Leading a Processed Food Life

I'm a bad mother.

Before people who know me start defending me, hear me out.

In addition to letting my offspring view violent superhero movies and use technology that I read causes autism (that's a response post for another day), I do not provide a healthy diet. I know full well that everything from aspartame and salt to flour and fructose is hurting me and my family, and yet I continue to feed it to my family.*

The studies on the terrible effects of processed food are many, and the severe intestinal pain I suffer periodically is proof enough. I'm probably even giving myself cancer (down the road). You know what's even worse than severe physical pain? The anxiety I have about being a bad mother.**

Our current parenting culture is one of intense disapproval, from within as well as without, and it is crushing. God how I wish it were easier to read scientific studies than it is to read headline-grabbing articles about what the latest celebrity says is the best way to parent.

So, if I believe they're (somewhat) correct, why am I not heeding the advice of every know-it-all mom posting in my Facebook newsfeed? Why am I not eating fermented vegetables and gluten-free quinoa in six small meals per day? Because...

• It's disgusting
• I'd have to completely change the way I shop
• I'd have to completely change the way I cook
• I'd have to fight with my family
• It would cost more (Don't even try to argue this one. It would.)
• It would be a huge time investment
• I don't have any f*#@ing time

But Lindsay, if you have time to write this post and to read about Alicia Silverstone and Jenny McCarthy and dozens of other pseudo-pediatrician celebrities, that's time you could spend cooking delicious vegan tofu for dinner. Right.

This post has been several years in the making, so don't ever talk to me about time management. I work two f%*#ing jobs in addition to caring for my children and not sleeping. Not sleeping. Not sleeping.

So what is the trade off for eating nothing but delicious empty calories that come out of lovely crinkly packages (besides my medically unexplained intestinal pain)? In reverse order of importance...

• Weight gain (Minimal now. Will probably be much worse when breastfeeding is done.)
• Lack of energy
• Fear that I will die young
• Fear that I'm hurting my children
• Anxiety Anxiety Anxiety

The fact that nothing is worth more to me than my kids contributes to the anxiety. Am I just a lazy American? Do I need to shake up my entire world, my entire life, my entire family with a big lifestyle change? I can entertain the thought, but I just don't see it happening.

It's too hard. I never thought I was someone to shy away from something that's good for my family based on the fact that it's too hard. But it's too hard.


*In addition to what is traditionally thought of as processed food (Cheetos, McDonald's, M&M's, hotdogs), we also eat meat and the occasional fruit, vegetable, and grain from an average, non-organic, pesticide-filled grocery store.

**There are also several studies that prove that anxiety and stress cause physical pain. Vicious, vicious cycle.

More on emotional exhaustion

I'm glad that Fletcher was born first and Truman second. I'm not picking favorites.

Being a first-time mom was incredibly taxing because it was so filled with uncertainty and adjustment. Every day was the first day of being a mother to someone Fletcher's age. Every one of Fletcher's firsts was a first for me.

It was only intrinsically hard, not extrinsically. Fletcher's cries mostly made sense, and I mostly had the time, energy, and attention span to totally baby him.

My entire opinion of motherhood was shaped by my relationship with Fletcher. Our bond was instant and focused and unhurried. At the time, I suspected he was either an easy baby, or my parenting method was really effective (answering every cry to build a kind of inherent comfort and confidence).

Yeah, no. He was an easy baby. *slaps first-time mom version of myself*

Truman came along and is testing all of us. Grandma Patty calls him her prima donna, and it's an apt description: an undisciplined person who finds it difficult to work under direction or as part of a team. Try telling him he's not in charge, though, and your laughter will devolve into pitiful sobs of exhaustion inside an hour.

