Loneliness and honesty

I have been trying to write this post in my head for a couple of months now, maybe for as long as a few days after Malcolm was born. It feels important that I say these things, but it is also a little scary because I am laying bare parts of me that I would usually try to keep hidden.

For me, one of the most difficult things about becoming a parent has been a deep feeling of loneliness. Not loneliness in the sense of actually being alone - I have wonderful friends and family that are always willing to talk or listen when I need them, and I couldn't ask for a better partner - but of feeling like I am the only parent having the problems I am having and that they are all my fault; if I was only a better person, a better parent, they would just go away. In the first weeks with Malcolm, breastfeeding was so hard - he ate all the time, 45 minutes at a stretch, with only an hour between feedings, and I was in pain all the time, so much so that any time he ate I would sit there with tears streaming down my face, toes clenched, teeth clenched, anything to make the pain bearable  - and I was convinced that I was doing something wrong. That I was just being dense. I got books from the library on breastfeeding; I scoured breastfeeding websites for tips, suggestions and advice, hoping that if I read enough I would find the one missing puzzle piece that would make everything OK. I mean, all the pro-breastfeeding literature talks about how good breastfeeding is for mother and baby, about how most mothers feel a wonderful sense of calm and peace while breastfeeding, about how oxytocin is released and makes you feel all loving. So if I don't feel that way, it must be my fault, right? I must be a bad mother for not enjoying breastfeeding, for not being able to make it work that way. Even though I knew, intellectually, that breastfeeding is not as easy as it is portrayed to be, that there wouldn't be all those books and websites it every other woman could just figure it out, emotionally I felt alone with my troubles and pain.

Lately, I have been going through a similar spiral with Malcolm's sleeping habits and patterns. He's been backsliding in his ability to sleep long stretches, waking up a couple of times a night, sometimes refusing to go back to sleep and so on. Friends give us anecdotes of how their child would scream for two hours every night for months, or how they had to drive their baby around the city every night for months to get him to sleep. Books and websites tell me Malcolm is pretty darn normal, and that while it is unpleasant now, he will eventually sleep for longer stretches. But they all have advice, and the books and websites are all so confident in that advice (and they all disagree with each other) - they must be, or no-one would buy the book, right? - that when it doesn't work, I am the one who feels like a failure. Knowing that other parents have had similar problems - and again, they must, or there wouldn't be so many books - doesn't really help at 12:30 AM, when Malcolm has been crying for two hours, no matter what approach we take, and I can see my chances of getting more than 6 hours of sleep slipping away. I feel like I must be the only parent who can't get method x or method y to work on my child.

In reality, the reasons I was having so much trouble breastfeeding had very little to do with me or my ability. The pain was caused by a very nasty yeast infection that took several weeks of strong medication to clear up, and Malcolm was just very little and very hungry, and his mouth was small. Once the infection cleared up, I got a pillow that supported him in a better position, and he got bigger, most of the problems went away. Do I love breastfeeding now? Honestly? Not really. It isn't painful, most of the time, which is the way it should be, but he tends to be a restless eater, and most days at least one feeding is still a struggle. But I have mostly accepted that, and no longer feel like it is my fault that I don't have a feeling of bliss every time I put him to my breast.

As for sleep, most of my pain is indeed my fault - the tighter I cling to my desire for an unbroken night of sleep, the more upset I get when it doesn't happen. At some point, and I have definitely reached it, I have to put the books down, step away from the websites, and just accept that sleep is going to be a struggle for a while, no matter which method we use to help him learn to sleep.

All this is true - I tend to read too much, and blame myself too much, and not listen to common sense about problems - but at the same time, I think there is a culture of parents not telling the truth. Oh, our friends are all completely honest about the problems they had when their children were babies - after we tell them our tales of woe. They warned us that we had no idea what we were getting into before he was born, when we would optimistically talk about how life would be once he arrived. But when we wanted details beforehand about just how life would be different, about what we really were in for, we didn't get them. Looking back, it feels like we were explorers setting off into a new territory, asking for a map of dangers to avoid and troubles to watch out for, but all we got from the experienced veterans were vague warnings that everything was very scary, but that it would be a great trip and that we would survive.

Maybe this is because they don't want to scare you, or because they are past those dangers themselves and now see the journey through the haze of memory that dulls the sharpness of the pain, or because they want to look like they have it together, that they survived and so will you, or because of a sense of schadenfreude, I don't really know. All I do know is that when other parents-to-be ask me about raising a baby, I am going to try to be as honest as I can (which is pretty honest). Having a baby is hard enough even without feeling like you are alone, and if my stories help another mother get through the tough stuff and on to the fun moments (and they do come), then I don't mind looking bad.

