Good Bones

I've often heard a house referred to as having "good bones".
I was a young girl when my dad built our home, which I now live in with my husband and daughter. I can look at our A-frame & remember the way it looked when it was still a skeleton; bare studs standing on newly poured foundation. I liked wearing high heels on the foundation because of the important "click clack" sound it made as I clomped around on wobbly ankles. I loved the smell of fresh lumber and the sound of nails dropped on plywood. I remember the way the wind & rain sounded beating against house wrap that blanketed it from weather & how rain accumulated in the plastic tarp that covered the upstairs before the roof was put on. We'd had a decent storm roll in during the summer & my cousin & I soaked our feet in the warm water between beams while the radio played "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley.
My curly loop handwriting is on the backs of kitchen drawers (numbering the drawers was a small task my dad gave me to keep me busy) & under shelves where I wrote little messages to mark the passage of time. I have photos of the house in all the stages of building, my favorite probably being my second cousin sitting with arms outstretched atop the peak of the A-frame the day he & a crew constructed it.

When you become an adult & move out to start a family of your own, home is still where you go, if you're lucky, when you visit the people who raised you. You live in a new place but when you go back to visit, you say, "I'm going home". My husband & I were three years in to our marriage when my parents ended theirs. Joe & I were looking for our own home during this time.
I was reluctant at first to move back home. It had become a museum of sorts, especially my room, filled with artifacts of who I was as a teenager; a time capsule for the days leading up to my inevitable departure. Even the calendar of the month & year that I moved out still hung on the wall. Most people move in to homes already lived in by others but it is a strange feeling to come back to a place you've already lived in what feels like another life. This home held the memories of childhood & my parents. I thought I wanted a new-to-me home to start new memories. The location and the price could not be beat however & so the process of moving in started at Thanksgiving. It seemed fitting that I'd moved out on a holiday (4th of July) & returned on another.

As we started cleaning out my old bedroom & rifling through the attic filled with forgotten things, I realized it wasn't a return to old ways but an opportunity for us to give the house a new life.
Slowly, the house became unrecognizable from the inside. Fresh paint went up on the walls, carpet was ripped up, new light fixtures illuminated the rooms. When we found out our daughter was on her way, we put all of our effort into the upstairs "guest/junk room". My husband spent all of his free time painting, applying chair rails & new baseboard while I filled it with all things vintage Paris & Hello Kitty (2 of my favorite things as a girl).
When it came time for new carpet, the installers asked if we wanted to replace any floor boards.
I instantly thought of the floor board directly in front of the door to the nursery which has always creaked since the summer storm before the roof was put on. I know this house so well I step over that spot in the floor without even thinking. It reminds me though, of that summer, the radio & soaking my feet in the warmed rain water. Everything in this house reminds me of my childhood & now gives me a hopeful feeling for the future. I like that I remember my dad with saw dust in his curly hair, that driving by a lumber yard has always made me homesick. I like knowing that the same home I was raised in is the first place my daughter came home to, that she'll learn where the creaking floor boards are but not before she's a toddler & I hear her pass over it on the way to our room when she wakes in the middle of the night.
I like how the house seems to heave a sigh & settle each night, the way a breeze feels floating up the staircase when the windows are open in the summer. I love that this house was a haven for me growing up & I hope it's my daughter's safe/peaceful place, too. There is so much to remember & so much to look forward to. This house has a lot of lives left.
"No," I said to the installers, "nothing needs to be replaced." And I meant it.

A house with good bones doesn't need too many repairs.

