I’m a self-proclaimed turtle. Slow-mo New Mexico. There’s no such thing as a fast-paced New Mexican. A unicorn. A chupacabra. They just don’t exist (well maybe the chupacabra). So you can imagine what a change becoming a mom has been to my laid-back nature. It’s lit a fire directly below my posterior, propelling me into race-mode all day long—changing diapers, bathing the baby, dressing said baby, heating bottles for said baby, cleaning and sterilizing bottles, playing with baby, creating a toy circuit for baby (because baby gets bored…I had no idea), and now making baby food because baby is officially six months old.
I’m that annoying mom who talks baby stuff like it’s the only thing I have going on—poopy diapers, tummy time, growth spurts, height and weight percentiles, teething tricks, scooting vs. crawling. I promised never to become this person. Even when I was single or married without children, I avoided those mom parties, the places where moms herd…graze…compare…
How do you even begin to articulate this stage in life? I’ve never been so besieged with thoughts, feelings, emotions, hormones, and bouts of lethargy, while at the same time the happiest I’ve ever been—happy from the depths of my soul. From the moment I wake up until I haphazardly fall asleep, I’m in awe of this little miracle. She breathes. She sighs. She sleeps. She laughs. And she looks at me like she knows me better than anyone else ever could. She is the best of us. We created her. Life as we know it right now is pulling from two polar opposite places and somewhere in the middle, we’re existing in a haze of weary bliss.
Even the blatant honesty of things—my body is the softest and lumpiest it’s ever been—doesn’t faze me. I’m the strongest I’ve ever felt. Birth made me a warrior, a fierce mama bear, and more passionate about helping women and women’s rights. I have more respect for single mothers and working mothers and single-working mothers. I don’t know how they do it all. It’s probably because they don’t have time to talk about it. The talkers are rarely the doers. In fact one of my clients has a saying, “If you’ve got time to lean, then you’ve got time to clean.” Ain’t that the truth?
But I’m not going to lie—I have help. I declined the whole nanny and night nurse thing because I don’t have to clean, unlike my mother. She did it all, and with three kids nonetheless, while my dad spent months on the road working. At night she was a cop, and in the day she was a mom, cook, housekeeper, nurse, tutor, and best friend. If I can just be half the mom that she was, Darlington will be the luckiest little girl.
Another amazing woman who inspired my foundation into motherhood is my best friend Kathryn. I was fortunate enough to witness her become a mother before me. She was a successful attorney, as was her husband, but she decided to put her career on hold to rear their two children and support her husband’s ambitions.
I asked her how she could give everything up. Before Darlington I imagined I’d gladly hire a night nurse to get a good night’s sleep and consider putting my child in daycare. Then in one answer, she completely changed my way of thinking and thus, is the inspiration for my first three months as a mother. You only get this one chance in these precious few months. You can go back to work, but you can’t go back to these times with your baby.
I never thought I’d be one to cry over spilled milk—and not just once, but twice—to completely lose my shit, standing over the kitchen sink and mumbling no…no…why me?
Sounds a bit melodramatic, but that’s exactly what happens when a new sleep-deprived mother, wearing just a diaper, accidentally throws out one full ounce of breast milk. That’s a lot of sauce only one and a half weeks after giving birth, and it took every ounce of me to make it.
Through small bouts of clarity, I came to realize that the art of breastfeeding is as much a mental sport as it is physical, and it had been taking its toll on me.
It didn’t seem fair. I had dedicated myself to the process. I read countless books, went to six hours worth of breastfeeding classes—Breast Feeding 101, Breast Feeding for the Stay-at-Home Mother, Breast Feeding for the Working Mother, Breastfeeding for Dummies, Breast Feeding for Old Mothers with Small Breasts. I had purchased the best, hospital-grade breast pump on the market so there were no excuses. I was so ready, and for some reason or another, I was having issues.
I never thought I’d be one to cry over spilled milk—and not just once, but twice—to completely lose my shit, standing over the kitchen sink and mumbling no…no…why me?