Heavy Heart, Little Hands

I've been struggling the past few days to put into words what I've been feeling in the wake of the past week's tragedies. I feel sick to my stomach when I think about the latest mass shooting in Orlando. Or the Stanford rape case. Or the toddler who was drowned by an alligator. All of this, in addition to the political state we're in and the countless other hate crimes and terrorist acts that flood the news every day.

I cannot express how much your view of the world changes when you have a child. You are so much more aware of mortality. Of the bad things. Fear and anxiety over "what ifs" can be crippling if you let them.

Children are so innocent. They believe in unicorns and superheroes. They don't know about things like hate, racism, sexism, violence, politics, judgement, bullying and death. And they shouldn't have to. But because of all that's going on in our world today, parents are being forced to have those tough conversations.

I'm thankful that Liam is not at an age where I don't have to explain to him why a man walked into a nightclub and opened fire on a group of people because of their sexuality. That I don't have to explain why a white college boy raped an unconscious woman and was not given the same sentence as a a black man who committed the same crime. That I don't have to explain why people are judging parents who went to Disney World to fulfill their toddler's dream of meeting Mickey Mouse, for letting him play on beach where millions of other children have played before him.

As a mother, or parent, it's our sole responsibility to teach our children right from wrong. To shape them into being kind, decent, tolerant human beings. The pressure of such responsibility is heavy.

As parents, we should not have to fear our children going to school. We should not fear them going to the mall. We should not fear going to church with our families. We should not fear going to a movie or a dance club or letting them go to a party.

Our children should not live in fear of bad men and women who do bad things. How do I tell him that nowhere is safe? It's not even a matter of being careful...because these tragedies are happening where innocence thrives. Nowhere feels safe anymore.

I want Liam to know that the world is beautiful and that kindness, and good people and equality DO exist. I want him to know that hate and entitlement are not acceptable behaviors. I want him to know hate is weak. I want him to know that a little kindness can go a long way.

I will teach him patience and manners.
I will teach him that it's OK when people have different opinions and it's not OK to react to those differences in other way than respectfully.
I will teach him to love every person of every race, sexuality, religion, political party and lifestyle.

The fact remains that the world in which we live is scary and demands change. I don't know what the change is. I don't know how to make it happen. People need to accept that our freedoms include difference of opinion, and that the answer to that difference is not a mass murder or hate crime.

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The Daddy Phase

When I found out I was pregnant with a boy, all I heard was, "Boys love their mamas!" I was so excited to be a boy mom, and to have that special bond with my son. I have been enamored with Liam since the second he entered the world. There was no "bonding" period—he took my heart and ran with it.

In the early days, we were inseparable. (Literally.) He slept on me, he nursed from me, I carried him everywhere. He wasn't a baby that "needed" to be held all the time—I just loved cuddling with him. I spent all day some days on maternity leave snuggling with my sweet little boy.

 

Any mother will tell you that at the beginning, it's hard to help Dad feel included, especially if Mom is nursing. I remember worrying that my husband felt left out, and we had conversations about how he didn't really know how to help. 

I felt protective of Liam, and like I knew best because after all, I was his mother, I spent the most time with him and for God's sake, I carried him for 9 months. Thankfully, I recognized the problems that thinking like that can present, and together, Bryan and I came up with a routine that allowed him to create his own bond with his son, and do things his own way, without me suggesting it was wrong.

Liam is a happy, healthy, smart, sweet little boy. We taught him to give and blow kisses, how to be gentle, give hugs and snuggle. I tell him every day, multiple times a day, how much I love him.

So imagine my surprise when in late October, I noticed something: Liam started to prefer Bryan. He would get SO excited he got when Daddy would get home from work or walk in a room. He got upset when Bryan left. Bryan would leave the kitchen to go down the hall and Liam immediately yelled, "DAAAAA!" When they played or read together, Liam was just enamored. It melted my heart, seeing these two so obsessed with each other.

I brought up Liam's noticeable parental preference to Bryan one night and he thought I was crazy. I think he just didn't want me to feel bad, so as he does, he read about it. As it turns out, "Daddy Phase" is very normal. Apparently, at some point, babies already know that they have an unbreakable bond with Mom. They trust Mom to love them, no matter what, and so they turn to Dad to build the same relationship. It made sense, to both of us. I thought it was sweet, the way Liam over-the-top adored his Daddy.


But things have changed. It's now six months later and we are still in The Daddy Phase—and I no longer think it's cute.

When Liam and I are alone together, it's amazing. We have so much fun. He showers me with hugs and kisses freely, reaches to be held, brings me books to read, and engages me to play. We have our own little private game of chase that involves me chasing him up and down the hall, eventually "getting him," and tickling him while he squeals and belly laughs in delight. We are mother and son...the best of friends. The dynamic duo I always imagined.

