The duality of it all.

(Guest post from Tara Lindburg)

So let me start off with it...my greatest challenge. My greatest challenge is to be able to do it all, knowing it isn’t possible. When I write the word “all,” I mean the duality of being a full-time working parent.

I love how a superhero can move in and out of their life and their persona with such ease. Diana Prince is able to turn in circles and become Wonder Woman. I spin in circles at times, hoping that it will turn me into Wonder Woman and make the challenge of “trying to do it all” easier...I just keep getting dizzy. I want to be able to switch between being a working adult and being a parent. It is so different in my world.

Before I became a parent, I had high expectations that being a full-time working parent was going to be easy...totally fine. I would drop my child off at daycare, the one I picked for the amazing-ness it had, and go to the career that I loved and felt fulfilled by. The best laid plans, as they say.

The kink in my plan came when I met my child.

I doubt my experience is as unique as I would like to think it is. But, when I met my baby for the first time...I was forever changed. (Meeting my second baby for the first time...still had that “forever not the same thing” going on.) I gained a new title...Momma. Not as impressive as CEO or President, but still pretty cool, right?

I have been doing this full-time working parent gig now for almost five years. The challenge lies in the duality of it all. Early on I lived with guilt that I was missing out on some milestone. What if she crawls while I’m at work? What if he says his first word to someone else? I hated that guilt and worry. I have chosen to believe, and maybe this is my denial of reality, that my kids did all their milestones in front of me and their daddy first. I have the baby books to prove it.

I also worried what others would think of me working and I let what some said defeat me and guilt me. “Are you upset that you are letting someone else raise your child?” “Do you feel like a part-time parent?” My early years of guilt for every moment spent working and not with my child has passed into periodic moments of guilt when my kid is sick and I can’t take that sick day due to my work schedule or when what is needed is for my child to sleep in but that is not in the schedule -- I can’t be late. That guilt I am still working to overcome.

There have been days, after the kids are down for bedtime, that I am in tears sitting on the couch because I have not “done it all” nor have I “done it at all well.”

I am not always as nice to my kids as I desire to be. Sometimes, my kids move at the pace of snails and refuse to cooperate in the morning. She doesn’t want to wear that shirt because she doesn’t want to look like a baby. She can’t find the shoes she wants to wear, not the pink ones, the Hello Kitty ones. He can’t find Iron Man and once he finds Iron Man he needs his name on it because they have to have their names on their stuff to take it to preschool. Pack the backpacks, fill the water bottles, break up a fight over the water bottles, and pack the car. “Let’s go we are going to be late!” She has to go potty and he needs to be changed. Finally to the car and she forgot her backpack in the house. He is angry to be buckled. She is having trouble buckling and is now crying in frustration. I may just join her. Driving to school, disagreement because she is looking out his window, mediation. I sigh as we walk into preschool. I feel like I have already had “a day” and we just got here.

Before all you read is me “crying in my beer”... I have, I hope, in the last five years, figured a few things out. A community of people, grace and forgiveness are staples to the life of a working parent.

A community of people. My kids are better for the community they are a part of. Their community includes my husband and me, as well as extended family and friends. Their community also includes my work community. Early on, one friend took care of my daughter after I came back after maternity leave and brought her to school every day at lunch for me to feed and spend time with her. I have had more than one family pass on clothes their kids have outgrown (it is nice stuff.) Just the other day, I had a mom I know stand at my car with both my kids buckled and let me run back inside to grab something I left in my classroom. Her response when I asked her for help: “Go, I’ve been there. They’ll be fine. I’ll sit in the car with them.” That mom saved me 20-30 minutes of getting my kids out of the car, walking into the building and walking back to the car and buckling.

My kids interact daily with adults that love and care for them. I am a teacher at a school that has a staff preschool. My kids are in preschool with other staff kids. Their classroom is across the hall from my classroom. I am able to stop by and see my kids once or twice a day just for hugs. My kids are thriving in preschool. My daughter is so well prepared for Kindergarten next year.

A community of people loving and caring for my kids.

