Hungry.

Lately I've been thinking about the different lines that I straddle. I breastfeed and bottle-feed. I work, but I still spend most of my time at home. Sometimes I'm awake all night, and sometimes I'm awake all night and all day. (Kidding.)  (Except not really.)

I started thinking about high school, and how I always hung out with lots of different groups. And college, and how I changed my major seven times and spent six years full time in college (piano, sociology, French, English, psychology, neuroscience, nursing. I managed to finish the last two).

And then I started to think about my life right now, and all the things I want. I want to play with my children and have a clean house. I want to spend time with my husband and go to bed early. I want to read the four books I'm in the middle of so I can start four more, and I want to play the piano more and start playing guitar again, and I want to exercise, and I want to cook a fancy dinner every night, and I really should start meditating and get back to yoga. I want to take a long bubble bath and actually put lotion on afterward. I want to listen to music and podcasts and catch up on my shows on Netflix. I want to become a lactation consultant and have time to write for a few hours a day and maybe become a certified nurse midwife, because why not?

I want too much, and I don't know what to choose. When I wrote about simplicity a few posts back, I wasn't sure what exactly it was that I was craving, but I think it was this -- to know what I want, and be able to pursue it. To have enough wants to fill the day and no more.

I know about priorities, and putting first things first. My husband and children have to be first, my relationship with God second, and honestly, there isn't much time left for anything else, and if there was, it would probably need to be sleep.

But my soul is so, so hungry. I feel like the buffet of life is before me and my plate is already piled high. I have the main course, I have the vegetables, but I want some dessert. Don't get me wrong -- family is what I would choose, and what I have chosen. It brings me joy as it fills my day, but it also pulls me from some of the other things that bring me joy. I guess that is the test of motherhood -- becoming unselfish, learning to subjugate all those other desires and caring for a family. Part of me feels guilty for wanting something apart from it and in addition to it. The other part of me is squeaking Sophie in N.'s face and typing as fast as I can.

I read an essay a few years ago by a woman in "the tired thirties" who wanted to write but couldn't stay awake long enough to do it. There was always more laundry to fold, more places to drive her kids, more meals to cook, more fires to put out. She finds a moment of stillness and revels in it, and then describes her gratitude for her exhaustion and the fullness of her life.

I'm not there yet. I'd like to be, but right now it is so hard to keep my eyes open, so hard sometimes to keep a smile on my face, to show up for my family again and again while my well is empty. Right now, I feel like Sisyphus, rolling my boulder up the mountain and watching it fall to the valley again as soon as I turn my back.

I am surrounded by women who graciously care for their families without complaint. I'm not so naive as to believe that they haven't given anything up, that they haven't also experienced the soul hunger I have. So my question is -- how do you transcend it? How do you make peace with the fatigue and the dinners thrown on the floor and the worry, the inability to get even fifteen minutes in the shower before someone is crying for you? Is this one of those things where I have to take care of myself so I can take care of others (but where does the time come from?) or am I just horrifically selfish for wanting things in addition to my family life?

Turbulence.

I read an article by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf today that really spoke to me. He is one of the most inspiring people I have ever heard speak. He is also a pilot, which is why he is in this awesome picture with Han Solo... um, Harrison Ford, and the Berlin Candy Bomber, and why he frequently uses aeronautical metaphors when he speaks and writes. 

This particular article is about landing safely in turbulence. President Uchtdorf states that when a pilot experiences turbulence and needs to land his aircraft, he or she doesn't focus on the gusts of wind and air pockets that are causing the turbulence. Instead, the pilot should focus on the runway, where they hope to land. He describes the way the pilot can't possibly control the wind or the dangerous situations outside the plane, but he or she can control the way they handle the airplane, and they shouldn't fear just because the flight isn't always smooth. He then applies it to mortal trials: 

During those times, it is easy to get caught up in everything that is going wrong and to make our troubles the center of our thoughts. The temptation is to focus on the trials we are facing instead of on the Savior and our testimony of truth.

But that is not the best way to navigate through our challenges in life.

Just as an experienced pilot keeps his focus not on the storm but on the center of the runway and the correct touchdown point, so too should we keep our focus on the center of our faith—our Savior, His gospel, and the plan of our Heavenly Father—and on our ultimate goal—to return safely to our heavenly destination. We should trust God and make staying on the track of discipleship the focus of our efforts. We should keep our eyes, heart, and mind focused on living the way we know we should.