I might not feel the same about motherhood had this been my first experience of it. This time around, my brilliant parenting method isn't physically possible. I'm close; I feed him as often as my body can, I hold him and carry him as often as my back allows. I give him more attention than I give Fletcher (which is another whole guilt-filled story). I can't help feeling, though, that quantity is hurting quality. I can't focus on getting to know Truman if I'm focused on helping him stop crying. I can't nurture the mother-baby bond if he's screaming at me like a teenage girl in a slasher movie.

(He's been a lot better recently, and I'm still knocking on wood. If he downs three bottles in a row and gets a decent nap in a dark and quiet place, we're good. Well, he is good. I am out of milk.)

Here's one problem: No one else is quite as affected by Truman's screams as I am. They bother me to the core. Because if he's crying, something is wrong, and by god I want to help him, even if it kills me. That's a mother's job, to do everything possible to care for her baby. And if Truman's cries are honest, I'm not doing a good enough job.

Emotional exhaustion from loving the baby: a good feeling.
Emotional exhaustion from being battered by the baby's cries: a terrible feeling.

This time around, parenting is extrinsically hard, not intrinsically. Had Truman been born first, I'm afraid motherhood would've been both.

He doesn't cry all the time, and I'm sorry to make it sound like he does. It only stands out because it's different from Fletcher. I'm so sorry for Truman that he'll always be compared to his big brother.

Now that Truman's personality is beginning to come through, it's becoming easier to focus on him as an individual. Just remembering the sound of his baby laughter fills me with warmth. I may not be rested or energetic or in control, but Truman has brought more joy to my life than I ever expected or could deserve.

I'm so in love with him. I don't want to forget his smell, the way he blows raspberries and squeaks when he's excited, the recognition in his eyes, how happy he is when he succeeds at putting something in his mouth, his giggle when I tickle his armpits, his amazement when he watches his brother.

What makes a mother's love special is that it depends on nothing and is affected by nothing. I will never stop wanting more time with my sons, never love them less, never stop living for them, and never stop wishing for more time with them.

Hold my hand

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.

Just another week for us.

We accepted an offer on our condo and are now in the process of getting approved and finding our next home.

Fletcher is about to turn three.

He just got enrolled in school. (This milestone came awfully fast, didn't it?)

It took two hours for a group of experts to tell me my son should talk more. Oh, and he needs to learn "compliance." Um, he's two years old. So now he's going to start taking speech lessons through the school district, and uh, he better COMPLY.

He still hates daycare, more than they were letting on to me. When he's there, they have to have an extra teacher in the room and he spends half his time in fits of hysterics. Hooray! New this week is screaming "mommy" from the moment daddy starts walking away.

Andy's about to leave for five days for his friend's destination wedding and I can't afford to take time off work, so instead I'm throwing Fletcher around his grandparents like a ping pong ball. I'll also mess up his routine in order to go house hunting.

Oh, and we're having a baby in four months.

So in the game of How Much Can We Screw Up Fletcher By Changing His Life, I'm totally winning.

return to present day

Last week, I took a vacation from work. We all have a preconception of what "vacation" is supposed to be. Going places, doing stuff, relaxing, adventuring, getting away from everything.

There is no such thing as getting away, not for me, not right now, because I won't take any real breaks from my responsibility to my child.

What's preventing that is the fact that I don't want it to be like my child is only along for the ride. He isn't an accessory. It is essential that he be an equal part of the life we're building, always.

Being the parent of a tiny person means, to me, giving up my independence for a time. It's the hardest thing about being a parent right now.

But I'm stubborn and won't change my mind on that point.

Eventually, as my child gains his own independence, I'll take mine back.

Although I didn't "get away," I had a glimpse of something during my vacation. Each day, there would be maybe two hours, a small window of precious time, that I was alone and not needed. And if I closed my eyes so I couldn't see the disaster my house has become, it felt like stepping into a time machine, back three years or more, to a place where decisions took into account me and that's all.

Me.

This type of time travel is bittersweet, almost dangerous in its seduction. It weakens my resolve and makes the return to present day an internal battle between my will and my capacity. This lifestyle will continue no matter my capacity to handle it, until the time comes that it's best that I take my step back.

