The End of an Era

This whole breastfeeding thing, it didn't come to us easily. As I might have mentioned. From the world's clumsiest latch to hatred of one side to full-fledged strikes, the only things in our favor were a ridiculous supply and my single-minded, bordering-on-pathological determination to make it work. We were going to be successful. WE WERE. (did I say bordering on? ....anyway)

But when it clicked, it clicked. It took probably five months, but when we got there, it was just the easiest, most natural thing in the world. For Grace, it went from the worst torture to the greatest comfort. And for me, I went from counting the days until I could quit with a clear conscience to panicking when I realized we were almost done.

And we're there. I didn't want to nurse her past a year, and I still know it's the right choice to stop now. But ohhhhhhh. I'm sad. I'm sad about the whole weaning process, and I'm sad about being done and never having that same relationship again. I am absolutely dreading the first time she makes it clear that is what she wants, and I have to tell her no. I know that it will hardly be the last time I have to tell her no, but there's something about THIS. I remember once watching a patient grabbing for his father's hand, and his father backed away and put his hand in his pocket. When I think about weaning, that's how I feel. She's looking for physical comfort from me, and I'm telling her no.

I look back on all my insanity, the ridiculous lengths I went to, getting her back in the groove with this, the time I've spent with the dreaded pump, the frustration and the stress, and now the thought of taking it all away, and I still don't regret a second of it. I wouldn't change a thing. Except maybe I'd have her wake up tomorrow and hate nursing. That would be pretty freaking awesome.

Houseiversary

We moved into our house a year ago today. It was a rough day- I had my 36 week appt the same day, and I couldn't reschedule it because I was the only person working the next day. We had no food in the house, so I didn't have breakfast until we were driving to the new house and I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts. I went straight from there, to the appt where my doctor told me I was not at all dilated, but high and closed and started explaining how they schedule inductions. Then I went home and helped my poor one-armed husband unpack.

I definitely don't recommend moving when you're nine months pregnant and your husband is two-weeks postop from significant shoulder surgery. Just saying, in case you were considering it.

It feels so weird to look back on the last year, because obviously life is so, so, so different now. I think about how I felt and what I expected and yeah...it hasn't been at all what I expected. And since we moved in right before she was born, I think of our time in the house the same way I think about our time as parents, and it's just...weird. I'm not explaining this well. If I were a better writer, I could say exactly what I'm thinking, how I remember trudging up the back steps every day after work, still hugely pregnant, still not in labor, and the day when Grace was less than a month old, and we had to go to my parents' house because they were replacing the windows in the house, or how a few weeks before that, we had to keep spending the day there because they were rewiring the house (didn't expect that one!), or how my parents had to sit at OUR house, because they were replacing the basement windows, but we were in the hospital having a baby, and it makes me feel SOMETHING, I just can't put it into words or explain exactly what I mean. It's frustrating.

I guess maybe my only point is that I usually don't pay attention to something like a houseiversary, but I do here, because it's all tied up with so many other intense memories, and I feel the need to commemorate it somehow. Like I should go home and watch The Money Pit.

Eleven?!

Yikes. My baby is only one month away from being a whole year old.

I remember this day like it was yesterday:



There was nothing really special or outstanding about that day, it was just a really nice day, a little cool, nice breeze, and Gracie was happy to play in the yard. Well, no. There was sort of something special about that day- it was the first time I realized Gracie wasn't difficult anymore. She was playing on the blanket, without crying or arching or getting mad, and I realized she hadn't done any of that for awhile. You know how people talk about losing a lot of weight, but still thinking of themselves as heavy? It was kind of like that. It made the day that much sweeter.

I didn't really have any major epiphanies or anything today, we just had similarly nice weather, and a lot of fun playing outside again. It was the perfect way to spend the day, and get ready for her to go from being a baby to being a toddler (even if she'll always be my baby). (ew, Kathy, when did you get so cheesey?) (December 8, 2008, at 8:38am.)