This was such a perfect reality check for me. I have been so overwhelmed -- and frequently, overwrought -- by the difficulties I have been facing. I know that I am so blessed and have so much to be grateful for, but the stresses of day to day life often overwhelm me in this trying period of trying to stay afloat with a husband in graduate school, working night shift, and managing two adorable but uncontrollable little boys -- all without ever getting a full night's sleep. I find myself looking at all the things that are difficult and questioning my ability to ever get through it in one piece. I catalogue my failures and shortcomings and completely lose faith that I can navigate through the fog.

Obviously, I haven't been focused on the Savior and His ability to redeem me from my sins and shortcomings, as well as His strength to bear me through the problems I have that are beyond my control. I have felt like I am drowning, and I have felt like there is no escape, and this is possibly true. I am flying the aircraft that I have -- in this mortal life there are things that will never be perfect. My "aircraft" has a mental illness to overcome, and needs a certain (as of right now, unattainable) amount of sleep to function at its best, and only has so many hours in a day. Things are not going to be perfect. But if I focus on where I am going and who is leading me instead of how my "airplane" isn't in optimal condition, the flight will be smoother. President Uchtdorf says at one point, "Trust the potential of your airplane. Ride the turbulence out."

So today, I am looking forward, focusing on the Savior instead of the madness around me. I'm sure I'll continue to need reminders every day, but hopefully as I practice I will steer a straighter course.

Simplicity.

I feel like all around me is the idea of simplicity. So many of the podcasts i listen to, the blogs I read, the people I talk to, worship at its altar. Even leaders of my church have recently been proclaiming the virtues of simplicity. 

I've always rejected simplicity to some extent. I like profusion and color. I have a much higher tolerance for clutter than most people. And most of all, the act of simplifying seems like the opposite of simplifying to me. It seems like there is so much that someone has to do to achieve the standard of "simplified." There are so many routines that have to be implemented, so many chores that have to be accomplished. I tend to beat myself up and give up and let things go back to exactly how they were. 

Lately, however, I have been craving more order in my life. It seems almost impossible to achieve. Our house is so messy. Our carpets have play dough ground into them, our chairs and sofa are decorated with spit up (the joys of having a baby with reflux). We're about to start potty training and I feel like every accident is going to be a permanent badge on the carpet that I will never be able to erase. As far as habits and routines go, the unpredictability of a baby and a 3 year old make the idea of habits and routines seem constraining and impossible to adhere to. I think for me, once I've imposed a routine, I really struggle with flexibility. I feel like deviating from that routine is a failure. So instead I just live in barely controlled chaos. 

So my question to you is, how do you reconcile all this? Before I leap into KonMari/the Art of Simple/Better than Before/capsule wardrobes/Whatever it is that will help me achieve this elusive distinction of "simplified," how can I keep from being obsessive about it? How can I keep from spending crazy amounts of money, having to ignore my children, and imposing arbitrary rules on myself that are really going to make me more stressed rather than less? Does anyone else struggle with this? 

Oh all of you who have achieved clean houses, typical routines, who are able to shower and put on makeup in the morning and get out the door and pay your bills on time, HOW DO YOU DO IT? 

On creative living.

Lately, I've felt this urge to be more creative. It seems like the idea of "creative living" is rippling through society right now, and it has definitely occupied some of my brain waves. In the more mundane moments of motherhood, I find myself wishing I could run away to a coffee shop and write for a few hours -- a simple thing that is as impossible right now as running away to Europe. I feel that creative urge, but the truth is that right now I can only write in ten to fifteen minute snippets, and even that at the cost of precious sleep. 

Tonight, as I walked home from the park with a baby who had been awake for three solid hours (if you haven't ever taken care of an infant, 3 hours is a very long time for a baby to go without a nap) and a 3 year old who was loudly wailing the entire ten minute walk (he really didn't want to go home), the frustration with the mundane tasks in my life was boiling in my head. There's not a lot of glamour in trying to get your kid to stop hitting others at the playground, or cleaning spit up out of your hair, or losing your patience in public. I finally got the baby to sleep and settled Cal in front of Curious George and started making dinner, about an hour later than I should have. It was a meal that I haven't made before, because I recently subscribed to a meal plan service in hopes of eating more healthily (and out of boredom with my own set of 10 meals that I know how to make). As I zested lemons and sliced jalapeños (simultaneously wondering if it would burn my baby when I touched him later because the pepper juice was on my hands), I felt a sense of contentment that was more than just the fact that I could justifiably ignore my children for a few minutes while preparing food. 

