Letting Go of My Girl to Fully Embrace Boy Motherhood.

My 10 year-old boy yesterday handed me a water bottle from his backpack, leftover from several days ago. I’m sure in all the excitement of summer vacation he neglected to think about emptying his belongings. At least until he was packing for a sleepover (a bit heavy a half-full water bottle is you know). His simple, “Here mom” as he handed it to me sparked a rare moment in my heart where I melted into myself.

Usually the words would have passed right through me as I continued to think about my grocery list, check my latest e-mail, or curse out the thunderstorms that are wreaking havoc on my newly planted flowers. But I happened upon a moment in which I was fully present, and was able to accept this simple exchange from him, feeling so full and grateful in my heart.

“Here mom.”

So brief and yet so profound. How many women are just aching inside to be blessed with those few simple words, and yet through every effort imaginable cannot concieve a baby of their own? How many have held their children so briefly, without opportunity to hear their voice at all? Even still, those grief stricken mothers who will never hear it from their children’s precious lips again?

How easy it is to take for granted those everyday moments.

Working as a labor nurse is an open invitation to bear witness and experience with other families great joy…and great pain…when it comes to bringing their own children into this world. It’s like looking at a photo; a snapshot moment of someone’s life. I am allowed to be in that labor room as their little miracle arrives, sometimes even when her own mother is not. I am there too as she delivers her child by c-section when things don’t go quite right, wiping some tears of dashed expectations away, helping them focus on the joy of their birth despite the unexpected route.

And I am there with them when we cannot find the heartbeat. When they hear instead their newborn baby will not breathe with the life of this world. I witness the visceral screaming of a mother’s heart torn to shreds. I hold their hands, watching as the child is placed into their arms, looking heartbreakingly perfect…except for the missing rise and fall of the little round belly.

I have three boys.

Occasionally I will be asked if I will try “one more time” for a girl. Or someone will look at me with pity, that my third was not the girl I had presumably hoped for. My middle son even asked me one day if I was ever sad that he wasn’t a girl.

I will never deny that I had visions of fairy princess parties, giggly girl sleepovers and wedding dress shopping with my unborn daughter. I learned to french braid my own hair in the seventh grade, a skill that has yet to be proven valuable. I torture my young niece to come sit next to me so I can run my hands through her long locks, satisfying a small piece of a deeply rooted craving for that mother-daughter connection.

But I have three boys. I will tell you with my entire being I was nothing but thrilled when my husband announced as such to me at their births (all three were surprises, the one really good surprise I feel is left in this life to choose).

They are energetic. They wrestle, love trains, cars, video games, and football. I can barely keep up with their energy, constantly telling them to “quiet down” or “take it outside”. I cannot keep a single pair of jeans without a tear in the knee for more than a few weeks at a time (even the good brands). There are no barbies. No quiet moments of coloring. No frilly tu-tus or ballet lessons in this house.

And I love every moment of it.

I was pregnant once between my second and third son. It took my husband and I a long time to reconcile to the idea of a third child. I was ready, he was done. We talked. We fought. I cried and he resisted. We had finally chosen, together, to try and bring one more child to this world. I was thrilled to have it finally come to fuition. It was a dream come true.

Seven days later she was gone. I know in my heart it was my daughter that had rested so briefly in my womb. As devestated as I was, I will forever be grateful for the short time we had together that summer. She taught me so much. She taught our family so much. One of the most feared but valuable lessons in life is one of great loss and grief.

Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash

The day she left me I had been helping other women become mothers. I watched my own child’s life drift out through my blood, and yet there was no choice but to contiune on through my day. I will never forget the moment I returned home, knelt to the floor and held my entire family with all the stregnth I had left. My two beautiful boys and my husband encirlced around me as we all cried helplessly together for this lost piece of us.

When I realize I have allowed the moment of being called “mom” to be taken for granted, I do not chastise myself. It is such a normal part of my day there is no reason to believe it is anything but an ordinary moment. Instead I find gratefulness for that glimpse of bliss being present afforded me. I relished in the sound of my son’s voice calling me the most beautiful word I am privledged to be known as.

When I scrub the mold off my next forgotten water bottle, or pick up the dirty gym socks off the floor, I hope a fragment of that gratitude will return to me. As fiercely as I wanted a little girl to care for, the universe gave me the boys I really needed. My baby girl was with us as long as we needed her to be. To show us the healing power of release and comfort found amongst those you love in times of great sadness and loss.

