I'll Have My Time With Her

Good afternoon! Happy Thursday! I was talking with my sister the other day on the phone about the difference between boy and girl babies, personality-wise. (As if either of us would know, because we don't make boys in our family.)

But being somewhat knowledgeable about how my friends kids compare and contrast to my own, I have a general idea of how each gender can sometimes relate differently to each parent. In my case, my daughter is a total daddy's girl. I feel like Julia on that show Parenthood (Side note: Do you watch Parenthood? We just started, and I have to say, I LOVE IT. I'm like, 6 episodes deep and I'm like "RELATE RELATE RELATE!")

Anyway, Julia Braverman is a working mom (semi-like me) who has a five year old daughter who she claims "openly prefers" her husband. Now granted, he's a stay at home dad, but I relate to it in the sense that she is kind of the business end of the parent spectrum, while he is more towards the fun. This is a relationship I am more than familiar with in my house. Since I am what modern folk would call the "primary caregiver" of our daughter and soon to be second daughter, I have to deal with more tantrums, more meals, more messes and more activities in general. Which can lead to more fussing, more whining, more time outs. When we get home and Chris is there, we usually don't have anywhere we have to be for the night, so our schedule is much more relaxed. Dinner to bedtime can range anywhere from 5:30-7 or 6:30 to 8:30, depending on how good of a mood Violet is in and how badly we need her to go to sleep already.

So we walk in the door, and immediately it's like I don't exist. "DADDY!!" She exclaims, and runs into his open arms. "Play with me, daddy! Let's go outside, daddy!" I should really note that this does not bother me. It's wonderful to not only have him there when we get home most days, but to see her so thrilled. The times that tend to hurt my feelings are the quiet ones, where she very verbally expresses her desire that I NOT do something for her if daddy can do it. Like read books or give her a bath. Mommy spends a good chunk of the day caring for her, and fixing her meals, and buying her clothes, pull ups, shoes, toys, whatever she needs at the moment. But Daddy hangs the moon, so if he's there, I'm chopped liver.

This used to really bug me. Almost like I was resentful at how ungrateful my two year old was when I focused so much of my time and thoughts and feelings and fear and worry and energy just. on. her. Which is so silly if you think about it. She has no clue that I'm doing those things, and I shouldn't expect her too, or in any case do them because I expect gratitude.

What's good is that I've really realized something over the past 6 months or so that has helped me get through this incessant "Daddy this, daddy that" phase. I'll have my time with her. I take comfort in thoughts of the future, when she's in college, and home for Christmas, and we pour a glass of wine together and sneak out to the porch to talk about this guy in her English comp class that is really cute. Or on her first day of high school, when she's nervous about what she's wearing or if she'll try out for any sports, or make any new friends. Or even earlier, when she's had her first really meaningful big fight with her sister, and I can tell her what it was like to grow up with three older sisters and how they've shaped me, and it does get better. Those are my times. My moments. Those are the times when a girl might need her mama.

So for now, it's a trade off. Mean mama and fun daddy might be something my husband and I identify with for a while. Especially when I'm not only home with her all day, but having to divide my time between her and her sister. And I have my sweet moments, where she wants to snuggle or lets me be the book reader or bath giver for the night. We'll always have our special relationship, and all I can do is continue on and hope to nurture it, so that she never feels like she can't turn to both of us for help or advice or comfort. And treasure this time when the only man in her life is her daddy, and he's doing a great job.

Have a good one, folks!

Love,
Dominique

I Get Really Overwhelmed with the Concept of Post-Partum Perfection

I took a good, long look at my belly stretch marks this morning. Violet saw them not too long ago, and like all toddlers inevitably do, wanted to touch them and call them something appalling like "mommy's belly wrinkles." I didn't cry (turns out I'm slightly less prone to the waterworks this pregnancy), but I did let out a long sigh, and mentally punch myself in the face for doing absolutely nothing to prevent them the first time I was pregnant. Thus dooming to me a life of one piece swimsuits and belly shame.

And that's not all I didn't do. I didn't bother to get in shape at all. Besides the fact that I hate exercise, it seemed like an almost silly concept to me. I wasn't finished having kids. I wasn't going to kill myself fitting back into my pre-pregnancy jeans for a year and then throw it all away on another 9lb baby. Add to this one of those annoying husbands who tells me I'm beautiful no matter what and makes me believe it, and I was a lost cause.