Grace & Forgiveness. At times I think my kids must think, “Momma is difficult.” I know I have times I think my kids are difficult. I have to give myself grace when I am difficult with my children because I work. And grace and forgiveness for my kids, knowing they don’t understand this whole working parent thing. To them, I am just Momma. I also have to ask for forgiveness from my kids, when I am not quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry (James 1:19) because I am “trying to do it all.”

So, my greatest challenge still remains in the duality of it all. Before you read this and say, “what a downer,” please know that even though it will continue to be overwhelming at times, I will survive. The great moments with my kids are worth it all. My encouragement in the duality of it is please find a community or be part of a community for someone else. Also, let grace and forgiveness freely flow in your house, in your car and in your relationships.

Tara Lindburg is a teacher at Academy Charter School.  She shares her house with her great husband Chad, her two amazing kids, Annika and Soren, and 3, (yes 3) greyhounds.

I'm a mom.

(Guest Post from Gayle Bell)

I’m a mom. This is a huge part of my identity, but it isn’t the whole of it. I’m also a professional. So, I’m a working mom, but that doesn’t capture all of who I am either. And really, it doesn’t differentiate me from any other mom. ‘Cause, let’s be honest, all moms work: diapers, laundry, dinner, bath time, bed time, doctor appointments, etc.

With my induction into the mom world, I felt pressured to choose a side. There is a war raging between the stay-at-home moms and the “working” moms, and you’d better arm yourself and storm the field! Are you going to commit forty hours a week to a purpose that contributes to the world around you? Or are you going to contribute to the world in the most important way by being a mom to your children twenty-four hours a day?

I refuse to take a side. Both sides infuriate me.

I am a mom twenty-four hours a day. No parent stops being a parent when they step into the office. You still check every message on your cell phone just in case something’s happened. Your heart smiles and breaks a little at the same time when you look at the pictures of your darling child or the most recent art project from daycare that adorns your desk. Parenting never stops whether you work outside the home or not. And every parent is contributing to the world around them. You certainly don’t have to go to an office to do that.

Even if you do choose a side, you’re still not safe in the ranks. Are you a working mom who wishes she could stay at home, is riddled with guilt about it, but has no choice? Or are you an empowered woman who can have it all by being the perfect mom and a high-powered professional, setting an example for your daughters to emulate and your sons to deeply respect?

Again, I will not arm myself. Right now staying at home is not an option for me, but I don’t see that as necessitating a sense of guilt. To be honest, I’m not sure I would want to stay at home if it was an option. I like my job, I believe in what I’m doing there, and yes, I want my daughter to know she can be a strong, independent woman with a career, if she chooses that. But I also don’t necessarily think I have to have a career to teach her that.

I will not arm myself because I’m a parent and a human being, and I recognize that all parents—all humans—face struggles. Parenting is hard, gloriously hard in a most fulfilling way, but stinkin’ hard. So, no, I won’t battle with other parents about the best way to parent. I don’t have expendable energy to invest in a battle, and I certainly don’t want to drain other parents of their precious energy. Parenting is hard, and I see it in every beautifully frazzled parent I meet. Parenting is hard, but it’s a hell of a lot easier when we shoulder the burden together. No, I won’t arm myself to battle you, but I will bend myself to get beneath your load with you so we can stand up together and march on as parents.

Gayle Bell is a mom to 1-1/2-year old Tessa and wife to Jason. She runs the College Achievement Program at Denver Academy, an independent school for students with learning differences.

Parenting and Judgment - Jennifer's story

My parenting journey to date can be described in one word…judged.

My partner, Jamie, and I had been together for 8 years and finally agreed to take the plunge into parenthood. Due to a number of reasons, we chose adoption and due to our finances, we chose foster care adoption. So after MAPP classes, home development workers and lots of paperwork, we were certified as we simultaneously accepted the placement of a 10 day old little boy. He was tiny, red-headed, beautiful, and suffering withdrawals from prenatal exposures. We were told to go to the NICU to be “trained.” My mom came in town to help and she went with me to the hospital. The “training” was the infant CPR and SIDS videos that new mothers watch before discharge. We held him and fed him and left the hospital. We headed to Wal-Mart later that day to meet the social worker and get his clothing allowance. 

The social worker walked in and said, “Don’t get too attached. He is going to a family placement.”  