For those of us who desire to, are fortunate enough to now be, or have ever been known as “mom”, there is not a more powerful, more beautifully spoken word. It is the challenge of us as mothers to see the greatness of what we have through the the pain of what is lost, or what might have been. But the journey of becoming mom is where the love is let into your heart.

Photo by Anna Kolosyuk on Unsplash

It is only in the act of releasing through our grief that we are able to see life’s greatest gifts. For me, the blessing of my boys will never be lost in the shuffle of everyday life, even if I hold that in my heart without much conscious thought.

And when my son asks me if I am ever sad I got a boy instead, I can vehnemently and honestly reply,

“Never”.

Why You Should (Selfishly) Make Your Kids Do Chores.

It’s not for the reason you think.

It’s summertime!!! Time for afternoons at the pool, lazy mornings and movie-night sleepovers. My own boys cannot stop with the countdown (only one and a half more days of school!!), while I have my own reasons for looking forward to our days together.

Photo by Raphaël Biscaldi on Unsplash

For one thing…my house is about to get a lot cleaner.

We have had our moments over the last several years of enforcing chores at home. I’ve been determined to make this work, instilling a respect for money and hard work I see lacking in so many of our youth today (Yes!!! I totally admit to my contribution to this enabling society!). I had a friend who was so good teaching her child this, she had her seven year old putting his money into three different pots in a matter of weeks. One for saving, one for spending and one for sharing.

Photo by Brina Blum on Unsplash

For me??? It’s a push-and-pull constant battle. Not to mention I can’t ever keep track of what I ask my kids to do. I bought a nifty chore chart on Amazon for my preschooler…you know with the magnet smiley faces?

He likes to line them up and knock them onto the floor.

And for my elementary aged kids I have a cool refrigerator magnet chore chart (also from Amazon), complete with 5 chalk colored markers to fill in their daily duties.

Yeah…it’s blank.

But I was putting the dishes away with my ten-year old the other night and I had an epiphany. It’s not really for the cleaner house, or for the responsibility we are teaching our kids that we need to “force” them do chores (althought that is a definite perk). It is for our own personal renewal and reinforcement of the relationship we have with our kids.

Huh???

Photo by Tracey Hocking on Unsplash

To explain… I realized, while drying the dishes with one of my three children, we had a perfect moment to talk without the distraction of siblings, TV, or the hustle and bustle of every day life to get in the way. It was just the two of us, and we were able to talk easily while also getting to know each other’s rhythm and synchonizing to it to get the job done. I was grateful for this moment of awareness that allowed me to see, in a much larger picture, exactly what I can gain from working with my kids, and not just expect from them.

We had regained a tremendous gift from the action of working together for a common purpose. While my son may argue it was a “chore” he was forced into, I can see where persuing this with each of my children on a regular basis will bear fruit to a lost art in the culture of parenting today.

When we spend so much time doing for our children, we forget to allow them the opportunity to do for themselves. Allowing them to feel a sense of accomplishment, belonging and self-worth; a rare gift we are able to arm them with to battle a very separate and ego-centric world they face every day.

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash

Not only that, when we engage with them, we regain a sense of belonging and cooperation that is so sorely missing in the family dynamics of American culture. Just taking a few moments to engage with your child for the greater good of the family, brings you together in ways no money could ever buy you.

So while I definitely plan to take advantage of late night movies and pancake breakfasts at 10 am, you can bet I will be getting those boys to help scrape the maple syrup off the floor.

And when they complain, I will just tell them it is for their highest good.

They don’t have to know it’s for mine too.

psst!!! Summer is here!!

Learning opportunities are in full bloom with this Summer-themed word search. Kids will have lots of fun hunting for words while they reinforce their spelling, vocabulary and word recognition skills. Even more fun learning resources are just a click away at Education.com!

How could I have ruined my baby’s teeth??? What EVERY expectant mother should know…

One of my lovely co-workers is also a mother of three beautiful children. We treated our pregnancies very similarly. Conscious of every food choice, staying active (admittedly she more than I), getting ourselves to every prenatal visit with our midwife.

In other words, we both took the very best care of ourselves and our unborn children from the moment of conception. My friend was even a little braver than I, delivering her children at a local birth center. All went smoothly, she has three beautiful, perfect, lovely kids.

Well, almost perfect.

Her first born started showing signs of tooth decay because of poor tooth enamel at a very early age. She hadn’t expected this turn of events, being that she fed her kids a very healthy diet – sugary foods and drinks not even available – and had breastfed her children as long as her body and baby would allow.

