Three hours into my first overnighter (3-overnighter, actually) with both kids. This will happen frequently, as Andrew often has overnight fieldwork; so it's good to start learning the rhythm of things, right?
This is my morning thus far:
(First, some background: Peregrine had a high fever yesterday, so despite the fact that he's feeling fine today, we still can't go to preschool. So I'm stuck in the house with a slightly-sick Peregrine. All of the energy, none of the patience!! Okay, on to the timeline.)
Sometime before 5 AM: Sylvia wakes up to nurse, goes back to sleep peacefully. All well and good and according to schedule thus far. I have a slightly harder time going back to sleep, which is annoying, but I have a couple hours left in the night, so I don't stress it.
Sometime slightly closer to 5 AM: Peregrine wakes up, crying for Daddy. Daddy troubleshoots, but Peregrine really just wants to stall going back to bed. A drink of water resets him, and he goes back to sleep (or does he?).
5:00 Andrew leaves for the wilds of Canada and three days in the field, flying in helicopters and taking pictures.
5:15 Peregrine cries again. I go into him and try my best to explain that Mommy needs to sleep because Mommy's the only one taking care of Peregrine and Sylvia because Daddy's on his trip and Peregrine gets all excited because Daddy gets to go in a helicopter and I seize the moment to sneak back into bed.
5:20 I hear a gag, the sound of liquid splashing, and my heart sinks. Peregrine starts screaming in terror (that night when he threw up seven times in six hours is still far too fresh in his memory). On cue, Sylvia starts screaming too. I run into P's room and ask him if he threw up. He sniffs and sobs out, "There's crud on my pillow! There's crud on my bottle! There's crud on my dees!" And then, the final insult: "And there's crud on my ear!" I assure him I'll clean it up, and spend the next five minutes telling him I will come back, but I really need my glasses.
5:30 Vomit cleanup commences, complete with pillow change, bundle change, diaper change, sponge bath, and clothing change. All narrated by Peregrine, who orders me around quite happily and makes sure I don't miss a single spot of "crud." This is all interrupted by frequent trips to Sylvia's bed to replace her pacifier. She has stopped screaming and has gone all wide-eyed and owly on me, thrilled that the light is on and it's morning time.
6:00 P in bed, Sylvia starting to sleep again. P proceeds to use the next hour and a half to call me back into his room, crying, making me jump up in fear that he's vomiting again. When I ask him what he needs, he usually names something easily within his reach or starts happily babbling to me about police cars and owls. Despite my (ever more desperate) pleas to sleep, and explanations that if Mommy can't sleep, Mommy can't do a good job taking care of him, he continues to call me back. I am losing patience fast and realizing I likely won't sleep this morning at all.
7:30 P finally settles down. On cue, Sylvia starts fighting the mucus in her nose, which has stayed away all night until now. She is happy to be settled back down with a pacifier, but she loses it on average every two minutes.
7:45 Sylvia settles down. Peregrine wakes up. As it is now morning, I can no longer point out the obvious lack of light and tell him to sleep. I give up. So does Sylvia, who decides to wake up, too.
8:00 I throw both kids in the bathtub to try to solve Peregrine's smelliness problem and Sylvia's fussiness problem. All goes well and fine until Peregrine ignores my repeated instructions on how to treat his sister and throws a cupful of water at her face. She screams. A lot. And won't be calmed until she's out of the bathtub. Peregrine is very scared by her reaction. Secretly, I'm pleased. I love it when natural consequences do their job.
I'd say we're off to a good start, eh? Here's my theory: get all the drama out in the first three hours and then spend the remaining three days living in peaceful harmony with each other and sleeping through the night (except for short nursing sessions that remind me my daughter is alive and in good health). 'Kay?
