When forty minutes' worth of work yielded next to nothing, I went through the motions as always. Disassembling the parts, washing each by hand, setting them on the rack to dry. I sat back down at my desk, ostensibly to work, and instead spent a long moment staring at nothing.
Pumping milk isn't something anyone enjoys doing, but it represents my body's ability to take care of my baby. It has been a rather large part of my identity, on and off these past seven years. It was a daily routine that forced me to look away from the computer monitor and focus on the task I wish I were doing with the baby I wish I were with. And saying goodbye to this is saying goodbye to having a baby. Forever.
And therein lies the problem. The finality of never again holding a baby –my baby
–
is heartbreaking. I adore all three children and love how they're growing, but as long as I live I will never love anything as much as I have loved my babies. The tiny size, the heavenly smell, holding them while they sleep, those first expressions, the grip of their little hands, the complete dependence.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Here's a peek at what we've been up to lately.
Making Faces
Truman Taking Pictures in the Car
Fletcher's Music Concert
Chases
Trying to Walk (she has managed a few steps before falling)
He keeps getting cuter and cuter. He has developed a sense of humor and makes himself laugh by blowing raspberries. He loves being chased and will crawl away from me giggling every time I want to get his socks and jacket on. He stands and cruises but doesn't walk. He sometimes cries in the night, and if it's a full moon he'll be inconsolable until I take him to the living room and turn on the lights and play the movie Frozen.
His favorite things in the world are his daddy's funny faces, applesauce, Frozen, his brother when he runs and does things he can't do, green beans, being outside, Frozen, throwing things, big splashes in the bathtub, his own voice, and FROZEN. Little toddler Anna is the love of his life.
One year ago, I was just trying to figure out how to be a mother to two little boys and go to work. It was impossibly hard and has not gotten any easier. But I know you now. I know every screeching, ear-shattering scream that you make. I know how strong you are, how loving, how much you change every day from one minute to the next. I will come home tonight and you will be a new person, but you'll still be my Truman, always my Truman.
Truman's first year...
I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.
Every Tuesday and Thursday when I waddle into Fletcher's daycare center, I wonder about how this routine will change when there are two children to be picked up and taken home. I think about when Fletcher was an infant and how hard it was for me to take a step back from the cradle, then another step back, then another, until I was several miles away at work. How much harder will it be to leave my next infant with strangers? How relieved will I feel every Tuesday and Thursday when I get that baby back into my arms?
Daycare has been very good for Fletch. It was hard at first for him to be somewhere without any of the people that he loves, but now that he's used to it, I have to come up with reasons why he should put away that toy and come home with me. Are you thirsty? There's ice water in the car. Are you hungry? We can go eat whatever you want for dinner. Do you want to go shopping? Do you want to play at the new home?
Eventually he catches on and runs to the front door of the building. "Hold my hand," I say every time when we get outside. "Green car! Green car!" he'll say. Then we'll get to the curb and "Jump!" into the parking lot.
I get myself through the day so that I can feel his soft, dirty little hand in mine.
He's good about holding hands in parking lots, but the closer we get to the car, the harder he pulls to tug his hand free. Every day, there are fewer things that I can force; so much relies on his compliance now that he's growing up.
These years of holding my child's hand are so small, so short in my lifetime. How can I slow this down? How can I keep him from racing off like the runaway train that he is?
I can barely remember what he was like as a baby. It's been years since I've really held a baby. And look at my baby now, running so fast I can't catch him.
The unfortunate contradiction is that the school system would have me believe he's behind. He should be wearing underwear by now (without the frequent accidents). He should be sitting at the table through every meal and eating his fruits and vegetables. He should be speaking in complete sentences and communicating his thoughts and answering questions and should be... should be.
Of course I want him to progress and reach the great potential that he so clearly has. Why else would I stress and wear myself out trying to push my rising sun to high noon? But. It seems obscene to try to hurry him forward, hurling him up into the sky, knowing how that will take us that much closer to sunset.
To the time when he won't hold my hand at all.
Then I worry and wonder if I'm somehow holding him back, holding him too tight, too close, like the baby he'll never be again.
