Clear Eyes Full Heart

I distinctly remember after having Wren, being in a state of absolute post baby bliss. I was just euphoric over her presence. She nursed so well, slept like a champ, and the transition from two kids to three was effortless and enjoyable.

Annika is a month old today and the first time I remember not feeling like myself after her birth was that first night home from the hospital. She was swaddled in her cradle, safe and asleep right next to my head. I went from sound asleep to wide awake in a second and I just KNEW she wasn't breathing. I wasn't in a panic or anything. It was very matter of fact. I was going to pick her up and she wouldn't be breathing. Of course, I scooped her out of bed and she was perfectly fine. Asleep in that peaceful newborn way that covers you in a blanket of calm. I looked at the clock and realized I had only been asleep for 15 minutes.

This whole process continued for days. I would sleep hard for short intervals, and wake convinced something had happened to Annie. If I tried to sleep while holding her, I'd wake and immediately think she had smothered.

When she was about a week old I started feeling anxious about housework. I've never been the neatest person (shout out to all my college roommates, sorry guys) but I would be sitting nursing the baby and be CONSUMED with the need to vacuum. Right. Now. I would be playing with the kids and thinking about the three dishes in the sink, the laundry I had to fold, the bathroom that should be wiped down. On and on until I got up and tended to the tasks, or just broke down. The kids would ask for a drink and I would just sob, absolute gut wrenching sobs. I kept telling Andy I was overwhelmed. Of course I'm overwhelmed, I just gave birth, I have four kids under 5, I'm not sleeping.

This was different than all that. This was a cocoon of a worry, a cloud of anxiety just seeping into every pore.

At Annie's one week check up, she hadn't gained weight. A few days later she lost weight. I felt vindicated. THIS is why I'm so stressed out. My mommy intuition had kicked in and told me something was wrong. We'll fatten this baby up and everything will be better.

Except now I had something else to fixate on. When Annika was asleep, I'd think about how I should be feeding her, or pumping. When I was nursing her, I'd be thinking about all the other things I should be doing until my skin would crawl and I would jump up to vacuum.

I had a three week postpartum check up with my OB. The nurse went through a list of questions, how's breastfeeding? Are you having any pain? How do you feel emotionally?
I said, "I won't lie to you. I'm feeling like a hot mess" and I broke down. I sobbed. And then I talked. I kept repeating, "I just don't feel like myself". I think I said it about 6 times in the conversation.

Then, something I needed so bad happened. She validated my feelings. She acknowledged that this was different than the daily overwhelming feelings of motherhood and life. That this wasn't sleep deprivation. This wasn't because I could handle three kids but four of them was just too much. This was chemical, hormonal, physical, and here's a plan to help you feel better.

I've been on a low dose of Zoloft for a week now, and although I'm certainly not claiming to be "cured", I feel MUCH better. The feelings of anxiety and overwhelming moments are still there, but I handle them. I'm not consumed or overtaken by them. I can look at my stresses with clear eyes.

I feel absolute zero shame in taking medication. In fact, today, per my doctor, I increased my dosage. Andy asked me how I felt about doing that and I said, "I want to feel better" and for me, it's as simple as that.

I guess that's why I'm writing this. I spent some time reading articles and blogs and personal stories of postpartum anxiety. It has been really comforting knowing I'm not the only one. I'm not less of a mother, wife, or person because I'm experiencing this. I've never understood the way mental health is stigmatized. I want to be the best person I can be, for my family and even more importantly, for me. If I need help getting there, I'm going to take it.

Annie has slowly started gaining weight, and I'm slowly feeling like I can enjoy ALL the moments with her instead of being overwhelmed by them.

She's my last baby and I deserve the same bliss with her as I had with my other three. I mean, look at this face. If that's not bliss I don't know what is.

Dear Facebook Friends

Yesterday I posted this picture of Wren on Facebook. She brought me Jamie's Batman mask and said, "I wanna wear it!" And then proceeded to jump around screeching BAAAAMAAANNN, until she wore herself out, crawled in my lap, and said, "I want milk pleeeease?"

In an action that has become so second nature in the last two years, I cradled her in my arm, pulled my shirt down, and she latched on. And then I snapped a picture. Because Batman, duhhh.

When I posted this picture I wasn't thinking anything except, man my kid is really adorable. I wasn't making a statement, or trying to be sensational or controversial. I was doing the same thing I do EVERY TIME I post to Facebook, which is sharing a cute snippet of life and my kids, with my family and friends (most of whom are 3,000 miles away and only know my children through stories and pictures like this).