They all had healthy dental hygeine habits…singing ABC’s along with their light-up toothbrushes, ensuring they brushed long enough twice a day.

So how did this happen?

Photo by: Sarah Pflug on Burst

The culprit? A Vitamin D deficiency.

Now wait. Didn’t she eat a healthy diet? I know she did. I watched her eat salads, fruit and veggies, feeding her unborn baby organic, untainted food.

Certainly these foods would have provided her baby enough Vitamin D?

Not always.

It’s a common misconception that when eating a generally heatlhy diet, along with prenatal vitamins that have enough folic acid, you will consume exactly what you need to feed your body and baby duirng pregnancy.

Actually, it wasn’t until recently, (the first article I found was dated 2008) that scientists linked the lack of Vitamin D in utero to a child’s dental health. Click here to read more of the facts.

Basically speaking…low vitamin D levels in pregnancy may affect tooth calcification, leading to enamel defects (the coating that protects our teeth), which in turn leaves the tooth subject to cavities.

What can I do?

It’s actually pretty easy.

Prenatal vitamins will not give you enough of the good stuff to protect your baby. The bottom line is you need at least 2000 IU of Vitamin D a day in pregnancy. Most prenatal vitamins have between 400-800 IUs. (Don’t double your vitamin! Getting too much of the other stuff is not okay!).

Vitamin D is found in milk, cheese, fatty fish (such as salmon), cod liver oil (ummmm yuk???) and eggs.

Fortunately for our taste buds science has found a way to give us cod liver oil efficiently through supplements…just look for fish oil or cod liver oil supplements at your local vitamin supplier (yea for our taste buds!).

Photo by Dakota Monk from Burst

There’s also plenty of Vitamin D in sunshine…but don’t count on living in a sunny state like Colorado as being enough. It wasn’t for my friend. And of course there are risks of too much sun exposure.

So…no, you can’t get your doctor to write a prescription to spend your nine months on a tropical beach for health benefits (sigh….).

Taking the extra supplements, as well as getting higher doses of dietary Vitamin D and some of that good ‘ole sunshine, will give your baby the best chance of forming good enamel on their teeth. Plus it is also shown to aid in brain and heart health, as well as decreasing the incidence of inflammatory linked diseases. Plenty of good reasons – besides good teeth – to get plenty of it throughout your pregnancy.

Teeth start forming as early as 14 weeks of pregnancy, so don’t wait! You cannot overdose on this fat-soluable vitamin so taking it even before conception is okay.

Photo by: Tamara Chemij on Burst

The lesson.

Guilt plagues my friend, as she watches her daughter struggle with the result of something so easily avoided. She knows intellectually – as a nurse – that there was nothing she could have done differently, soley beacause she didn’t know. But as a mother – it is difficult not to blame oneself. Your job is to promote your child’s health, and in her eyes she failed at that.

The fact that my children don’t have the same issues is actually a surprise. It’s possible the glass of milk a day my mother got me in the habit of drinking is the only thing that saved my kids from the same fate.

Whatever the case, the lesson is to keep your eyes and ears open because there is always something new science uncovers. I’m simply lucky that this didn’t happen to my kiddos, and my friend is happy to share her story with others so they don’t have to go through the same trauma.

Family Over Fame: Why I’m on Ellen’s Side

Waiting in line at the grocery store, as mundane and ordinary as that is, I had an epiphany. Sometimes it’s the more ordinary moments which bring to light the most profound thoughts.

The headline was hard to miss. Ellen DeGeneres Chooses Family Over Fame.Good for her, I thought. And then…what does that even mean? Why do I care? It’s not like that was a choice I would need to make in this lifetime.

Then it hit me. I already had.

My name might as well have been in her place, screaming to the world my professinal decisions for the sake of my own family (Maybe us ordinary folk aren’t so different from those superstars as we are made to believe?).

Unlike Ellen, our every move is not documented, photographed and scrutinized for the world to see (you put it that way, why would you choose fame???). But our choices are foundationally the same. How we balance our home lives with our careers, what priority we place making money over our relationships, influences the trajectory of our lives and our happiness within it.

I had been happily going about my career as a labor nurse, taking advantage of the twelve weeks of maternity leave. It was October; the sun was shining, the leaves were changing, and I was grateful beyond belief to have all that I needed to care for my family. I had no plans to climb any professional ladders. I was going to go back to work (albeit reluctantly) to continue on.

