Marshmellow Fluff

Dear They:

I never realized being a mom meant having you in my life as much as you are. For months I have been clinging onto your words of advice as if they were a lifeline taking me from new mommy hood to sanity.  I read as much as I can so I am up to date on your words of advice and then, when my family and friends ask how I am doing, I barf back your pearls of wisdom as if to justify why I continue to try and get a screaming baby to sleep in his crib or why I become neurotic with each trip for vaccinations.

They say to delay the MMR vaccine.

They say you just have to stick with breastfeeding.

They say the hardest time is the first three months.

They say you sleep when the baby sleeps.

They say this time moves really fast.

I have never met you face to face, I imagine you have your hair pulled back into a tight bun and wear an expression as if you just bit into a lemon.  You probably carry a briefcase and a calculator and armed with a litany of information should anyone challenge your advice.I’ve listened to you for months, trusting that you would deliver me from angst and worry.  But, as more time passes, I realize instead of bringing peace, you are driving me insane.  I tried to listen to you They, when you said not to let my baby sleep in his swing.  For weeks I have stumbled through the darkness with my eyes half-open after an hour of sleep only to be greeted by a baby that was screaming at me as if I had prematurely told him there was no Santa.  Against your advice, I let him sleep in his swing, They….and guess what I did it all night long.  Yes, They, I let my baby swing in his little swing with glorious melodies chiming out of the music box for a full 8 hours.  And you know what, They, he slept for a magical 4 hour stretch each time.  I know you warn against such horrible judgement and strongly believe it will make my baby dependent on a swing to fall asleep, which is when I reminded myself that I know not one grown adults with a swing in their room, and those I do know with one are not likely using them for sleeping purposes.

You told me They, that if it hurt when I was breastfeeding, I was doing it wrong.  For weeks I agonized over your words.  I tried, day and night to get the perfect latch and each time it felt like hot daggers being driven through my boob.  I trusted you They, I trusted that it must mean I was doing it totally wrong.  You told me to keep trying, to stick with it, that it was a natural thing and many people just gave up too easily.  I cried over what you said to me, They.  You made me feel like less of a mom because I struggled to get my baby to latch painlessly and couldn’t get through any feeding without saying the F word.  It was only after a painful 6 weeks that a lactation consultant told me I was doing everything correctly but had pain because of an infection.  Where were you then, They?  You still haven’t apologized for leading me astray.

They, you preach quite a bit about vaccines, what my baby should be doing from week to week.  You pretend to know everything about how to raise the perfect baby.  You tell me what to do, when to do it and how it should be done.  They, you make me worry when my baby isn’t grasping or tracking objects during the week you say he should be.  You worry me that he is sleeping too little or too much.  They, you have given me advice on how often to breastfeed, how many times I should bathe my baby during the week, that I shouldn’t use white noise too often, that I shouldn’t eat certain foods, you tell me what is normal only to make me feel abnormal and a failure as a mom.

I would like to formally break up with you They.  Instead of listening to your advice and “tricks” I am choosing to listen to him.  When he cries, I will feed him, even if it has only been 45 minutes.  When he sleeps better in his swing I will let him.  If he misses a nap, I won’t consider my day doomed, when he sleeps for three hours instead of five I won’t get upset.  There is no room anymore in my relationship with him for you, They.  From this day forward I choose him over They any day.  Thanks for the advice, but I think it’s best to listen to my instincts instead.  That’s what They say to do anyway.

Tomorrow is my official due date.  Before you get excited, I should tell you that statistically, I have less chance of delivering tomorrow than I did last week, or than I do next week.  I actually have 4% chance of delivering this baby tomorrow.  Come Monday, my chances jump to 20%.  I have Google to thank for these abominable statistics.  These statistics mean that most likely, I’ll be pregnant on Monday.  The frustration this fills me with is great.  I agreed to 40 weeks, 40 weeks of pregnancy was what my mind was calibrated to.  In fact, I was convinced my baby would be early.  They say 37 weeks is “fully cooked”, and I hoped for a fully cooked 37 week old baby.  This statement, I know makes me terrible.  I know this because the people I’ve told this to shake their heads, look down their noses and remind me that the longer my baby stays in the womb the healthier he is.  Translation: Soccer mom thinks I have already failed at being a mother because I can’t handle 3 more weeks of discomfort.  I thought a completely healthy baby was implied in my 37 weeks statement.  To clarify, if in this hypothetical situation, were he to be unhealthy, I would prefer he stay in my belly for 72 weeks or however long it would take to make him the healthiest baby on the planet.

