The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

Five dollars if you can guess this image:

Any idea?

I’ll give you a few more seconds….

Give up?

It’s Bitzy’s co-sleeper.  And, it’s in a pile on my dining room floor, tripping me each time I move to and from the table.  Other than the fact that I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to fold up it correctly, I really can’t tell you why it’s still sitting there….it’s resting place since yesterday afternoon.

But, what I can tell you is this – it’s serving as a reminder of the rampage that I went on yesterday.  After a weekend of caring for two sick kids and a husband who, for 6 weeks now, is trying to pass a kidney stone – I was feeling like other people’s paws were clawing at my back.  I reached my limit of serving and comforting and sucking boogers and drying tears and not sleeping.  I needed to reconnect with myself.  I needed to check in.

How was I? I mean, really? Well, I was exhausted – but mostly, I was feeling as though I belonged to everyone else.  I was feeling like nothing in our home was sacred – that nothing belonged to me.  That I just wasn’t ranking on the ol’ scale of importance.  And, while I knew I was being grossly dramatic and selfish – I also kinda felt justified, which fueled me to make some changes.

Bitzy.  Sweet, sweet Bitzy who has had more snot draining from her nose than her sinuses could possibly hold, needs to move on up and outta mommy and daddy’s bed.  Yeah, I get it – this is a no brainier for most of you….you scoff at the bed-sharing thing, but whatever – it’s what we’ve done. Our choice.  What has worked.  What we’ve enjoyed.

But now, now I’m ready.  I needed to reclaim some space for myself.  I needed to be able to climb in and out of my bed without risking a serious fall.  I needed to have my nightstand back so that I could stack my unfinished books and set down my hot tea.  I needed to be able to sleep without waking every five minutes for fear of flinging blankets onto Bitzy. But mostly, I needed to be released from the constant reminder of failure.

Despite my best intentions, Bitzy never spent more than 20 minutes in that co-sleeper.  When she was born, I was determined to do things differently than I did with DJ – but somehow, the thought of having Bitzy anywhere but my chest for the first several weeks, was a separation I couldn’t bear.  From my chest, arm’s reach just seemed too far – and so, repeating the “mistakes” of my past, Bitzy has been sleeping at my side.

Seeing that unused co-sleeper day in and day out just echoed all of the shame and guilt that I’ve had about not “following through” with my “better plan” this time around.  It was filled with “I told you so’s,” and “not again’s,” and “when? when? when’s.” Every nap that went by, every night that passed – was just another painful jab at my inability to change.

So, I took it down.  I moved it out.  I took my space back and I released the flippin negativity. Hallelujah! I’m free!!

Where’s Bitzy? In her crib, right? Nope. Not yet – but she WILL be.  Starting next week.  And more then her being ready – I am ready.  I am ready to let go a little because we both need it – not because I’m crumbling under the guilt of an unused piece of $200 furniture.

So good riddance, co-sleeper.  You’ve kept me in bondage for far too long.  I don’t really think us moms need one.more.thing. to fret over – c’est la vie!

Meet my son, Gooby. He is 3 years old and, as my first born, is the amazing little person who taught me how to be a mom. And, in case you are wondering, Gooby is not his real name. He earned this nickname when he was a few days old because his colic and reflux, plus his very expressive brow, reminded us of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. The name eventually morphed into Gooby and stuck. On his recent preschool enrollment forms, I described Gooby as spirited, imaginative, creative, emotional, moody, and expressive. Though what I really wanted to say was, “My son actually thinks he is Spider Man, a Power Ranger, and Luke Skywalker combined. He is borderline obsessed with firemen and construction workers, and I once thought he had developed the hoarding disease due to his relentless pilfering of trash and common household items which can be found stuffed to the brim in his Fisher Price toolbox (which he also pretends is a kitchen).”