Within days of returning, I was faced with an enormous professional decision. My director had stepped down, and I was from day one of my return been courted and elevated to a new level. I was the obvious choice to lead our unit, they said. My experience, personality, professionalism and ability to form lasting relationships was exactly what was needed to repair our broken state. It was up to me to pick up the pieces, holding together the people I had come to love and admire over the previous years.

Wow. I had no idea I had so much power. How humbling it is to be told you posess the gifts that will repair old wounds.

How convincing.

So I did it. To this day I’m not sure if I so much agreed or was guided into it by those above me. The stroking of the ego and the flash of money made it difficult to refuse. That would certainly take care of my family, which really was my top priority. There was no harm in trying right? I mean, what was the worst that could happen?

ENTER STAGE RIGHT: The reality of Corporate America.

WOAH.

It was a whilwind. People trapped in a state of ego. High heels, fancy cars, bigger houses, name brand clothes. Every morning the leaders of the hospital grouped together for a “safety huddle”, reporting safety concerns for their prospective units. This gathering left me with such anxiety and distaste. Yes on the surface it was about safety, but the undercurrent of this gathering was about showing off and showing up one another.

And then there was the expectations. I had told my supervisior in the beginning, I had one very defined boundary. My time with my family was important…no it was imperitive. Conditional even. I had a newborn and two other children at home. I would be there. I would be present for my children. For choir concerts and kindergarten presentations, to put my baby to sleep at night and take the kids to school every morning. I would be there.

Sure. No problem. They said.

Except it was a problem. For months I had to explain myself. Why I wasn’t in the office at 7:00 am like everyone else, why I couldn’t stay until 8:00 pm every night. I did my best to balance. I knew it was important to be present for both shifts, which required some early mornings and late nights. What I couldn’t get accross was why I wouldn’t put in 15 hour days. And when I did, why I wanted to work a 4 hour day later in the week. You have to be here, they said.

So…I did everything I could to be there. Compromising my boundary without even knowing I was doing it. Being pulled into the hypnosis of a rat race I never really signed up for. Money being the proffered pocketwatch pendulum, swinging back and forth, ever convincing of my need to continue. To give in a little more. To make this one other sacrifice.

My body began to show signs of my suffering. I was exausted beyond any measure I had been before. My phone had been possessed by everything work related. I got multiple texts throughout the day AND night. From the staff, from my supervisor, from the automated system updating us to the hospital census. There was no break. Saturday and Sunday rolled into the work week. Even when I was home I was not home. Not present. Not emotionally or mentally there. Even with my physical boundaries I discovered it didn’t matter. The constant e-mails and demands of this job kept me away from my family for an entire year.

It took a mistake for me to see the truth. I sent a text to my friend, my angel really, for she listened to my struggle on a daily basis. Only when I pressed send did I realize the receiver of my message, my complaint about my boss’s negativity and my struggle to remain present and positive, was in fact…my boss. My heart sank to my feet as I realized my folly, sure to get me fired.

Being a Friday event, I left work almost immediately, wanting to escape persecution for what I had done. I had the weekend to think about it all before facing her Monday morning. I spent hours and many tears agonizing over what to do, realizing in the end it was a very simple decision.

Actually, it was suddenly clear the universe had played its hand in making this decision for me.

Sitting accross from her that day, watching the anger eminating from her body, I told her the truth. What I said was not wrong, and how I managed my days was the best I could do. I stood firm in my ground that I would not sacrifice my precious time with my family. She stood firm in her ground that this factor was the expectation of this job. We could not reconcile our personal beliefs with what was necessary for me to continue.

I was released. I was relieved. And best of all, I could go back to being me. I returned to where I started, taking care of patients and shoulder to shoulder with my best friends. With those like me, committed to choosing family over fame. Commited to choosing to honor themselves over what money could bring.

That time among those seeking more, those motivated to acheive in this corporate world, was a time of great struggle and great learning for me. There are those who are made for the fame of it all, who are able to balance and be who they really are in such a cutthroat environment. I applaud them. I am grateful to have leaders willing to put it all on the line and am in awe of those who are able to be themselves and be present. It is a rare bird indeed who can keep their wits about them, not losing their true Selves when their selves are striving for attention and status.

I, for one, am grateful I was able to experience and bear witness to my own ego in the midst of so much evidence of its power. It brought me back to myself, validating my true pupose in this life. My true power, despite a smaller paycheck.