Here’s what they don’t tell first time mom’s: 40 weeks is a long time, your due date is actually an estimated due date and most likely, you will be pregnant 42 weeks.  Filling your brain with any information that give false hopes of a  shorter pregnancy only leads to despair, trust me on this one.  If you are pregnant, wrap your head around 42 weeks.  Hindsight tells me that I should have always prepared myself for a March delivery.

Last week, my doctor told me I was 70% effaced and 1cm dilated.  She found this out by shoving her hand way farther up my lady parts than I ever thought possible, causing me to deep breath and clench my toes tightly around the edge of the examination room table.  I allowed her to treat me like a dairy cow, because I thought it may be a sorority hazing of sorts to see if I could handle childbirth, I wanted her to know I was a ready and capable candidate.  Even with my stellar exercise in willingness and ability, unfortunately I left without going into labor.  Apparently she felt I needed more time to train, so I left her office trying to conceal the waddle that became necessary to compromise for the pain that still lingered.

I’ve been training for months, and the longer I’m pregnant the more my plans go to waste.  For months I have been “show ready”.  Every morning when I leave the house it’s spotless, the pillows arranged on the couch, the sink free of dirty dishes.  Every morning I leave the house with freshly shaven legs and perfectly polished toes, ready to be on display at a moment’s notice.  However my ability to sustain show ready diligence is dwindling.  The more bending over is accompanied by searing pain in my sides, the less I care about stubbly knees.  The harder it becomes to see my toes, the less I notice how unkempt they are.  I’ve nested thirteen times in the past 2 months.  I’ve organized my garage three of those times.  I have my receipts in order to file my taxes, the baby announcement envelopes are stamped and ready to mail.  Now, if only this baby would cooperate and fill me in on the last bit of details I need to mail them; time of birth, day of birth, length and his weight.  With each passing day I become more of a shadow of who I once was.  Today I walked the mall, hoping to throw myself into labor even if it meant my water breaking in the middle of the Nordstrom’s shoe department.  I waited in line at Sephora hoping that $25 mascara could transform my lashes into amazing and luxurious ones with so much beauty that I would forget my thighs have now grown together or that my chin is growing another chin.

I have been diligent in looking for all the signs of impending labor.  Turns out that there are no true signs beyond regular contractions or your water breaking.  Some say that nesting is a good sign, unfortunately nesting is not a recent development for me.  I pride myself on cleanliness and efficiency.  I live my life filling the day with accomplishment.  Checking things off my “to do” list, gives me as much pleasure as a massage gives a normal person.  Which is probably why I feel like I have let myself down by not being able to grow a baby efficiently.  Somewhere along the line, I became convinced that I could make a baby a few weeks sooner than the average person.  It only seemed obvious given that I can do most things quicker than the average person, a baby seemed within my realm of super powers.

Quite possibly this is my first lesson of motherhood.  Turns out, I’m human.  Something I have always been suspicious about, seeing as I lack the ability to fly or look decent in head to toe spandex.  It seems as if I am unable to control everything, even the things going on inside my own body.  Patience has never been my strong suit and the first lesson my little boy is trying to teach me is that loving a baby means practicing patience and finding comfort in the loss of control on a daily basis.  He’ll come when he is ready, it may be tomorrow or possibly next week.  But when he does come, regardless of how clean my house is or how chipped my toe nail polish may be at that very moment, I’m ready for him!

I truly hope that once we have our new addition, my idea of having animals in the house never changes.  I love animals and think they bring a love to a home that nothing else can bring.  I know that Gus and Charlie will be good fuzzy brothers to Logan.  Though I do have my doubts about Gus’ inability to see himself as the 52 pound mass he is, I know Charlie will approach the new baby with tender cautiousness.

When I see photos like this one from Hanna Mac, my idea of a dog and baby household is that much stronger.  I would love a picture like this of Logan, Gus and Charlie though I think some sedation or photoshopping may be required to make it happen.