There’s a lot of discussion amongst mothers of all generations about what’s best for a child. Most mothers will gladly tell another mother to not spoil the child as it will only make things so much more excruciating in the parenting department. A spoiled child = an ill-behaved child, or so the equation goes. Instilling good behavior in your child at an early age only proves to be beneficial to him or her as they get older. Unfortunately, NOT spoiling my child is a lot more difficult than spoiling him.

My Davey will be 8 weeks old tomorrow. He is my golden child, the apple of my eye, a complete Mama’s boy and I’m very proud of that. I’ve showered him with love, support, adoration and encouragement each day of his so short life. When he’s cried, I’ve fed him, I’ve held him, I’ve changed his diaper and he’s come to expect someone to pick him up when he cries. Unfortunately, I don’t think my husband really agrees with my incessant desire to immediately soothe and comfort our child. He believes (or so I think) that Davey is taking advantage of me, something I believe he’s much too young to do. The poor baby just wants his mother’s love and comfort around him, I inform my husband.

This past Sunday morning was our first day back to church since Davey’s birth. I must admit that I was nervous and anxious at the thought of introducing him into an environment that he may disrupt with his crying. I feared the dreaded evil eyes of so many people as they got frustrated with not hearing the preacher’s sermon because my “spoiled” child wanted to make his presence known. So, my husband and I decided to leave Davey in his car seat while in church. Most days he will fall asleep on the car ride and sleep easily another hour after we’ve reached our destination. This was my hope on Sunday, but alas my son was going to have no part in this.

Within a few minutes of our arrival and all the oohing and aahing of the ladies within our congregation, Davey’s chin began to tremble. He looked up at me and I watched painfully as he conveyed to me his fear and insecurity. I wasted no time with immediately releasing him from the confines of his baby carrier and quickly wrapping him in my arms. I can’t be sure, but I think we received a roll of the eyes from my husband at how quickly I was willing to hold him.

My mother tells me that I should let him cry it out sometimes, but I just can’t. It’s sheer torture to hear the cries of my child. At such an early stage in his life, this is his only way to communicate with me and to watch him lie in his crib, desperately seeking my affection, while I pitter patter along with whatever task I have before me, just makes me so heartsick. I can’t let him go. I can’t NOT hold him.

At dinner, we usually put him in his pack and play so that we can eat. I quickly scarf down my dinner, getting indigestion in the process just so I won’t have to listen to the torturous sounds of his cries. My husband tries to soothe me and our son at the same time. He tells me Davey is fine and that there is no need to pick him up. On the occasion that I don’t immediately hold him, he will eventually calm down within minutes, but listening to him feels like a lifetime of agony. After all, what is my son thinking about me as a mother and my parenting skills? I’m leaving him to his misery, forcing him to suffer only because he can’t tell me exactly what’s wrong or because I’m trying to play a game of “Hard Love”. I can only imagine how much of a push-over and schmuck I’ll be as he gets older. But right now, I can’t help but “spoil” him and hold him.

It’s amazing the things that change when you become a mother. There is a new intuitive nature that seems to take over your entire body. Things that you never noticed before become so prominent they nearly slap you in the face.

When you’re away from your child, your intuitive nature kicks in and that feeling in the gut of your stomach that something is wrong or something is amiss becomes so overwhelming that it nearly knocks you out. If you breast feed, then your breasts will start to hurt when you’re away from your child for too long or they will attempt to signal you when your child needs to be fed. I’m even convinced that I know when my son is ill or has a tummy ache, even if I’m 15 miles away sitting in cubeville (aka my office) while he’s corralled within the confines of daycare. My husband seems to think this is a farce and an absolute anomaly and that I couldn’t possibly know my baby’s cry.

On my first day back to work, I called my son’s daycare at 9am (the day hardly underway) to check on him. This was to be his first full day without me around and as a matter of fact the longest amount of time he and I had been without each other was an hour and that was only because my husband refused to take him with us and he was left with my sister-in-law. As the phone rang, I became more and more antsy and sick at my stomach. Something was wrong, I just knew. I could sense an uneasiness with my son, or as Obi Wan would say…a disturbance with the force. His teacher answered the phone and at that moment I could hear nothing else except for my son’s crying in the background. I felt my throat close as the solid lump of emotions quickly formed. My heart skipped a beat and I clenched my teeth tightly as I tried to compose myself. After all, I had no desire to display my emotions as if on a newstand. Extra! Extra! Read out all about crazy mom sensing her son’s tears and emotionally collapsing at work. No thanks!