Monday, October 21, 2013
Saturday, October 19, 2013
My body, eight weeks after giving birth
Yesterday, I was on my weekly Fred Meyer run, browsing tabloid headlines while waiting in the checkout line. The one that caught my eye featured a picture of a very-pregnant Kim Kardashian, wearing a hideous tent of a dress, captioned "Kim at her heaviest!!!!" Next to this was a picture of a several-months-postpartum Kim Kardashian, wearing underwear and showing off flat abs and a not-so-flat bosom. The headline promised a satisfying story about how Kim, after hating her excessive pregnancy weight gain, is now finally getting her body back.
I've read numerous variations on that story thousands of times. How some celebrity or other, her body ruined by pregnancy and childbirth, is now (with the help of some trainer or diet or other miracle cure) getting her body back. Women throw it around all the time. I've started working out again. Here's to getting my body back. Probably, I've said it myself. It bothers me though, so much. What does it even mean? Getting what body back, precisely? Did my body disappear somewhere when I was pregnant?
Don't get me wrong. I'm really struggling to love and accept my body right now. I gained a fair bit of weight with this pregnancy, and I'm hanging on to it. I know it's normal with a second pregnancy, and I know I need to keep a fair bit of fat around in order to have a healthy milk supply, but it's hard. I'm popping out of my "fat" clothes, and I'm nowhere near my "skinny" ones. My abs are completely stretched out, and the rest of my muscles are not near as strong as I'm used to. I still can't wear my wedding ring. So do I want to change some things about my body, eventually? Yes.
But this is my body. Extra pounds and stretched-out muscles and lactating breasts included. Wholeheartedly included. This is the body with which I feed my baby, play with and snuggle my toddler, make love to my husband. This is the body that grew two people, brought them into the world, and then sustained them, by itself, for months. This is the body that I feed, the body I exercise, the body that carries me around and supports my life. Regardless of whether I like it or not (and I do, I really do, and when I don't, I try hard to anyway), it's still my body. The only body I've ever had and ever will have. It was my body when I was two, and seven, and fourteen, and twenty-three, and the body I will have when I'm thirty, and forty-five, and sixty, and eighty.
I guess the whole "get your body back" thing somehow implies to me that it was only my body when I was at my fittest, my most attractive, my most unscarred by carrying babies and growing older (basically, when I was eighteen). But if that's the way I think of it, I will never get my body back. And I will constantly be frustrated, and will hate my body, my real body, forever.
My body will always be older than it was yesterday. It will always be a bit more tired, a bit more stretched by life, than it was last year. Every pregnancy, every birth, every nursing relationship, comes out of my body, and wears it down. It will show, like wear always does. But it's still my body. It always has been. It always will be.
I'll try to keep it healthy and strong. That will mean different things at different times. Sometimes it will mean eating more, eating less, eating differently. Sometimes it will mean exercising intentionally, or building muscle, or losing fat. But I'll never be eighteen again. I could chase after that body all I wanted, and I imagine, if I tried hard, I could get somewhere close. But I'd still be older. And I'd be getting older, and further away from an eighteen-year-old body, every day.
So here's to my body, in the now. Not to "getting it back," because it never left. It's right here, it's working, and I'm going to do my very best to own and care for every inch of it, and to use it well. If it shows the use, well then, let that be.
I've read numerous variations on that story thousands of times. How some celebrity or other, her body ruined by pregnancy and childbirth, is now (with the help of some trainer or diet or other miracle cure) getting her body back. Women throw it around all the time. I've started working out again. Here's to getting my body back. Probably, I've said it myself. It bothers me though, so much. What does it even mean? Getting what body back, precisely? Did my body disappear somewhere when I was pregnant?
Don't get me wrong. I'm really struggling to love and accept my body right now. I gained a fair bit of weight with this pregnancy, and I'm hanging on to it. I know it's normal with a second pregnancy, and I know I need to keep a fair bit of fat around in order to have a healthy milk supply, but it's hard. I'm popping out of my "fat" clothes, and I'm nowhere near my "skinny" ones. My abs are completely stretched out, and the rest of my muscles are not near as strong as I'm used to. I still can't wear my wedding ring. So do I want to change some things about my body, eventually? Yes.
