when life goes on quicker than you'd like it to

This evening, I'm tackling a chore that I've been putting off for some time. That chore? Boxing up all of Ethan's baby clothes. I'd rather be scrubbing toilets or unloading the dishwasher than facing these ubiquitous reminders that my little baby really isn't that little anymore. As I fill what feels like endless boxes with duckie pajamas and pastel animal onesies, I feel shocked and stunned upon facing the realization that Ethan is growing up so quickly. His closet is emptied of anything smaller than 12 month sizes and the toddler clothes are quickly making their way towards the front of the closet; quicker, undoubtedly, than I could ever imagine.

This is the quickness of life that we hear about as we grow up. "Don't wish your life away," my mother would shout at me during my teenage years through slammed doors and my constant pleas for more freedom, to be older, to want something more than childhood. I understood her point in recent years, when Ethan was born and during all of his milestones so far. One day he will not need me in the way he does now and I wish for time to all but stop, to slow down, to extend his childhood as much as I possibly can. Yet it's a whole new feeling of shock and amazement as I pack up clothing that holds so many memories, that once held my newborn little boy, and place them into boxes because they are no longer needed anymore. Clothing that I picked up after ultrasounds, on the way home from prenatal appointments, online when I could not sleep because Ethan was having a dance party on my bladder at two in the morning. These clothes are no longer relevant, no longer anything but memories and an example of how quickly time can pass by no matter how badly you don't want it to.

On Mommying

My friend Katie over at Look! I Can Grow People told me something yesterday that her mom has been telling her: motherhood is all about sacrifice and giving up your expectations to face the unexpected. That resonated with me because it's a lesson I'm trying to learn myself and quite possibly the most true words I've ever read. Since she shared it with me, I've been using it as kind of an over-and-over-again mantra to myself. So far, I've learned just how true these words are. Motherhood is most definitely about giving up your expectations and facing the unexpected. No matter how much you've read, researched, prepared, stocked up or memorized, motherhood will always be ultimately learn-as-you-go. Things will happen that you never planned for. I thought being diagnosed with preeclampsia and being put on bedrest was the biggest of my worries at the time. After all, delivery is the only cure for preeclampsia and so I imagined my perfect c-section which would result in my baby being handed straight to me, a perfect and instantaneous breastfeeding relationship and a pain-free recovery at home with my perfect new family. Then my water broke. Then I learned that there really is such a thing as birth trauma and this is where Katie's mom's quote began to really make sense to me.

And then I learned, too, that being a mommy means having to heal quickly. You can't lay in bed and cry with the blinds pulled shut for days on end when your plans are thrown off course. You have to heal and face the unexpected and be a strong mommy. I'm 25 years old and I can't recall a single time my mother was out of commission growing up. Even at her sickest, she was in the kitchen making dinner or helping with homework and it really seemed like she was invincible. And she was, because she's a mom. Moms are supposed to cloak themselves in invincibility and convince everyone around them that nothing is too hard or too strong to get them down.

I am a mommy now. I have let go of those preconceived notions I had about motherhood and doing everything by my perfectly-tuned plan. Being a mommy means doing things you never thought you'd do. It means learning to laugh when people who have never had children attempt telling you what is best for your child or learning to turn the other cheek when people who have not been in your shoes offer their unsolicited critiques or disapproval. At the end of the day, there is a beautiful little boy who I call my son and he is surrounded by so much love. Nothing else matters.

I am a mommy now. My sole responsibility is to care for my son and love him (and maybe spoil him just a bit) and give him the absolute world and beyond. Nothing else matters but his happiness and well-being. When his daddy and I watch him sleeping in his bassinet at night, nothing else matters in the world. When there are piles of dishes in the sink and even taller piles of laundry attacking your hamper, being a mommy means knowing that holding your son and rocking in his glider is what you make time for. Dishes and laundry can wait.