Priorities. I am far down my own list. For two years, I've been below even the cats. That, at least, will change soon no matter what anyone thinks. Letting go of the guilt and the worrying about what other people think is one way, at least, to make a little room in my capacity to deal with life.

hard things

I get frustrated. I need more patience.

Mainly, I don't want to be yelled at. I don't want Fletcher to be unhappy with me or mean to me. Even though he doesn't know he's hurting me, even though I know he's just tired from missing his nap, I have limits before it just hurts too much.

The solution is to keep him well-rested and well-fed, but that's not always possible.

No matter what mood he's in or how thin my patience, I will keep my promise to always do what's best for him, even if it means handing him off to his father and feeling guilty for not being able to take it. I get it now, the hard things you have to do out of love. Hard for me. Hard for him. There will be many more. It is worth it.

putting on daddy's shoes

okay, I'm ready!

going swimming!

strings

look what I can do!

thinking less

When I was pregnant, I prepared by thinking a lot about my baby's first year -- no sleep, diapers, nursing, protecting him and helping him learn all of his firsts. I didn't think much about the second year and beyond.

Now it's staring me in the face. He's cutting some vicious teeth. He's showing resistance. He's curious about the limits of what he can get away with.

He's going to need to learn the potty. He needs to learn what's nice and what hurts -- for the cats and for me. He needs to learn how to behave in public -- how what's cute and funny at home isn't appropriate for the restaurant. He needs to know when I'm serious and when I'm playing.

I'm tired just thinking about it all.

If I were the me from a year and a half ago, I would purchase a handful of books and combine everything I read. I would scour Amazon for the best teaching toys and gear, and sort the list by best customer review instead of price. I would think on it, every day, until I felt prepared for the tasks ahead of me.

Instead I'm going with the flow, with only my instincts, which aren't always sharp. And when I think on it, it's with a bewildered sort of panic.


He'll be fine. We'll be fine. I just need to think less.


(Tiring him out helps, too. Here are photos taken after a day out with grandma and grandpa. When he lets me use my camera, I take advantage.)

my favorite

allergy

The things that I type into Google no longer surprise me. What does interest me is how predictable I've become to Google, when everything I search is correctly guessed by the auto-fill-in EVERY TIME.

Type in a color and it assumes I'm searching baby poop. It knows my life is measured in bowel movements.

This baffles me because this is the first time we've had a peanut butter scare. Someone (*cough*Andy*cough*) forgot that peanut butter is number one on the list of what you don't give a baby. Fletch turned red and splotchy from head to toe. At first I was sure it was some kind of heat rash because it was worse in the "hot" spots. Then Andy remembered the tiny bit of peanut butter sandwich that was passed to Fletch while they were waiting for the bottle to warm.

He's better today, still with some blotches, but not the scary kind. I can now add "baby eats tablespoon of peanut butter and dies" to my list of things that terrify me.

Eczema! Allergies! You're welcome, Fletch! 

apple

I can't help being jealous of Fletcher, in the best sense of the word. He has no concept of "what other people think." He is exactly what he is, and he has no reason to ever pretend or lie. When he smiles, laughs, or looks happy? He's happy. We should all be so open and unafraid.

He's more than six months old now, and I believe he's learning cause and effect. When he drops the toy from the highchair... it falls. He's probably learning which of his actions will create a response from his father and me. It's possible that he cries now for things that he WANTS but doesn't NEED.

Whenever he cries, I try to give him what he wants, and some people on the outside might think that I'm a first time mother who is spoiling her baby. While there is a critical voice lodged in my head that says I'm doing everything WRONG, I feel strongly on this. I feel confident on this.

I have limits and I trust my limits. I will not give my baby anything that could possibly hurt him, no matter how much he wants it. I will not take him out of his carseat when we're in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, even if that's why he's crying. I will not always come to his aid when he wants to reach a toy, because I know it's important for his development that he learns to move and crawl.