But this is my body. Extra pounds and stretched-out muscles and lactating breasts included. Wholeheartedly included. This is the body with which I feed my baby, play with and snuggle my toddler, make love to my husband. This is the body that grew two people, brought them into the world, and then sustained them, by itself, for months. This is the body that I feed, the body I exercise, the body that carries me around and supports my life. Regardless of whether I like it or not (and I do, I really do, and when I don't, I try hard to anyway), it's still my body. The only body I've ever had and ever will have. It was my body when I was two, and seven, and fourteen, and twenty-three, and the body I will have when I'm thirty, and forty-five, and sixty, and eighty.
I guess the whole "get your body back" thing somehow implies to me that it was only my body when I was at my fittest, my most attractive, my most unscarred by carrying babies and growing older (basically, when I was eighteen). But if that's the way I think of it, I will never get my body back. And I will constantly be frustrated, and will hate my body, my real body, forever.
My body will always be older than it was yesterday. It will always be a bit more tired, a bit more stretched by life, than it was last year. Every pregnancy, every birth, every nursing relationship, comes out of my body, and wears it down. It will show, like wear always does. But it's still my body. It always has been. It always will be.
I'll try to keep it healthy and strong. That will mean different things at different times. Sometimes it will mean eating more, eating less, eating differently. Sometimes it will mean exercising intentionally, or building muscle, or losing fat. But I'll never be eighteen again. I could chase after that body all I wanted, and I imagine, if I tried hard, I could get somewhere close. But I'd still be older. And I'd be getting older, and further away from an eighteen-year-old body, every day.
So here's to my body, in the now. Not to "getting it back," because it never left. It's right here, it's working, and I'm going to do my very best to own and care for every inch of it, and to use it well. If it shows the use, well then, let that be.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
"I don't know where my father is!"
Peregrine has been saying this for months now. (Actually, it's "I no know my father is!" but it translates into the above.)
We have no idea what it means.
I have racked my brains to figure out what book or song or video he's quoting. I haven't figured it out.
The first couple of times he said it were out of the blue. Now he says it because he knows I (and everyone else) think it's funny.
But I've started answering him, because usually, there's a pretty straightforward answer. Like, you know, across the room or something like that.
We've even told him outright that Daddy is his father. It goes in one ear and out the other.
And while he says it now to be funny, his response to my answers is still completely spontaneous, hilarious, and mystifying. Like this one:
P: "I no know my father is!"
Me: "He's at work."
P, lighting up: "Oh! He with Daddy!"
He was so happy, too. Daddy and his father, buddying it up together at work.
Today, upon hearing the word father in some other context, Peregrine threw it out there again.
"I no know my father is!"
I told him his father was at work. To which he responded, in a tone that can only be described as theatrical exasperation:
"Daddy have him! Daddy give him back to Peregrine!"
I'm so confused.
We have no idea what it means.
I have racked my brains to figure out what book or song or video he's quoting. I haven't figured it out.
The first couple of times he said it were out of the blue. Now he says it because he knows I (and everyone else) think it's funny.
But I've started answering him, because usually, there's a pretty straightforward answer. Like, you know, across the room or something like that.
We've even told him outright that Daddy is his father. It goes in one ear and out the other.
And while he says it now to be funny, his response to my answers is still completely spontaneous, hilarious, and mystifying. Like this one:
P: "I no know my father is!"
Me: "He's at work."
P, lighting up: "Oh! He with Daddy!"
He was so happy, too. Daddy and his father, buddying it up together at work.
Today, upon hearing the word father in some other context, Peregrine threw it out there again.
"I no know my father is!"
I told him his father was at work. To which he responded, in a tone that can only be described as theatrical exasperation:
"Daddy have him! Daddy give him back to Peregrine!"
I'm so confused.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Balancing
Balancing. That's pretty much all I'm doing these days. All I'm learning how to do. They are so different sometimes, the two of them. It's tricky business, balancing.