Like all first-time moms, when I was pregnant with Gooby I worried whether he would be born healthy, wondered what he would look like, and hoped (and still do!) that he would not be plagued with some of the mental health struggles that exist in both my husband’s and my own family history. Throughout my pregnancy, I often tried to imagine how I would be as a mom and wondered if it would be difficult to accept my child for however he turned out. Though I love my husband and my parents, I had never actually created another human being from scratch, and did not have experience with the extreme physical and emotional investment of being a parent. But the truth is, when Gooby was born, those worries did not hold their weight. Those worries didn’t matter, because I knew the moment I set eyes on my son that I would love this little person with all of my being, and most importantly, without conditions.  Since the day Gooby was born, this is the world in which we have continued to exist inside our family. And it’s awesome. However, I also know that unconditional acceptance of all human beings is not transferrable to the real world.

As parents, I’m sure we have all received the unsolicited piece of “advice” from a random person on the street about our child(ren). We have all received the sideways glance from a stranger in the grocery store judging our style of managing an unexpected toddler meltdown.  We have all felt judged as parents at one time or another. And in turn, we have judged ourselves. Though I am not proud of it, I will admit that I too have judged others, certainly contributing to the perpetual cycle of parental insecurities. Perhaps it is a rite of passage. Or maybe it is a coping mechanism. Regardless, it sucks.

As a mom who works fulltime outside the home, I must entrust the care of my children to others. My husband and I don’t have family that lives near us, so both of my kids attend a phenomenal in-home daycare. Gooby started at daycare when he was 3 months old. Over the years we have relished in our provider’s recounting of Gooby’s life without us while we are at work. We enjoy celebrating Gooby’s successes and we learn from his failures. This means that early on, we had to develop the skill of receiving (and appropriately reconciling) feedback that may differ from our own opinion about our child. And I will say that as a mother, hearing anything short of positive feedback about Gooby has been the most challenging part of all. Because receiving criticism from my daycare provider about my kid, constructive as it may be, is not the same as hearing it from the random stranger on the street, or in the grocery store. This feedback holds more weight. I have to listen. I have to reconcile. I have to learn. I have to accept that not everyone thinks that my kid is as perfect as I think he is. This is the real world, after all.

This past week, my daycare provider talked with my husband about Gooby’s obsession with ninjas, swords, guns, and battles. Turns out, that what we think is innocent boyish play in our house, may not jive so well with other parents whose children attend the daycare. After receiving this feedback, my husband came home to discuss it with me. My instinct was to immediately feel protective of Gooby’s imagination and creativity…and of my own parental ego. Because not only did this feedback put into question Gooby’s utter perfection, it also questioned my parenting skills. I started doubting myself, asking internal questions like, “Have I been a bad mom because I haven’t cared enough that Gooby likes to shoot toy guns? Am I influencing violence in society by allowing him to watch television shows that have some violent themes, like Power Rangers and Spider Man? Am I perpetuating society’s stereotypes of boys vs. girls by not encouraging Gooby to play with more gender neutral toys?” And really, I was embarrassed. So my husband spent some time talking me down from my emotional ledge into the world of logic.

Gooby is not alone at daycare. His actions have influence on other children. And in turn, those children will have influence on him. But man, it is tough not to have complete control over every situation. It is heart wrenching to know that I will not always be able to protect my kid. And as he grows older, I know this will only become bigger in scale and consequence, and ultimately more difficult to manage. So in the end, I realized that I have to respect the rights of other parents to express their opinion about how my child might be influencing their own. And one day I will also need to go to bat for my own children, because that is what parents are programmed to do. Ultimately, I am thankful to have a daycare provider that I consider our parenting partner. I am grateful that I have a daycare provider that I respect, and that I know loves and cares for my children when I cannot be with them. That is all any parent can ask for.

