This is a story of a first-time struggling to nurse, but also struggling in general as a first time mother. The last thing she needed was to be shut away for hours a day so she could feed her child.Ack! Not another breastfeeding post! Don’t do it! (I imagine that’s what you are saying.) I get it—it’s everywhere. There seems to be quite the war out there about breast vs. bottle and public feeding vs. hiding in a closet.

This is not a post about formula. I could not care less what the method is that you use to feed your baby, so long as baby gets food. Seriously. DON’T CARE. What I will weigh on, however, is the whole “women breastfeeding in public” debate. And I would like to do so by telling you a story.

This is a story of a first-time mom. She had a relatively uneventful pregnancy (unless you consider nuclear blast gaseous emissions and falling asleep with a half-eaten box of Cheez-its in her hand eventful… her husband sure did). And she assumed she’d breastfeed without too much issue. Nobody really warned her otherwise. Most people she knew just did it and it all seemed relatively drama-free.

This mom worked until the day before baby arrived. Her labor was, like many first labors, long and difficult. But in the end, her healthy baby boy was born. Breastfeeding was a challenge from the get-go. At first she blamed it on her milk not coming in yet, so she supplemented with formula bottles while in the hospital. However, she quickly became alarmed upon realizing that her baby didn’t naturally know what to do. He was fussy and thrashing his face back and forth and she couldn’t calm him down. She truly did want this to work though, and was determined to persevere. On her second night at the hospital (the last night she’d have round the clock nurses), she asked for help. One of her incredibly patient and kind nurses climbed into her bed at 3:00 in the morning to help this new mom feed her baby. Or at least try to. Continue Reading

My poor 3-year-old gets blamed for everything, which isn't his fault. But he does dictate the outcome of every single event throughout the day... so...

The rough life of the 3-year-old. He gets blamed for everything, which isn’t really fair. He is 3 and not truly responsible for, well, anything. Yet somehow, 90% of the time, he is the determining factor of whether something is a success or total failure.

Therefore, I believe I can respond to almost every question with “I have a 3-year-old.” I am not blaming him, but merely explaining that, well, he’s the reason for almost everything. Which is somehow different than blame. I don’t know quite how yet.

For example…

1. Why are you late?

I have a 3-year-old.

2. Why is this wet?

I have a 3-year-old.

3. Why are you crying?

I have a 3-year-old.

4. Why is he crying?

He’s a 3-year-old.

5. Why is this broken?

I have a 3-year-old.

6. Why does it look like it was put back together with tape, glitter glue, and Q-tips?

Oh, yeah. I have a 3-year-old. Continue Reading

My daughter and I are getting ready to say goodbye to very good friends as they move away. I will have to hide my grief and be strong so that she can have this childhood memory all for herself.One of the best parts of childhood is blissful, selfish ignorance. Time and time again, now that I am a mother, I realize—often with a punch in the face—how hard certain things were for my parents, how they sacrificed, how they struggled to navigate parenthood and raise my sister and me into good human adults. As kids, all we think about is how every single day-to-day occurrence impacts us. Our parents are just random beings who float around us all day, bringing us things, wiping our butts, and drying our tears. Always there, and always unappreciated.

A recent development in my life has given me a new perspective and ripped away some of that childhood ignorance. One of the most vivid childhood memories I have to this day was occurred when I was 8 years old—my best friend moved away. She lived across the street on our happy little suburban cul-de-sac. Since we were babies, we played together daily. From learning to walk to My Little Ponies to riding bikes to Barbies, we were always together. We bickered like sisters and made up 12 minutes later. We had a secret language and a secret club (neither of which were secret at all).

I remember so clearly the day we said goodbye. I can see our parents standing around us, watching these two tiny heart-broken girls hug each other. They knew we didn’t quite understand. They knew we’d visit and all see each other again, but that from this day forward, everything was changing.

And up until recently, I had (like every other childhood memory) never thought of this event from any perspective other than mine.  My best friend moved away. It was sad. I was devastated. And life went on, as it does for an 8-year old. What I never gave much thought to was how hard that day was for my mother. I didn’t realize how painful it was for her to say goodbye to her best friend—my friend’s mom. Continue Reading