After a moment, but what really seemed like eternity, I said to his teacher, “that’s my son crying, isn’t it?”

His teacher replied that yes it was and he had just woken up and was getting a bottle. I sighed for a moment and told myself to relax and that my son was going to cry at some point.

That night after I got home, I told my husband about calling to check on Davey. I told him about knowing his cry and my husband laughed. It just wasn’t possible to know his cry because all babies sound the same! Spoken like a true father, I suppose, but a mother knows her baby and before becoming one myself I would have been on the same ticket with my husband. Not anymore. Not only do I know his cry, but each cry sounds different and I love each and every one of them.

And I’m so happy to know that my maternal instincts are so strong I can pick my son’s cry out from a room of caterwauling babies.

*Sigh*

I firmly believe that whoever decided that 6 weeks is/should be the standard amount of time for maternity leave was obviously a man. I find it hard to believe that a woman would agree that 6 weeks with your newborn is a substantial amount of time.

Wednesday was my first day back from maternity leave. To say that it was horrible, is an understatement. The only thing I looked forward to about work (or maybe it was just my job) was a reason to actually get out of my sweats and wear make-up. In an attempt to try to make myself feel better all the way around about going back to my life pre-baby, I set up an appointment to get a new haircut on Tuesday afternoon. Unfortunately, that didn’t exactly work, nor did the fact that I was able to wear heels again and fit into some of my old clothes. All of that is superficial and it has become so secondary for me (something I never thought was possible).

My husband and I dropped our son off at day-care, the day he turned 6 weeks old, and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in the car the entire way to work, at work, in the bathroom, and nearly in the restaurant with one of my friends at lunch. I berated myself for being a horrible mother and leaving my poor baby in the hands of strangers. The fact that a million women do this every day didn’t even console me. And to make matters worse, I called to check on my son only to hear him crying in the background. From that point forward, it was game over with me actually trying to get back into my work routine.

I spent the rest of the day doing nothing but thinking about the fact that someone else was rocking my child to sleep. I was sick at my stomach at the thought that he would wake from a nap only to see a strange face and not his mother’s. What would he think about me? Would he hate me? Would I scar him and give him a sense of abandonment? All of these scenarios played into my head and what I came to realize was that it shouldn’t be my son that I’m worried about, after all he’s much too young (which is part of MY problem) to really realize what’s going on, but it should be ME I’m concerned about.

Six weeks is almost cruel to a mother. As a mother, you get just enough time to develop an emotional attachment to your child, only to have the rug viciously jerked out from under you as you are forced back into working world. Ok, “forced” may be a strong term, but many mothers have to go back to work in order to continue to provide for their child. Six weeks could be the actual start of postpartum depression in mothers as they realize the fact that they are pulled in more directions than they ever thought possible. Why can’t society, or at least American society, extend out maternity leave to eight weeks, and then have the mother start back to work part-time for four weeks? It seems to me that this would be a good way to ease back into a routine after taking on the responsibility of another human being, the child. Four weeks of part-time allows for the mother to ease back into her career routine without the total jolt to her emotional state about leaving her child for 10 hours a day.

Fortunately for me, I may only have to survive this for a few months and perhaps I can enjoy the luxuries of being a stay-at-home mother, but for now I’m back to work. The pain I’ve felt all week has been unbearable. I’ve been unable to accomplish any substantial amount of work because basically I don’t care about my job right now. What matters to me is my child. Priorities change, money comes and goes, and right now I just have to grin and bear, but again six weeks is substandard in my book.

Ok, I’m not wishing it on my child, instead I’m wishing it on myself. I know what many of you are thinking, I’ve lost my mind and trust me when I tell you that I have beaten myself up over this selfish idea.