So, when I got a notification that my post had been removed from Facebook I was genuinely confused. And then, shockingly I. Felt. Bad.

I know. I can't explain why, probably the Irish Catholic guilt of my ancestors, but I felt bad that I had offended someone with this picture of my daughter nursing.

I got over that pretty quickly, and felt mostly rage. This picture shows less than an average Victoria Secret ad. The purpose of this picture is not to exploit and sexualize a body part in an attempt to sell a product. This is not a celebrity "nip slip" or leaked nude photo. This is me offering my CHILD nutrition and comfort in a way that is more natural than bottles and pacifiers.

This is a body part being used for its exact intended purpose.

What a world that we live in that I had feelings of guilt over FEEDING MY CHILD.

I could have reposted the picture, moved on with my life, and forgot the few moments of inconvenience that a Facebook post caused me. But, I thought of a lot of my friends who are new moms. Who will be moms soon. Women who are navigating the rough seas of motherhood, and who are stressing out over nursing their baby while they're shopping, or out to eat, or in the doctors office.

Feed your babies.
That's all. ❤

So, to the friend who reported this picture of Wren, the friend who made me feel, confused and guilty and angry.. The only thing I feel for you is sorry. I'm so sorry that society has taught you that a women's body is OK to look at. But only for sex and sales. I'm sorry that you weren't aware that breasts are for feeding babies and that I had to be the one to tell you that. I'm sorry to any other women that you've, whether intentionally or not, made feel confused, guilty, or angry.
Feel free to stick around, but please don't report my pictures. Don't try to shame me for being a good mom. We're all doing our best here.

365

365 days that have seemed like an eternity. The year that made the 26 I had with you seem like a blur.

It was a year of firsts, but not in the good way. Not in the wobbly first steps, first snow of the season, first kiss kind of way. It was my first birthday without you, the first Christmas I didn't hear you say, "Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan!', the first time I needed help with my car and couldn't call you, the first year I didn't want to celebrate Father's day. I never could have pictured my wedding day without you.

Andy and I finished Sons of Anarchy a few weeks ago. I lost it. Over a TV show! How unfair it was that you never got to see the ending! Silly, I know. I probably would have cried if you were still here, and you would have made fun of me and brought up that time I cried when we beat that one video game we had played together. That thought made me smile. But, I really think you would have been satisfied with the ending of Sons. It was perfect.

Only a year. I can't even begin to think about what has changed in a year! How much the kids have grown. You wouldn't even recognize Wren, but oh I promise you would melt over her perfect smile, and her little voice navigating those first handful of words. She would have you just absolutely wrapped around her finger. She does that, with those big beautiful eyes of hers. And Isla she was almost still a baby last you saw her. Not anymore, at all. You would be in a constant state of laughing at her or tearing your hair out. How did such a big personality get into that little girl, I will never know. I know that I'm really lucky to have her. She is my reminder everyday to laugh. Even on the roughest of days, she makes me appreciate the silly things and I'll never be able to thank her enough for that. Your buddy, Jamie is FOUR. How did that happen? He was just a little newborn napping on your belly, I swear. Some days, I feel like I'm failing him. I feel like I'm not giving him what he needs, that I don't know what he needs. I need you to tell me he's perfect and I'm doing a good job. Because he is, and I'm really really trying. He is so smart, that kid. He asked me recently, "Mommy, did Simba's daddy go to heaven like Pa? And Reagan?" I wish you were here to try to convince me that it is perfectly acceptable for a four year old to ride a motorcycle.

I need you to know that you're with us always. When Jennifer and I jump started my car by ourselves and were thrilled we hadn't electrocuted ourselves, you were there laughing. When Mom swore at us for tricking her into climbing a mountain (again), you were there rooting her on (and laughing). When out of nowhere, I'm hit with the absolute anguish of missing you and wishing for nothing but one of your hugs that felt like home. Some days the waves of pain are aching and relentless and the memories of the day you died never cease to leave me broken hearted. 365 days is a long time to live with a broken heart.

I know that grief is the price of love. The pain is so strong because the love we have for you is. I try to remember to be thankful for 26 years of that love, even when I'm so sad and angry that I didn't get another year, two years, ten. I should have gotten at least ten more years of your love and wisdom. 

I don’t know when the last time was that I told you I love you. I have spent a year trying to remember. 365 days. Love is something we always take for granted and over time, more and more, we forget the importance of saying the words. I hope you know how much I love you. How much I miss you.

Know that every day for the rest of my life, you’ll be alive in my heart.