In a small, simple way, I was being creative. I was making something complete out of fragments. While it wasn't my idyllic, peaceful writing escape, it was redemptive. And I realized that in this season of life, it's okay to have small creative moments instead of big, earth-shattering ones. I don't have time to write a novel right now, although I hope that day will come, when my children are more independent and I'm not working night shifts and my husband isn't in graduate school. But I do have time to make a haphazard blog post, a unique meal, a memory. And for now, that is enough. 

Imposter syndrome.

My heart has been so full the last few days. So full, it is growing heavy and overflowing into this probably nonsensical blog post. I'm starting to wonder if mommy blogs grew out of the fact that we experience this overflowing phenomenon often and so we pour it into the ever accommodating vessel of the internet.

The last couple of days have been hard in the typical, I-have-two-small-children sense. Nolan hasn't been napping well and has been waking up more at night. When he is overtired, he won't nurse, which stresses me out, and is a huge topic for another day. In addition, Cal has an ear infection, which he has toughed out remarkably well, except that sometimes (six or seven times a day) he bursts into noisy, snotty tears and needs to be held, and it is inevitably right when I have gotten the baby to sleep but have not yet put him down. To top it all off, Scott has a really bad cold and hasn't been able to sleep at night, so he has been miserable as well. So I've been tired, and feeling burdened.

I've been snappy and frustrated, disappearing into the vortex of social media embarrassingly often. I've succumbed to self pity. And, because guilt is my conjoined twin, I've felt horrible the entire time but continued to do it.

Motherhood is difficult for me, on an identity level. When Cal was born, his birth went very differently from how I'd imagined it (epidural, pushing without sensation, sweet baby placed on my chest. Clearly I'd never been present at a birth). He was healthy, and the complications I experienced were relatively mild, but I emerged from it shaken. Dealing with my difficult emotions about the experience coupled with sleep deprivation and breastfeeding difficulties made my transition into motherhood very rocky. For a long time, I didn't feel like a mother. I felt like the caretaker of a child that I loved so much it cracked my heart open, but I didn't feel like I had the right to that love. I hadn't been able to safely bear that child, I hadn't been able to nourish him with my body, and mine wasn't the first face he saw after he was born -- in fact, it was nearly an hour after his birth that i was able to see and hold him for the first time. The fact that I was unhappy contributed to my feelings of unworthiness.

With time and prayer and getting to know Cal, I was able to (somewhat) overcome those feelings that I wasn't good enough to be his mom. I still really struggled with the fact that I couldn't breastfeed hime exclusively, especially when he started to get frustrated with my low supply and eventually refused to latch on anymore, before I was ready to stop breastfeeding. I also had a hard time once I went back to work, feeling guilty that he was asleep by the time I got home on the nights I worked and feeling like I failed him because I wasn't with him every day. But I started to feel like a mom.

With Nolan, it has been better in so many ways. Being able to have a VBAC was an incredibly healing experience for me. (I absolutely do not mean to say that if you have a c-section, you are in some way deficient. I don't believe that is true at all. But for me, when I had struggled so much with how my c-section went, it was really healing to have a different birth the second time). Being able to hold him immediately and feel happy after he was born instead of broken was so amazing. Breastfeeding has been slightly better, but as Nolan has grown, he too has become impatient with my low supply and turns his head or cries sometimes when I try to nurse.

Last night with the sleep deprivation and other small challenges piling on my shoulders, his refusal to nurse was the final straw for me. This morning I've been thinking about why it's such a challenge for me and so important to me. Many people have told me that in my situation they wouldn't still be nursing. Scott wondered aloud a few nights ago if breastfeeding had stopped being a benefit for Nolan and was now a detriment. While I still haven't decided how I'll continue yet, I realized this morning part of why I care so much.

I have imposter syndrome.