But now the thought has crept into my head that this very well might be my last baby. I mean, never say never. But I am saying, "at least not any more for a while," if I can help it. Which leaves me with no excuses but to admit that if I don't make the effort this time around, I will have officially "let myself go."

But there's so much pressure, man. Sometimes I feel like today's moms are supposed to fit in a daily trip to the gym on top of breast-feeding, entertaining their multitude of kids (with educational toys and games, and NEVER, EVER TV), do the grocery shopping, the bulk of cleaning (if for no other reason then they can't stand the mess and their husbands are like mine and play "clean the house chicken" until someone folds, i.e. ME) go to church, go to mom groups, go to WORK for goodness sake.

And there's none of this walking on the treadmill anymore business. If you want to be a cool mom, you better be doing zumba, or barre classes, or crossfit. Or in some awesome jogging stroller group that meets at the park on Wednesdays and then takes the kids to chick-fil-a.

I am not a cool mom. I look like every bit the nerdy white girl I've always been doing zumba, and while I like the concept of barre classes, I simply can't afford them AND afford the chick-fil-a. And I don't really like chick-fil-a. Give me a big mac or give me nothing. And I like the treadmill. It's quiet, and solitary, and I can put my headphones in and watch cable for the first time in months when I'm sick of netflix with the fancy new ones with a TV.

Often times I wonder how I'm going to remember to shower and brush my teeth with two kids, much less make time to try and fit old clothes again. Right now I'm just trying to the best that I can with being pregnant. I take my vitamins, and my iron and fiber and thyroid meds every day. I drink as much water as I can stomach, and I sleep in a wretched left side position every night because it's allegedly best for the baby. I do alright. Even if I'm not rubbing coconut oil on my belly every night to prevent further "belly wrinkles" and I don't go swimming or walking every day as they recommend. I will say my toddler alone has made me significantly less sedentary this time around, so I am feeling a bit more energetic and also dead tired at the same time.

But if you see me on the treadmill, doing a "brisk walk," and crying because I'm watching Steel Magnolias on TBS for the 1 millionth time, know that this is actually part of my great effort to go back to somewhat resembling my former self. And if I never do, and chances are I never really will, (it's not a time machine, people), then at least I'll know that my body made two little human girls, and if it doesn't bounce back from that miracle, then so be it.

Plus my husband thinks I'm pretty.

Happy Monday, all!

Love,
Dominique

Me, One hundred months pregnant with Violet 

My Child Will NEVER Throw a Public Tantrum (Just One of the Lies We Tell Ourselves Before Having Kids)

I wasn't as ill-prepared as some to have a daughter. I was already 4 nieces deep when I got pregnant with Violet, and while having nieces is nothing like having your own kids, I knew enough to know that even the best of parents know the struggle can sometimes be all too real.

Some of you may have read about the Portland diner owner who made national headlines for screaming at a toddler in her diner because the child was being unruly. I'll be honest - I didn't read her side of the story, or even much of the story itself. I knew what the gist of it would be. Some people would praise her for her actions, and some would be appalled. Me? I was indifferent.

And why? Why, as a mother, would this not upset me to read about? Because I'm not surprised. We're all guilty of it. Judging other moms, telling ourselves that we can do better, that we WILL do better. That I won't let my child pick out a toy every time we go to the store because I don't want her to learn that she gets whatever she wants. My child will know what it means when I say no. My child will listen.

Cut to my 2 1/2-going-on-16 year old toddler girl, who hears the word "no" on a daily basis, and gets put in time out, and is forced to eat "just one more bite" before she's allowed anything sweet after dinner. I do all of these things. I try. I try to be a good example, and not give in, and teach her to say please and thank you and have some semblance of patience.

And you know what? She would have also been screaming her head off in that diner. And not because I'm letting her win every time, but because SHE'S TWO YEARS OLD.

You know what my daughter ate today so far? A cup full of Trix cereal, some orange slices, a fruit juice box, some torn up cheese and maybe one saltine cracker in it's entirety. That's two meals, people. And not because I didn't give her some turkey, or offer her a muffin, or try for another fruit. It was all there for her. But short of me shoving it down her toddler face myself, she wasn't having it.