A Tale of Two Poops

I had one of those days yesterday. Like, a "holy crap, THIS is my life???" kinda day.

It would be a shame to have to suffer through the memory of this day alone, so I present to you:

A Tale of Two Poops
A story of woe by M.L. Lundgren

Yesterday afternoon I needed to run some errands. So we all packed into the car and hit the DMV and then Target. On the way to the grocery store after, Isla started crying. "Mommom (that's what she calls me lately. I dunno where it came from and it's weird as fuck) I'm so very huuuuungry!!"

First of all, this child eats. She eats more than Jamie and Wren put together. Not to mention, I'm pretty sure she's about to growth spurt something fierce. We had just eaten lunch before we left the house and I had gotten them an ice cream treat to get through the DMV, so I was pretty sure she wasn't hungry. I told her we were going to the grocery store and we could buy a snack there.

She started freaking out, crying real tears and saying, "Ow mommom! My belly is so hungry!" This goes on for a little while with me telling her that I don't have any food in the car and her crying crying like she's a starving orphan. Then suddenly she stops and is pretty much silent until we get to the store.

As I'm unbuckling her from the car seat, she says, "I pooped!" And it all makes sense. (We're working on potty training but I'm not an asshole and still put her in diapers when we go out) In a moment of panic and horror, I realize I didn't grab my diaper bag and I have noooo wipes. I debate for a moment. I've already taken Wren out of the car and wrapped her on my hip, Jameson is whining because he got a Ninja Turtle mask and sword at the store which he is obviously wearing and is so mad that he has to wear shoes because "TURTLES DONT NEED SHOES MOMMMMY!" It's after five o'clock, I just fought rush hour traffic to get here, and I have NOTHING to cook for dinner at home. I stoically decide that CPS probably won't take my kids away for not changing a poop right away and besides I only need a few things. I ask Isla if she wanted to go home and change her diaper before we go to the store and she said, "Noooooo! I neeeeed my snacks!"

As I'm lifting her into the cart, I catch a whiff of her offensive load and think, "Oh God I am the trashy mom who takes her smelly kids grocery shopping" but, really there's no turning back now.

We were by the strawberries when it happened.

I leaned over to put the strawberries in the cart and see that Isla's back is COVERED IN SHIT. It's peeking out between her shirt and pants and as I lifted her shirt to grasp the full scope of the shitsplosion, Isla turns and I now have a palm full of ripe toddler feces.

I panic.

Jamie, I mean Raphael, sees my shit covered hand and exclaims, "Mommy is that POOOOP?"

Wren, who had been nursing at the time, unlatches, and here I am in the produce aisle of the Tigard Grocery Outlet, with one boob hanging out and holding up a fist full of crap.

It wasn't my finest moment. I can fully and truly admit that, but I looked at my cart full of groceries, and think of my bare cupboards at home and my three toddlers who are about to plow right into the pre-dinner hangry hour, and decide, fuck it.

I take Wren out of the wrap and place her haphazardly in the cart next to the chicken and ground beef, wiped all the shit I could see from my hand, Isla's back, and now the back of the grocery cart, and throw my once gorgeous, poop covered wrap on the bottom of the cart. I make my way to the check out, and to every single person we pass Isla says, "Hi, I pooped!"

I somehow make it through checkout without being arrested for public indecency or child neglect and load the kids, including poor poop covered Isla, into the car. I catch a store employee gathering carts and say, "I am SO sorry but my daughter had an accident and I think this cart should be washed." and squeal out of the parking lot like I stole something.

When we get home I usher her straight to the bathroom, and right into the tub. I get her clean and start washing her clothes and my wrap in the sink when Wrennie decides she also wants to splash. I throw her in the tub and continue my scrubbing, thinking about the giant beer I was going to drink when they went to bed. Isla's little voice squeals, "There's more poop!" I scurry to the tub thinking I can get her to the toilet in time and instead see Wren squatting over the drain and pooping straight into it, with one of her turds squishing in between her little fingers.

People, I could NOT make this up if I wanted to.

I'll spare you the rest of the details of the clean up. It involved a lot of bleach and me muttering, "Seriously? Seriously." a lot. To sum it up, I had a pretty shitty day. I'll take your official thanks for the free birth control in the form of beer. Or Lysol wipes.

Jamie is 4

Dear Jameson,

Today you turn FOUR. How is that possible? I still remember leaving the hospital after you came earth side and thinking, "So, they're just going to let me take this baby and keep it? Forever? I have no idea what I'm doing."

