“You Look Great!” and Other Post-Partum Lies….

It’s a funny thing, having a fourth child. The idea that I should be an old pro by now has been disproved at every stage of Abigail’s pre- and post-natal life: Pregnancy always seems to have fresh discomforts up its sleeve, babies don’t arrive when and how you expect, and nursing a newborn every two hours is still exhausting. Whether you’ve just had your first child or your fourth, it turns out that the baby-birthing process is new each time, with its own particular blend of joys and struggles.

But there’s one thing, I’ve found, that stays relatively the same after each birth, and that’s what other people say to you. Having heard these pithy exclamations and encouragements four times, I have now realized two things:

1. People are so, so kind in those first post-partum weeks. Strangers will fall all over you and your baby whenever you leave the house until you feel like a celebrity.

2. They are lying to you.

Yes, they are. These are kind, well-intentioned lies, of course; the sort of lies we all tell each other in order to get through the days. But they are lies nonetheless. I didn’t realize this when I had my first, second, or even third child. But now I’m no longer under the illusion that I’m a celebrity for having recently given birth. No; by the fourth time around, I’m just another person contributing to global overpopulation, and I know enough to call out the following statements as lies:

1. “You look great!”

This is one of the first things that people exclaim when they see you post-partum. The implication is — sometimes this isn’t merely implied but stated — that you “look like you haven’t even given birth.” In other words, you do not look exhausted, unwashed, and awkwardly in-between hugely pregnant and not pregnant. This is intended as a compliment, and reflects our culture’s sad obsession with the body, in which celebrity magazines mock women for pregnancy weight gain and praise them for modeling lingerie two weeks after giving birth.

And it’s most likely a lie — at least when said to me. Maybe you look great. but I certainly look exhausted, unwashed, and puffy. I can no longer stand to wear maternity clothes, but I still can’t fit into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes, which leaves me with three baggy outfits stained with lanolin, spit-up, and sweat. I’m sleeping in one-hour increments. I’m permanently hunched from carrying the baby all day. When I do bathe, it’s a harried process of handing Abigail off to my husband and racing through a shower while trying to ignore her screams. I may look many ways, but “great” is not one of them.

NOTE: This comment, however inaccurate, is MUCH better than the question — which I have actually been asked — “So, have you lost the pregnancy weight yet?” I can’t fathom what would possess somebody to ask this of a new mom, but if you’ve ever considered it — DON’T.

2. “She’s so beautiful!” Now listen: I love my babies. I think they’re beautiful, but that’s because I’m their mom and I’ve just struggled to produce them at great expense to my body and my health insurance. But are they truly, objectively beautiful? Of course not. All of my newborns have looked like plucked chickens — and not the plump butterball chickens, but the scrawny ones headed straight for the chicken nuggets pile. They are coated with fuzzy hair and peeling skin. After a few weeks, the peeling stops and the baby acne starts.

In time, they will become truly, objectively beautiful, but they’re not there yet.

3. “Nursing shouldn’t hurt at all.” Okay, this may be an uncomfortable topic for some non-moms, but I promise no graphic details. I feel that this lie is important to unmask as a public service. While it may not be a universal experience, I’ve had numerous new moms question me — with shame and discouragement in their voices — about the pain they’re experiencing with nursing. So let me be honest:

I think nursing is a great thing (though certainly not the only thing). I have nursed all four of our children. And every single time it hurt like the dickens for the first month or so. At times I was concerned that I was scarring my children for life because their earliest memories would be of their mother yelping in pain whenever they ate.

That’s bad enough, but what made it worse was that every single time, some well-meaning labor and delivery nurse or lactation expert would tell me, “It shouldn’t hurt to nurse. If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.” Now, I certainly advise new moms to consult a nurse or lactation expert about nursing, because they’re very helpful. But as far as I can tell, this bit about nursing being pain-free is a lie. (And I have professionals to back me up on this: For the first time, I have a female ob/gyn who nursed two children of her own, and according to her the notion of pain-free nursing is “a load of bull.”)

So I say: nurse away, give your body a month to toughen up, and don’t let them make you feel worse by selling you a lie.

4. “It gets easier.” I can’t yet claim with total authority that this is a lie, because I’m still on the front lines of parenting very young children. But every time a kind veteran parent encourages us by saying, “It gets easier,” I’m starting to suspect that they just might be lying in order to buck us up. And that’s okay: It’s okay if it doesn’t get easier. I didn’t sign up for parenting with the mistaken impression that it would be relaxing.

I think it’s true that the newborn days are a special kind of hard: There’s nothing quite like having to hold and feed a baby round the clock. But, as I’ve written before, my sense is that parenting doesn’t really get easier the longer you do it, it just gets different. For instance, next year our two oldest daughters will attend two separate schools, each with different start and end times. These two daughters are also cultivating their own groups of friends and starting to get involved in extracurricular activities. All of this presents a series of logistical challenges that were unknown back in the pre-school days when we had a newborn and a toddler or two at home. And something tells me it ain’t getting any simpler.