Let me set the scene for you. A woman is standing alone, in a private room. She is wearing a knee length, black and white, pin-striped dress that zips up the back and has a sweet black silk ribbon that ties around her waist. On her feet are a pair of shiny black high heeled pumps that buckle across the top of each foot. Today this woman took great care in shaving her legs, specifically for the occasion of wearing this dress. Standing in this room, the woman searches for a place to make herself comfortable and ultimately settles for a chair just across the room. Once seated, she carefully unties the black ribbon around her waist and slowly hikes the dress up, over her waist, above her rib-cage, and eventually reveals her bra. The only thing between her and the chair are a pair of underwear. Next, the woman unsnaps her bra to reveal her breasts because now it’s time for some sweet release.

Okay, let me stop here to assure you that I am not describing a sexy scene out of an adult movie (though it sort of feels that way). The woman I am talking about is me. I’m at work, in my office conference room, on a day that I decided to wear a dress that is not easily accessible for my four times daily task of expressing breast milk (a.k.a. sweet release) for my 9 month old daughter. And let me tell you, there is nothing like getting practically naked at work, worrying that someone is going to accidentally enter the room while I have two flanges sucking at my boobs. While I typically try not to wear outfits that require me to sit on a conference room chair in my underwear, I do fully expose my breasts daily in said conference room while others in my office are working just outside the door. I recently did the math and discovered that each week, I spend 9.33 hours pumping. That is slightly more than 1 entire day per month of round-the-clock pumping. And being a busy mom, with a full time job, that blows my mind! No wonder I don’t have time to work out!

Just before Christmas last year I was laying in bed with my daughter, referred to hereafter as Cakes (one of our many nicknames for her). So, I’m snuggling with Cakes as she nurses just before bedtime. My husband is next to us and I said to him “I’m so glad I have been able to nurse Cakes. It’s such an amazing experience.” A few days later, we left home to spend a week in Santa Cruz with my family to celebrate the holidays. I was very excited because being off work meant I didn’t have to pump for 10 whole days. Did I mention that I hate pumping just as much as I love nursing? Yah, well, I do. I hate all of the equipment. I hate having to wash the one million parts that go along with pumping. I hate packing that darn pump bag up and carting it with me to work every single day. I hate waking up in the morning to realize I forgot to run the dish washer the night before, so therefore have to wash the one million parts by hand for the one millionth time – and that I will be late for work. But I digress. Back to Santa Cruz during the holidays.

We had a blast watching our kids play at the beach on Christmas day, and we returned home refreshed and ready (almost) to go back to the daily grind. But a few days before returning to work I was enjoying one of my nursing sessions with Cakes, and then she bit me. Have you ever been bitten by brand new, sharp little baby teeth – on your nipple? Um, it really friggin HURTS! So I screamed, which scared Cakes into a sobbing mess. So, I tried to put her back on, and she bit me again. I got so pissed I ended the session (which is what all lactation consultants will tell you to do). The next time Cakes was due for a feeding I was hopeful that she had forgotten her nipple slicing technique so we could return to our quality time together. But NOPE! It went on like this for two weeks during which time, Cakes decided she hates my boobs altogether and cried when she got near me [insert devastating blow to the mom ego here]. Cakes went on a nursing strike. Per my lactation consultant’s advice, I tried to nurse at each feeding and if she refused, my husband gave her a bottle of my pumped breast milk. I was also told that Cakes may or may not go back to nursing. And guess what? She never did. Cakes stopped nursing at 7 months old. Cakes preferred the bottle to me. Cakes rejected me, after I worked so darn hard to nurse in the first place. Because let’s face it, nursing is really hard with a newborn (even when you’ve mastered it with previous kids!).

I had overcome the sleepless nights. I had survived the round-the-clock every two hour feedings. I had grit my teeth through nursing a newborn Cakes with swollen, sore, and cracked nipples. I had mastered the art of tending to my 3-year-old son’s needs with a baby attached to my chest. I had sacrificed my freedom and my body for Cakes because she is so worth it. And she rejected me.

