked about being a lawyer, but there was a lot that I didn’t like.

Time moved forward. My wife and I married and a few years ago we bought a house. We built our nest and began to have discussions about filling it. By this time, I had come around to the idea of having children so much that I actually longed for one. We wanted a baby and because I needed to focus on my career, we decided that my wife should carry and birth the child.

After nine months of trying, my wife was finally pregnant. We were beyond excited.

About six months into the pregnancy, I had a talk with my employer about family leave. They had known my partner was pregnant, but seemed surprised that I would want to take time off when the baby was born. I was told that they would need to discuss the issue with HR. Discuss the issue, I thought. Aren’t I entitled to some sort of parental leave? I realized then that for all the laws I researched for other people, I hadn’t spent enough time researching the laws that impacted me. I looked up the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA). I didn’t qualify. I was shocked and crushed. I hoped that maybe my employer would be altruistic, that maybe they would realize how much this meant to me. Instead, I was told what I already knew: I didn’t qualify for family leave. However, they added, if I wanted time off I could take an unpaid personal leave of absence, capped at four weeks.

I took the four weeks. They flew by.

When it came time to return to work, I bawled. I thought back to my mother’s words, “Once you have your own baby, you’ll know.” She was right. The pull to be home with my daughter was stronger than I could have ever imagined.

I didn’t love being a lawyer before I had a baby, and now I struggle even more. I hate leaving my beautiful, smiling baby girl only to spend the majority of my day stuck in front of a computer researching statutes. Maybe it’s the type of lawyering I’m doing, I think. I apply for new positions. But even these new positions lack luster.

I wish I could just stay home with our baby. I envy my wife, who spends her days snuggling our daughter, taking naps with her, playing with her, and keeping the house. We can’t swap roles or even both do part time work because it does not make financial sense. Because she can’t earn as much as I can. Because her career ambitions took a back seat when I went to law school. Because this is what we agreed on. Because I thought I knew myself.

I feel stuck. We need my earning potential. We need the money to pay our bills, to support our family, to pay off my student loans. But I need something to change. Something’s got to change.

I just want to be a mother.