What to make of these post-partum lies? I’m really not trying to paint a depressing picture of people, or of post-partum life. As I’ve said, these lies reveal people at their kindest, most encouraging. For all I know, most of the people who say these things sincerely believe that they’re speaking the truth.

Maybe the best thing about fourth-time parenthood is having the assurance that, even if these statements aren’t true when they’re first spoken, that’s only temporary. Soon enough, you will look great — or at least, less like a misshapen blob of exhaustion. Soon enough, your baby will be beautiful — or at least, less of a scrawny, naked chicken. Soon enough, nursing will be painless — and before you know it, they’ll be demanding juice in their sippy cup. And whether or not parenting gets easier, soon enough you’ll be converting your children’s rooms to accommodate visiting grandchildren.

Then, when you see a new mother, you’ll smile and tell her that she looks great and her baby is beautiful.

What NOT to Expect When You’re Expecting….

I feel like this photo says a lot about our family dynamics….

Back when I was teaching third grade, I worked with a dedicated co-teacher who was about 25 years older than me. Every once in a while, this teacher would sigh and say, “It’s hard being a grown-up.” Since I was 23 years old at the time, I’d smile and nod knowingly, but I didn’t really have any idea what she was talking about.

Now I do: It’s HARD being a grown-up, because it feels like you never actually reach the elusive state of being finally, completely GROWN UP. I keep thinking that the day will come when I’ll feel like a fully-actualized grown-up; when everything I’ve learned and resolved and written about will crystallize, and I can just coast along in my grown-up-ness for the rest of my life.

I’m starting to think that’s never going to happen.

Take my experience in late May/early June, for example. There I was, 9 months pregnant. Each day brought me closer to my due date: June 6. I was cruising along, trying to be peaceful and nonchalant about the whole thing; after all, this was my fourth pregnancy, so I should be a pro, right? I even wrote a piece on this very blog about how I’d learned NOT to plan too much because every past childbirth experience had thwarted all of my “plans.”

Guess what? I lied.

While I wrote that piece with my conscious brain, my subconscious brain was busily building a fortress of expectations. It went something like this:

“Because this is your fourth child, and also your LARGEST baby, and also your most uncomfortable pregnancy, this baby is surely going to come early. Let’s just hope you make it to 37 weeks! Best to be totally prepared a month in advance: buy newborn diapers, return the books that you’ve borrowed, finish sewing the doll dress that you haven’t touched in six months, watch the Season 3 finale of ‘Downton Abbey.’ Stop putting new events on the calendar, and if you do add something, make sure to specify that it’s ‘pending baby’s arrival.'” Every night for a month, I went to bed with all of our family’s ducks in a row, just in case I gave birth overnight. It was exhausting.

The weeks passed: 37…38. I attended events that I’d been certain I’d miss. My parents wanted to be present for the baby’s arrival, and by 39 weeks life was getting hard enough that we called them to come up early. At that point, I joked, “You know, if you come up early, I’m sure this baby’s going to be a week late.” Ha. Ha.

I started having regular, strong contractions five days before my due date, but I knew not to take them seriously until I’d given them time. Sure enough, the contractions stopped. That’s how it went for the next week: contractions, nothing, contractions, nothing. My emotions followed a similar cycle: frustration, excitement, depression, acceptance, and back to frustration.

Suddenly, I was looking at my due date in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t believe it. How had this happened to me? Every morning, I’d wake up and realize with a sinking feeling that I hadn’t had the baby. I started calling the fetus “Godot,” as in: “Waiting for….” That might seem good-natured, but remember that Godot never actually shows up? I was certain that I was the exception to the rule that nobody STAYS pregnant: I would be 9 months pregnant forever. I dreaded going out in public, because I’d have to discuss my lack of a baby with everyone I ran into — AGAIN. A neighbor whom I hadn’t seen in a few months did a double-take: “ANOTHER one?!? This is number FIVE, right?” No, still pregnant with the SAME FOURTH CHILD.

I felt stupid for allowing myself to develop expectations. I felt guilty, because I started resenting the baby: The LEAST you could do is be born when we expected! What gives?!?

Somehow, AGAIN, I’d stumbled into the delusion that I had control. I’d let myself think that I knew, better than my body or my baby, when this birth would happen. It was deja vu all over again: NO, you DON’T have control, dummy!

As a side note, here are a couple of things that are NOT helpful to tell a woman who’s waiting to give birth. (Both said to me by loving and well-intentioned family members):

1. “You just have to wait on God’s perfect timing.” This is very true. But the thing about God’s perfect timing is that it’s best appreciated in retrospect. I’ve often looked back and thought, “OOOOH, I didn’t understand it at the time, but God knew what he was doing.” However, telling me when I’m in the middle of waiting that I need to depend on “God’s perfect timing” only leads me to one response: I know he’s GOD and all, but in this case, God’s timing is clearly WRONG WRONG WRONG!

2. “You just need to relax and not think about it.” This advice almost always comes from a male. Telling a 9-months-pregnant woman to relax and not think about giving birth is the equivalent of saying, “Hey, you have a 150-pound anaconda on your head! Just relax and don’t think about it.”