She pitches fits in the grocery store and lays on the floor crying. She gets overtired in restaurants when she's off her schedule and throws her food. And sweet servers will ask me, "Is there anything I can do? Does she not like the food?" and I'll look at them like the angels they are, and say "Thank you, but the only problem we have here is that she's two years old." Those are the good times. Other times I will get the stares from people who think I'm letting my child run all over me. How can I not control her? Did I just order her CHOCOLATE MILK for her dinner? I must be young/single/or spoiled myself.

Here's the truth, people. All children behave badly at some point. Even on the days when they slept 12 hours, had a two hour nap, have recently eaten and are clean with a brand new toy in their hands. These are all merely stalling mechanisms. And let's be honest, how often does this perfect storm of toddler happiness REALLY happen?

Yes, it is very possible to be an above-average AWESOME parent, and have your kid be at total jerk to a stranger, in public, or even to you. Sometimes all three at the same time. They can't control their emotions as adults we learn to do. They feel what they feel, when they feel it. I often look at my daughter lying on the floor crying crocodile tears, and think "How GREAT would it feel if I could just allow myself to do that when I got angry, or hurt or sad? I envy you, kid." And then I throw her into the superman position while she kicks me and fly her out of the place quickly. Maybe I'll promise her something if she agrees to get in her car seat. Maybe I'll threaten. Maybe I'll sit in the parking lot for ten minutes just to let her have it out. No matter what, it will pass.

So let's all give a little grace, ok? And let's not make national news out of one person's outburst. All that will do is strengthen the debate, and feed the mommy wars. Meanwhile, real issues, like the deplorable maternity and paternity laws that exist in the US and NOWHERE else, are rarely circulated. But that's another issue for another day.

Happy Thursday, everyone! May your children have a happy day. And go to bed early.

Love,
Dominique

Is It So Hard to Balance Daily Life? In a Word, Yes.

I, like so many others, wear a lot of hats in my daily life. I can be a lot of things at once, but so often I can only do one or two of them well, while the others suffer and fall behind for the day, week, month or even year.

If I could make a production chart showing everything that I am to different people - mom, wife, friend, sister, employee, daughter - and cross reference it with how well I am fulfilling those roles during any given week, I guarantee at some point each one would be marked with an "excellent" and an "epic fail" within those seven days. The truth is most days I will be a good mom, a decent wife, a tolerable employee, an ok friend and an ok sister or daughter.

I've been very overwhelmed as of late. I'm certainly not one of those people who paints motherhood as a ray of sunshine every day, but in the interest of not being a total bummer, I've hidden that the last week or so has been a "screaming internally while remaining stoic" kind of time for me. A lot of it is pregnancy. I'm bigger, I'm rounder, I'm sleeping less. I'm hungry, I'm hot and I'm not as flexible in any sense of the word.  My toddler both drives me insane and makes me cry with her sweetness at how fast she's getting bigger. I am a pregnant, emotional beast.

But some of these issues that are making me upset, or wracking me with guilt, are every day problems that I have long had. I don't take my daughter outside enough. It's literally 100 degrees by the time we get moving in the morning, and if my house is a wreck, or we have some errand we have to do, I put on PBS kids and we build blocks on the carpet, or play with her bows box or some other air conditioned activity until I can quietly slip away to wash dishes or take a shower for work.

I get angry with my husband when he's gone a lot. Sometimes it's because I miss him, and honestly, sometimes it's because I've had to do dinner, bath, and bedtime solo for three nights in a row and it's his turn, dammit. I get all fired up in my mind about how "it's so hard to be a full time mom," and "I'm with her crying and whining all day long," and whatever. Things that aren't necessarily even true most days, but were maybe true that one day. It usually takes a good meal and a good night's sleep to soothe the savage pregnant beast, and then I wake up and remember that he works 40 hours, and he's gone because he's taking real estate classes or had a work meeting or needed to run around on a field with a bunch of other guys throwing Frisbees to keep his sanity. He doesn't deserve my anger.

