Category: Motherhood and Pregnancy

I was watching my new favorite show, Swingtown, this past week, (Hey – don’t judge.  It sucked me in like a train wreck and turned out to be quite thought-provoking) and was struck by Susan’s struggle to find, and express, her authentic self.  As women who have dedicated their lives to their families, how easy is it for us (her and I) to lose sight of the person we were, the person we always thought we would become?  And can the authentic self co-exist with the person our families and society expect us, need us to be? 

I sometimes struggle to define my identity.  I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend.  The common thread among those terms is that they identify who I am in regard to someone else.  Who am I when I stand alone, without being reflected by another person’s image?  When I need to present an image of my authentic self, as Susan on Swingtown was trying to do by picking a wallpaper pattern, I don’t know where to begin.

So often we are defined by what we do for a living.  It’s one of the first questions I hear, anytime I’m introduced to someone new.  It makes me cringe, because even if it’s a woman who says she wishes she could be “just” a stay at home mom, too, the conversation usually centers around children… and that’s it.  As if I am incapable of discussing anything besides poop and snot.  These days, I can say I work at home, as well, and I’m given a pat on the back for “helping” my husband with his business.  By being his “secretary”.  Am I the only person who finds that word offensive?

I remember when Jeremy and I first started dating and he would introduce me to his friends.  He was so proud that they all thought I was an intelligent, articulate woman they could enjoy having a conversation with.  These days, when we bump into people we used to know, they can give me a once-over and immediately decide that “How are the kids?” is a safe question to ask.  When did I become that person?  As soon as my first child was born, or when I decided that caring for my children would become my profession? 

Maybe my true self is a compilation of all the reflections I cast upon others, as I leave my mark on their lives.

I have been pumping breast milk for over 400 consecutive days.  There were some days where I also nursed Blythe, especially in the beginning when she was willing to be still and quiet.  But for the most part, the pump has been my best friend (and occasional worst enemy).  After all that time, I expected to feel liberated when it came time to quit.

On our date last night, I was free to order whatever I wanted on the menu.  I even had the strawberry margarita I’ve been dreaming about for months.  The pump wasn’t the third wheel in the car as we drove around, and I went straight to sleep last night, instead of sitting up for an extra 45 minutes.

I should be celebrating, right?  Instead, the food made me sick and my boobs hurt.  I’m looking at my pump with longing, and tears keep trickling down my face.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked Jeremy if I’m doing the right thing.  Finally, he looked at me and said, “What ever you decide is the right decision, so do what feels right.” 

So I pumped, ~ and by the way, relief is spelled M-E-D-E-L-A ~ I stopped randomly crying and the world felt calm again.  That feels right.  Margaritas are so over-rated, anyway.

You know what I’ve realized?  For weeks now, resentment of all the work I put into breast feeding has been building up.  Most of all, I’ve felt robbed of precious time.  But I kept at it, because I had to.  I’ve found that when I have to do something, I resist.  What I now know is that I want to do this.  I’m not ready to quit, but whenever I am ready, I’m glad I have given myself permission to do so.

In addition, I just want to say a big fat thank you for all the support I’ve received.  It’s awesome to know I’m not alone!

I have a confession to make: I’m a Quitter. 

Growing up, I was a shy, easily embarrassed kid.  Whenever a piano recital or gymnastics performance came up, I dropped out.  This ingenious tactic worked great, for awhile.  Then some extroverted adult would tell me I couldn’t join back up, in an effort to get me to just perform, already.  Instead, I became an avid reader.  Who needs sports or music when you can read by yourself in the corner of any room, unnoticed?

As I got older, it became my focus in life to not quit, ever.  Determination can help a person through some tough times, but it occasionally makes me hold on to things (or relationships, or people) that aren’t working anymore.  My fierce resolve to exclusively breastfeed Blythe got us through a stay in the ICU, biting, hyperactivity, food allergies and countless other setbacks.  We persevered, because I refused to quit.

Here we are, almost 14 months later, and I’m riddled with guilt about deciding to hang up the old breast pump.  Our pediatric allergist said that the longer Blythe receives egg/corn-free breast milk, the more likely it is that she’ll outgrow those allergies.  But most importantly, the breast milk would do wonders to help heal her intestines, which were under attack for all those months while we tried to figure out what was “wrong” with her.  

We’ve been egg-free for four months now, and corn-free for three.  She hasn’t been sick once  in three months.  For a child who previously caught a bug if someone in an adjacent room even thought about sneezing, that is quite an accomplishment.  If nothing else, I can say my stubborn determination helped her heal, even if I didn’t make it to her second birthday. 

My body is telling me it’s time.  As I finish a 45 minute pump session and find a measly 1 or 2 ounces, I hear, “It’s over, sister, can’t you take a hint?  Please?” and that little voice is getting harder to ignore.  Even milking cows need to be bred again every so often, to replenish their supply.  Since that’s not an option for me, I’m going to embrace my inner shy child and just quit.  Excuse me while I curl up in the corner with a good book.

I was all set to rant about the gyno appointment I had on Thursday, joy of all joys.  It’s not that it was time for one.  No, that wouldn’t be SO bad.  My insurance company, or shall I say the company I am trying to be insured by, added one more thing to a long list of requirements.  It seems that they are concerned about the fact that I hemorrhaged after giving birth last year.  

Months of reviewing my records and my declining maternity coverage, and Jeremy submitting his vasectomy records were just not enough.  No, they wanted me to have a gyno appointment so that a medical professional could attest to the fact that I am no longer bleeding.  A year later.  Seems to me that if I had been hemorrhaging for a whole year, I might be more concerned with life insurance than health insurance.

So, yes, invisible friends, you were gonna hear it from me.  But then my friend Kimberly went and had her baby.  It’s hard to complain about a five minute date with a speculum after watching your friend labor for almost eleven hours, and then pass a six and a half pound baby girl.