Waiting to give birth is HARD. There’s the physical discomfort: huge belly and swollen feet and sleepless nights. But there’s also a mental component. No matter how many times you’ve done it, pregnancy is harrowing: nine months of trusting your body, hoping the baby you can’t see will be okay, giving up control every second of every day. By the end, I always have lack-of-control fatigue; I just want to SEE this baby, to get it on the outside so that I can care for him/her with my own hands. To have the illusion of control.

*****

Everything above was written on June 10; Abigail Esther was born early on June 16, 10 days after her expected due date. In retrospect, of course, the timing was perfect: I was able to participate in every major June event on our family’s calendar, my parents were still around to help (they’d planned to give up and leave the very next day), and — as a lovely gesture to Erick, as if to compensate for the 1:5 male:female ratio she created — Abigail decided to arrive on Father’s Day. She arrived on her own timing, four days before my doctor would have induced labor.

She was worth waiting for. And her tardiness was consistent with her character thus far; Abigail has been the easiest of all our babies and seems — in contrast to her sisters (and her mother) — almost relaxed.

So, if I had to do it all over again (which I can virtually promise you I WILL NOT), I’d remind myself every day that prior experience and due dates mean very little. Part of being a grown-up is accepting how little we can control or predict anything in our lives — and realizing that that’s usually a good thing.

Lesson learned. Again.

Christmas in July: Naughty or Nice?

My husband and I didn’t discuss much about child-rearing before we had kids; in the early years of our marriage, kids themselves — let alone how to raise them — were far from our thoughts. But there was one topic that we did wrestle with, long before any kids entered the equation: Santa Claus.

Click here to continue reading at On the Willows.

And Down Will Come Baby

Originally published in May 2012 — one of my all-time favorites. After reading through almost two years of Pickle Patch archives, I also think this post sums up a major theme of this blog: motherhood is a humbling, imperfect, messy, and grace-filled thing, and we should tell each other the truth about that.

I am happy to report that, during the first month of her life, I did not drop Abigail. But there’s still lots of time….

****

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, so I’m thinking about motherhood.

I remember reading (sometime, somewhere) about the different mothering trends of the past few decades. There was the ultra-competitive power mothering of the 90s and early 2000s (Get your child the right stroller! Get them into the perfect school!). This was followed by a backlash that the author termed the “bad mother” trend (embodied by Ayelet Waldman’s memoir Bad Mother — which is, by the way, an honest and funny and touching read). “Bad mothers” proudly confessed to their failures, forgetfulness, selfishness, and use of vodka shots to get through the day. I’m not sure what you’d call the current mothering trend, but between last year’s hot mothering book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and THIS year’s hot mothering book, Bringing Up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting, I’d call it “comparative multicultural mothering” (“Here’s how Asians do it!” “Oh yeah? Well here’s how the FRENCH do it!”).

I don’t really fit in to any of the above categories. I think I’m a mom who shows up every day and tries my imperfect best (with the help of God and coffee). A pretty good mom.

But I’m a pretty good mom who dropped my newborn.

I still remember vividly the first time Fiona got hurt. She was around 6 months old, and we were sitting on the floor of her room looking at books. As she was pulling out books from her bookshelf, a book from a higher shelf fell out and hit her right next to her eyebrow. It left a nasty red mark, and Fiona screamed for a few minutes, then recovered and forgot all about it.

I, however, did not forget. I cried harder than Fiona over her pain and my helplessness. How could I let such a thing happen to my child and not prevent it?!? That book COULD have landed in her eye! She’ll never forgive me for sitting there and letting her get hurt! I am clearly an unfit mother.

If you’re expecting me to tell you that things got better with time and additional children, you’re wrong.

Because when Campbell was about 4 days old, I was nursing her in bed late one night. I always read during late-night feedings in an attempt to stay awake, and I was reading that night. But despite my best efforts, worn out from the challenge of caring for a 20-month-old and a newborn, I nodded off with Campbell still in my arms. And woke up to a loud THUD and my baby wailing.

Campbell had fallen off the bed; more accurately, since I’d been holding her when I nodded off, I had dropped my newborn. I was completely beside myself. How COULD I, a second time mother, be so stupid?!? How would Campbell ever recover a sense of safety or trust after being dropped by her own mother at 4 days old?! Thankfully, our bed was only about 18 inches off of the floor, or it might have been a lot worse. We took her to the doctor the next day (where I was sure they’d call Child Protective Services on me), and she checked out fine. As far as I know, Campbell has no memory of the event and doesn’t hold it against me, although lately she has taken to saying, “Mommy, I wish I was back in your tummy.” I don’t know what that’s all about, but I’ve wondered whether she’s thinking, You know, things were a lot better back before she could get her hands on me.

And THEN, when Georgia was about 5 months old, I was trimming her fingernails one morning and nicked a little chunk of skin out of her tiny finger. She cried, and bled, and bled, and bled. She bled for the better part of an hour, through two washcloths and countless tissues. The only reason we didn’t take her to the doctor was because Erick was home, so he did his research (when there’s a family crisis, I handle the emotions and Erick handles the research) and determined Georgia was probably fine. Which she was.