I am a nurse. I am a writer. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am present.

I am.

Find out who you are and be that person. That’s what your soul is put on this Earth to be. Find that truth, live that truth, and everything else will come. -Ellen DeGeneres

Well said Ms. DeGeneres. And well done.

Confounded by Co-Sleeping? What No One Wants to Say.

Flashback to 2008. The baby’s crib is perfect in the gender neutral hues of green and yellow. It had a bumper which of course was only for cute. The little one would never sleep in a crib with the bumper. Everyone knew that was not safe. My husband and I had moved to the downstairs bedroom from the much larger master upstairs. We were going to be close enough to the baby to hear any cries for help, yet separate enough to maintain our private space. That way we could all get the sleep we needed and the baby would be trained to sleep properly. Self-soothing was the way to go. I was even willing to let the little one “cry it out” like the books said. It was worth it. Soon we would all be harmonious in our slumber. Peaceful. In our seperate beds. As it should be.

In the Beginning

The first little guy arrives, all squeals and squalor. He is cute as a button and breast feeding like a champ. I’m exhausted. But I’m still the happy kind of exhausted where I will gladly drag myself out of bed to pick him up from the pack-n-play set up in our smaller version of a master bedroom. We had painted the “baby’s room” next door a cheerful yellow and the crib had the perfectly fitted sheets so he wouldn’t inadvertently tangle himself when he started sleeping there. Oh we were going to use it. We had even tried it for a couple of naptimes but right now the baby was just too little to sleep alone. Soon enough he would be sleeping longer and we could go to back to “plan A”. You know. Harmonious slumber. Peace. That was coming any day now.

But right now I was squeezing my heavy, leaking, bleeding body between the temporary crib and the bed…two, three, wait…what time is it??? Ok maybe seven times since we went to bed. No matter. It’s only been a few weeks. Soon I wouldn’t need to do this and he would be sleeping next door. In his crib. But for right now I would just lay down. Didn’t the lactation consultant say something about side lying? That sounded good. I would stay awake…I promise. He could just nurse and I would put him back to bed. Right after. I promise.

Enter: A ton of bricks. Directly on my head.

I awaken several hours later mortified. My husband and I had slept uninterrupted, and with my sweet, precious tiny baby right smack in between us. OMG. It was the horror of all horrors. I had allowed for my baby to co-sleep. IN MY BED. I was officially the worst mother in the world and I should be put to death. I didn’t deserve this child. I was destined to roll over him in my sleep, or my husband would, and it would all be over. The universe would take my precious baby away from me and I would be devastated and all alone.

Ok. So I needed to calm down. It would NEVER happen again. I mean, he was ok. No harm no foul. And I was more rested now. Obviously I was delerious when I fell asleep. Now I knew better. Everything was for his safety and I would never do THAT again.

Except that it did happen again.

So here’s the thing. I had heard all the horror stories. I was a nurse, and I sent my patients home with the very good and evidence-based education that they needed to keep the baby in the same room but in seperate beds. The theory behind this practice was to minimize the risk of SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome) while also avoiding the increased risk of suffocation that placing a newborn in bed with you afforded. There was also the possibility that babies could roll off the bed (it happened to me) causing serious injury or death (fortunuately did NOT happen to me). There were co-sleeping cribs especially designed to allow direct access to the baby while remaining in your own bed. There was mountains of literature, expert opinions, studies and surveys that all pointed the same way. Do NOT sleep with your baby in your bed.

And yet…I did. And I continued to do so despite all this expert advice and opinion. And not only did I continue this practice with my first born, but it carried over to my second and third kids. In fact my now two-year old rarely climbs into his crib at night. He still sleeps between mom and dad and honestly that is okay with me. It is okay with us both. But it is not always okay with every parent. And it certainly…and I can’t stress this enough…NOT recommended.

So here’s why I did it anyway.

So I tried. I really did. I kept setting deadlines. At two months. Then three. Okay six. But it never felt like the right thing to do. Eventually I gave up the fight and my husband and I moved back upstairs. We brought the crib with us but really, it was kind of for show. He hardly ever slept in his crib.

Determined not to let my toddler win.