A Letter to my Daughter

Dear Haven,

On this day last year, you were simply an idea; a hope, a wish I was trying to pray into existence. I look at you now, 11 weeks old & I am still astonished at the miracle of it all. I can't imagine ever looking at you without wonder & amazement.
You were born on a rainy September evening. Time had no meaning while I labored through the day; I was focused on nothing but bringing you into this world safely. When at last you made your grand entrance, I remember letting out a sigh of relief as I heard you cry out with your first breath. I watched the nurse carry you to the table to be cleaned up and there was nothing but roll upon roll - you were so chunky. The last week of my pregnancy I had felt every bit of your 8 lbs 5 oz! You were so wide eyed & alert. When they put you in my arms at last, I remember saying, "Hi, baby. I have waited so long to meet you." It wasn't just 41 weeks I waited - I had waited my entire life.
You are my child, my fate. It is nothing but awe-inspiring to meet a soul mate (because there are so many different types of soul mates you'll have in your lifetime) - to look at another human being & know instantly that they are part of your destiny. You were knit divinely inside of my womb, my body nourished your body - & it was you who created me, into a mother. I understand now the overwhelming bond, the feeling that every woman tries to put into words but can never quite get right.
While you are still so small & you have these stunning & delicate features, I have never looked at you as fragile. I'd barely held a baby before I had you; the few that I did hold, I treated like they would break so easily. Since the moment you came into this world kicking & screaming, I have laughed (& sometimes sobbed) at the determination you already exhibit. I see fierce determination in everything you do - holding your head up, the wild frustration when you can't roll over, the screaming until you're red in the face until I figure out what exactly is wrong with you. You are no fragile little thing. You are my wild thing.
When I was pregnant, I wrote letters to you all the time. Now that you're here, I don't have much time to write my daily thoughts to you; I'm too busy living this new life & trying to drink up every single moment with you. You are growing before my eyes! Each day you look like a whole new person. I have never been more aware of how fast time is; how precious each second is. I gave up trying to be the perfect mother in the first week of your life. Instead, I am trying to embrace each & every beautifully flawed day, moment by moment. I love that I learn something new each day now, just like you. We're learning together…
The newest unexpected bonus of motherhood has been remembering how certain things felt in my own childhood. Today we were riding in the car - the sky was dark & it was pouring rain. I remembered the feeling I used to get riding in the backseat of the car with my parents up front in the middle of the night; there was a little innocent thrill of only being able to see the beams of headlights & not knowing exactly where we were. I just knew I felt safe with my parents. I loved thinking about how you'll feel that way, too. Maybe you already do because before I knew it, you weren't chattering away (or screaming your head off) in your car seat - you were fast asleep.

Infinitely,

Mom

Finding Your Tribe

There is a weight to motherhood that I can never explain and every mother seems to carry it in their shoulders. It is where I place the burdens of the every day mundane and store my surplus of new emotional baggage. It causes me to hunch over as I nurse my daughter at 2AM. I wonder how many other women are awake and feeding their babies in the dim light of the bedside lamp. I think about how I never anticipated my breasts becoming a bigger deal than they were at 13. There are days where Haven wants to nurse every hour & a half & I feel that I have been reduced to nothing more than a milk machine. I am suddenly alone, hunched over a Boppy pillow, exiled to the couch with 3 seasons of a TV show on Netflix. There are days where I look out the window & feel like the world is just passing me by.
I know that one day I'll be able to leave the house with Haven without feeling like I'm racing against the clock that's counting down to her next feeding or diaper change. I won't have to wave the Very Hungry Caterpillar rattle in front of her face to keep her entertained. When that day comes, I'll remember to be thankful and know that, by-God, I earned a good day of walking slowly through a store without screaming & bodily fluids. It will become less crime scene, more sitcom. I'll also remember not to be smug about it - it will feel like a miracle & the stars aligned perfectly & Mercury is in retrograde & I'll give myself a high five on the way home.

Becoming a mother can be so lonely/isolating at times. In all honesty, I feel like I'm just Forrest Gump-ing my way through the first months of my daughter's life. I'm taking care of this brand new human being and suddenly I'm an adolescent again, thinking: “No one else could possibly understand what I’m going through. No one else has ever felt this way.” It is so overwhelming/frustrating/exhausting.
Keeping with the whole honesty bit - motherhood in these early weeks tends to be all work, little reward. Some days, I have to play the lullaby music on her swing non-stop & I swear it is the tune to the Barney song & I hate that it haunts my dreams. Some nights, bathing her is like trying to baptize a cat.
It can be depressing: paint-your-fingernails-black-and-listen-to-the-entire-Jagged-Little-Pill-album-depressing. So I wasn't really looking for other people who understand what I'm going through but I've become aware of them.