So, for the last 3 months, I have been exclusively pumping. Because what better way to prove to myself that I am invincible than to spend even more time doing something I hate? At Cake’s 9 month appointment her pediatrician (who is also a mom of 3) asked me if I was still nursing. I explained the strike and she automatically assumed I was formula feeding. When I told her “No, I’m pumping all of her milk” the pediatrician looked at me and said “Okay, if you want to be a hero.” Don’t all mom’s want to be superheroes? Even the pediatrician, who promotes that “breast is best” for the first year of life, told me that she did not continue to pump when she returned to work. Yet somehow I cannot stop. I cannot give myself a break. Boy, I could really use that extra 36 hours per month to feel less stressed, or even to take better care of myself. But I can’t get over the nagging voice in my head that keeps saying “Do not fail your daughter.”

Love. Sacrifice. Guilt. Judgment. Unconditional. Unadulterated. Love. These are just some of the many ingredients that make up the complicated, yet delicious recipe of a mother. And so, I carry on. Because I am afraid to fail this little being.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.  I could literally feel the bad mood heavy upon my shoulders – and yet, it was a force that I couldn’t shake.  Sometimes, just being aware that something exists isn’t enough to chase it away.  And sometimes still, willing it to go away just isn’t enough either.  So, rather than expending energy that I didn’t have trying to chase something away that wouldn’t budge, I just decided to let it linger.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tart that I’m eating while I write this, however, is making great strides in taking me to a happier place.

I am going to begin by blaming my Grumpy Pants on raging hormones.  I just read that in the third trimester, mood swings make an ugly reappearance.  This is a legitimate fact, straight from babycenter.com.  And now, I am going to hop off the passive, I-have-no-control train, and take some responsibility.  In between bouts of wanting to rip someone’s eyes out, and wanting to pull the covers tightly over my head where no one could witness me eat an entire box of cookies (which I don’t actually have in the house, and that’s really pissing me off!) – I have been analyzing why this mood might be.

Here’s the deal.  I’m tired, and I am carrying around a boatload of guilt about being tired.  I woke up exhausted this morning. I am no longer sleeping because my hips ache, my lower back is on fire, and my groin feels as though it’s been held in tact by a fraying fiber.  Tossing and turning all night doesn’t just mean moving from one side to the other – it means rearranging a fortress of pillows around me at each wriggle.  When the 7:00 am request for cartoons came blaring out of DJ’s mouth, I felt myself slither under the silent question, “REALLY?”  Really? Already? Cartoons again?  Caillou?  Caillou whose parents make me feel inferior in every episode due to the extreme patience they exhibit?

I wanted to wake up to silence.  I wanted to pour a cup of decaf, turn on something like the Today show, and totally veg out in my PJ’s until the smell of my own coffee breath finally forced me into the shower.  I wanted to be on my own agenda.  However, anyone with a toddler knows – it’s their agenda….all the time.  So, Caillou it was.  Did I mention that I loathe Caillou’s parents?

By 8:00 am, I got a burst of motivation and decided to do some cooking. I made a batch of mini-quiches, and hadn’t realized it in the moment – but that was my attempt to get some time alone, in a creative capacity, lost in my own thoughts over a cheese grater.  It lasted only briefly, until DJ insisted on dragging a chair to the kitchen sink (naked with just her rain boots on….which, I admit, provided some much-needed comic relief) to wash her plastic animal toys.  Oh, right, there is a two-year-old reigning queen in this house.

After cooking, I decided to spend some time on the computer.  I wanted to post a few recipes to my blog, order the wall decal for our nursery, update my Paypal account so there’d be nothing standing between me and my Etsy purchases, and maybe – just maybe, if there were time….check Facebook.

Just as I settled into my chair, and DJ was seemingly distracted by who knows what, she decided that I had to find her “little mouse.” After digging through her bottomless toy bins, followed by a search through both the cats’ and the dogs’ toy collections – I realized she was referring to a tchotchke my husband picked up a Design show.  Quite literally, a tiny computer mouse.  Once I found it and handed it over, DJ crawled up into my chair, plugged in the mouse and directed me as to what she wanted next…”Videos of baby me.”  And there we sat, watching baby videos for what seemed like an hour.  I somehow managed to order the decal, and update my Paypal account – but that was in between “Can I have some chocolate milk?” “Can I have some toast?” “Can you make it louder?” “Can we see that one again?” Up and down, up and down, filling orders and pressing my groin to it’s limit.