But the second Bryan walks in the door, I become invisible. Unneeded. Unwanted.

Liam squeals for Dad in a way he doesn't for me. He lays his head on his shoulder in a show of tender of affection without being asked (or begged). He crawls willingly into his lap to sit and relax, or read a book.

 

Bryan and I alternate bedtime with Liam. Some nights, Bryan will finish reading Liam a book and have said his goodnight. When he goes to hand him to me, Liam rears his body away from me and cries. Hysterically cries, the shrill, can't-catch-your-breath kind of cry that sounds like he's in serious pain or really sick. I hand him back to Bryan—all is fine.

He hurts himself—walks into a wall or smacks his mouth on his crib. If I'm right there, I snatch him up immediately, covering him in kisses and hugs and reassurances and "Shhh Shhh Shhh, you're OK, you're OK." Frantic, in pain and hysterical in my arms, he looks for Dad...wants Dad. Reaches for Dad.

Do you know what that feels like? To have the one person you love most in this world shriek in your face and push you away? To that say to be rejected by this child—who was part of my body, who used to need and depend on me for everything, whom I love more than life—hurts my feelings, is an understatement. It is excruciating, and it breaks my heart.

Bryan tries to help by encouraging Liam to interact with me. "Mama will read you the book!" he'll say. My enthusiastic,"come here buddy, let's read!" is met with a whiney cry and a slow jog back to Dad's safe embrace.

I'm sure it's exhausting, whether you're the mom or the dad, to be constantly needed. Hell, I was the one who was constantly needed, a mere 12 months ago. I understand that I haven't done anything wrong. I know Liam loves me. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell, or that I don't feel like a failure as a mother.

From afar, I watch Liam freely dole out hugs and snuggles and kisses and adoring looks to my husband. I treasure the fleeting affections I may or may not get on my way out or in the door. I yearn for him to want me the way he wants Bryan.

So when he shrieks at bedtime, rather than torture him by making him cry it out while we rock together—I just give him a quick kiss, tell him I love him and hand him to Bryan before either one of them can see me cry. And then I do cry, feeling an ache in the space between my jaw and my chest where his little head should be snuggled.

I know he is a toddler, and may not even recognize what he's doing. I know I should be grateful for the way he and Bryan love each other. I know this is somewhat normal. I know I'm not the only mother who is going through this. I know I should "take advantage of my alone time." I know this too shall (probably) pass.

But knowing all of that doesn’t take away the pain or the insecurity of being rejected by my baby.

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An Open Letter to My Boobs

Well, girls. What can I say?

I guess I'll start with thank you. Thank you for allowing me to nurse Liam. I know how hard that can be for some women. I was worried before he arrived that you might fail me, but when the physical part of nursing came easily to us, I was so proud of you, girls! I knew that some day, your ridiculous size (a quality I've never liked about you) might come in handy. You didn't let me down.

Speaking of let downs, I have a bone to pick with you, Boobs. When Liam went on a nursing strike a few months ago, which caused me to have to pump exclusively for going-on three months now - why did you girls insist on being so stubborn? Why have you put me under so much stress, making me freak out and stress over clogged ducts, no let downs, my inability to empty you and lack of supply?

I know it was a sad day that fateful morning when Liam screamed at the sight of you. It made me feel bad, too. But that's no reason to just give up, is it?

For months now, Boobs, you've been playing mind games with me. "How much milk should we give her today?" I can just hear you both snickering to each other as I hook myself up to that damn pump for the umpteenth time, hopeful that for a let down (or two).

At least four times each day, I sit down, looking forward to our time together, confident you'll work hard for me, for the baby. And each day, ladies, especially lately, you disappoint me. I sit, and I pump, and I speak to you kindly. I give you warmth, good food, lots of vitamins and supplements, and plenty to drink to keep you full.

And still, you give me the silent treatment. (Except for those times when the only noise you make is a boob fart.)

I'm starting to think you really just like the intense massages I have to give you for the entire 30 minutes of our sessions together, since that seems to be the only way to get you do anything at all.

And hey, left boob? Why are you so damn lazy? Your sister on the right shows up to work every day, doing about twice, sometimes three times the work you do in a 24-hour period. Get it together, would you?

I'm sorry for everything you've gone through the last 9.5 months. I know it hasn't been easy, what with all the clogged ducts, engorgement and bleeding you've experienced. I'm sorry for those times when the baby reared his head back during a feeding session, and didn't let go of the nipple first.

I'm only asking for a couple more months of this. Less, if you can start to work harder. Can we do it? Can you just work with me a little while longer?

After that (and after the next kid...and maybe one more after that...), I cross my heart and hope to die: I will pay for the nicest face lift money can buy. You've got my word.

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