This morning I went back to my doctor for my six-week post partdum check up. This was to be the doctor’s visit to clear me to go back to work, something I loathe to do. I sat in the office contemplating the fact that I could possible be experiencing side effects from my c-section. I silently prayed that something would be wrong somewhere. I wanted something minor, nothing that would incapacitate me or prevent me from being able to spend time with my son and take care of him. Instead I was looking for something that might buy me an extra week or two on maternity leave, which by the way whoever created the standard of 6 weeks for maternity leave had to be a man who was concerned about nothing more than the bottom line and making a buck. No way is 6 weeks enough time for a mother or the child. People claim that capital punishment is cruel and inhumane, well I would say that 6 weeks of maternity leave is the same. It affects the mental state of a mother perhaps more so than the child, but either way it’s cruel. Now, off of my soap box on that.

So, I make my way back to the nurse and find out my blood pressure is higher than usual for me, but still below average. My hemoglobin is a little low, but nothing to be concerned with and oh yeah, I have 13 more pounds to lose to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight. I tell the nurse that I’m tired, that I still have pain from my incisions, and that I still have a little bleeding although it has gotten better. All of this, I’m hoping will raise a red flag, perhaps send up a warning flare that my body isn’t ready to go back to work. I’m informed that this is all normal and that I’m actually progressing along a lot better than some women. This of course made me feel bad about the fact that I was hoping for something to be wrong with me, when so many women out there do experience problems and complications and can only hope for the ability to feel better.

A few minutes later and I’m seeing the doctor. I give him the same information as I gave the nurse. He does his standard check of me and pronounces me extremely healthy and fit. I can start running today, I can lift weights, take bubble baths and even have sex. Fabulous (insert sarcastic tone here)! As much as I want to do all of the above and I’m extremely grateful for the fact that I am a healthy person, why couldn’t just this one time something be wrong with me for the sake of spending more time with my son?

I’m sure I’ll get berated by a lot of people and mothers out there for actually wishing something bad on myself, but the thought of taking my child to daycare while I return to work is so unbearable. I found myself blubbering the entire way to my husband’s office. I wasn’t able to look him in the face at lunch while he and I spoke, but instead stared at my son and thought about the fact that starting on Wednesday, I will be away from him for 10 hours! I know millions of moms do this every day, but it doesn’t make it easier for me. And I’m ashamed to say that I still wish the doctor had found something wrong with me. 😦

Getting a full night’s sleep is a thing of the past. Being able to just up and leave the house, having a sense of spontaneity is no more. Taking a shower or a bubble bath in peace….sayonara, my friends. These are all things that I used to take for granted, things that I always thought I would be able to take advantage of (and, well, I DID take advantage).

There are days when I feel so exhausted that I can’t even move, but I find a way to continue to move forward, one foot in front of the other. There are days when I feel disgusted with myself, as it’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still in my pajamas, hair pulled back in a ponytail. There are days when I just need to quickly run to the store, or even the post office, just to pick up one item, and it takes longer to pack up my son and the car than it does to actually accomplish the tasks at hand. I haven’t cried since the 2nd week he was born, well I cry about taking him to daycare and going back to work, not about any of the other superfluous stuff I mentioned before. And each day that he grows, I’m struck with the reality that is bittersweet….nothing lasts forever.

I won’t always be this tired. At some point, he will let me sleep through the night. I won’t always have an anxiety attack about taking a shower, as at some point he will be able to actually “tell” me when something’s wrong as opposed to crying all the time. I won’t always have to go through a big production when it comes to going to the store or post office, as at some point Davey will be able to put himself in the car when I say, “let’s go”. Everything that I once took for granted and desperately miss right now, will someday come back to me, but with that means my baby boy will no longer be a baby, hence the bittersweetness of it all.

There will come a day when I’ll treasure 7-8 hours of uninterrupted sleep at night, but then I’ll think back on the fact that I won’t be able to pick him up and place his little head on my shoulders and rock him back to sleep. There will come a day when I won’t have to stress about my milk being enough to satisfy him, as he’ll be able to eat solid foods and can tell me what he wants. Unfortunately that means I won’t be able to feel his hand wrap around my finger while he feeds, or the way he nuzzles up to my body when he’s hungry. I’ll miss the fact that he puts his hand up to my lips and lets me kiss his palm while he eats. There will come a day when I will no longer be able to kiss his cheeks, nose, forehead, toes, and fingers without him squirming away from me.