The remainder of the day has followed suit.  I took a shower while sweet little blue eyes peered at me from behind the curtain – sporadically being hit in the shins with launched toys.  I spent my lunchtime at DJ’s preschool (where I’d normally commiserate with other moms in a separate room) sitting beside her on a teeny tiny plastic, orange chair (which did wonders for my expanding butt complex).  I spent DJ’s otherwise independent outdoor playtime pushing her around a cement track in a plastic car.  And, I have spent the greater part of her nap lying beside her as she clutches my hair because, today, she just won’t allow space between us.  Of course, on a day, when I need nothing more than an independent, deep breath.

I am grumpy because I have one child literally growing inside of me, and I have another child clinging to my every appendage. Aside from this heavy thing sitting on top of my neck, called a head, I am pretty certain every ounce of me has been overtaken by kid’s needs.  Wait, I take that back – last night DJ got a comb stuck in my hair, ripping strands from my scalp.  Lord, even my head has been sacrificed in the name of Motherhood!!!  My poor husband…..after a long day at work, all he wants is a kiss hello when he walks through the front door – and all I want is to peel one person off of me, hand her over, and reclaim (if even for a moment) my own body (in between baby kicks inside my belly, of course).

I have not been carving out enough time for myself – and it’s become very apparent today that I need to.  I need to let go of the guilt that says my job is to be a stay-at-home mom, which means making every moment of every day about my kids.   I need to release the guilt that says another baby is on the way, and I must devote every second to loving DJ up before that adjustment occurs.  However, when you leave no time for refueling, there’s no means of giving left – there’s just no way to give your kids 100% when you’re running on fumes.  I am learning this, painfully.

Needing time away from my daughter certainly doesn’t mean that I love her any less. It just means that I’m important, too.  It means that I’m not just a shell of a person, but an individual – a woman. Not just a mom.  Not just a wife.  A woman.  I think it’s important for DJ to see me take time for myself, too.  She needs to understand that separation is only temporary – and that reunions are really, really sweet and special.

So, with that said – tomorrow morning I am dropping DJ off at her Noni and Papa’s house, and I am going to (in this particular order) get my eyebrows waxed, soak in a candle-lit and lavender bath at the spa for 25 minutes, enjoy a prenatal massage and then treat myself to some indulgent lunch which will likely include a shrimp cocktail.  Or an apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.  Or a giant burger topped with mushrooms and crispy onion strings.

And then, I will pick DJ up from her grandparents house, and will likely squeeze her too tight from having missed her all morning – and Mrs. Grumpy Pants will be held at bay for another several weeks while I coast on with renewed energy and an awakened sense of self.

Is it tomorrow yet?

Have you ever noticed when a new year rolls around…

…that everyone powers down meals like no other and then pledges to lose weight?

…that the objects everyone so desired for months on end now sit on a desk somewhere in a room somewhere in the back of someone’s mind?

…that most of the time the holidays leave people so disappointed rather than wishing they could do it all over again?

I find myself wondering why this is.  The holidays are hyped aren’t they?  Before Halloween is over, Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations line the shelves, prepping us for what’s coming months away.

We run around worried for weeks because we want to get that special someone that special something.

This year was extra difficult for me.  Funds have been tighter than ever before.  I find myself with three grown children, at different stages in their lives, a mother I don’t seem to see enough, and a girlfriend whose birthday falls on Christmas day.

Funds have never been tighter and the pressure has never been higher.  A great combo, don’t you think?

And yet the pressures are self made by the media and the guilt that comes with non-performance in this society, even in these hard times.

And so I continued to remind myself, and others, that it is not what we give or what we get that is important.  It is the time we spend together and the memories we create between ourselves and our family and friends.