I don't speak to or spend time with my friends enough. I've never been much of a talk on the phone person, but I've realized lately that I have to get out of my comfort zone if I want to ever be good at maintaining friendships. My sisters have always been really great about that. All of them have female friends from all stages of life that they may not see regularly, but they make the effort. I have exactly two close friends who I love dearly, but hardly ever make the time to see. It's true that as many stay at home moms there are in the world, it's one of the loneliest professions. Paying jobs at least force you interact. Misbehaving toddlers and nap schedules and life always seem to get in our way.

So these are my confessions. To my daughter: I'm sorry that I hate being outside. I'm sorry that I get lazy or obsessive about keeping my world together, or that I flat out ignore you sometimes. To my husband: I understand that we're in this together, and sometimes it's going to pull us apart. I'm sorry that I too often lose sight of what you're doing for our family just because what I'm doing is not working out so well for the moment. To my friends and family - new and old: I'm sorry I don't call you, or remember to ask you about your life, or turn the conversation to myself if I feel like venting. I'm sorry I don't make time in my life to see you, and I use my mom life as an excuse of why I can't. Sometimes it's probably very true, and sometimes it's probably just exhaustion getting the better of me.

But to everyone, I am always trying to do better. I am always trying to improve, and recognize not only what I need to work on, but what I'm doing right. And hopefully, one day soon, I will see a vast improvement in my life balance imaginary production chart. But for now, just know that I'm thinking of ya'll always.

Love,
Dominique

I Might Never Stop Buying My Daughters Boy's Clothes

Good afternoon! Happy Tuesday! 

Since apparently the only thing not three years old about my daughter is her actual age, we had to make a quick trip to Old Navy today for some new 3T jammies. All of her 2T stuff is basically too short, and buying a size up is just a mid-year thing for us. 

I love ON for children's clothes (and my own, a lot of the time). Their patterns are cute, it's well made, the sales are usually pretty good, and the sizing is generous. However, like all other clothing stores, they tend to do very gender-based marketing. The girl's section is filled with purples, pinks, and pale yellows, with the usual mermaids and butterflies and ballet dancers. And believe me, we got a few sets of those. Violet herself picked out her favorite pair - a white shirt and shorts set with a gold star smack in the middle. This girl knows her star appeal.

After lingering a while trying to choose between an aqua green mermaid set and a light blue princess set, my eyes wandered over to the boys section. It had the usual too - dinosaurs, bears, and minions. I saw a really cute pair of long sleeved pj's with bright red firetrucks on them. Side note: since my house is in unincorporated tax territory, I have to make a trip to our local fire station every month to pay our fire dues. They are right down the road, and always very nice to me and V. Last month they were kind enough to let her sit in the fire truck and pretend to drive. 

I made the mistake of saying over and over "What a cute fireman you make!" And I was actually corrected - by one of the veterans-  "We say firefighter around here, because women can fight fires now too." I remembered that as I looked at that those firetruck pajamas and heard Violet saying over and over "Look at da fighter-fighter, mama! Look it's da fire truck!" I added them to our basket and we headed towards the front. 

I would say I'm a feminist. The word has gained so much more meaning as the years have gone by, because it's no longer about superiority as it is about the strive for equality. Men are important, and we love our men, and we call them out to be good friends, husbands and fathers. But more and more we're seeing things balance out on what used to be considered specific gender roles, like stay at home dads and bread winning moms. Women are gaining more attention in sports (hello, WORLD CUP CHAMPS!), and men are gaining more praise for being hands-on dads and sideline husbands. 

So when my two year old, who knows nothing yet of this world, gets super excited about a pair of firetruck pajamas, I'll never be the one to tell her "No! Those are for boys!" 

And no, I don't think letting her wear what I consider to be more "gender-neutral" clothing is going to change the world, or even change her. She loves butterflies, and the color purple. And she tells me things are "soooo cute!" and seems to be a (troubling) huge flirt. It's not about trying to mold her into something I want her to be, but rather giving her the option to be who she wants to be. I want to open her eyes to the possibility of all things this ever changing world is presenting to her. 

Maybe one day she will be a firefighter, and she'll remember her pair of firetruck pajamas. And I'll never sleep again, because good Lord, a firefighter. Or maybe she'll complain when she's 13 and looking at pictures that I dressed her like a boy. For now, I'm just going to enjoy her face lighting up when she chooses them from her pj drawer.

Have a great afternoon!