Once again, I was the one who wasn’t fine. How many hundreds of fingernails had I trimmed with our previous two children, and I slice open our third daughter?!? How could I be so careless?!? Would Georgia ever trust me to cut her fingernails again?!? Happily, Georgia continues to submit to manicures, so I assume she’s let bygones be bygones. (I can’t say the same for her older sisters, who witnessed the event and remind me of it every time I go to trim their nails).

It goes without saying that this will NEVER be a parenting-advice blog. In fact, I no longer read parenting advice books or websites. (I know there are many excellent parenting resources out there that have helped countless people, but I started to notice that reading this advice made me anxious and confused). Not that I don’t need any input or advice, but these days I get it by talking to friends — friends who are in the trenches with me, or friends who are further along the parenting path and have great kids to show for it. Sharing stories, I’ve found, is the most helpful.

So that’s why I shared these stories with you: because I hope they might be helpful to other moms, especially moms who are struggling. (Is there any other kind?) I shared these stories precisely because they were stories I thought I’d never tell. They were too embarrassing, too traumatic. Back when they happened, I never would have predicted that I’d write them up and post them on the internet, let alone be able to chuckle over them a little.

GongGirls05 — Still happy, despite the blood loss. (Photo by Zoe Reyes).

Here is my Mother’s Day thought: I don’t think that time, experience, or more children necessarily make you a better, more competent mother. They just make you an older mother. Personally, I’m just as capable of dropping my third child as my first (maybe even more so, because I’m more tired and distracted). BUT, I DO think that time and experience can give mothers the gifts of perspective and humor. Things that seem so crucial — even shameful — at the time, later turn out to be things we tell virtual strangers with a chuckle. I’m only four years into this game, but if this is how I now see some of my darkest mommy moments, I’m guessing that in another four years we’ll all be chuckling about naps and potty training and kindergarten — the things that seem so important right now.

Bottom line: I think that it’s possible to be a pretty good mother and still drop your baby (metaphorically or actually). We are human, and imperfect, and all the love that we have within us will never be enough to make our children feel completely whole. All we can do is show up every day and try our imperfect best. Love — and laughter — and especially grace — really do cover a multitude of sins. And usually our children bounce back from our mistakes more quickly than we do.

So, Happy Mother’s Day. I wish my fellow mamas the gifts of perspective and humor. Remember that you’re still a pretty good mother, even if you drop the baby once in a while. And when it comes to motherhood, pretty good is good enough. Maybe it’s even great.

Porch — *Check out my beautiful Mom (she’s the one on the right, of course). She’s one of the greats, and I’m pretty sure she never dropped me. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I love you!*

ADDENDUM: My mom just read this, and has informed me that I fell off the changing table when I was a baby. So there you go!

Uphill and Down

Looking down into Smuggler’s Notch from the Long Trail North.

Originally published in July 2012.

Erick and I have always loved hiking, and we used to hike fairly often…pre-kids. The last substantial hike we took was when we left 6-month-old Fiona with her grandparents and took off on a day hike in California’s Pt. Reyes State Park. If you do the math, that was FOUR YEARS AGO.

Unless you’re a masochist, hiking any further than 1/2 mile with children under the age of 5 is just not very fun. Somebody — usually the oldest, heaviest child, NOT the baby who’s already strapped to your back — is always whining to be carried, somebody always has to pee and then misses and gets soaked, somebody always needs a drink or a snack. Our two older girls are reaching ages at which we can see the glimmer of pleasant future hikes together, but for now we still have to catch them both on a good day.

So, when Erick’s parents were visiting this June, we jumped at the chance to leave the girls with them for a night, and headed off for a hike in Smugglers’ Notch State Park in Stowe, VT. Smugglers’ Notch got its name back in 1807, when President Jefferson banned trade with Great Britain and Canada. This was rough on northern Vermonters, who relied on trade with Montreal. So, during the trade embargo and later during Prohibition, goods were smuggled to and from Canada through this narrow pass in the Green Mountains.

And let me tell you: those smugglers had a tough job — I seriously doubt that much of the liquor made it through the Notch untouched. Erick and I opted for the Long Trail North to Sterling Pond, a 6.6-mile round trip hike with an 1,800-foot elevation change. The trail was rated “difficult,” which was no overstatement: it was steep, and rocky, and muddy in many places. But it afforded some stunning panoramic views of Mt. Mansfield (Vermont’s highest peak) to the west and Spruce Peak to the east. We ate our picnic lunch of bread, cheese, and salami overlooking pristine Sterling Pond. Best of all, the hike gave us FIVE HOURS of peace and quiet; Erick and I aren’t big talkers on our hikes, and on this hike we were so winded most of the time that talking wouldn’t have been an attractive option in any event.

A portion of the trail: believe me, this looks much easier than it was.