His need for go go go do something go somewhere be stimulated be thrilled have a mission get out of the house!!! with her need for snuggle me stay at home stare out the window snuggle me again peace quiet calm introspect let's sit in this chair and just be one with the trees.
His 9:30 AM expiration date (must.get.out.of.house!!!) with her unfortunate tendency to think the night lasts until about noon--or later.
His need for rough wrestle tumble drive cars with her need for gentle calm quiet stare into my eyes.
His need to "check on Sylvia" constantly (especially when she's asleep) with her need to just sleep, unmolested. For some odd reason, she doesn't exactly think my brother loves me when he's driving a car on her face. Baffling, I know.
His need for routine structure safety stability discipline predictability with her utter lack of knowledge that such things even exist.
Her need for just never put me down never ever snuggle me forever especially during Peregrine's naptime routine with his need for snuggle me sometimes I'm still your baby I don't need it always but I'd like to still be hugged especially during my naptime routine.
His need to still be a baby with the fact that she is undeniably a baby.
His need to talk do things spend time with Mommy with her need to constantly feed off Mommy.
Her very primal, basic, all-consuming needs with his complex, growing-person, emotional, intellectual needs. So different, but still so important.
His need to not be ignored, even if he is older and more capable. Her neediness, period.
The need to meet both their needs. And the reality that it's about more than just meeting their needs. The need to live in community, together. Where needs are met, but needs are also compromised, blended together.
Yep. That's my life these days. Thank God (not flippantly, but truly, truly, God be praised) for babywearing, YouTube, preschool and a Starbucks near said preschool, and a wonderful husband who is figuring out this balancing thing with me.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Playing Cars (I found this in my drafts, written pre-Sylvia!)
It's Peregrine's all-consuming obsession. He plays with other toys...occasionally. But usually, I hear "play cars!" all day long. It's the first thing he wants to do in the morning, and it's the thing he's so very sad to quit doing when he goes to bed at night.
Mostly he just drives them around on the few non-carpeted surfaces in our house, happily occupied in what seems to me a pretty boring operation. It never fails to amaze me that my incredibly short-attention-spanned, you-must-hold-me-all-the-time-so-I-can-see-new-things baby will just sit and drive cars around for half an hour without stopping. But, hey, whatever works. I do a lot less Peregrine entertaining now that the cars are in our lives.
Lately, though, he's taken to being more imaginative, and I find myself fascinated by watching him. The cars have purpose, they go places (usually Fred Meyer, where else?), and they experience life on the road as Peregrine sees it. He narrates their adventures, as he narrates everything.
"Cars go airport. Pick up somebody else."
"They waiting light turn green."
"They waiting ambulance go wee-ooo, wee-ooo!"
"They going back their home."
"Silver race car going super-fast airport!"
All this, of course, is garnered from his close observations during the car trips he insists on taking daily (and yes, I space out all my errands, and frequently invent trips, so we can "go car!" every single day). This is my baby who could scream for a solid forty-five minutes at a time from the agony of being in the car, the baby who hated the car so very terribly for the first eight or nine months of his life. Hard to believe, for sure.
First days
It's been awhile. A very long while, actually.
But I have a pretty good excuse.
This little person--Sylvia Gabrielle Nelson herself--arrived two and a half weeks ago, at 12:33 AM on Sunday, August 25th. Her labor was fast--so very, very fast--and her story will follow sometime soon. But I need to do it justice, and that requires writing it in detail first. I'm working on it, but it will be the official record, the one and I read and re-read just to make sure I never forget it. It's worth taking my time.
She is a lovely little person. So different from Peregrine, so very, very calm. I didn't expect that, honestly. She moved constantly inside me. Her position changed by the day, by the hour. She explored every nook and cranny of my womb and contorted herself into positions I couldn't figure out (some, my midwives couldn't figure out). I was expecting a little tornado. But she's not. She's a beautifully peaceful little thing, generally happy to just watch the world go by, to soak it in with her enormous eyes and round mouth, both of which have earned her the nickname "Owl Face."