Since Haven was born, I can spot them anywhere; some imaginary coat of arms for my tribe. It is the woman in front of me at the grocery store with bags under her eyes that looks happy just to be out of the house by herself. It is the woman trying to get the stupid stroller to collapse while her baby screams in the car seat.

My saving grace has been the women who reached out to me after I had my daughter to say “I’m here. You can talk. I understand.” They are my tribe. They found me before I knew what to look for, when I was still isolating myself and going through the “mom-angst” thing. They check in to make sure I still have a shred of sanity or send me a link to an article about motherhood that says everything I've wanted to say but didn't know how. While being a new mom is the hardest role I've ever had, it is less lonely after finding women to reach out to.

We're all trying to figure out how to raise our babies with as little emotional damage to them & to ourselves as possible. I've heard the judgmental comments of some women - damning other mothers who don't breastfeed or use cloth diapers or co-sleep.
We need to build each other up and support one another, not tear each other down. We have to find our tribe. I see all of you - in the store, at the park, in an elevator. We're all seeking out someone to be honest with (I'm scared this won't actually get easier, I'll just learn to deal with it), someone that can find the humor in the things that make you want to bang your head against the wall (She waits for me to get back in the bed before spitting the pacifier out again), & someone to celebrate with (She smiled at me today - a genuine smile!)
Talking,laughing & some days crying are all things mothers need to do and are even better when you have someone to do those things with. I know that one day I'll be able to do all those things with my daughter & that is the reward worth waiting for.

Until then, find your tribe.

3 things you shouldn't say to a new mom:

1. "It's so worth it."
2. "It gets better."
3. "It's easier with two." (!!!)

Motherhood (7 weeks)

Before I became a mom, I thought I knew what was in store …but I didn’t know. How much emphasis can I put on that statement? I. Did. Not. Know.

I carried my daughter 41 weeks – taking care of myself during that time meant I was taking care of her. I had the best sleep of my life while I was pregnant. I’d sleep 9 hours a night (with the mandatory 3 bathroom trips) and take naps most afternoons. I ate surprisingly healthy (once I was able to eat after the first trimester was over). On Fridays, I started a ritual of walking around Target just browsing the aisles and making “awww” sounds at the adorable baby clothes while sipping a Grande Very Berry Hibiscus – it was exercise & shopping all in one. Two birds – one stone. Friday nights were spent cozy on the couch catching up on DVR.

Fast forward to seven weeks postpartum.

Taking care of myself and taking care of her are two separate things now.

I have not slept more than four hours straight since Haven entered the world. The first cry she let out that filled me with such awe at 9:32PM on September 25th now makes me shrink with fear and exhaustion on any night after 8PM. The sound can be described somewhere between a banshee and a seriously pissed off goat. This is the sounds that states: “You wanted to sleep through the night? Allow me to sing you the song of my people.”

Instead of bathroom trips, I am making trips to rub her back & “shhhh” her back to sleep, or put a pacifier back in her mouth (four times in a row because she spits it out just as my head hits the pillow every.single.time), or change an explosive diaper and soak poop stained PJs in Clorox 2, bleary eyed, at 2AM.

Picture me as the female sleep deprived Edward Norton in Fight Club. Instead of insomnia induced Ikea furniture purchases, I’m looking at an infomercial for the Shark Duo and it looks like a great idea at 4:25AM on a Sunday.

Eating healthy now? I try. It seems my daughter wants to eat as soon as I get my hands on food. I have not yet mastered nursing a ten and a half pound human being in my arms and eating a meal of my own at the same time. I figure I’ll enjoy food again someday. Right now, we are surviving off of crock pot meals. You can gauge what kind of day we had based on if the crock pot is on or if I’m online ordering carside to go.