During those five hours of quiet, I thought about a question that my sister-in-law had asked me a week earlier, a question that had been weighing on my mind because I wasn’t satisfied with my initial answer. And on that hike, I arrived at a much better response.

The question was this: “So, it gets easier, huh?”

By “it,” she meant parenthood.

My sister-in-law, who is an amazing mother to the most adorable two-year-old nephew on the planet, was not the first person to ask me this. I’ve been asked versions of this question for most of my parenting career by mothers who are just a step behind me, and I’ve asked the same question of mothers who are a step ahead of me. With three children under the age of five, I’d hardly seem like an expert. But when my sister-in-law posed her question, I got it: I no longer have a newborn, and I’m right on the cusp of having multiple children in school. With kids in my house who can feed themselves, dress themselves, forgo diapers, and verbalize their needs without screaming (often), I’ve reached the next level: the level that comes after the brain-fogged survival of the newborn years.

So when my sister-in-law asked if parenthood gets easier, my first response was: “Yes,” because you should always give people hope.

But you should also be honest, so I added: “Well, it gets different.” That’s what mothers of older children are always telling me, and from my limited experience I know that it’s true. Then I floundered around that statement for awhile without accurately conveying what I think it means. Our hike helped show me what it means, so here goes:

I think the first couple years of parenting, especially the first couple years of parenting your first child, are like the initial ascent on a mountain hike. They’re HARD: the terrain is unfamiliar, you’re using muscles that you probably haven’t used in a while, you’re weighed down by a ton of gear in your pack (say, for instance, three bottles of water, a two-pound bag of trail mix, and a rain parka), you have to keep your eyes down on the ground because if you look ahead you’ll get discouraged, and sometimes the only thing to do is just to crawl on all fours.

I’ve done a fair number of these mountain hikes, and each time I make the same mistake, even though I know better; while I’m scaling that trail, I think to myself, “This’ll be MUCH easier on the way back down.”

Of course, it’s NOT AT ALL easier on the way back down, it’s just…different. Your pack is probably a little lighter, because hopefully you’ve drunk some of your water and eaten some trail mix. And the going may be a bit faster, but descending that slope is hard on the knees and toes, the tree roots that supported your feet on the way up now want to trip you, and sometimes the only thing to do is to scootch down on your bottom.

It’s kind of like the parenting that follows those first years: you’re done with diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings, sure. But instead you get to see your children’s hearts broken by friends, you start to see all of the neuroses and flaws that you know will plague them for life, you have to deal with their various anxieties in areas that you never expected. You’re up in the middle of the night again, but this time you’re wondering whether your child will ever have friends, and whether those friends will be good friends or will introduce your kid to crack cocaine and reality TV, and whether your child is just going through normal development or whether you need to call in a child psychiatrist stat.

It gets different, not easier.

But the things that keep me going during a hike are pretty much the same things that keep me going in parenthood. Sometimes the trees open up on a vista — mountains, sky, valley — that truly takes your breath away, a view you wouldn’t have experienced without that climb. Sometimes there are simple, quiet, delicious lunches by the pond. And sometimes you meet people like the couple we passed on the trail: not a day under 70, coming back down as we were going up, and chipper as could be. After we saw them, there was no way we were complaining for the rest of the hike.

And on the way back down, I found it easier to drop my worries about whether it was going to rain or how much longer it would be to our destination, and instead I just felt thankful. Thankful for the smallest things: the breeze, that cloud that provided a minute of shade, my hardworking legs — especially my knees, my awesome moisture-wicking hiking socks, the evergreen branches that some kind hiker had laid across the muddiest patches.

After all, you don’t want to get back to the parking lot and realize that you spent the entire hike wondering when it was going to get easier.

The Second Day

Originally published in September 2012. (Side note: Campbell’s “Second Day” ended up lasting the entire year. “I hate school! I’m not going!” she’d announce with a big grin EVERY MORNING she had preschool. Then she’d skip happily through the school doors without a backwards glance. This may be a kid who’s whole life is one big Second Day!)

Fiona and Campbell started preschool at the end of August. For Fiona, this was a return to the same preschool, same classroom, and same teacher as last year. Her fellow students, however, were almost entirely new to her. (Because of Fiona’s November birthday, she was placed in the four-year-old class last year; because the cut-off date for kindergarten is September 1, Fiona and a few other classmates will spend another year in the four-year-old class, while most of their peers from last year move on to kindergarten). For Campbell, starting out in the three-year-old class next door to Fiona, the whole experience was new.

Both of them were hugely excited for the first day of school — but not as excited as I was!

There’s a lot of build-up before the first day of school each year: anticipation, nervousness, new clothes and shoes and supplies. Even I felt a little nervous, although my main priority was just getting the kids out of the house. I hoped and prayed that Fiona would make friends and be happy with her new peer group. I hoped and prayed that Campbell would respect her teachers and be kind to the other students and avoid inappropriately using the word “poo-poo” — at least for the first day.

But, having done the first-day-of-school thing last year, I also knew this: It’s not the first day of school that’s the issue; it’s the SECOND day.