She's not without her challenges (the main one being her decided disgust with the night for being dark and having nothing to look at). She's requiring some re-working of my baby paradigms (unlike her brother, she's easily overstimulated and overtired, and all my bouncing/rocking/swaying/sucking/distracting tricks tend to just irritate her). But she's really very easy overall. She's so calm. She lets me put her down (sometimes). She lets me gently rock her (in a rocking chair! sitting down!) when she's tired. She eats calmly and without gulping frantically. She loves being in carriers and actually scrunches up and bends her legs.
She's making me really glad I had Peregrine first.
Peregrine wasn't a difficult baby, per se, but he wasn't an easy one, either. He wanted so much out of life so early on. More rocking! More swinging! More things to see! And woe betide me if I ever stopped walking, sat down, or relinquished him to a bouncy seat or something. Mealtime was always a frantic and hurried affair, and involved swallowing a lot of air and crying when it took me five seconds to unbutton my shirt. And his little body was so tense. Seriously, I think it took the kid six months to learn to bend his legs.
If I'd had Sylvia first, Peregrine would have come as a shock. And I would have thought something was wrong with him. I would have been unnerved by his tension, his neediness, his anxiety, his zest for life. As it was, I took it in stride. I accepted it as part of him. I tempered his fierce with my calm, instead of adding my anxiety to his. I think he'd be a very different person if I'd treated his infancy as though something was wrong with him. A lot less happy, a lot less adaptable. I'm glad he was the baby I learned on.
Not that there's no learning with Sylvia. There's a lot of it. But there's a lot more with the first.
And speaking of Peregrine, he has taken her in stride. More than that, he's adopted her fully. He loves her, as much as a 2-year-old can. He laughs at her faces and constantly monitors her whereabouts. He's memorized the contents of her closet. He worries when she cries or spits up. He talks to her for me. She'll fuss and Peregrine will say, "It okay, baby, it okay, little sister, I nurse you again soon!" It melts my heart.
But it will be hard, parenting them together. Mostly because Peregrine's needs haven't really changed. He still wants more more more out of life. Go places, do things, have a routine, talk constantly. Boredom does him in. (It makes him destroy things, too). And yet, I'm so tired. It takes so much energy (and so, so much time!) to get both of them in the car. I can't carry them both at the same time. And Sylvia's needs are so primal. She needs to eat (a lot). She needs to be held. She needs to sleep, and needs help to get there. She's so little. Yes, she has to wait for him sometimes, but she can't really just scream for five minutes. Mostly because she has no concept of five minutes. She's so very, very new.
Peregrine's taking this like a champ. But I feel for him, still. I've been there. I've been the older one, the one shunted to the side because a baby is newer, and needier, and has no concept of five minutes. It has to happen. But it's hard, nonetheless.
We'll find our rhythm, though. I think I have to see the next season of my life--the next four, five, six months--as set aside for doing simply that. For learning what it means to be a family of four. If I think of that as my job, my mission, for this time in my life, that makes it seem easier, seem doable (and not just scrape-by-able, but really, truly doable). It will be messy, and I will be late to preschool, and some days the dishes won't get done, and some days I won't get to sit down. But that's the end goal--finding our rhythm and learning to be family. Someday, that will come.
But I have a pretty good excuse.
This little person--Sylvia Gabrielle Nelson herself--arrived two and a half weeks ago, at 12:33 AM on Sunday, August 25th. Her labor was fast--so very, very fast--and her story will follow sometime soon. But I need to do it justice, and that requires writing it in detail first. I'm working on it, but it will be the official record, the one and I read and re-read just to make sure I never forget it. It's worth taking my time.
She is a lovely little person. So different from Peregrine, so very, very calm. I didn't expect that, honestly. She moved constantly inside me. Her position changed by the day, by the hour. She explored every nook and cranny of my womb and contorted herself into positions I couldn't figure out (some, my midwives couldn't figure out). I was expecting a little tornado. But she's not. She's a beautifully peaceful little thing, generally happy to just watch the world go by, to soak it in with her enormous eyes and round mouth, both of which have earned her the nickname "Owl Face."