Love,

Dominique 

Induction or C-section Birth Shaming is Just as Bad as Any Other Mom Shaming

Sit right down, and let mama Dom tell you a little story about the time I gave birth to a nine pound baby at 38 weeks pregnant.

Warning: I'm about to let it aaaall hang out, and it's gonna get graphic. But I'm not embarrassed, because my stories are shared to help, never hurt. And I think it's important for people to understand that giving birth, and the way you give birth, is about as much of a personal choice as you get.

The first time my daughter tried to enter this world was Christmas day, 2012, at 31 weeks gestation. Little did I know that the back pain I was experiencing  was actually full on contractions 2 minutes apart - and by the time I found this information out, I was already 2 1/2 cm dilated. Through the grace of God, after 8 days in a hospital and 7 weeks on bed rest, I was able to keep her in until my 38 week appointment on Valentine's Day, 2013. The girl loves a holiday.

I went into that appointment expecting to be sent home afterwards. After all, I felt fine (if not large and in charge) and it was just a regularly scheduled appointment. I, like so many others, assumed my first baby would take her sweet time getting to her due date after settling down the first time, and that my doc would allow me to "go the full 40" as it were.

To my surprise, my doc told me I had dilated another cm - leaving me already at a 4 - and that she was admitting me to the hospital. If I wasn't already a mom by that night, she said, she would induce me in the morning.

I had heard horror stories of inductions, and I was a bit nervous. Particularly since I was alone, admitting myself to the hospital, no bag and a Chris was at work, and since I had no idea I was in labor the first time - I didn't know what things were going to be like this time either. But I called Chris, told him this baby was happening, and that I was going to Labor and Delivery to be admitted. He decided to work through lunch (because seriously, there was no rush) and meet me with the bags in about an hour. This was about 10:30am that morning.

A few hours later, my doctor came to see me and told me she was going to go ahead and break my water - something you soon to be first time mothers should know does not hurt in the slightest - and that she was going to put me on the lowest level of Pitocin. It looked like Violet was well on her way. I was fortunate enough to be able to get my epidural soon after, and after what felt like just a few hours, I was told it was time to get this ball rollin'.

This is where things get interesting. I pushed to get that baby girl and her giant noggin out of my body for three. full. hours. Her head was stuck for literally an hour and a half. I was periodically given oxygen, and after what seemed like an eternity, it seemed like everything stopped.  My doctor very calmly told me that we had to think about our options to get this girl out - including vacuums, forceps, and the dreaded emergency c-section. What you should know about these options is that they all have their significant risks, and sometimes the ones you think sound better can actually be a higher risk. The forceps had risk of scarring, and not being effective. The vacuum had risk of bleeding on the brain, and of course a c-section was a major surgery.

After seeing my reluctance for all three of these, they called in what I can only assume is the Brookwood Medical Center's baby whisperer:

Daphne.

Daphne looked like she had done it and seen it all, and she came in like a drill sergeant, telling me I was about to push harder than I had ever pushed in my life, and that she was going to use her arms to physically move this baby out of me. She pushed on my stomach in a way that I'm sure what have felt like I was being murdered had I not been numb in that area, and I kid you not - 10 minutes later, Violet popped out at 8:43pm.

The next phrase I heard after "A beautiful baby girl!" and "You did it!" and "Congratulations!"
was "There appears to be some significant tearing."

A fourth degree tear, to be exact, which means my beautiful little sumo wrestler had literally ripped me a new one. I had to spend most of my recovery family hour being sewn back together. Later I would find out that I was about 5 minutes away from them intentionally breaking Violet's collar bone in order to get her the hell outta there had Daphne not been able to work her magic.

This time around, my doctor and I have discussed my options for birthing a bigger baby, and yes, induction and scheduled c-section are on that list. It's not for my comfort, or to prevent further injury to me. It's to prevent my second baby girl from having a broken collar bone for the first several weeks of her new life. It's also not decided yet. It's very possible this baby could be smaller, and I could have her the way I hope to - the old fashioned way. But I'm not going to argue with my doctor. Part of being a mom is giving in when you know it will benefit your child.

People who already know my story have been supportive of my "laid back" attitude when it comes to deciding my birth plan. But I have heard some more discouraging words of not listening to my doctor, and I did it once so I can do it again, blah blah blah. Yeah, I did do it once. And it was risky, and it was painful, and it almost cost me my perfect newborn experience. So, whatever women decide to do with their bodies during birth is completely up to them, and we should all respect that. It's not always a choice we make because it's convenient.