You hear all the time that all things change and you can't avoid change. Nowhere has that been more obvious to me than with my baby.
There's nothing I could love more than him, which is why it is so jarring to wake up one day and his personality is barely recognizable. The sound of his voice is different. The way he laughs is different. His cry is different. The way he nurses, his appetite, his reactions are all different.
When I tried to communicate how lost I feel, Andy said, "Do you think I came home from the gas station with the wrong baby?"
It could be a growth spurt. It could be his (two!) teeth. It could be the natural way these things go. The same thought kept occurring to me today -- this could be the way things are now. The crying and apparent anger and unhappiness might be more than just holiday confusion and teething. This could be the baby's personality for the foreseeable future.
After spending half an hour crying for no obvious reason, something he never used to do, he's now sleeping, and I'm breathing deeply and finding anchors -- comforting things that haven't changed, that I can count on to stay the same.
My love for my baby hasn't changed. If anything, I love him more in his time of need.
My love for my husband hasn't changed. If anything, it's stronger in my time of need.
My home is still here. My job is unchanged. I am still me.
For better or for worse. In the laughter and the tears. I can't promise I won't break down and cry whenever he does, but that's okay. We're a family and we have each other.
Baby is doing good. We heard the strong heartbeat again yesterday, and the doctor said that our ultrasound looked perfect. Baby is growing ahead of schedule -- a more accurate due date is May 24! But instead of complicating things, the doctor is leaving it as May 31, officially.
I think we're both eating well.
I've gained 16 pounds since the first doctor appointment. Apparently most of that weight is inside my bra, as earlier this week I managed to destroy a bra simply by putting it on. It felt like that Subway commercial where buttons are flying and chairs are breaking. It's definitely time to upgrade, and a shopping trip is in the works for this weekend.
I have a hard time not focusing on the pain that I'm in. It's a dangerous thing, thinking that things can't get worse. Because that's when they do. Of course there's the back pain. Then came the pain in my ribs. I told Andy earlier this week that it feels like the baby is going to burst through my rib cage and he asked if that's possible. I guess I've heard that babies can crack ribs. Anyone have any stories?
But the latest now is cramping akin to menstrual cramps. Oh goody. Something I thought I would avoid for at least four more months. If it weren't for the increase in kicks, I would be really scared that something was going wrong. Instead, I imagine this is the result of rapid growth. I should've predicted it would be painful. Should I predict any other impending torture?
Luckily the kicks keep me from worrying too much. So I'm a blubbering, desperate blob of pain, prone to intermittent giggling whenever the baby kicks my hand resting on my globe of a belly. It's strange, this pregnancy thing. Andy says it's weirding him out. It's weirding me out too.
I can't wait to meet you, baby. I can't wait to hold you and look at you and learn about you. Years and years and years of getting to know you.
And, sadly, I can't wait to get rid of some of this body pain either.
The doctor didn't have much else to say. We told her the gender of the baby (she's the only one who knows besides Andy, me, and the ultrasound technician) and she told us some of her naming stories -- she doesn't care what we name the baby as long as we don't give it a strange phonetic spelling. As an English dork, I had no trouble promising her a proper spelling.
For tonight's song, I'm going with a guilty pleasure -- one of those songs that I recognize as not being all that good yet I can't help enjoying it. One of those songs you're embarrassed about when someone catches you listening to it, yet you like it so much that you don't change the station to save face. Anyone else have one of those? Andy's latest is one by the Black Eyed Peas, I think.
Mine is "The Climb" by the pop-tastic Miley Cyrus. I suppose I'm on my climb right now. We'll get to the top of this mountain eventually, Baby. Maybe sooner than I think.
The struggles I'm facing The chances I'm taking Sometimes might knock me down But no, I'm not breaking I may not know it But these are the moments That I'm going to remember most Yeah, just gotta keep going And I, I got to be strong Just keep pushing on 'Cause there's always gonna be another mountain I'm always gonna wanna make it move Always gonna be an uphill battle Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose Ain't about how fast I get there Ain't about what's waiting on the other side It's the climb.