She's not without her challenges (the main one being her decided disgust with the night for being dark and having nothing to look at). She's requiring some re-working of my baby paradigms (unlike her brother, she's easily overstimulated and overtired, and all my bouncing/rocking/swaying/sucking/distracting tricks tend to just irritate her). But she's really very easy overall. She's so calm. She lets me put her down (sometimes). She lets me gently rock her (in a rocking chair! sitting down!) when she's tired. She eats calmly and without gulping frantically. She loves being in carriers and actually scrunches up and bends her legs.
She's making me really glad I had Peregrine first.
Peregrine wasn't a difficult baby, per se, but he wasn't an easy one, either. He wanted so much out of life so early on. More rocking! More swinging! More things to see! And woe betide me if I ever stopped walking, sat down, or relinquished him to a bouncy seat or something. Mealtime was always a frantic and hurried affair, and involved swallowing a lot of air and crying when it took me five seconds to unbutton my shirt. And his little body was so tense. Seriously, I think it took the kid six months to learn to bend his legs.
If I'd had Sylvia first, Peregrine would have come as a shock. And I would have thought something was wrong with him. I would have been unnerved by his tension, his neediness, his anxiety, his zest for life. As it was, I took it in stride. I accepted it as part of him. I tempered his fierce with my calm, instead of adding my anxiety to his. I think he'd be a very different person if I'd treated his infancy as though something was wrong with him. A lot less happy, a lot less adaptable. I'm glad he was the baby I learned on.
Not that there's no learning with Sylvia. There's a lot of it. But there's a lot more with the first.
And speaking of Peregrine, he has taken her in stride. More than that, he's adopted her fully. He loves her, as much as a 2-year-old can. He laughs at her faces and constantly monitors her whereabouts. He's memorized the contents of her closet. He worries when she cries or spits up. He talks to her for me. She'll fuss and Peregrine will say, "It okay, baby, it okay, little sister, I nurse you again soon!" It melts my heart.
But it will be hard, parenting them together. Mostly because Peregrine's needs haven't really changed. He still wants more more more out of life. Go places, do things, have a routine, talk constantly. Boredom does him in. (It makes him destroy things, too). And yet, I'm so tired. It takes so much energy (and so, so much time!) to get both of them in the car. I can't carry them both at the same time. And Sylvia's needs are so primal. She needs to eat (a lot). She needs to be held. She needs to sleep, and needs help to get there. She's so little. Yes, she has to wait for him sometimes, but she can't really just scream for five minutes. Mostly because she has no concept of five minutes. She's so very, very new.
Peregrine's taking this like a champ. But I feel for him, still. I've been there. I've been the older one, the one shunted to the side because a baby is newer, and needier, and has no concept of five minutes. It has to happen. But it's hard, nonetheless.
We'll find our rhythm, though. I think I have to see the next season of my life--the next four, five, six months--as set aside for doing simply that. For learning what it means to be a family of four. If I think of that as my job, my mission, for this time in my life, that makes it seem easier, seem doable (and not just scrape-by-able, but really, truly doable). It will be messy, and I will be late to preschool, and some days the dishes won't get done, and some days I won't get to sit down. But that's the end goal--finding our rhythm and learning to be family. Someday, that will come.
Monday, July 15, 2013
It's Okay (or, More Wisdom From Midwives)
Okay, can I just throw it out there? I love midwives. Maybe I've had exceptionally good ones, but they are just such incredibly wise people. Wise and calm. And good at listening, and thinking, and then saying something that makes sense and isn't stupid or panicky or cliche.
Maybe it comes from having seen a lot of mothers and babies, and knowing they turn out okay. But then, so do pediatricians. And while I love pediatricians too, for being able to do things like diagnose illnesses and tell you your kid is growing just fine (or not!), I feel like still, midwives have some kind of upper hand on baby-parenting wisdom.
Anyhow. This is another one that changed, that clarified, that made sense of my parenting. That left me feeling more settled and more capable.