But if he wants something – be it attention or distraction, comfort or nourishment, or help falling asleep – I'm going to give it to him if I think it's in his best interest. I'm obsessed with babying him. He won't be a baby for long.

He sits on his own now, for minutes at a time. He's going to figure out crawling soon. Andy picked out his first "little puffs" finger food that dissolves. He's growing up, and every day my eyes sting with the overwhelming pride I feel just looking at him.

Maybe someday he'll stick his hand in the snow and cry, and I'll be the one who rushes over to cuddle him and take him inside. I'm going to baby him as much as I can. And maybe I'm going to hope that my little apple falls a bit farther from the tree.

17w 2d parents

he's still tanner than me

baby has more style than both his parents put together

When the routine is broken, in a way that separates me from the baby, I am a scattered, emotional, confused WRECK. There's no logic to it. Nothing is wrong with the baby. Nothing is wrong with me. But I. Am. Screaming.

Since the end of my brief maternity leave, I've been a willing slave to an unvarying schedule. The exact timing is dependent on Fletcher, of course.

In the morning, I wake him up by 5:45 a.m., unless he chooses an earlier time, as is usually the case. Today, for instance, he woke at 3:00 and 5:00. After the second feeding, I stayed in the nursery, dozing on the spare bed there until about 6:10 when we continued as usual to a diaper change and the next step of our morning... hanging out in the bathroom. Fletcher has his own thick blanket to lay on, a receiving blanket to tug and chew on, and even a rattle now to reach for after rolling to his stomach.

After the bathroom portion of our morning, we head downstairs where he sits in his feeding chair with (another) receiving blanket and Freddie the Firefly, a favorite toy. I assemble the clean bottles and pump parts from the day before, in between play sessions. Then there's another diaper change and another feeding, this time with the lights off to coax him to sleep.

The morning routine is about two hours, and then I head to work.

I arrive home during my lunch hour from about 1:00-1:40 and spend the time feeding him and exchanging smiles with him and sometimes giving Andy a chance to catch a nap because he's probably running on four-to-six hours of patchy sleep. Leaving during my lunch hour is harder than leaving in the morning, probably because Fletcher is wide awake and he sees me walking out that door.

Then from 6:00-7:00 p.m., I get one precious and tiny hour to be a family with my husband and son. Often, that hour is used up with eating, dishes, and feeding Fletcher. But it is the most significant hour of my day. After Andy leaves for work, Fletcher and I have two hours (during which he eats often and possibly takes a nap) before we begin our bedtime routine -- the occasional bath/outfit change, putting on lotion where he needs it, diaper change, getting myself ready for bed, and finally the last feeding of the day around 9:30.

This is my whole life.

And on a day like today where I can't go home on my lunch hour? I. Am. SCREAMING. And I don't really understand why.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how I perceived parents before I became one, especially my own. There's a lot that can't be explained to you until you become one. There may have been a time when, somewhere in the background of my thoughts, I wondered why parents in general don't give a little space, let go a little bit.

Now? I am never letting go. I still may wonder why, but the compulsion to hold tight to my son until the end of time is overwhelming... and I have to accept that I'm standing one step higher on the ladder toward becoming my parents. That doesn't have to be a bad thing, right?

P.S. -- The broken day is made easier when you have an awesome husband who emails you photos to soothe your sore heart. Especially photos like this one, that show what baby and daddy are up to this afternoon:

little surfer, little one, made my heart come all undone

8w 4d parenting

My boys watching TV

I love this picture. There is something so 1950s about it in black and white.

Fletcher is growing at high speed. Every day, he's longer and heavier. Pretty soon he'll be wearing his 3-6 month outfits, though they'll undoubtedly be baggy on my lean little guy.

His personality is beginning to shine. We're getting giggles and gurgling and conversations (we discuss quantum physics and the meaning of life). It's exciting knowing that this part is only going to keep getting better. He still has no interest in toys or bouncers or dangling things. When I attempt to get him to play, he looks at me like, "What am I, a cat?"