By the time he was two I was on a mission. He may be in our marital room but he was GOING to sleep in his crib… come hell or high-water. I read books that taught me how to lay him down and stay next to him but ignore his cries for comfort. You had to sit there and slowly work your way out of the room. First one foot. Then two. Then outside the door with it open. Finally you could close the door. This was supposed to transition my little guy to self-soothe, since I failed when he was a newborn to allow him the opportunity to learn. Now I was paying the price by spending ninety minutes a night slowly exiting his sleeping space (Wait…wasn’t it my sleeping space???). And that was if I was lucky. Most of the time I layed down in my own bed and without realizing it fell asleep with him next to me. Day number 53 a failure. Tomorrow was a new day.

Then I became pregnant with my second son. My husband started to get irritated with my exit the room strategy. He said I needed to take care of myself and just let him cry it out for goodness sake. A few rough nights was all it would take and we would finally have some peace. I thought I knew better, and I am stubborn by nature so I kept at it. Right up until the night I went into labor. Literally. I had held him and rocked him around the room for almost an hour, laid him down and then declared myself ready for bed. I laid my head on my fluffy cool pillow and…pop! My water broke.

Exactly 1 hour and 37 minutes later my second son was born. Thank you boy #1 for inducing my labor.

Accepting who we are…

As these things go, adding another child in the mix forced us all to change. I no longer had the time or patience to walk my now 28 month old around the room before bed. And you know what? He transitioned just fine. Now we had a bassinet for the baby, the crib on the other side of our bed and the two of us were alone at last (In the actual bed that is).

At least until the side-lying nursing method became a thing again. Sigh.

So again, I had to do what was best for myself and my kids. I found that I actually liked having my baby next to me. I felt safer that way and it worked for us. I knew that co-sleeping wasn’t the recomended way to habitat with your children, but so what? My husband grew up on a ranch in deep Mexico. They ALL shared a bed. All 12 of them.

It could always be worse.

Mommy Mishaps. Secrets Revealed.

Admit it. There is not a single one of you out there that has not had a mommy mishap you didn’t wish you could take back. We’ve all succumbed to our ego as mothers…it is I believe the very nature of motherhood to grow us spiritually. My kids have taught me more than anyone how to live in the moment, love unconditionally, and forgive myself completely. For my mistakes will only teach me if I choose to learn from them.

Photo by Luma Pimentel on Unsplash

Don’t Shake the Baby

As a nurse, this is a no-brainer. Actually as a human being. Shaking an infantout of frustration when you simply don’t know how to calm them down is dangerous…even fatal. This is why I believe it is so important to share my story, and the truth about what I have experienced as a young mother.

It is my first baby, my beautiful lovely boy, that has always tested me the most. On some level I believe he is my greatest teacher, as he brings out the worst of my ego and forces me to face in myself what I am least willing to see.

As an infant, my husband and I walked, rocked, sang, patted, danced, and sleep-walked him every night for what felt like years. Nothing we did seemed to help, as I implemented everything I could think of or read about to stop his tears.

Gas drops, evening baths, car-rides…nothing seemed to help.

My darkest moment was when for a split second I lost my mind. I looked directly into his eyes and out of pure distraught and frustration I shook him. Horrified, I cradled him to my shoulder, sure I had damaged him for life in that single most shameful moment.

Fortunately I had not. But my story does not end there.

My second son brought me very similar frustration when he was only months old. Unbelievably, it happened again. I never thought I would hurt my child but in an instant of insanity, I had allowed my ego to overcome my sense of love and empathy for this pure and innocent being. I’ll never forget his squeal of fear and I was sure I would never gain his trust again.

It is only I believe by the grace of God that neither of my children were injured, or even more incredibly, they maintained their pure love and trust in me as their mother. It has taken me years to forgive myself for something they never judged me on for a moment. Despite their young age, or maybe because of it, they reached out to me with pure unconditional love with their instantaneous forgiveness.

I teach all my new mothers that shaken baby syndrome is a real thing. That they MUST put their baby down in a safe place and WALK AWAY until they themselves are calm. Most look at me like I’m out of my mind…but I will never quit saying it. I would never have believed it would happen to me, so I KNOW it could happen to ANYONE.

Lock the Door

Photo by Thomas William on Unsplash

I never would have thought frustration would drive me to completely insane measures to get what I wanted.

My second son was about two at the time. He was always one that would climb into his crib to nap, not one to follow his brother’s footsteps of bedtime resistance.

But there was something about this particular day with him, as he fought me tooth and nail about everything. I could not wait for him to take his afternoon nap, so I could get just an hour of peace before I had to pick up his brother from preschool. I was counting the minutes.