I've never gotten over the feeling that I don't really have the right to be their mother. I think for me, breastfeeding was always this ultimate nourishing act, and because I can't do it, I've always felt like I'm not really a mother. When I'm able to nurse my babies, I have this physical, impossible to deny tether that reminds me -- yes, they are yours. Yes, you have a right to them.

Obviously, this is ridiculous. Breastfeeding doesn't make or break motherhood. And motherhood doesn't come from these early, pivotal moments -- it comes from the minutes and hours of holding little bodies, feeding them -- regardless of how -- clothing them, listening to their stories, wiping their tears. And I don't think of other people as deficient -- it was just this standard I set up for myself.

As I was pondering over all this, I started thinking of this mom I met in the mother's lounge when I was home for Christmas. She was in my parents' ward, the ward I grew up in. By the time she came in, I was giving Nolan his bottle, and I started explaining to her that I nursed and gave a bottle because I feel the need to explain why I am in the nursing lounge when I give a bottle. We ended up chatting for several minutes -- she also had to give her baby a bottle, because she had been in the NICU. We exchanged some milk production increasing tips. It was validating for me to talk to someone else who struggled with breastfeeding and was still trying. In addition, I felt grateful that Nolan had been healthy and born past his due date, rather than too early and struggling for his life like this sweet baby. The experience made a big impression on me because I felt so validated and like I had made a connection. Yesterday, I read a Momastery post about how as women we need to love each other -- even those we just meet (and oddly, that post is down today -- I don't know why, but I do know I needed to read it yesterday). And that is how I felt. I just loved this girl even though I didn't know her, because we had shared one difficult experience and I felt for the other difficult experiences she had that i hadn't shared.

Anyway, yesterday while I was in my social media vortex, I noticed someone else from my parents' ward had commented on something she had posted. We're not friends on Facebook or anything but she had told me her name when we were talking. I was intrigued by the blog post and clicked on it (oh how easy it is to Facebook stalk people...) and it turns out that she had a surrogate daughter that was just born. I read more of her story and it turns out that she had struggled with infertility and wound up having two embryos to transfer. She had one, and a surrogate had another, and they both wound up working. So her second daughter was just born.

This had me thinking more about imposter syndrome. Obviously this little baby was born in a very nontraditional sense, but she is every ounce her daughter. And it is so beautiful, so incredible to me that this woman had this experience. I'm also reminded of one of my friends who had trouble getting pregnant, who expressed to me that when she did get pregnant, it wasn't how she'd imagined. She'd thought of cute ways to tell her husband, but because of her fertility treatments, they found out with a phone call. Her birth experience wasn't what she pictured either. And I also had the chance to chat with another friend yesterday, who has two little foster babies. She didn't bear them or breastfeed them, but they are more her children than they are the children of their biological mothers. She is the one who cares for them -- feeds them, talks to them, loves them, holds them.

All this to say to myself, I suppose -- that yes, motherhood has physical aspects. Pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding -- they are all common experiences of motherhood. Experiences that most people have. Experiences that are painful to miss out on, for many reasons. But they do not define motherhood. They are not a list of conditions to be met. So while I certainly haven't overcome all my demons, I'm hoping that I can remember that despite my failings, I'm not an imposter. That even if some of my dreams regarding how I mother are not meant to be, I am still mothering. That I give other people grace, and I should give myself some too.

Insta-perspective

The other day, I found myself suffering from Instagram envy -- that insidious belief that people's lives really are as beautiful and perfect as they look in that little square. This week I went back to work and I haven't been able to catch up on sleep very well. In addition, it was really my first week alone at home with the kids after being with friends and family for weeks, and juggling the needs of these two sweet but demanding children was wearing me down.

I found myself disappearing into my phone rather than being present with my family. In particular, I kept going back to these photos of a lovely friend of mine who just welcomed two long-awaited babies into her home. Her pictures were absolutely radiant with happiness. I felt the opposite of radiant -- spit-up in my hair, 30 pounds above my pre-baby weight, snapping irritably at my 3-year old, and stress-eating spoonfuls of Nutella.