I'm sorry buddy, but most days I still have no idea what I'm doing. You have the distinct disadvantage of being the first everything. You were my first, and mostly failed, attempt at breastfeeding, my first (and only) attempt at sleep training. I spent so much time keeping track of feedings, and wake up times, trying to get you to soothe yourself, and waking you from sound sleeps so that you would sleep later. I wasted so much of our precious time together and caused us a lot of unnecessary stress, and I'm very sorry for that. You were my first attempt at potty training. We're still perfecting that one. In the fall you'll be the first that I send off to school.

I'm still coming to terms with the fact that I'm supposed to drop you off and put someone else in charge of caring for you. We've been partners in crime since the very beginning. You were the only one who didn't have to share me for any period of time. You got every ounce of me. I fondly think back to our days before I found out Isla was growing inside of me. Our midmorning naps together, our walks around the neighborhood together, where I felt silly talking to this tiny bundle against my chest, but still pointed out ever squirrel and flower that we came across, our late nights and early mornings in the dark, you fighting sleep, and me fighting to stay awake.

I cried when I found out I was pregnant again. Not because I didn't want your sister, I very much did, but because I suddenly felt selfish for forcing you to share me. The first time I saw you, I discovered the meaning of true, fiery, unconditional love. I was so terrified that it simply couldn't be possible to feel that again. While I now know that this is a love that multiples instead of divides, YOU were the one to teach me about this love. I'll never be able to thank you enough for that.

My biggest hope for you is that you find the same contagious happiness in life that you've given me for four years, because everyone deserves that kind of joy.

I love you Jameson, Happy birthday ❤

For Islabean

Jameson's "terrible two" phase lasted about a month. Right before he turned 3, I remember him being a little extra tantrumy, and mostly, being a misery at bed time. After dropping his nap and making some adjustments to our "schedule", he turned back into a functioning member of society. I mean, as much as a toddler can be. Jamie definitely has his own quirks, but I'm here today to discuss my middle child.

Andy calls Isla Uday. As in Uday Hussein. I call her my Sour Patch Kid, sour then sweet.

She's a love bug. When she's tired she will snuggle right up, and rub your arms and ears with such vigor that sometimes I'm afraid the friction may cause a fire. If anyone gets hurt, her little eyebrows will furrow and she'll lament, "awww you got a booboo? It's OK!" Her kisses are something magical, I wish I could bottle them and keep her little puckered baby lips with me always.

I spent the first two years of her life teaching her to walk and talk and now I spend most days telling her to sit and be quiet. I wish I more often had the grace and patience to realize her tantrums are her passion bubbling to the surface. Everything Isla does, she does BIG, a trait that would be admirable in any adult, but for some reason we try to squash in our children.

People the world over will call her bossy. A boss. A leader. Independent. I want her to be all these things, forever. I want to cultivate those traits now so she never compromises them.

My feisty spirited little girl, will some day be a feisty spirited woman, and I don't want anyone to stop that, myself included.

Dear Isla, I promise to spend more time working on myself instead of trying to dim your spirit because someone says you're too much of anything.
I know you're going to grow, even though I've tried to put a stop to that since I became mommy. So. Grow. Blossom. Learn and flourish. But never ever change.

Home

Crazy, but a cross country move with three toddlers was NOT the time to begin a new venture, even one as small as this little blog.

But here's an update on our lives, regardless. We made it to Oregon entirely unscathed. Really, things could not have gone smoother, given the ages and temperaments of my travel companions. We saw so much of this beautiful country and did it without killing each other or getting arrested.

Things haven't been as smooth since arriving in our new home. Still no murders or arrests, but hard times nonetheless. Andy, thankfully, was hired at a great job just a few days after we arrived and we figured, smooth sailing from there, right?

Not so much.

We had a god awful time finding a place to live. The rental market here in this part of Oregon is just a horror. Between application fees, wait lists, and scouring every ad on Craigslist ever, I was convinced we would be living in a hotel indefinitely.

Do you have toddlers? Have you ever spent any time in a hotel with them? It's basically the worst. After over a month in a hotel room with three toddlers, and many meltdowns, by children and adults, we finally moved into a little apartment over Memorial Day weekend. Emphasis on little. It isn't what we were hoping for, but after hotel hell it feels like a mansion.

So, we're settling in and the kids are..adjusting. I keep reminding myself that we've all experienced a year of chaos and hard life changes and all things considered, they're doing great. We've spent endless hours exploring and being outdoors relishing in the climate and nature that we never had in Florida. Really? Things could be worse.