I'm in the process of healing both mentally and physically and have to say that I'm proud of my success on both accounts. I'm sure without my iron pills and red-meat diet (which I am growing so sick of, you can only imagine) the anemia might sneak up on me again but with the supplemental assistance, I'm feeling awesome these days. I've learned that there is no time to wallow in pain or misery or self-pity or frustration when life throws you a curveball when you have a beautiful little boy who falls asleep in your arms as you sing the "Mommy and Ethan are rocking in the chair" song (my husband would like it noted that I'm not a lyricist and this song makes it frighteningly obvious). There is no time for shame or self-doubt or letting the stinging c-section incision beat you down when your husband is home from work for a month and a half and you have all of this time to spend together as a family. The love permeating through our house is incredible.

And nothing else matters in the world.



These days in addition to healing, my days have consisted of car rides (Ethan's most favorite things and admittedly mine, too, as I can't see anything other than awesomeness about my husband chauffeuring me around to get a cup of coffee) and family walks around the block.




My husband turned 26 years old on the 2nd. It's crazy to me that when we first met, he was celebrating his 16th birthday. I've often said that growing up alongside the love of my life is perhaps the greatest thing ever but I want my statement altered to read that watching the love of my life grow into an amazing daddy is by far the greatest thing ever. We sang "happy birthday" and ate gluten-free carrot cake and my husband requested that all he wanted for his birthday was to spend time with his son.



And so I know now that even if my plans get thrown off course, even if things don't go exactly as how I rehearsed them in my head, life will end up okay. That's guaranteed thanks in part to the beautiful, perfect little boy who I am so lucky and proud to call my son. In just a couple of days he will be two weeks old and, already, he has become the greatest source of my inspiration.

I'm Not 12.

There's this part in one of my favorite movies, Away We Go, where this woman walks up to Verona and says to her child, "this lady is about to have a baby. Any day now!" Verona responds with an, "or in three months."

I've gathered from even before I was pregnant that this is something people say to pregnant people a lot. I'm pretty sure I read accounts of this by offended moms-to-be everywhere more than twice a day on pregnancy forums that I follow and I myself have already gotten this quite a few times. I guess maybe I'm just weird (okay, we all know that I am), but it doesn't really bother me. The "are you sure there's just one in there?" or the "no way will you make it to July" or "are you due any day now?" comments really don't get to me.

What bothers me is the never-ending assumption that I'm some single 12 year old girl who has found herself pregnant and in dire need of advice and sympathy from strangers.

Because, let me tell you, that gets old. And it gets old fast!

My most recent case of this was while Mother's Day shopping at Yankee Candle. The older female cashier nodded her head to look at me and asked the ol' "oh, are you having a boy or a girl?" It seemed like an honest enough question. I went back to my browsing and told her it was a boy. "Your parents must be so excited." I looked up where I was greeted with this sympathetic little face, pouty lips and a tilted head. Oh, I realized, it's happening again. "So is my husband," I smiled and received the shocked look back I was waiting for. "Your husband? Oh, honey, you're so young!" At this point, she wasn't doing much to hide the fact she was -- for some reason -- absolutely heartbroken. "Not really...I'm 25." I say this and wait for the inevitable look of comfort to take over her expression. It does. She loosens up her posture and stares at me as if I just told her she won the lottery. "Oh, thank goodness. Oh my, thank goodness." She's clasping her hands and praising someone or something that I am, in fact, not 12. Because, apparently, it makes such a difference in her life.

This happens to me all of the time. In the grocery store, I'm told by a fellow shopper how lucky I am that my baby will arrive once school is out. I receive the stares, points and head-shakes from passerby at the mall, the grocery store or even public restrooms. I've gotten the sympathetic "oh, honey, don't you want to finish school first?" from some lady in the Target check-out line who feels she must spread her sympathy like wildfire.

And this, my friends, is my biggest pregnancy pet peeve. More than the leg cramps, the heartburn, the nausea, the inability to sleep, the "oh god, you're fat!" comment from strangers who think their due-date guessing is the greatest thing since self-serve frozen yogurt. I can recognize that tilted head, pouty lip, look of pity anywhere -- and I hate it.