Sucker punched, I went home in a daze. My mom started offering suggestions about not taking him, letting him go to another family, and the dangers of falling in love and then losing him. It was too late. I loved that boy the minute I held him and ultimately, Jamie and I decided to keep going.   

All three of us went to the hospital the following afternoon to sign the discharge papers and bring him home. This is when we learned that he had some heart problems and would come home on heart failure watch and seizure watch. This is when we received a chart to score his withdrawals so we would know if/when to rush him back to the ER. It was scary and intimidating and I was in love. My mom was not; however, and started again with the” letting him go” talks. At one point, she let me know that I had “no idea how to care for a healthy baby much less a sick one” and “what would I do if he quit breathing.” 

I had been judged….. and I was found lacking.

We went home. My mom left shortly after. We started parenting. And now 18 months later, we are waiting on a court date to finalize our little boy’s adoption. He has brought us so much joy.

And weaved into his first year and a half has been many more lessons about judgment.

*He laid his head on my chest in those first days home, listened to my heart beat and noticed my unfamiliar smell. He judged me…I was deemed NOT his biological mother. We started our journey toward attachment.

*He was carried constantly from day one (due to advice from the NICU nurses and due to attachment). I rarely put him down and affectionately called him my kangaroo baby. I was judged…I was found spoiling my child.

*We have co-slept in various forms from the beginning and still do today. I have been judged…I have been found ignorant by many.

*We spent A LOT of time in doctor’s offices. I filled out the paperwork. I placed my name in the mother’s information section and I wrote in his medical history in the notes section. I was softly asked by multiple nurses what drugs he was exposed to in utero.  I answered the whispered questions and watched them avoid eye contact. I was judged…I was found a drug addict, an unfit mother, and I harmed my baby.

The list goes on and on.

I have learned that parents are quickly judged in this world. Parenthood is hard. The learning curve is steep and swift and by the time we get the hang of it, the short people change the game. We have our own insecurities. Our kids have unique personalities. And standing up under the weight of the added judgments can be so H.A.R.D. 

I know that this journey has changed me. I am quicker to smile at the mom with the screaming toddler in the grocery store. I am slower to knock someone else’s ideas and strategies that work in their families. I am learning to breathe and relax and remember that this is not a race or a competition. I am learning it is easier to navigate this journey when we reach out and take each other’s hand and let the judgments fall by the side.

Jennifer

(Jennifer and her partner, Jamie, have one son.)

Micromanaging Maternal Instincts

(Guest Post from Rosie Connolly)

Just before I found out I was pregnant, my friend Heather gave birth to her son. I was so grateful for her willingness to share her thoughts and experiences, especially since she’s so frank. I wanted to know, from her first 6 weeks as a mom, what she would have liked someone to tell her from the beginning.

“Breastfeeding is hard. It’s hard and it hurts. They tell you it isn’t going to hurt, but it does.”

I filed her thought away, and I listened to all the doulas and lactation consultants tell me the standard line—breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt. If it does, pop the baby off and relatch.

If only this had been the worst of my breastfeeding problems.

After a short labor with an exhausting amount of pushing, they placed my new son, Diego, on my chest. I started at my alien, cone-headed baby as the nurses scrubbed him up and listened to his heart and lungs, and my midwife fussed over me. I just stared. It was probably one of the most surreal experiences of my life, having this little creature crying on my chest. I didn’t get it—the connection, the maternal understanding—until a while later when he finally latched on.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t slept in 48 hours. Maybe something worked out right that first time. But it didn’t hurt.

Unfortunately, the rest of the time in the hospital was not spent in breastfeeding comfort. Latch. Ouch. Pop. Relatch. Ouch. Pop. Frustrated baby. Frustrated momma. When I asked the nurses for help, they just shoved his open mouth onto me. When the lactation consultant asked me how much it hurt on a scale of 1 to 10, I said, oh, maybe a 4, and showed her the huge blood blister on my nipple. Her response was, at this stage, if it only hurts at about a 4, just let the baby nurse. It’ll get better, and he needs the practice.

As a woman who frequently suffers from migraines and was stupid enough to get a tattoo on her foot, I am quite familiar with pain. Perhaps my scale of 1 to 10 equals someone else’s 1 to 50. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I gritted my teeth, continued to nurse, and took my baby home on Wednesday afternoon.