Then it hit me -- my life could be someone else's perfect little square. Maybe this isn't too earth-shattering -- I feel like the discussion about how real life isn't as lovely as those filtered snapshots has been done before. But I realized that my friends with their sweet new babies are at least as sleep-deprived as I am, that my friends with adorable outfits and perfect makeup also have to go without showers sometimes, that the friends posting about their exciting weekend still had to go back to work the next day. I thought about my most recent picture, of Nolan in this adorable Yoda towel with bright eyes and a smile, and I realized I am living the dream. I can focus on my exhaustion and Cal's whining, or I can focus on the sweet, soft little baby that I get to snuggle with around the clock and Cal's funny comments (seriously, that kid is hilarious).

So yes, I need to focus a little less on the apparently perfect lives of my friends, and remember that for them, there is life outside the square. However, I also need to remember my life inside the square, that despite the fact that life has its stresses and isn't easy, there are these perfect, shining moments that can propel me through.

Nolan Warren's Birth Story

My due date was Sunday, September 27, and I was especially eager for Nolan to come before that date. I had been dilating for weeks, had several hours of contractions each day, and Los Angeles was having a heat wave. In addition, Nolan was measuring large just like Cal, and I was afraid that the further past my due date I went, the larger he was growing and the less likely I would be to have a VBAC.

On Wednesday, September 30, I went in to my post-due date appointment -- one I had really hoped not to keep. I was freaking out on the way there, because I knew my doctor would want to come up with some sort of plan. She had already advised me that she thought I should have a C-section, and I knew she thought I should be induced if the baby hadn't come yet. I didn't want to be induced because I blamed my C-section with Cal on my induction with him. However, as we discussed what to do in the exam room, I started to feel like an induction would be a better option than waiting things out, especially because this time I was already dilated and showing signs of labor. I was also having higher blood pressure than I ever had before, and it was getting close to the pre-eclampsia limit of 140/90. My doctor was going to be in the hospital the next day, and because I had so much anxiety due to my last birth experience, I felt like it would be better if she was my doctor. We arranged for me to come in at 10 pm that night for an induction. 

My grandma took Cal for the rest of the day so I could sleep before the induction, but before she left I found myself crying because I realized that it was the last day of just Cal. I felt a little guilty that I was not doing something special with him instead of just sleeping and sending him away, but I knew it was the last sleep I would get for a while and I needed to take advantage of it. 

When Scott and I got to the hospital, a resident came and measured Nolan. Everyone kept commenting on how active he was, which made me laugh because it was always the same with Cal, too. He was continuing to measure big, of course, and the resident admonished me that it might be smarter to have a C-section because I hadn't been able to successfully push out Cal. I smiled and nodded because at that point I was NOT going to give up trying. My IV was started and the baby and I were put on the monitor, and just before they started the pitocin I started contracting on my own 3 minutes apart. 

For the next twelve hours or so, I had these mild contractions as they ramped up the pitocin. They checked me eight hours into it, and I was still dilated to a 4 despite being a little more effaced. I was starting to feel really discouraged. I had called my doula at 4 am when I started to get more uncomfortable, thinking that labor was imminent, only to have nothing develop for hours as she was there. I had to be on the monitor because of the VBAC and pitocin, so I had this little portable monitor. I could walk about twenty feet outside of my room in either direction, so I walked on my tiny little leash for about 2 hours. My doctor kept checking on me as she saw me in the hallway, and I was bemoaning the fact that my contractions didn't hurt. "They'll hurt eventually," she told me, "and then you'll wish they didn't." 

Finally, at 12 pm, right before they were about to check me again, my contractions started to really, really hurt. The nurse told the doctors to wait an hour, and I started needing counter-pressure on my back and deep breathing to get through my contractions. I had decided to try and have the baby without an epidural, because I thought that possibly part of the reason I had not been able to push Cal out was because of the epidural and being stuck on the bed for hours. The first hour was ok. It really hurt, but I was able to change positions and move through the contractions and rest in between. They checked me at 1 pm, and I was at a 6. Finally something was happening!

Shortly after this check, things started getting really painful. I haven't really had non-pitocin contractions, so maybe they all feel like this, but I started feeling like I was being crushed from the inside out. I started feeling like maybe this no-epidural thing was a bad idea. I asked Scott to turn on my running playlist because I felt like running was the only analogous thing to this -- Running was the only other thing that I would just make myself push through until it was over. It worked for about an hour. It was hard, but I could tolerate it. 