Monday night, Fletcher slept for the longest stretch yet -- from 7:30 p.m. until 2:00 a.m. Tuesday night, he only fed at 9:30 p.m., 2:30 a.m., and 5:30 a.m. I'm taking it as a sign that he's perfectly healthy (read: not spoiled) and is working his way up to sleeping through the night, on his own. This morning was a special circumstance, as Fletcher's stuffy nose escalated to the point where he wasn't getting enough air to allow him to sleep or even eat. The nose aspirator by itself wasn't much good, as Fletcher's parents neglected to stock saline solution.

While nighttime is a breeze, daytime is another matter. Andy has testified that Fletch can cry for six minutes straight and then stop and fall asleep as soon as daddy holds him. Probably not ideal.

Hey you!

My goal has been to give this little man anything and everything that he wants and needs. And really, during the hours that I'm home, he isn't very needy. Part of me wishes he was, since it seems like I need him more than he needs me.

I know this isn't everyone's parenting approach. I may draw criticism for quickly answering every cry, and still having him sleep in his cradle in my bedroom. I have the advantage no one else has of ending fussiness with the breastfeeding cure-all. Having him there in the room is convenient... but also a comfort for me.

There are as many ways to parent as there are people in the world. Nearly two months in, I'm sure that I'm already not following the guidelines in the books. Normally, that would freak me out. But I know we have the important things down. So far he is healthy, happy and loved, so loved, by the people around him. I know that love can hurt a child if it turns a parent into a weak disciplinarian, but if I stop trusting my instincts I'll go insane.

happy baby

29w 4d expectations

Expectations can be dangerous and make everday living impossibly difficult, even when we think it shouldn't be. Especially when that inner voice says it shouldn't be. The tiny miracles and heroic acts of an average day don't get the play they deserve.

I Googled the definition of "hero." One entry read, "Champion. Someone who fights for a cause." Twenty-three years – that's how long I've known my champion of everyday living. While everyone faces his or her own struggles, few emerge to be as beautiful as she with their battle scars. Still within the struggle, she may not feel like a hero.

We can use honesty to battle our tendencies to distance and withdraw, to shut down and shut out. Honesty is a sword that cuts those who carry it, but it delivers self-forgiveness if we let it.

Expectations, I realize now, are my war. I have always had too-high expectations for myself; in the past, it has helped keep me fighting even as each perceived failure punctures the soul of me. Do I perpetuate it because I like having high expectations? Because I'd feel guilty or weak if I didn't have them, just as I feel guilty or weak when I don't meet them? It's ingrained.

I stand at the mouth of a cave. Within it lie my future attempts at parenting and at reconciling my mother-self with my married-self and working-self. From here, can I learn a way to forgive the blindness I'm sure to have within the cave? Fumbling in the dark, will I remember that it's normal... acceptable... okay if I stumble?

If I can forgive myself, if I can make it through, if I can wear my battle scars with soul intact, it will be because I'm not alone in the dark.

From "Surrendering" by Alanis Morissette:

so you were in but not entirely
you were up for this but not totally
you knew how arms-length-ing can maintain doubt

and so you fell and you're intact
so you dove in and you're still breathing
so you jumped and you're still flying, if not shocked

and I support you in your trusting
and I commend you for your wisdom
and I'm amazed by your surrender in the face of threatening forces
that I represent

you found creative ways to distance
you hid away from much through humor
your choice of armor was your intellect

and so you felt and you're still here
and so you died and you're still standing
and so you softened and you're still safely in command

and I salute you for your courage
and I applaud your perseverence
and I embrace you for your faith in the face of adversarial forces
that I represent

self protection was in times of true danger
your best defense to mistrust and be wary
surrendering a feat of unequalled measure
and I'm thrilled to let you in
overjoyed to be let in, in kind