I know the saying “You can’t take it with you” is way overused, but there’s a reason for it.  Our lives are cluttered and busy and designed to distract us from what is important.

And so, in my little way, I will strive, in 2011, to keep reminding myself that it is US that is important.  And I will reach out more and visit more and laugh with others more this year.  And WE will be happier because of it.

I remember clearly my first thought when I found out I was pregnant for the second time.  I already had two year old twins and all I could think was how is there ever going to be enough of me for three children.  But low and behold, I have managed with three children just fine for the past five plus years.  Some days there clearly isn’t enough of me to go around and other days I even manage to eek out a little time and energy to do something for myself.

I’ve learned to divide my heart into three pieces, but what often trips me up is trying to divide it into three equal pieces.   Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been obsessed with fairness.  I made sure each one of my stuffed animals had a turn right next to me in my bed and drove my mom nuts asking her to count the number of noodles I had on my plate to make sure my sister didn’t have more.

I try my best to make sure everyone has the same amount of milk in their glass.  I carefully count out the chicken nuggets to make sure each child has the same number.  We take turns picking the music we listen to in the car and I even made a chart to keep track of whose turn it is to sit in the most favored car seat.  But let’s face it, life is not always fair and I just can’t make sure they all get the same amount of hugs per day and chocolate chips in their cookies.

When my twins started kindergarten I went to great pains to make sure I volunteered the same amount of time in each one’s classroom.  I was assigned to Monday afternoon for one of them and there are several Monday holiday’s in a school year.  They noticed if I made it to one classroom that week and not the other, and I felt guilty.  I try to explain to them that things will not always be tit for tat.  For the most part it all works out and I probably feel more guilt over dividing my time up than is necessary.

Tonight is Back to School Night and like every parent with multiple kids at one school, not just twins, I fret over whose classroom presentation I would attend and which one my husband would attend. I don’t mean to imply that I am the superior parent, but I am on the front lines doing drop off, pick up, communicating with fellow parents and teachers and helping with homework.  I wanted to hear the teacher’s presentation first hand for both my girls.

At least my son’s kindergarten class presentation is earlier in the night and both my husband and I can attend that one.

After fretting over it and making my husband discuss it with me ad nauseum, he finally said, “relax, it’s not Sophie’s Choice.”  And he was right.  Whenever I am stressed about something like this I try to ask myself how much it really matters in the grand scheme of their lives.  They won’t even know whose classroom I was in.  Will they not get in to Stanford because I didn’t sit in their classroom one September night in 2nd grade?  Perhaps taking a step back from making everything fair and the same would be good for me and my kids.

My cleaning lady comes today.  Every other Wednesday evening I pick up the random clutter that a family of five creates and make sure there are clean sheets to put on the beds.  I look forward to coming home every other Thursday to the smell of Pinesol, vacuum cleaner lines and empty wastebaskets.  And yet, the day is always a little bit awkward.

Before I became a parent I remember having dinner with another young married couple and they mentioned that their cleaning person had been at their house that morning.  I had never considered hiring someone else to clean my house, it seemed so decadent.  I would spend a couple hours every weekend cleaning our tiny two bedroom apartment and folding laundry and that was that.

Fast forward a few years and I was a new mother of twins in a new house who barely had time to change my underwear, never mind scrubbing the showers and sinks.  I told my husband I chose to brush my teeth or eat a meal with my free time rather than scrub toilets.  He agreed that maybe hiring some help with the housework would be a good idea.  So I hired the woman who cleaned house for my neighbor and felt like it was money well spent.  It was such a relief not to have the sticky floors and unfolded laundry hanging over my head each day.

