I can’t sleep. It is currently 2:06am and ya girl is sitting at the kitchen table talking to you. Not that I don’t enjoy y’all, but you know. The room is the right temperature, my bed is super comfy and I’m freakin sleepy. Not to mention my handsome, lightly snoring husband is up there. Buuuuuuut so is my toddler. So there’s that.
It’s raining cats and dogs, which usually equates to excellent sleep. Not today. Today I am awake. Because this rarely happens to me— I know something is up. I’ve always been a night owl, but this ain’t that. I am not currently choosing to be awake. My mind is trespassing. It won’t stop wandering over my life.
Parenting is hard. I’ve said it in the past. I’m saying it now. And I’m pretty confident I’ll say it many times in the future. Parenting. Is. Hard. Everyone talks about baby showers, beautiful birth stories and funny toddler tales, but no one is discussing, flatly, the difficulty associated with raising children. Why can’t we stop using our children as a measurement of how much better we are than other mothers? Why don’t we all just admit we don’t know what the hell we’re doing and meet at Chili’s for $5 margaritas to discuss strategies and support each other???
Do I ground him for this? How many fruit snacks is too many? Should she be friends with that girl? Why won’t he stop lying? At what age should they date? How many wipes should I use before I give him a bath? How much fast food is too much fast food? Why am I more uncomfortable watching love scenes than violence with them? Is cookie dough really bad for them?
At the present moment I am feeling a little anxious about choices we are making for our children and choices they are making for themselves. This isn’t a positive or negative admission. It’s just me standing in my truth.
I was pretty rough and tumble as a child. I played with my brother and his friends all the time and wore my tomboy title like a badge of honor. I even earned a few bumps and bruises along the way. So, the scab didn’t concern me at all. I'm not a free range parent, but I'm also miles away from helicopter parenting. I mostly let children being children. They run, they play, they fall. The end.
My boy was up in his Nana's lap when she noticed the atrocity on his knee."What happened to my baby’s knee!?!” If your children have a Nana like my children; you know she acted like the boy had staples in his knee. She was appalled. So, I quickly told her what happened according to his father who was his caretaker at the time in question *snicker. At the end of my explanation, I gratuitously added, “And he didn’t even cry.” *insert my proud face
According to the CDC, cogenital heart defects are the most common birth defect in the United States and affect about 40,000 births per year. And while childhood cancers make up less than 1% of all cancers diagnosed each year; even one child with cancer is one too many. Because that 1% means shit to the momma who is drowning in worry and sadness and uncertainty and fear.
I breastfed my children. It is a feeling… no… its an experience unlike anything else. Euphoric might be pushing it a bit too far, but its something like that. It’s euphoric-ish. I mean, you know, after your nipples stop bleeding and you no longer wince each time they latch on to your flesh with the strength of ten thousand commercial vacuum cleaners. Side note: How do they come here that strong anyway? Their tiny limbs are little more than al dente pasta, but their mouths? Strong like morning breath.
Anyway, I was saying... Breastfeeding your little one is euphoric-ish. Time and time again I’ve said I wish everyone could experience it. Not just women, but men too. If I could I would put it in a bottle and give it away. The feeling that I am the provider of life for this living creature and we both know it. It’s a very fluid, symbiotic relationship. The giving and the taking, but it has nothing to do with power and control. It’s just about love. Pure love. So, what then? What are we talking about today?
I’m still nursing Baby Blake. Yes it’s probably not exactly accurate to continue to put baby in front of his name, but I did it and you will deal. In the same way that everyone needs to deal with the fact that I’m still nursing him. The looks I get when he starts to tug at my shirt or tries to settle down into my lap, assuming the position. So what he’s 2, has a full mouth of teeth and makes poop that rivals that of a grown up. He’s my baby. He still wants “Milky”. I’m still giving it to him. Boom. Just like that.