See, the first day, everything is fresh and exciting. There may be jitters, there may be wrenching goodbyes — but in my experience, adrenaline mostly carries everyone through. I’ve been the mom patting myself on the back after the first day of school, proudly relieved that my child had NO PROBLEM saying goodbye.

And then the second day hit.

By the second day, the kids have wised up. It’s not fresh and exciting anymore; instead, they can see past the new clothes and school supplies to the rules, expectations, and social minefield that they’re going to have to navigate EVERY SINGLE DAY. You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!? their eyes seem to say.

I was thinking about this as school began, and I realized that much of what makes life hard has to do with The Second Day. It’s not always literally the second 24-hour day, but it’s the state of mind we face when the newness has worn off. Think about it: You get married, and at first you’re swept along through the wedding and honeymoon, but pretty soon comes that Second Day, when you stare at your partner across the table and think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

Or, say, you have a baby, and you’re all jazzed up because you survived labor and now you have this cute little munchkin and you’re getting all sorts of attention and your house is stuffed with nifty new baby supplies…but then you come home from the hospital and have to face the Second Day, when nobody cares anymore that you have a new baby (except your parents — they’ll always care), and all your clothes are covered with bodily fluids and that munchkin is STILL waking up every two hours and you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

OR maybe you do something really great in your profession/vocation/calling/art: you win an award, or obtain a degree, or invent something new, or create a painting/performance/book/film/play/blog post that people really like. Congratulations! You feel like your existence is finally validated…for about 24 hours. Because then comes that Second Day, when you have to sit at your desk or computer or easel again, and you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

OR EVEN, let’s say you move to a small town in Vermont, and everything is new and wonderful. You love your new house, your new friends, the new landscape — your entire new lifestyle. But then the second year rolls around, and suddenly nothing’s quite so new anymore. You’ve seen all these seasons before, done just about everything there is to do at least once. And one dark and freezing winter morning, when you’re heading outside to feed those damn chickens AGAIN, you think, You mean I have to KEEP GOING?!?

Hey, it could definitely happen.

That Second Day is no joke. Based on the examples above, I’d venture that it’s the root cause of many cases of divorce, postpartum depression, and personal and professional burnout. I myself have experienced it plenty. In fact, I abandoned my first profession — teaching — because after four years I just couldn’t face a lifetime of Second Days in the classroom.

I have no tips for avoiding the Second Day phenomenon. It’s an inescapable part of life. Nothing stays new forever; if every day were a FIRST day, life would eventually become hyperactive and exhausting. All I have is this insight: the Second Day is difficult and depressing, but if you persevere through it, that’s when things start to take root and get really interesting. Marriage and parenting will always be HARD WORK — filled with multiple Second Days — but when I think back to my husband on our wedding day, or my kids when they were first born, I realize that I love them now with much more richness and complexity. I wouldn’t go back to that first day for anything.

I suppose the best way to handle Second Days is to anticipate them. I know now that I need to be just as prepared — if not more — to help my kids navigate that second day of school. I need to linger with a few extra hugs and kisses at the door, maybe even slip a little love note or special chocolate treat into their lunch bags. I need to offer encouragement that the most worthwhile thing in life — deep and genuine LOVE: for others, for what you do, for where you live — requires pushing past that Second Day. Perhaps we should all treat ourselves accordingly when we face life’s Second Days. Especially the extra chocolate treat.

So, now I’ve thought this through, and I feel more equipped to tackle those Second Days. But you know what?

I still have to get up tomorrow morning and feed those damn chickens.

Dare to Date

The best parenting advice I’ve ever received came when our oldest daughter was one year old, and I was pregnant with our second. My husband had arranged for his parents to watch our daughter for TWO NIGHTS so that we could take a brief getaway.

I was a little freaked out.

Click here to continue reading about dating post-kids over at On the Willows.

Born in Vermont

This Father’s Day, the Gong family did our part to increase Vermont’s native population: at 3:30 AM, our fourth daughter, Abigail Esther, was born at Porter Hospital’s Birthing Center in Middlebury.

Click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent, about our experience giving birth in a small-town hospital.

How to Talk to a Mom

Originally published May 2012. Unfortunately, given recent events, this is going to be true of my conversation for many years to come.

Since becoming a mom, I have become a terrible conversationalist.

As with anything I write here, I can only speak for myself. So this may be particular to a mother of three young children who is a recovering social perfectionist, doesn’t work outside the home, and has moved cross-country within the past year. I’m also not sure that I was a master of sparkling conversation before having children. I can’t remember those days very well; if I had to guess, I’d say I was only average with the chit-chat back then.

Which is much, much better than what I am now.

If you attempt a conversation with me these days, you will find me in one of two modes, neither of them eloquent. Whichever mode I’m in depends entirely upon external circumstances: whether or not my kids are with me.

Scenario #1: The Kids Are With Me.