So, I continuously remind myself to enjoy the nights when Davey wakes me and I’m the only one to soothe him because while it may be exhausting now, it won’t last forever and in the end I think I’ll miss my sacrifices more than I’ll ever know.

Last week, my husband and I took Davey out for his first official portraits. Olan Mills has this wonderful little promotion for babies 3 months and under…you get a free 8×10, 2 5x7s and 16 wallets for free. The catch of course, is that they are of the same pose, you can’t choose multiple poses, but where they make their money is by up selling you on additional sheets with additional poses as well as the rights to the pictures, by selling you the cd. Don’t worry, this blog isn’t about promoting Olan Mills, although I am a huge fan of sharing great deals especially with first time mothers.

So, back to the portraits…the pictures were only of Davey. My husband and I were not interested in having ourselves in the photos (will wait until the Christmas card picture for that). My responsibility was to help Stacy, the photographer, with positioning my son. The first few poses seemed to go pretty well. We placed him in a miniature cradle with blue pillows and a bear alongside him. The first few shots, my son became a ham, playing up the camera, doing a few little jigs (as if he were trying to dance) and even at one point attempted a smile.

After we moved him from that pose, the next was his first official “tummy time” on a bear rug, which totally excited my husband. I placed Davey on his tummy and turned his head so that it was resting on the head of the bear. He quickly latched on to the ears of the bear, and actually attempted yet another smile. A few shots here and we were ready to move on to the next one and I noticed that my son was started to get a little bit fussy. Our window of opportunity was slowly fading. Thank God I brought a bottle with me and was able to appease him for a few moments. The problem with this; however, is that as soon as my son starts eating, it’s pretty much a guarantee that he’s going to take a pretty ripe dump. Unfortunately, I didn’t exactly think about this scenario as I fed him.

A few minutes into his feeding, I heard the tell-tale sign of an extremely juicy fart (sorry for the graphics, but really these words don’t do it any justice). I didn’t put much thought into it other than the fact that the studio might smell for a few moments, but I knew as soon as the shots were over, I would immediately change his diaper and be done with it. What I wasn’t prepared for was another diaper blow-out.

As I lifted my son, off of my leg in order to position him into his next pose, I noticed the 2 silver dollar sized mustard stain on my khaki colored capri pants. My son had not only managed to take a poop all over himself, it had actually oozed out onto my pants leg! Now, the old Amy would have immediately panicked about being out in public in poopy stained pants, the new Amy, the mommy Amy, took it in stride. I laughed it off, asked my husband for a wipe for my son, and then instructed him to get a Shout wipe for me. I cleaned my son, Shouted out my pants and jumped back into the photo shoot without skipping a beat.

Looking back on this as well as all the other things that come along with being a mother, I can’t help but be totally amazed at how things about me have changed. What once was a priority, now becomes secondary. And I have to admit, I proudly walked around the department store with my poopy stained pants. It was almost my rite of passage into mommyhood. I didn’t care who saw or who said something, I’m a mother now and this comes along with the territory, and as odd as it may sound, I love it.

My husband and I had a few errands to run on Saturday, so we loaded up our son and all of his paraphernalia (going places is definitely a big production now!) and hit the road.

These days I usually keep the volume on the radio in the car a lot lower than I used to “pre-Davey.” There were times when I would blare the music and sing at the top of my lungs. Not so these days and here’s the other change I’ve found, my choice in music isn’t the same either.

I always thought that I would be one of those cool mothers that trained her son on what was really great music, not good music, but GREAT music. I would introduce him to all the different genres and he would grow up being extremely diverse in the musical arena. My original plan was to listen to some of my favorites, which usually falls along the lines of Alternative Rock, then mix in a little 70s rock (another of my favorites) before finally taking a ride on the entire musical spectrum. Davey would be well versed in music and perhaps it would encourage him to pick up music as an interest when he got older. Unfortunately, my plan isn’t exactly being followed. Instead of some Paramore and Red Hot Chili Peppers mixed in with old school Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton, we are now listening to various versions of children’s songs, something I never thought I would hear in my car.