Then things just got too intense. I started saying, "I can't do it, I can't do it," and my doula and Scott were encouraging me to keep trying. Finally I said, "No, I really can't, I need the epidural." Once I decided to get the epidural, the contractions felt even more unbearable. I'm sure it only took 15-20 minutes for the doctor to get there, but it felt eternal. Once they arrived and needed me to get in certain positions, I could not handle it and started screaming. Several people ran into the room thinking something horrible had happened -- nope, I just waited longer than I should have to get the epidural!! In those moments before they inserted the needle I was absolutely sure I was going to die. I'm so impressed by those who have had a natural childbirth because I do not know how in the world I would have continued through that. 

Once the epidural was in, I started feeling some relief although I had horrible spasms down my right hip for about a half hour afterwards. The nurses kept encouraging me to push the PCA button. With Cal, they had told me not to push it because it would make me less able to feel when to push. Even if they hadn't encouraged me this time I think I would have been pushing it every 15 minutes. The doctors came in to check me again and I asked them to give me 15 minutes. When they did check me, I was dilated to a 10 and my water hadn't broken yet, so they broke it. Then they had me "labor down" for two hours. The baby's head was still somewhat high, so they said they would just let my uterus push him down for a few hours while I rested. I was able to sleep a little and read a book. When they came in 2 hours later, they said his head was +1 and I was ready to push. 

At this point a different nurse came in (they were understaffed and I had had different nurses throughout the day). I had wanted to push side-lying because it makes the pelvis wider, but she recommended trying on my back and then if I was having trouble we could switch to side-lying or using the squat bar. I started pushing and I couldn't feel a thing. It was AMAZING. With Cal my epidural had really worn off by the time I started pushing and it was very painful and exhausting. I was pushing as hard as I could now. I could feel the contraction and when to push, but I couldn't feel pain, just effort. The nurse kept saying, "You're a really good pusher, this baby is moving down." I couldn't tell if she was just being positive to keep my going or if I really was getting him out, so I kept looking to Scott to see if she was telling the truth. 

I had started pushing at about 6 pm. At 7 pm, Dr. Jensen came in to say goodbye -- it was the end of her shift. I was sad that she was going to miss delivering this baby too. At this point I still really didn't know what would happen. I knew he was moving down, but I felt like he could still get stuck, just like Cal had. The night shift doctors came in a few minutes later, and one of them was the resident from the night before. I could tell she was excited that I was pushing and that she couldn't believe I had gotten that far. After she and the other resident checked where the baby was, they decided not to leave the room. It was at that moment that I finally believed that I really might be able to have this baby vaginally, and I started to cry every time I thought about it. 

When his head crowned, I could feel the pressure of it, and the doctors told me to push at "half-strength." Just a few pushes later and suddenly I felt like everyone was talking, and I saw Nolan and heard him cry. They threw him right up on my chest, and there he was. It was so amazing. One of the hardest things about Cal's birth was that I had to wait to see him for a long time, and now I had this baby seconds after he was born. He was sleepy -- probably because I had pushed my epidural button so many times -- but with a little encouragement we got him to latch on. (He then proceeded to nurse for 3 of the next 4 hours. He was born hungry). I was so happy that I got to keep looking at him and holding him without anyone taking him away. 

And as I was nursing him, they told me I could eat. I had been eating on the sly throughout my labor because with Cal I got so hungry and dehydrated that I felt like it contributed to my inability to push him out, but I hadn't eaten since I went into active labor because it was so painful I was afraid I would throw up. Scott had been to Chick-fil-A earlier and started feeding me nuggets as I held Nolan. It was perfect. 

I was almost afraid to ask how much I'd torn, but it turned out to be a very superficial first degree tear. 11 days postpartum, I hardly feel like I had a baby (other than all the weight I have yet to lose). I feel so blessed to have been able to have a VBAC, and I couldn't have done it without so many people -- the chiropractor who helped him turn when he was breech, my doctor, who let me try even though she was fairly certain it would end in a c-section, my amazing doula without whom I don't think I could have done it. Getting this baby here has been my project for the last nine months and I'm so grateful that I had the birth experience I was praying for. Now I just need to figure out how to keep this little creature (and his big brother) alive. More on that later.  :)