I will be able to have, at most, two minute blocks of uninterrupted conversation with you. I will probably never make eye contact; instead, I’ll be scanning the room continuously to make sure I keep tabs on all three children. My side of the conversation will go something like this: “Uh-huh… yeah…. Excuse me just a minute. Campbell, SHARE!… Sorry, where were we?… Oh, right….Excuse me. Fiona, I’m talking with a grown-up. Just a minute, please…. So, wait, you were saying…? Oh, yup….Sorry, hang on. Oh, Georgia, what’s wrong?”

And so on. The conversation will end in one of two ways: either I’ll become engrossed in our conversation and establish eye contact for four seconds, in which case I will inevitably lose one of the kids (Campbell) and have to excuse myself to search frantically for her, OR one of the kids will have a complete melt-down (this is more likely the closer it gets to mealtime) and I’ll have to make a quick exit with a screaming child. I will smile apologetically and say, “I’ll catch up with you later.” (“Later,” I believe, is code for “in about five years”).

Scenario #2: The Kids are NOT With Me

This is a very rare occurrence. These days, this scenario applies mostly to occasional Moms’ Nights Out, or to doctor appointments. You’d think that being free of the kids, free of distractions, would liberate me to spread my wings and emerge as a conversational butterfly. Not the case, unfortunately for you.

First of all, I’m used to conversations that have to be crammed into two-minute time slots. It’s like eating: I usually bolt down my food as quickly as possible in order to deal with the numerous crises that happen every meal with three children, but if I’m eating without my children, I still bolt down my food in a matter of seconds. It’s become a habit. The same habit applies to conversation: I’m used to rushing in order to get the most conversational bang for the time I have, so even without children around I talk waaay too fast. And I start to feel panicked if the conversation extends beyond two minutes.

Also, you may be the first adult, aside from my husband, whom I’ve spoken with in over a week. (Not counting harried two-minute exchanges with other moms or brief pleasantries with check-out clerks). If we’re standing face-to-face and I’m looking you in the eyes and none of my kids are on the premises, this is an Event. And I have so much to say; all of the me that I can’t share with my kids will come gushing out like a horrible case of verbal Montezuma’s revenge. I can’t help it. I suspect that this is why so many moms have blogs: so they’ll have an outlet for those spillover thoughts and will talk less in social situations. It kind of works.

Finally, I’m really tired. I can’t claim that mind-numbing exhaustion that you have with a newborn; I’m fortunate that all three of our kids now sleep through the night. But I’m still really, really tired. Which just exacerbates the speedy talking, the verbal runs, and possibly some bizarre comments or tripping over words, because I’m lacking my full filtering capacities.

So, How to Talk to a Mom?

First, even if all of the above scares your pants off, you definitely should talk to moms. Because it’s a nice thing to do. Moms are usually starved for conversation with other grown-ups. Look at it as your act of charity for the week. But here are a few tips to get you through it:

1. Be patient, merciful, and understanding. Remember that you’re talking with someone who’s used to having to rush through all interactions, who may not have had a sustained social conversation with another adult in quite some time, and who is probably exhausted. If the mom rattles on or overshares, give her the benefit of the doubt.

2. Don’t feel like you have to ask about the kids. If you ask me about my kids, I’m going to have to tell you about my kids. And that might become a conversational snowball, rolling downhill out of my control. I can tell you a lot about my kids, but while I’m doing it I’ll be feeling horrible remembering how much I used to hate having to listen to other people talk about their kids (before I had kids, of course). So, I promise that I won’t be offended if you don’t ask about my kids. And I’ll be delighted if you treat me like any other normal person who thinks about things other than her kids. Because I do. Ask what I’ve read lately, ask about current events, ask about my vacation plans, whatever.

3. Talk about yourself. These days, if you ask me about what I’ve read lately, current events, or my vacation plans, I may have nothing much to say. In this case, I suggest that you talk about yourself. Usually, talking too much about oneself is frowned upon in social situations, but talking with a mom is an exception. I say: Please feel free to rattle on about yourself. Give me the whole monologue — you’ll be doing me a favor. In talking about yourself, you’re taking the pressure off of me. I won’t worry about talking too long or too fast or too much about my kids if I can’t get a word in, and I’ll feel like I’m doing a swell job holding up my end of the conversation by just smiling, nodding, and asking the occasional question. I may be fascinated by what you’re saying, or I may zone out and plan what I’ll make for dinner the next week, but either thing is a gift to me.

Okay, then. I’ll catch up with you later!

Thoughts After A Fight

Originally published in May 2012, this was a really important post to me. It was the first time — although not the last — that I admitted publicly that I struggle with faith, that God and I don’t always seem to see eye-to-eye on how life should be. The process of writing through that grief helped me to resolve it.

****

NOTE: I’m kind of terrified to publish this. It wasn’t written for public consumption; I wrote it for myself last week, as a way of processing a tragic fight that I’d been witnessing. It’s also, because of its frank discussion of faith, something I’d usually submit over at On The Willows. But it just feels right to publish it here. For some reason I’ve heard from numerous people over the past weeks who are also struggling with loss. Just about everybody who reads this blog knows me, and many probably know the family in question (whose names and identifying details I’ve removed in order to respect their privacy during this horrible time). I’m putting this out there and trusting that whoever needs to will read it, and that maybe it will help a little. (Lighter fare coming soon).