But there is a funny side to this change of the best laid plans…it’s that my husband and I are quickly remembering some of our all time favorite songs as children. We’ve also found that songs that we had perhaps completely forgotten about, can quickly be recalled. So, Saturday instead of singing to the latest Top 40 hit on the radio, we popped in my son’s CD (courtesy of his aunt) and proceeded to sing “This Old Man”, “I Wish I Was a Fish”, and “Mockingbird” at the top of our lungs. All of this, while our son slept peacefully in the backseat.

Every aspect of our life has indeed changed and I’m not even slightly embarrassed to say that I actually love this change.

Before I go any further, I feel that I may need to explain just who Charlotte York is. For those of you who know this fictitious character, please forgive me for indulging those who may not.

Charlotte York is the waspy best friend of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City fame. I used to joke that Charlotte was like a walking magazine rack and by that I meant she had a lot of issues. The one thing that I liked most about Charlotte was her desire to be a mother, to be Miss Susie Homemaker and Betty Crocker all rolled into one super hot lady. She wore dresses and pearls, never looked slobby, even during her pregnancy. All around, Charlotte was a pretty classy lady.

In the latest movie, Charlotte is going through a few parental dramas with her adopted daughter and biological daughter. Charlotte always seemed to have this overly romanticized version of being a mother and secretly (perhaps maybe not so secretly) held the desire to be like June Cleaver, the completely together mom who makes cupcakes for your classes while cleaning the house and maintaining some level of fun and normalcy within the family unit. And oh yeah, Mrs. Cleaver does all of this in her skirts, pearls, and heels.

Charlotte’s parental dilemma is basically a breakdown in which she hides in the pantry and cries about the fact that everything isn’t as it seems and that her visions of children dancing around in one happy family unit, aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Charlotte, even though she has the help of a nanny, feels like she must do it all and when she can’t or when it becomes much too overwhelming, she succumbs to the dreaded monster called Hopelessness.

I, in fact, experienced this same level of hopelessness on Monday. Davey hadn’t slept since around noon on Sunday, except for the periodic 30 minute nap here and there. For the most part, he was only satisfied with being latched to one of my breasts or just being held in general. Sunday night was much the same and needless to say I didn’t get much sleep. He cried most of the morning on Monday. I changed his diaper, fed him non-stop (until I felt like I was completely drained and 5 pounds lighter) and even gave him a supplement. Nothing would work, he just continued to cry which at that point spurned on my crying and breakdown to the level of Charlotte’s in the second Sex and the City movie.

I texted my husband, called my dad, and blubbered on the phone with my mother about being a horrible mother. After all, I couldn’t seem to find a way to appease my son and his crying was moving the point of a near catastrophic breakdown for me. I was sleep deprived, my mind wasn’t exactly thinking and my heart was aching over the fact that I couldn’t fix what was wrong with my son. I told myself I was a horrible mother, as I continued to cradle my son and cry with him. My husband called and I profusely apologized to him for the fact that he married me and chose me to be the mother of his children. He, of course, immediately came home and relieved me for about 3 hours while I caught up on some much-needed sleep.

What I’ve come to realize is that I’m only human. I love my son with all my heart and there’s not a day that goes by that I regret having him. He is my life, my sunshine, my heart, my soul, my flesh and blood, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I just have to remind myself that I can’t be Wonder Woman or Wonder Mom for that matter. I can only do so much and can only work with what the good Lord gave me.

Last night, after feeding Davey, I had this paranoia that he wasn’t going to sleep again and I would be at my wit’s end. After putting him to sleep, I said a prayer to God. I asked for Him to continue to walk with me each day, to guide me, and to help me as I raised my son. I asked for forgiveness for any self-doubt I had and thanked Him for giving me the greatest gift in the world….my son.

Today marks the start of my second full week at home with Davey and the first day without my husband at home.