Happy Wednesday everyone! Here's hoping baby Hazel is an 7-8 pounder!

Love,
Dominique

How One of the Most Embarrassing Things to Ever Happen In My Life Became One of the Luckiest

Good afternoon, and Happy Tuesday. Let me tell you, so far this week has been KILLING IT. I feel like I could be on an episode of Best Week Ever (RIP) and be awarded the title. I just hope all this goodness continues for a while!

But with that, I was reminded today via the lovely TimeHop app, that exactly 2 years ago, I was about to be fired for the first time in my life. I say the first time because it also wasn't the last.

I would say a big part of this is my secret shame. When I talk about my time with my old company, I don't speak of why I left, just that I left. And I don't speak of it often. Well today I break my semi-silence, because I know now how fortunate I was to be fired. Twice.

The shortened version is this: I worked for this company for 2 years, and was somewhat poached away to work in another office of said company for nearly a year. I had a baby, went on three months maternity leave (six of the weeks just on bedrest) and came back. When Violet was 4 months old, I was told it was not working out. However, the position I had left for this one happened to be reopened, so I was offered my old job back.

Six months after that, I was told it was not working out. Again. This time I was left without options, without dignity and without health insurance. The latter of which made me cry in the office. A decision I still regret, but emotions are emotions. And I had a 10 month old for goodness's sake. I was tired.

I went home and left Violet in daycare for her dad to pick her up later. As much as I wanted to see her sweet face, I needed some time to clear my head more. I took a nap, I ate some good lunch, and I watched TV. I didn't think about what had just happened or what it all meant. I would have time the next day to do that. And the next. And the next.

The next day, I got the ball rolling. I applied for unemployment, I looked into my individual healthcare options (Chris's family plan at work is not and will not likely ever be an option. The premiums are REDONK.) And then I started packing to go to Mobile for Christmas.

After I got the insurance thing settled for me and V that January, I spent 6 wonderful months being a stay at home mom, taking advantage of the system, and just relishing in the early days of toddlerhood with my girl. We knew it wouldn't last forever. We knew that eventually I would have to find work, but my husband being the wonderful man he is, discussed with me that part time was likely the best choice for us. He had seen how working full time with an infant had taken it's toll on me, and how much better we all were with me being home more.

So I started my search. I went to staffing agencies, I put the word out on social media, and I asked family and friends to be on the look out for me. I spent hours scouring the internet for openings, and went on some sketchy interviews. About 2 weeks before my unemployment was to stop, I got a text from a friend telling me of a job that was hiring for an afternoon position in an administrative field. The hours were a bit strange, but I sent in my resume and hoped for the best.

I was granted an interview, and got the call before I had even made it home that they wanted me for the job. I told them I needed to figure out childcare. We had dropped Violet's full time care out of necessity, and part time care was new to me. Somehow I managed to find a place that would work with my unusual schedule, so I called back and set up a start date.

That was almost exactly one year ago.

In that time, the following has happened:

My daughter grew taller, and I got to see it. My retirement account from my old company got cashed out, and I got to pay off the majority of our credit card debt. I get to eat breakfast at home, have adult conversations in the afternoon, and work with some of the kindest people I have ever known. My husband got the ball rolling on some great changes in his work, and for the first time, we could consider a second baby. I learned how to budget better than I had in my entire life. I learned how to prioritize and organize. I learned how to coupon, price shop and be content. I learned how to be happy.

Now, at the end of September, I will end my tenure as a working mother for an undecided amount of time, this time because it's my choice. I have to wonder if that would have been possible if I had stayed with my old company. Maybe it would have - or maybe I would still be caught up in so much of the old routine that not much would have changed. Sometimes it takes an unexpected shake up to make you realize what you really needed or wanted to do.

I'm not proud I got fired. There's always going to be a part of me that remembers for that period of time, I couldn't cut it. But I am proud that I can look back at the past two years, and feel that I made the best of what could have been a really crappy situation. I didn't jump back into a comfortable place, but instead tried to find a new comfort. And that gives me a lot of faith in myself, and my family.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Love,
Dominique

21 weeks and bumpin' large and in charge