I took him upstairs as was our routine, ready for our nap-time story and eventual bliss of silence. But he was not having it. He ran from my lap with tears streaming down his face. Kicking, punching and fighting with his entire body against what I knew would make us both feel better. Just a few moments of sleep would fix it all.

After fighting with him for forever I snapped. I placed him in our room and locked the door. Not caring how long he was going to wail knowing it would eventually stop as he succumbed to sleep.

Satisfied with my disciplinary action, I started down the stairs. But something stopped me completely cold with only a few steps of my descent.

I could not open that door from the outside.

Oh. My. God. What had I done???? My TWO year old was locked in my bedroom and I could not get to him! What kind of mother am I? He’s not even my first…I totally knew better and allowed what I wanted to influence my choices, putting him in danger. This was completely unforgivable and I was instantly racked with shame and fear. What in God’s name was I supposed to do???

After calming myself and talking to him through the door in what I hoped were soothing tones, I remembered there might be a way. We had only been in the house for a little over a year, but I remembered seeing on top of the door jamb a little bronze piece about 3 inches long. I never figured out what it was for but I now hoped beyond measure it was the key I needed to rescue my son.

Who’s kidding who here? I needed it to rescue myself.

Within moments I had the door open, and as I embraced my sobbing, snotty-nosed baby, I vehemently promised us both it would never happen again.

Truth be told he’s locked himself in that room more than once, but now I know how to get to him.

Stand Up Already, Will You???

Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash

Boy number two had a rough second year of life…I must admit.

I was getting him dressed for the evening, trying to put on his pajamas. He was having another one of his too-tired-to-cope meltdowns, and absolutely would not stand up for me.

Again, (recognizing a theme here?) out of pure frustration I took his arm and pulled directly up on it, trying to get him upright to complete the ensemble.

Immediately his cries took on an urgency I had yet to hear from him. His arm hung limply on his side and I stared at him hoping to hell I hadn’t just injured him.

Except, I knew that I had.

My husband ran upstairs to see what was the matter, trying to convince me the child was simply tired and needed to be put to bed. My nurse-momma gut knew better, as I stared at the way he was holding his arm to his side. I slowly tried to lift it up to check the damage, and his wails grew more intense, but he was not able to resist the movement at all.

I scooped him up, now fully dressed in his jammies, and rushed him to the closest children’s hospital. I was so ashamed of what I had done and scared to death they would take him away from me. I was sure they would think he was in an abusive environment and I would be left to defend something undefendable.

To my great relief there was absolutely no judgement from my fellow healthcare workers. In fact, there was an attitude of immense empathy, as this lovely pediatrician explained that nursemaid’s elbowwas in-fact very common among kiddos his age. Typically a result of an afternoon walk gone awry, as the caregiver simply lifted the child’s arm in attempt to save them from falling to the street after a sidewalk stumble.

I watched with great relief and surprise as this wonderful person gently put the bones in my baby’s arm back in their place. After a brief moment of discomfort, he was again able to move his arm normally and for the first time since it happened, smiled up at me.

We left moments later with a sticker for him, and a great sense of relief and gratitude for me.

Forgiveness…Unconditionally

Photo by Anna Kolosyuk on Unsplash

As I write these words I am contemplating the driving force prompting me to share my weakest mommy moments with the world.

As with everything I write, it is with the hope that you may find some truth in what I say, and comfort knowing you are not alone. While the rest of the world is pretending they are perfect parents, you and I know we are still learning how to be human beings.

It is our children and the lessons parenthood present that bring to light our faults and opportunity to grow. I know for sure it is through these experiences that I have grown the most, learning that unconditional love and forgiveness are the true path to a greater life. Especially when you extend that love and forgiveness to yourself.

Please feel free to share your own mommy-mishaps. Human nature locked inside with guilt and shame only imprison your soul. Human nature shared is so freeing, bringing peace and love to your heart.

Natural or medicated? How to experience bliss after labor.

One of the most common dilemmas as a pregnant mom is whether to have a baby naturally or with some sort of pain management. There is so much controversy, conversations and opinions surrounding this subject. There is such judgment placed on the mother’s choice; by friends and family, caregivers and spouses. The people I find to be most unforgiving are the pregnant moms themselves. The perception being that an epidural or other medications during labor is like admitting a weakness, disqualifying them as a good mother. The ultimate failure.