Originally, I had a bit of trepidation and anxiety about being at home with Davey and not having the support of my husband. Would I be able to handle everything? What if something happened and I couldn’t cut it? What if today were to be the day that started post partdum depression (something that I know not every mother experiences, but one that I’ve been terrified would hit me)?

Well, the day is almost over and I have to say that I’ve done more than just survive, I have managed to conquer my fear of not being a good mother.

The day started out with a change of Davey’s diaper and a big ole poop into my hand as I wiped his tushy. I watched my son as he stopped crying and looked me in the eyes and couldn’t help but wonder if he were laughing at me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did, after all, I found it to be quite humorous myself. I thought for a moment, Lord, is this how my day is going to be and is this a sign of things to come or perhaps this is the worst already behind me?

My husband left an hour later for work and I fought hard to keep the lump in my throat down deep and talked myself off the ledge of tears of which I was about to jump. We’ve been one big happy family for over a week, just the three of us, hanging out at home and getting caught up on some much-needed time together. I was sad to see that part ending and that reality was rearing its ugly head again.

For the most part, my day went very well. Not only did I manage to navigate through 4 pee-pee diapers, 2 poopy diapers and one spit up all before lunch, but I also found out my son can hold his binky in his mouth all on his own now. I’m such a proud mommy!

My other worry for the day was being non-productive and not having anything to show for it with my husband, who God love him, had to go into work exhausted from Davey’s nightly feeding that woke him. I survived and felt good about myself and my role as a mother and I can’t wait to see what the next few days will bring and what adventure I will embark upon. Tomorrow is his 2nd doctor’s appointment, my first time driving in 2 weeks and I’m actually super excited about it all. Who knows, perhaps we’ll go see Davey’s Mimi while we’re out.

Breastfeeding always intimidated me. I decided well before Davey was ever born, even before he was ever thought about, that I would be a breastfeeding mom. It seemed to be the most natural thing to do as a mother (although my mother never did it), not to mention the fact that breastfeeding is cheap. It’s like that old saying: Why pay for the cow when you can get the milk for free? What I didn’t really know about breastfeeding was the emotional attachment that would come along with the ride.

Last week hours after my son was born, I gave breastfeeding its first shot. I recalled all the articles and pictures I’d seen over the months of the best holds for the baby and how to cradle him into my arms. I had my husband bring my boppy to the hospital so that I could use it to help support my son as he suckled. I remembered hearing that at times breastfeeding could be painful, although it shouldn’t be, and because I’m not a big fan of pain, I was actually a bit nervous when my son first latched on.

The initial latch was painful and I actually felt like my son was biting down on my nipple. The pain shot up through my right arm and I felt the nerves causing my arm to twitch. I screamed out and immediately pulled him off. I was quickly questioning the merits of breastfeeding. The lactation nurse guided me with my second attempt and how to get my son to latch on correctly. After a few practices with different poses for his body, I finally figured it out.

Over the past week, I’ve breastfed my son relentlessly, and what’s happened is a new level of love and devotion to my son. I actually look forward to our intimate time together, a time when it’s just me and my son. It’s a time my husband is jealous of, a time that makes me feel like a rock star mom.

What no one ever really told me about breastfeeding is the connection between a mother and her child, a bond that is much stronger than any other a mother will experience. Davey has been with me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for over 9 months. I feared no longer having him with me and having to share him with the world. Breastfeeding has managed to calm that fear.

He curls up in my arms, at times drawing in his long legs tight up to his body as he suckles on one breast. One arm is usually under his body as I have him cradled to me, while the other is either grasping my breast or at other times on my chest as if he loves to feel the beating of mommy’s heart (and it definitely beats stronger and harder when he’s in my arms). Occasionally, he’ll open his eyes and watch me. And while I know at this point it’s still early for him to focus on me (the nerves in his eyes are not fully developed yet, as is the case with most newborns), I melt as our eyes meet. Usually midway through a feeding, he’ll stretch out his legs and let them hang down the side of my torso giving me full access to his little toes which I love to count over and over.

I’m already sad thinking about the days when I’ll no longer have this time with him, when he’ll go into solid foods and not have that need for his mommy. Breastfeeding is one of the most magical and endearing moments a mother can have with her child, and it’s quickly become my most favorite time of mommyhood.