Some weeks, faith feels like the middle miles of a marathon, or the transition stage of childbirth, or 4:30 PM everyday in our house: when you say to yourself, “I just don’t think I’m going to make it.” This has been one of those weeks.

A beautiful baby’s fight ended this morning. We met her parents several years ago at our church in California. Around the same time we moved to Vermont, they moved overseas to work as missionaries — missionaries with a deep respect for their host culture, who wanted to know their community and be helpful in meaningful ways. Her mama started work as an English teacher at a local school, and her papa was researching various business ventures. Shortly after they moved, they sent out an email announcing the happy news that they were expecting their first child. And shortly after that, the trouble started: about halfway through the pregnancy, her mama started leaking amniotic fluid. She was put on bed rest and received various treatments, but things didn’t improve. Miraculously, despite low fluid levels, the baby continued to thrive. And then, about a week ago, their baby girl was delivered two months early. She was born with a systemic infection that affected her vital organs, and a lung condition that prevented oxygen from being absorbed into her bloodstream. This sweet newborn was put on a ventilator in intensive care, where she fought for her life. Hundreds of people all over the world were praying for her by this point. Her life ended today, at 9 days old.

Her parents’ faith, as expressed in their email updates, appears to be Teflon-strong. But then, they’ve been in the middle of a fight. I know from experience that, faith-wise, it’s often harder to watch a fight from the sidelines than to be one of the participants — at least while the fight’s going on. When you’re dodging blows and trying to land punches, you don’t have time to think about whether it’s fair.

Here’s what I think, though (not that anybody’s asking): What’s up with THIS, God?!? Here’s a faithful couple that’s just trying to do everything you told them to do — to love and serve others — and what did it get them? Stranded in a faraway country with a high risk pregnancy and a premature baby, THAT’S what it got them. This was your chance to pull out all the stops, move some mountains. Miracle Time! WHERE WERE YOU?!?

This type of situation is where my faith starts to fray. And I know I’m not alone. Of course, there’s lots of suffering in the world, and all of it is tragic. But when it’s a baby or young child who is sick, suffering, dying — someone who’s barely had the chance to live — what’s the point? I can’t think of anything more unjust. As a mother, I can barely process these stories, because they’re the worst of my worst-case scenarios. Then I look at my three healthy daughters, and it’s an embarrassment of riches. It’s. Just. Not. Fair.

Frankly, God doesn’t give me a whole lot of help here. One example of many, which we tend to gloss over in the joy of Christmas, is that a direct consequence of Jesus’s birth was the Slaughter of the Innocents: King Herod ordering that all babies under age two be killed. What’s up with THAT, God?!?

I have no good answers. I have nothing helpful to say to our friends, these mourning parents, other than: “I’m so sorry. We’re still praying for you.”

But it’s not all radio silence from God, either. Because, the same week that this baby girl was born, I happened to be reading Annie Dillard’s essay, “Teaching a Stone to Talk,” in which she writes:

It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave….What have we been doing all these centuries but trying to call God back to the mountain, or, failing that, raise a peep out of anything that isn’t us?…At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening. After a time you hear it: there is nothing there….There is a vibrancy to the silence, a suppression, as if someone were gagging the world.

Oddly, reading this passage started to reweave my fraying faith. Annie Dillard reminded me that when we wait for answers that don’t come, it’s not because that’s just how things are; it’s because things are wrong. People end up in trouble far from home, babies get sick and die, and nature itself is gagging.

Wait a minute, you may be thinking, that’s the GOOD news? Well, yes. That things are horribly wrong at this moment in history doesn’t disprove the existence of God, or his ultimate goodness. Because the wrong-ness of a baby having to fight for life, and of nature’s silence as recorded by Annie Dillard, IS answered, almost directly, by Isaiah 55:8-13 (This is for my mom: See, Mom, I’m listening!) I’m going to quote the entire passage, because it’s good stuff:

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed.”

I’ve mentioned before that Erick and I help our daughters — and ourselves — grapple with the unanswerable questions of sadness and fear by paraphrasing from The Return of the King: One day everything sad will come untrue. Praying for this baby, and then reading Annie Dillard and Isaiah, I realized that I often dwell in the everything sad, but I have so little vision for the will come untrue. Isaiah 55 helped me color in that vision a bit. Mountains and hills bursting into song? Trees clapping their hands? I tend to read that as poetic hyperbole, but what if it’s literal? I can hardly imagine singing mountains or clapping trees that don’t look like some corny CGI effect, and every day I see mountains and trees when I look out my window. What if that’s what actually happens when nature regains its voice?

And if mountains are singing and trees are clapping, what might this baby girl be doing on that day? You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace.

I usually forget to remember that when we pray, we’re praying for eternity. Not just for what will happen tomorrow, or next week, or next year. Our prayers stretch out of time through forever. My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways. God has all the time in the world to make wrong things right, sad things untrue. And when that’s what we’re praying for, I have to believe that the answer will always, eventually, be YES.