But the relationship felt a little awkward to me.  I would always try to leave the house and run some errands while she was there.  It just felt strange to be hanging around while someone else mopped my floors.  My husband would ask me to tell her to make sure the vacuum cord didn’t scratch the baseboards or to be sure to clean the oven.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her any of these things because I was so grateful that someone was willing to clean my house.  I would have paid her twice what we were paying her.  Happily.  There was always a nagging feeling of guilt.  After all, it was mostly just fate that meant that she had to leave her teenage daughter and son in El Salvador in order to come to the US to make money to send back to them and I had enough disposable income to pay someone else to empty my Diaper Genie.

When we moved a few years later, I didn’t find another cleaning person right away.  We went a couple of years without any help.  As my husband and I had an increasing number of arguments over housework and I felt overwhelmed cleaning up an even bigger house and folding even bigger piles of laundry we decided it was time to hire some help once again.

So today I will be incredibly grateful for our sparkling kitchen and shiny bathroom counters… yet I will still have a nagging feeling of guilt that it wasn’t me who wiped up all the smeared toothpaste and cleaned all the dust off the bookshelves.

Ace and Lulu...then...

A few years ago I was asked to write a few posts for the literary magazine Segullah.  At the time I was dealing with the diagnosis of our little Ace.  My son had also been recently diagnosed and we were already dealing with the issues our preemie daughter Nori had (she was then 18 months old).  I was a little bit overwhelmed.   There is a part of me that is a bit embarrassed about the things that I said and felt.  I could almost shake the old me and tell her to lighten up.  But, then I remember that this is a process and a journey.

I find myself NOW thinking all the things that other experienced mamma’s told me THEN (and I couldn’t quite believe them).  Confronting your new life can be scary and frankly, it does focus on the things that you will not have, rather than the wonderful things you do.  I think that is OK.  Mourning the old idea is a very important part of embracing the new one. So, in retrospect I guess I am not embarrassed about how I felt.  It was real and it was true at the time.   So, wherever you are on your journey– journaling is a good thing so you can see how far you have come.   Part 2 next week……

When I found out that Grace had DS, no one told me what to do. Everyone told me what to feel (“you must be so shocked” or “this must be so awful for you”). Everyone told me that she would be happy or sweet. Everyone told me to read the short story called “A Trip to Holland.” No one told me that I would read it and want to throw it across the room. No one told me how to get from being devastated and sobbing on my bed to being a happy-go-lucky mom of a special needs child. Nobody told me that negotiating the distance between the two places was going to be much trickier than I anticipated.

No one told me how to tell my other daughter that her sister had Down Syndrome or how to explain what that meant. They didn’t tell me that my explanation would lead her to believe that all people with flattened facial features, like her Korean friend Nicole, or people with upturned eyes, had Down Syndrome.

No one told me I would come to hate the word “retarded.” Not because I was ashamed that I have a daughter who is retarded, but because my blood would actually boil whenever I hear it used in a flip or casual way. I want to shake the person using the word and ask them if they really know what they are saying. No one told me that I would hate these people because while they get to talk about being “retarded” and I have to figure out how to raise my retarded child as WELL as how to teach my typical children not to be ashamed of that word.

No one told me my relationship with Grace would be complicated. I love her but I am also afraid of her. I want her to be who she is at the very same time I wish I could wave a magic wand and make her typical. No one told me that by the time she reached the ripe old age of three months I would already be mourning the fact that she won’t get married or have children of her own.

No one told me I would have to learn a new language. There would be new medical terms, abbreviations, and lingo used in therapies, with the doctors, and the social workers. There was new protocol on how to set goals for her and how to mark their achievement. No one told me I would have to gear up for a potential battle about school and I would have to decide if I wanted her to be mainstreamed, included or separated, or what the difference is between them. No one told me I would have to learn how to plan for her future without us while making sure she never had enough assets to make her ineligible for Medicaid. No one told me that I would have a daily internal debate about which I was more worried about, me outliving her or vice versa.

No one told me that when I went to a day center for the first time to check out services offered for my daughter. I would feel the same feelings wash over me as I had when I visited as a teenager. No one told me that even when it was MY child in question, I would still feel uncomfortable at the day center. I would still wish I could run out of there. Nothing changed. The fact that I was raising a special needs child hadn’t changed anything.