Fridays are a day of celebration. It means we survived the week. My last post partum trip to Target was to buy accessories for my breast pump. I still “awww” at the baby clothes but now I’m looking at the material wondering how tough it will be to get bodily fluids out of it. Our DVR is getting close to capacity because we can’t stay awake for a full 30 minute show & if we can, it is paused at least 4 times to say things like: “For God’s sake why can’t you keep the pacifier in your mouth?”, or “Do you smell that? Is it coming from her?” or my favorite: “She’s staring at me … oh no, she has that angry look.”

The things I have learned seven weeks in to motherhood:

1. While it seems like two completely separate things, taking care of myself and her are still intertwined. I have to take care of myself in order to be a good and functioning human being/mother. I take the advice of the amazing nurse I had at the hospital & I don’t care what in the world is going on, I shower every single day. Even if it doesn’t feel like I have a minute to spare, I am showering. That is 10 minutes of alone time to think or laugh or cry – whatever I want. I refuse to give that up or I will be giving up my sanity.

2. It is possible to brush your teeth and soothe a wailing newborn at the same time. I said possible, not easy.

3. If the house is a wreck, if there’s a strange smell coming from the trash that should’ve been taken out yesterday, if there’s a phone call I really need to make… …all that will get taken care of when she’s not sleeping. When she sleeps, I sleep. As a rookie (just a few weeks ago), I had the great misfortune of assuming her sleep time should be my time to get things done. My house will still be dirty a couple years from now and I’m okay with that.

4. It’s okay to ask for help. If I have had the thought: “I can’t do this anymore” more than once in a day, I’m calling someone for help. I’m of no use to my daughter when I’m too exhausted (which unfortunately causes me to become super emotional as well). Asking for help doesn’t make you weak – it makes you sane. That old saying “It takes a village to raise a child” - truer words have never been spoken.

5. It is not okay to judge a woman in a store with a screaming baby. I was guilty of that pre-baby. Now I’m ignoring the stares of all those beady judging eyes thinking: “You don’t know the story. The struggle is real.”

6. Don’t compare yourself to other moms. ‘Nuff said.

7. Some days are just really hard. If I start getting sad, I think of something to look forward to. If it’s the early morning hours when childless people across the nation are still snug in their beds there doesn’t seem to be much to look forward to except maybe coffee. So I think about that warm cup of coffee like it’s the answer to everything.

8. Sometimes coffee is the answer to everything.

9. Make time for your partner. There was a night during the third or fourth week after Haven arrived that I looked at Joe and felt like I hadn’t actually looked at him for days. It may only be a couple of minutes, but we take time to focus on each other each day.

10. My husband is my partner. We are a team. Right now we are in survival mode. It is us against Haven. Sometimes she’s winning. Some nights we crawl in to bed, weary & defeated. Other nights we crawl in to bed feeling we won a small victory. Either way, we crawl in that bed together & hold hands until we fall asleep (or until we hear the previously mentioned banshee/goat wail). That is the romance necessary to survive this adjustment.

Things I remind myself on a daily basis:

1. While everything seems like complete and total chaos right now, we’ll find a routine. Life is no longer “normal”, but we’ll find a “new normal”. Like years of BC or AD, I have BH and AH – years “Before Haven” and years “After Haven”.

2. The hardest day can only last 24 hours.

3. You have to find humor at 2AM when your baby refuses to go back to sleep. This could mean playing Samuel L. Jackson’s reading of “Go the F*%! To Sleep”. Whatever gets you through it.

Summary:

1. Take care of yourself – you need your sanity.

2. Sleep every single second you can. Seriously.

3. I’m really serious about #2.

4. Ask for help. It takes a village so ask your tribe for help!

5. Don’t judge other moms & don’t try to be like other moms. We need to support each other, not tear each other down.

6. Coffee. A lot of it.

7. If you are blessed to have a partner in all the chaos, love them & don’t forget about them. Support each other & remember you can’t both be crazy at the same time.

8. If you are down & out & your whole life makes no sense – remember: coffee. A lot of it.

9. If you cannot possibly remember everything in this summary, at least remember #2.

10. See #3.