At the Friday appointment with the pediatrician (who wasn’t our regular pediatrician), Diego had lost more than ten percent of his birth weight. The pediatrician furrowed his brow and sent spasms of anxiety through my sleep-deprived mind. The nurse gave me ideas on how to increase milk supply, and they made us an appointment with their on-staff lactation consultant for the next day. She spent an hour with us on Saturday. She watched. She gave me tips on how to open his jaw wider. She showed my husband, Jose, how he could help. She pointed out that Diego’s jaw was uneven. She suggested he might have a tiny tongue-tie. But, ultimately, what she taught me to do—which no one at the hospital had done—was teach me how to teach Diego to nurse.

On Sunday, we went in for a weight check. He had gained 10 ounces, and had almost returned to his original birth weight.

With a sigh of relief, we went about our lives. Jose and I juggled ways to get me at least one four-hour sleep cycle—as recommended by the lactation consultant to help milk supply. I spent my nights awake, watching terrible TV, as my son nursed every two hours overnight, and then slept from 8am to noon. My mother came to support us. Everything seemed fine.

Ten days later we went back to the pediatrician (I don’t remember why). The first thing the pediatrician (yet another in the practice) noticed was that our son had gained an average of 2–2.5 ounces a day in 10 days. “That’s too much,” he said. “We need to slow him down.”

Back to the on-staff lactation consultant. She gave me tips on how to reduce supply: peppermint tea, block feeding, pacifier use. And she sent us home.

I did these things. My mother left and Jose’s parents arrived. They spent almost their entire two weeks with us passing around a crying baby while, between naps and feeding sessions, I hid in my room, trying not to cry along with my baby.

After another ten days, we returned to the pediatrician’s office again. In ten days my son had gained one-tenth of an ounce. He had gone from “gaining too much” to not enough. Not nearly enough.

With my sweet mother-in-law at my side, I almost burst into tears. All I wanted to do was feed my son, help him grow and thrive and be a happy baby. I couldn’t even do that. I had continued to suffer through clogged ducts, blisters and tight latches, frustrated baby wails as I would try to relatch him. Add to that the mental beating I gave myself daily because I either fed my baby too much or too little as my body developed into a glorified milk factory.

I needed a second opinion, or I would lose my mind. I called Bloomington Area Birth Services (bloomingtonbirth.org), where we had taken our birthing classes, and made an appointment with one of their lactation consultants. I met with her the day after my in-laws left, and told her my story. She listened with rapt attention, and then sat in silence on the floor, stunned.

When she recovered her senses, she told me something that no one had bothered to mention, through our birth classes, from the pediatrician’s office, in the breastfeeding books, or anywhere:

Babies will not eat too much.

Babies aren’t like adults who go out to dinner, have an appetizer and a salad, are already full before their entrée comes but still eat it AND dessert, and then sit back and unbutton their pants. Babies eat until they are full and then they stop. There’s no reason to heap on that extra helping of milk after the first helping of milk. It’s not chocolate milk, after all.

Then she suggested my new plan: to have no plan. Stop letting others micromanage my instincts. Feed my baby the way that felt right to me. And stop worrying about if he’s eating too much or not enough. He’ll take what he needs and no more. But let him get what he needs.

And so we did. He nursed when he wanted to—which was a lot—and he stopped when he was done. He continued to gain an average of 2 ounces a day for several months. But the constant crying that prevailed during my in-laws’ visit almost entirely ceased. And a happy baby emerged.

My son will be ten months in the middle of January. His jaw is still uneven, and so I still get the occasional blister, but I have one of the happiest babies I’ve ever met. And, by the way, he’s HUGE. At his nine-month appointment, he was in the 92nd percentile for weight and 90th percentile for height. The only problem I see? It’s exhausting to carry around a 24lb infant.

After all of this, I understand what Heather meant when she said breastfeeding is hard. But just after Diego was born, she also said, “Stick with it. If you want to breastfeed, then breastfeed. Through all the pain and frustration, it’s one of the most rewarding experiences of motherhood, and you’re the only person who can do that for him.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Rosie Connolly is a mom to 10-month-old Diego. She lives in Irving, TX with her husband Jose, Diego, and two jealous cats.