Wasn’t I supposed to be her greatest advocate? Wasn’t my role, for the rest of my life, to be the one that fought for her? To challenge others to see her for all the things she COULD do? No one told me I wouldn’t want to do those things.

No one told me I would dread the day she was finally born because it would mean that we would become “that family.” No one told me I wouldn’t want to bond with her because it was too scary for me to think about it. No one told me I wouldn’t want to look at her when she was born because then it would become real.

Everyone told me that everything would be OK. Everyone told me about their neighbor/friend/ward member that had Down Syndrome and was really nice/really happy/bagging groceries. No one told me I would come to hate those words. No one told me I would want to snap and shout to the universe that I wanted just a bit more for this child—all my children—than to hope that she could be a grocery bagger someday. I had even said the same thing to another set of parents once. No one told me how all the things that I said to other people would come back to haunt me.

No one told me I would ever have a discussion with a doctor in which terminating my child was the assumption. No one told me how it would feel to have a geneticist sit me down and give me a laundry list of things that could go wrong with her and then give me the choice if I wanted to go continue the pregnancy or to terminate. No one told me I would actually have to put my pro choice stand to the test.

No one told me how to handle this experience. How sometimes I would feel so defeated and cognizant of how unfair this was, and then so guilty because the reality is that I have a healthy child who has the expectation of a long and full life.

How many mothers across the world would give anything for the privilege of raising their child to adulthood, to have access to medical care and education? I have lived and worked in countries with mothers who have not had the same expectations.

No one told me how thankful I would be for my husband who has never been anything but an enthusiastic father to our Gracie girl. From the first minute we knew about the Down Syndrome, he has been perfectly fine with her whole package. And, in a moment of uncharacteristic candidness, he admitted that he knew he was being selfish, but that in some ways he felt relief. He knew he would always be able to provide for the needs of this special daughter of his and he didn’t worry about her making choices that would hurt other people. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he was kind of right. No one told me that I would resent—just a little bit—his willing acceptance of who she is, while I still struggled with some selfish and petty issues.

When I look back, I realize that maybe someone did tell me these things and I just couldn’t hear them. Maybe part of my journey is to get all this stuff out of my system early so that I can move on to being the best cheerleader special needs mom around. Maybe I will look back on this in about 5 years and shake my head and laugh about what a foolish person I was. Heaven knows I do that about our adoption stuff all the time.

Continued next week……

I’ve noticed over the last ten years a parenting trend that is disturbing to me as a parent of three older children.  So many parents are negotiating with their young children when it comes to teaching them.

I know I’m going to sound old when I say this, but I’m really not that old. Really!  When I was growing up, there was no negotiating with my parents.  They asked me to do something nicely and if I resisted, there were consequences; some more scarier than others.  But I lived.  And I think I’m all the better for it.

I’ve heard a lot of conversations around disciplining children.  “I feel guilty if I spank them or if I raise my voice.”  “All children can be reasoned with.”  “It hurts me too much to bring tears to their eyes.”  “I hate to disappoint them.”  It’s a touchy subject for most, but all of these are understandable feelings.

I think of myself as a pretty understanding father so when I feel there is a reason to discipline my children, there’s usually a good reason.  Sometimes we do it for our convenience, I’m not going to lie, but most of the time it’s for their own good.

The secret is follow through.  If you state a consequence to an action and the action doesn’t take place, simply follow through.  It’s as simple as that.  No need to count.  No need to negotiate.  Sure, it takes a little extra effort on your part to get up out of that comfy chair that you just sat down in after being on your feet for six hours, but the results will be ten-fold.  Just start out early in their lives by teaching them this simple concept and they won’t forget.  Trust me!

Just ask my children when I showed up at high school to pull them out of class in my father’s old pajamas.  After all, it’s important to understand what is important in your child’s life so when desperate times call for desperate measures, you won’t have to think twice.  And neither will they!