{Originally published at Mommy Needs Therapy}

Reading over my last Tales of the Breast post, I realized it was a bit clinical, and with all the talk about Mother’s milk tea, and herbs, and domperidone, etc. I forgot what my original intent was: To write about how much I love breastfeeding Kiel. How special it is.

I love when Kiel first latches on and gets that first mouthful of milk, how his eyes roll back in his head as if he’s experiencing nirvana.

I love how his hand is always moving, running over my body. Sometimes grabbing my nose, or finding its way into my mouth for me to kiss and nibble on. If both breasts are exposed he’ll head right for the other nipple and grab it, twisting and tweaking. I swear his Daddy didn’t teach him that. Such a little man already.

Sometimes, it isn’t enough for him to just move his hands over me, he has to move his legs too. Kicking at the breast he isn’t nursing from, as if he’s tenderizing it for his next course.

I love how he looks into my eyes, with his sparkly blue-gray eyes and sometimes stops and smiles, the corners of his mouth moving up and out. A little bit of milk spilling out.

{Originally published on Lucky Thirteen and Counting}

I used to have a daughter. I don’t have her any more. This is something that is not easy to talk about nor easy to write about, even almost two years later. But today, in the spirit of February, the month of love, I think this is an appropriate day to share some of my feelings.

I love this child. I wanted this child. I made a sacrifice for this child and I still believe I did the right thing. BUT, there are days and times, that cause me to reflect on that decision. I don’t want to tell you I question it, or that I hope I did the right thing. Because honestly, deep in my heart, I KNOW that I made the right decision. But knowing this doesn’t make it easy, or the grief any less, or the loss go away.

When The Ex and I separated Embree was four years old. The Nanny started dating The Ex three weeks later, and I fired her. My kids lost two very important people in a matter of 21 days. Embree took it the hardest. She cried as hard, if not harder, than I did. It was devastating to watch. She loved her nanny. The Nanny started working for me full-time when Embree was one. She was her primary caregiver. When Embree cried, she wanted The Nanny, not me. That loss was substantial to my child. I was not above admitting that.

When The Nanny moved in with The Ex, Embree joined them. She moved in full-time. I couldn’t deny her who and want she wanted. She visited me when they went out. However, it wasn’t me she was visiting, it was the siblings. When I scheduled one-on-one time with her, she wanted the other kids to join us.

We continued life this way for one year. We lived in Utah so I knew what Embree was doing, and I still played a small role in her life. But, when we moved to California everything changed. The Ex and The Nanny were married and having a family of their own. My life was here in California with Brandon and the kids. When Embree came to visit she cried for her “mommy”. It was painful to hear, to see, and to feel. Embree and I both knew she belonged with her dad and her “new mommy”.

I talked to her about what this would entail. Brandon and I wouldn’t be her family any more. Her siblings would still be her brothers and sisters, but I would not be her mom, and Brandon wouldn’t be her stepfather. She understood the best a six-year-old mind could understand. She was thoughtful for a moment and said with confidence, “Yes, I want that.”

{Originally published on Sarcastic Mom}

Several nights ago I was sitting in the dark of Braden’s room; he was cradled in my arms, breathing quietly. As we slowly swayed back and forth in the rocking chair together, lullabies playing peacefully on the CD player, my mind jumped back and forth. It climbed mountains torturously, then lept off of the summits and plummeted into the valleys below. My face was slack, but my thoughts rumbled and tumbled below the surface while I felt the warm, soft life in my embrace cuddle deeper into sleep.

Suddenly, I burst out crying. Crying for the tiny life that I wasn’t able to hold onto in this way. I sobbed – quietly, so as not to disturb Braden – for a few long moments. Then I placed him in his crib and left the room. As suddenly as it had come upon me, the weeping was gone.

It’s been like that for weeks now. Since the miscarriage.

The extreme dichotomy of my feelings and thoughts lately has been a confusion at times, to me. At others, it has made no less than perfect sense. See what I mean?

I was pregnant one day. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Riding the roller coasters at this Carnival From Hell that no woman wants to go to, but that is packed full of people, nonetheless, has been strange.

Some days, hearing about how many others have gone through this, multiple times, even, is a great comfort. I am actually incredibly buoyed by the scores of other women who feel somewhat betrayed by their bodies, or maybe even by God. By women who have experienced this same thing and are floating alongside me in this sea of uncertainty.

It means that I am not really standing out in the middle of a barren wasteland, alone, while a relentless wind tears and rips at my exposure-ravaged limbs, muffling my cries and carrying them silently away into the vast nothingness surrounding me, where they will mean nothing and no one will ever respond to them.

Muffin Tin Monday = Lunch served in a Muffin Tin

The concept is not new, I’m sure many of you have seen this out in the mommy world of play dates and preschool. It’s a great way to break the monotony of daily lunch preparation. I also hope it will encourage me
to keep offering new foods to my kids – maybe they’ll even like one of them!

So, I officially declare Monday as Muffin Tin Monday. Join me!

Originally published on The Calm Before the Stork.

So, lesson number one postpartum: Don’t set your blog readers up for a two or three part series when you barely know if you’ll be sleeping any day soon.

When I sat down to write that first post-birth post, in a fit of adrenaline (post-mama’s-first-meconium, ahem), I had the story all mapped out in my head. But once I’d finished the birth part, I needed a nap.

I still need a nap.

But I must finish the story.

Suffice it to say, or rather, in summary, in short: My baby was starving.

They tell you that the baby comes into this world with about three days’ worth of fat stores. Enough to keep him going while he and you learn how to breastfeed him on the meager yet thick drips of colostrum, until your milk comes in.

I was able to get something that looked like latching going on that first night in the hospital. The night nurse, a young black woman with a thick island accent, oversaw these attempts. The baby was crying. A lot.

“Oh, he is hungry! And he is frustrated! Oh yes, he is very very frustrated,” she said, over, and over, and over, and over, about 17 times, in a singsongy voice.

I didn’t sleep that first night.

{Originally published on We Make Three}

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’ve been married to Michael for nearly 20 years. This man saved me. I’m not kidding. And I will always love him for that.

I was only 20 when we got married. Even at that young age, I realized that I had everything to learn about life. We both understood that starting a family would wait while we developed ourselves, our careers, and focused on our marriage. We had nothing for our start together other than the china and crystal from our wedding registry. Not even a couch. It was a meager beginning, but still a heady time for us. We had nothing but each other and our independence. I love how we started our relationship, and I love that we sacrificed and made our way without any help.

Life happened to us. We bought our home, built our careers, and enjoyed our lives together. We got our dog, a little Yorkie I named Chester, who became the perfect vessel for my maternal outpourings. We talked about kids. A lot. Michael is very practical. Pragmatic. He looks at the facts and makes very accurate assessments. We discussed the commitment, sacrifice, and change in our lifestyle that having a family would require. We were ready.

(click for more)

Originally published on Fuse Moms

The common denominator of first-time pregnant women is not distended
bellies or compromised bladders. It is not the fear of another human
being exiting their body. Instead, they pursue one goal – preparation.
Whether it’s stocking up on diapers or painting a nursery in a soothing
color, these gals feel the need to prepare for their new arrival. For
me, it was childbirth classes…

Round One

We are at the hospital’s four-session course about childbirth. The room is chock full of rotund ladies and their husbands.

The
nurse who is teaching the class has grown children. I’d prefer to talk
to someone who carries recent scars… I mean memories… of the joy of
childbirth. To chafe me even more, she is wearing a waist-cinching
belt. I don’t think anyone in this room can imagine fitting in a belt
again. This woman is cruel. I want to run her over with my car.

(click title for more)