It was my six-week postpartum appointment with Peregrine, and I was meeting with Catriona, the midwife who hadn't actually delivered Peregrine, but who had seen me a fair bit during my postpartum period. It was a long visit--pap smear and stitches review, breastfeeding evaluation, baby-growth measuring, long goodbyes, all those sorts of things. And, as part of her spiel, she asked how Peregrine was sleeping, and how we were all sleeping as a result.
I said fine, he was doing longer stretches at night, and when he woke up, he typically was hungry, and that problem was easily solved. I said I was tired, but what parent of a newborn isn't, and the tiredness wasn't something I couldn't cope with.
She said that was good, it sounded like things were going well, and she hoped they continued down that going-well path.
And then she said:
"I just want you to know, it's okay to sleep-train if you need to. It sounds like everything is working for you, and that's great, but if it isn't, call me. Do what works for you, but if you are losing your sanity over lack of sleep, know that sleep training is okay, and can be done well."
My lightbulb moment didn't happen then, really. I just tucked that piece of information away, and flagged it as important, because I'd never heard a natural-birth, hippie-skirt-wearing, still-nursing-my-toddler sort of person ever say that before. And I trusted Catriona, I trusted her a lot. I didn't think I'd ever need that piece of advice (or reassurance, or warning, or whatever it was), but I valued it all the same.
Back then I had no idea what sleep training was. Basically, I thought it was Babywise, and while I have absolutely nothing morally against Babywise, I also know it wouldn't work for me. I am a diehard Myers-Briggs P, and I could not live on the clock to the extent that Babywise advocates. So, in the completely untrue dichotomy I thought existed between scheduling babies and, well, not scheduling them, naturally, I fell on the not-scheduling side of things.
But, months after that six-week visit, Peregrine's sleep got more complicated. He was fussy--very, very fussy--in the few hours before we all went to bed. He woke up much more frequently at night (sometimes not just from hunger), and eventually started fighting bed altogether and utterly refusing to sleep, for fear he might miss something. He might (might) crash in a car seat or carrier, but only after hours of frantic, forced alertness (hours! a six-month-old! how did he do it? I have no idea!). And sometime, when Peregrine was between four and six months old, I realized it wasn't working anymore. So I read up on things, and found things that worked, and that included sleep training (which, I learned, encompasses a lot more than scheduling, which isn't mandatory).
I never called Catriona. Mainly because I didn't need to, I quickly found things that worked (and worked amazingly well). I've never mentioned it again, beyond seeing her briefly and commenting on Peregrine's fast metabolism that still had him up every two hours to eat (but that was hunger, I could deal with hunger, especially with my speed nurser). But she was the rock I leaned on when I started researching sleep training. She was the reason I really felt absolutely no guilt choosing to go down that road. She was the reason I didn't feel like I was somehow crossing some line between natural-good-everything-I-want-to-be parent and strict-baby-scheduler when I decided to start actively shaping Peregrine's sleep habits. She was the reason I stopped believing that line existed.
And all she did, really, was tell me it's okay. It's okay to change what you're doing. It's okay to do something you didn't think you would. It's okay to shift and flex and adapt to your baby's needs and your own. It's okay to do something people argue about. It's okay to stop listening to the arguing and do what you need to do. It's okay to find your rhythm.
Would I have sleep trained Peregrine without Catriona's permission? Likely, I would have. It made us all so very much happier and better rested. But I probably would have felt guilty. I probably would have second-guessed myself. I probably would have been a lot less confident. I probably would have believed I had to go all-or-nothing, Babywise or Dr. Sears. Who knows.
All I know is that hearing it's okay was all I needed to hear. And it's a message I try to pass on, when I can. About sleep training, sure. But about a whole host of other things as well. There are a lot of things that are okay in parenting.
Maybe it comes from having seen a lot of mothers and babies, and knowing they turn out okay. But then, so do pediatricians. And while I love pediatricians too, for being able to do things like diagnose illnesses and tell you your kid is growing just fine (or not!), I feel like still, midwives have some kind of upper hand on baby-parenting wisdom.