What is it in our culture that has brought us to this point? I cannot imagine a time when a woman will go to the dentist and choose to have a tooth extraction without any kind of analgesia, just to prove their strength and worth as a human being. Even less likely still, a man who would choose this with his wife’s encouragement. Telling him he is less of a man if he gives into the novocaine. Really????

My nursing perspective

As a labor nurse I have watched many struggle with this choice. The peer pressure typically steamrolled by the ultimate choice made in pain, with regret and self hatred soon to follow. I will never forget a teenage girl I cared for, holding so dearly to a fear of paralysis that she refused to listen to knowledge and reason. In more than eleven years, I have not witnessed nor heard of an epidural causing permanent damage. Unfortunately she refused to listen, and consequently was completely miserable in her experience. She was so exhausted and in so much pain by the time her little one arrived she did not seem to enjoy the precious moment of holding her newborn son. It was incredibly sad to watch, mostly because it was unnecessary.

As a momma

I can speak about this from the other side of the bed as well. I have labored three times, and had very different and beautiful experiences with each one.

My firstwas very typical of a first time mom. My water broke at home, the contractions started and slowly built in intensity. I was able to manage well until I hit about 6 centimeters, and then was overcome by the intense pain so many fail to describe. I went from walking the halls with my husband to doubled over with tears streaming down my face. I was unable to fathom the will of a woman who chooses to endure such an experience. The epidural soon followed and I delivered my beautiful baby boy eleven hours later. It was bliss.

My second son was a different story. I had planned on an epidural again, remembering the intense pain and ultimate relief of my first experience. When my water broke promptly at 11pm, I thought this baby would be the same. By the time we were halfway to the hospital my husband was driving close 100 miles per hour, mostly because I was scaring the bejeezus out of him. When we arrived at 12:18 AM I declined to wait for a labor nurse to pick me up, desperately needing that epidural I knew would save me. My husband eagerly drove my wheelchair to the labor unit and an IV was placed…I was almost there! Alas, the urge to push prompted my labor nurse to check; I was indeed 9 centimeters dilated. She was nice enough to pretend the epidural was on its way (thank God for kind labor nurses), and as I delivered my son at 12:37 AM the doctor hardly had time to put her gloves on. It was the most intense, exhilarating and surprisingly wonderful experiences of my life. I now understood what the hubbub was all about! This was amazing! This was bliss.

So I had nine months with baby number threeto decide. What was my choice going to be? I knew I had the physical strength to be without medication for my delivery. Now it came down to making that my choice. Honestly I wasn’t sure I could do it. But as these things go, I was presented with the option. My labor was not strong like my second one, I had decided to go for it! I could do it, what was the big deal? I had already passed the test. The test of all mothers…I was a superwoman!!! When my midwife wanted to break my water I avoided her at all costs. I was waiting for my husband. Then I walked the halls. I couldn’t bring myself to let her do it, I knew what was in store. Oh the doubts that floated through my mind! Was I crazy??? Why would I intentionally go through such an experience a second time? I was so torn.

The decision

Eventually I gritted my teeth and got it over with. I warned my labor nurse I would beg for the epidural at some point, and asked for her help though that moment. It wasn’t much later that my husband recognized my behavior as the same in the car ride 6 years before (he was pretty grateful to be in the hospital room at that point!). I wanted nothing more than to wipe the smile off my nurse’s face when she told me I was almost completely dilated. Didn’t she hear me? I CAN’T DO THIS!!!! But she was a dutiful nurse, and a very dear friend, so she did what I had asked when I was lucid and sane. (Come on… was I really sane when I made that choice?) She got my my midwife and they both coached me through the last few minutes of my labor (wait…it wasn’t hours???). One very intense hour and 15 minutes after my midwife broke my water, I was holding my sweet precious boy. It was…bliss.

Your power

It was so empowering to deliver my baby like this. With nothing but my own strength as a woman, a mother, hell a HUMAN BEING to guide me. The truth??? I did not feel any less empowered or any less like a strong beautiful momma with the epidural. Nor so when I had no choice in the matter. It really and truly didn’t matter. Each birth was special, unique and incredible beyond words.

The bliss

I am convinced it has nothing at all to do with how you deliver your baby but is really about the belief you have in yourself. So many factors go into your birth, many of which are completely out of your control. My advice? Trust your doctor or midwife, trust your labor nurse and trust yourself. And above all…know yourself for the beautiful mother you are and are about to become. Nothing in the universe can change that. It doesn’t matter how you get there, participating in and bearing witness to the amazing beautiful miracle of your child’s birth is simply put…bliss.