Of course, that was then...

When I was a staff nurse, the absolute worst thing that could happen was having to work a night shift when we turned the clocks back. We did get paid for that extra hour, but I didn't care. I'd give back the money to not have to work a 13-hour shift. Yech. I didn't think it was possible to hate the time change more than I did then.

Gracie woke up at 3:08 today. On a normal day, 4:08 would be an unacceptable wake-up time. This morning, it was downright perverse.

Proving once again, you should NEVER say "well, at least it can't get any worse..."

Here, breathe into this paper bag

In six short weeks, my baby will be a full year old.

I will not have a baby anymore. I will have a toddler. Well, I mean, I'm not sure she'll be walking, which makes the title seem wrong somehow, but she'll definitely be cruising, and anyway, the other day I didn't have to carry her into the kitchen because she crawled there herself and also besides that YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

I am not sure how this happened.

Yesterday, Stephen and I were watching her sleep on our spy-cam, and he asked if my dad had fed her some mysterious potion that made her grow a foot in one day. Because, seriously, she's a big kid now. I looked through all our old pictures, trying to see if I could tell when it happened. Even looking at all of them in one fell swoop, I can't tell you. It's not like one day she was a baby and the next day she wasn't, but you look at the beginning, and you see a baby, and you look at her now, and you don't exactly see a big kid, but she's definitely not a baby.

It's more than just the milestone of being a year old, though. For all our drama in the beginning, we have settled into such a sweet, perfect little nursing routine. I am not nursing her past a year. There are many different reasons for this, some good and some dubious, but the bottom line is, this is the right decision for us. In spite of that, the other day I realized that I had just six short weeks left in this relationship, and my hands went clammy. It makes me so sad to think of that being gone forever. Also, in true Gracie fashion, she's become quite the fan of this activity herself, just in time for us to be getting ready to quit. I'm not sure what I'm more anxious about, how much I'll miss it, or how she'll react. There's also the minor fact that she refuses to sleep past 4:30 in the morning, but I can at least get her to hang out in bed with me for awhile if she's nursing. When that's gone, I am good and hosed.

I'm trying to just stay in the moment. It would be typical of me to spend the next six weeks freaking out over her first birthday, and then wonder just what the heck happened during those six weeks, when I was busy obsessing over what was coming. I'm also reminding myself how looong her first six weeks were, but then, if the next weeks weeks are that hard, then we've got bigger problems.

Just gonna do my best to enjoy the ride.

I know there's ice cream in here SOMEWHERE.

More Marathon Thoughts

The similarities between running a marathon and having a baby don't seem to end, I'm noticing. First there are the months of training (pregnancy). Then the big day comes, and you're scared and nervous and don't really know what to expect. And even though you knew it would hurt, not like this OH MY GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! Then the crushing nausea and the random chills. Also the subtle fear, through the whole thing, that you really might die. I mean, people DO die doing this! Then it's over and you can't stop processing the whole thing.

I've been reading more about post-marathon recovery, and the physiologic impact of running 26.2 miles. I had learned a lot of it before, but I didn't really KNOW it until now. First and foremost, running a marathon isn't a show of strength and fitness. It's a stunt. It's not as foolhardy as climbing Everest, and it takes a good degree more dedication and hard work than bungee jumping, but it's still a stunt. Aside from the risk of sudden cardiac death, it is not good for your body. Cardiac function takes over a week to return to normal, and in that time, people are still at increased risk of dying- DYING!! wtf?! You're pretty much guaranteed to get sick within a week of race day. And let's not even talk about the weird aches and pains that crop up. All week long, I've felt like I had the flu. Just, achey and tired (soooo tired...) and foggy.

Oh yeah, and the other way that running a marathon is just like having a baby? You spend the whole process swearing you'll never do it again, but then the days (or weeks or months) pass, and you totally forget how much it sucks (suuuucks!), and wonder not if you'll do it again, but when.