Anyhow. This is another one that changed, that clarified, that made sense of my parenting. That left me feeling more settled and more capable.
It was my six-week postpartum appointment with Peregrine, and I was meeting with Catriona, the midwife who hadn't actually delivered Peregrine, but who had seen me a fair bit during my postpartum period. It was a long visit--pap smear and stitches review, breastfeeding evaluation, baby-growth measuring, long goodbyes, all those sorts of things. And, as part of her spiel, she asked how Peregrine was sleeping, and how we were all sleeping as a result.
I said fine, he was doing longer stretches at night, and when he woke up, he typically was hungry, and that problem was easily solved. I said I was tired, but what parent of a newborn isn't, and the tiredness wasn't something I couldn't cope with.
She said that was good, it sounded like things were going well, and she hoped they continued down that going-well path.
And then she said:
"I just want you to know, it's okay to sleep-train if you need to. It sounds like everything is working for you, and that's great, but if it isn't, call me. Do what works for you, but if you are losing your sanity over lack of sleep, know that sleep training is okay, and can be done well."
My lightbulb moment didn't happen then, really. I just tucked that piece of information away, and flagged it as important, because I'd never heard a natural-birth, hippie-skirt-wearing, still-nursing-my-toddler sort of person ever say that before. And I trusted Catriona, I trusted her a lot. I didn't think I'd ever need that piece of advice (or reassurance, or warning, or whatever it was), but I valued it all the same.
Back then I had no idea what sleep training was. Basically, I thought it was Babywise, and while I have absolutely nothing morally against Babywise, I also know it wouldn't work for me. I am a diehard Myers-Briggs P, and I could not live on the clock to the extent that Babywise advocates. So, in the completely untrue dichotomy I thought existed between scheduling babies and, well, not scheduling them, naturally, I fell on the not-scheduling side of things.
But, months after that six-week visit, Peregrine's sleep got more complicated. He was fussy--very, very fussy--in the few hours before we all went to bed. He woke up much more frequently at night (sometimes not just from hunger), and eventually started fighting bed altogether and utterly refusing to sleep, for fear he might miss something. He might (might) crash in a car seat or carrier, but only after hours of frantic, forced alertness (hours! a six-month-old! how did he do it? I have no idea!). And sometime, when Peregrine was between four and six months old, I realized it wasn't working anymore. So I read up on things, and found things that worked, and that included sleep training (which, I learned, encompasses a lot more than scheduling, which isn't mandatory).
I never called Catriona. Mainly because I didn't need to, I quickly found things that worked (and worked amazingly well). I've never mentioned it again, beyond seeing her briefly and commenting on Peregrine's fast metabolism that still had him up every two hours to eat (but that was hunger, I could deal with hunger, especially with my speed nurser). But she was the rock I leaned on when I started researching sleep training. She was the reason I really felt absolutely no guilt choosing to go down that road. She was the reason I didn't feel like I was somehow crossing some line between natural-good-everything-I-want-to-be parent and strict-baby-scheduler when I decided to start actively shaping Peregrine's sleep habits. She was the reason I stopped believing that line existed.
And all she did, really, was tell me it's okay. It's okay to change what you're doing. It's okay to do something you didn't think you would. It's okay to shift and flex and adapt to your baby's needs and your own. It's okay to do something people argue about. It's okay to stop listening to the arguing and do what you need to do. It's okay to find your rhythm.
Would I have sleep trained Peregrine without Catriona's permission? Likely, I would have. It made us all so very much happier and better rested. But I probably would have felt guilty. I probably would have second-guessed myself. I probably would have been a lot less confident. I probably would have believed I had to go all-or-nothing, Babywise or Dr. Sears. Who knows.
All I know is that hearing it's okay was all I needed to hear. And it's a message I try to pass on, when I can. About sleep training, sure. But about a whole host of other things as well. There are a lot of things that are okay in parenting.
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