Baby's Room or, It's really green

So, here is the baby's room. There may be more posters on the wall in the future, and I am sure there will be other baby things taking up space, but for now this is about as finished as it is going to be. The dusty piece of furniture to the left of the picture is a bookshelf, which is securely fastened to the wall - I fully expect this baby to be a climber. Off camera to the right is our old dresser. The desk in the back right corner is my grandmother's antique writing desk; I don't plan to leave it there forever, but it seemed as good a place as any for now. The framed item over the desk is one of two day-packs that my grandmother gave me; she and my grandfather used them in their many hikes around Arizona and all over the world, and covered them in patches from all those places. There is a second one hanging over the bookshelf.

Oliver was helping inspect the crib. He can jump into it from the ground without touching the sides. Impressive. I doubt he will be as interested once a squalling baby takes up residence. For now though, he rather enjoys the room.

Slowing Down

I'm slowing down these days - not by choice, exactly, but by necessity. At 7 1/2 months pregnant, I just don't have the energy I usually do to get things done. I know this is natural - my body's making a baby here, after all - but I'm not particularly happy about it. I miss playing tennis several days a week, playing until I am drenched in sweat and exhausted physically and mentally. I miss pushing myself to run just a little farther - when I got pregnant, I was working my way towards being able to run a 10K, and while I could technically still be running, lately, I've had to switch to the elliptical for various comfort reasons. I'm still going to the gym 2 or 3 days a week, but only for 30 minutes most times, and I am still walking the dog around our hilly neighborhood, but I've slowed down there too (not entirely my fault, thanks to Miikka the Reluctant Walker). Soon it will be too hot for me to do much of anything outside, so even walking will have to move to the track in the gym (ugh), which may not actually be slower, but will certainly feel slower due to the lack of visual stimulation.

This forced downshift in activity just feels so strange. I'm not mentally in control of it - my body is in charge of the process, with no help from me  - and that is a bit unsettling for someone who is used to at least having the illusion of control. No matter how much my brain wants to go out and run or play tennis, if my body says no, there isn't much the brain can do about it right now.

Kicking

In case anyone was wondering, yes, I am definitely feeling the baby kick now. For someone the size of a rutabaga (yes, that's how a 26 week fetus was compared on one baby website - and I ask you, how is that at all helpful? Rutabagas come in all shapes and sizes. But I digress, from my digression) he sure knows how to kick. If he continues to be this active after birth, we are going to have our hands full.

A couple of birthday pictures

33 years old, 24 weeks pregnant.

Fine, you people want a picture of my expanding belly? Here you go.  24 weeks down, 16 or fewer to go. Pardon the messy hair - I had Benjamin take this before I was fully ready to leave for work. You might get another one next month, if you behave, and if I feel like it.

And here is the strawberry jam/jelly I made over the weekend. As you can probably see, all the berry parts seem to have floated to the top. I think I mashed a little too vigorously, so there was more juice than there should have been, which made jelly instead of jam. Oh well. I am sure it will still taste delicious on pancakes, waffles and toast.

Why does it all have to be boy/girl?

So, I have begun putting together a baby registry, and I have noticed something that is driving me crazy. Well, there are many things about baby shopping that are driving me crazy, but this one mostly just makes me mad: the virulent need to gender-ize everything that is sold for babies. I get (although I don't like/agree with) the clothes, and some of the toys - pink for girls, blue for boys - but does everything have to be labeled boys or girls? I mean, the baby bathtubs, play pens (yeah, yeah, the correct term these days is "playards" but that is so inelegant and stupid I refuse to use it), bibs, washcloths, diapers, car seats! All seem to have a built-in implied gender. Washcloths? I saw two sets, one primary colors and the other pastel. The first was labeled "boys" and the second "girls." Why? Why not just say "primary colors" and "pastel"?

This is kind of a language thing for me, and kind of a feminist social issue. Colors don't have a gender, neither do bathtubs, washcloths or car seats.

A baby doesn't know or care what gender it is. Gender is a socially constructed idea, not a biological fact. So why start enforcing that stereotype so early? I'm not saying that people who like to dress their daughter in pink shouldn't be allowed to do so, but I am saying that it isn't necessary to only have a pink bathtub for girls and a blue one for boys. Whether intentional on the part of marketers and manufacturers, such starkly binary distinctions limit the range of options open to children as they grow and explore, telling them that something is not for them because of their gender. Don't believe me or think I am exaggerating? Check out this great set of videos from Feminist Frequency about LEGO and gender for a sort of introduction to the topic. 

I want my child to know that every potential career, hobby, and color is available to them, regardless of gender. To that end, I am making a conscious effort to only register for gender neutral items - there are plenty of cute products without resorting to pink and blue, you just have to hunt for them.