Anna (Frozen) Cape Tutorial

First, this is not a crafting blog. I'm not one of those Super Moms who makes her children play clothes and stuffed toys and memory quilts. I'm doing well to get both of my kids dressed in a day. With that said, when I searched Pinterest for a tutorial to make a cape for an Anna costume, I didn't find any one site that was particularly helpful. So I created my own "pattern," and blogging the instructions was the easiest way to share it with my friend. So here we are. 

Here's what I used to make my smallish 3-year-old a cape (you may need to adjust material amounts based on size): 

•1 1/2 yds of polar fleece (it won't fray and didn't need to be hemmed, but you could use whatever fabric you like)

•2 packages (5 yds) jumbo rick-rack

•1 frog closure

•threads to match the fleece and the rick-rack (or fabric glue if you don't sew)

The cape is about 30 1/2" long (which is almost to the floor on my 3yo)...

...and about 29 1/2" at its widest point. I began by cutting a square that was intended to be 30" by 30". How that didn't work out, I don't know. Anywho...I rounded off the bottom corners using a plastic lid as a template, and then I sort of eyeballed the trimming of the sides to reduce the bulk around the top. It ended up being about 20 1/2" wide at the top. 

The capelet is about 34" long...

...and about 12" wide. I originally cut it as a rectangle and just rounded off the corners with a plastic lid, but once I put it on my daughter, I realized that I needed to round off those bottom corners a little more to make it lay right. A semi-circle shape probably would have worked even better. 

I cut a neck hole that is about 8 1/2" wide...

...and 3" deep. (I sort of free-handed this because I didn't have the right sized lid in my cabinet.) I cut the same neck hole in the cape. 

Then I lined up the pieces. There's really no "right" side to polar fleece, but if you're using another material, you'll want to be conscious of what your "right" and "wrong" sides are at this point. 

I pinned the pieces together and headed to the sewing machine. However, you should also be able to join the pieces with fabric glue if you don't sew. 

I sewed my rick-rack on at the same time that I sewed my pieces together, but, again, you could probably glue this. Oh, and I did not sew the back of the capelet to the back of the cape. The cape and capelet are only stitched together around the neck and then as far as the pieces overlap across the top of the "T" (so, basically, where you see the pins in that last photo).

Finally, I stitched on the frog closure. You can do this by hand or on the machine. Et voila! Anna's cloak is complete. 

Not too shabby, if I do say so myself!

The One Where My Life Became an Episode of Friends

Remember the time Chandler tried to quit the gym?  He wasn't using his membership, so he went in to cancel his membership, and they made it so hard for him that he eventually went to the bank to try to close his account to stop the automatic debit...but then he couldn't "quit the bank" either.  Yeah, that happened to me yesterday.

About two years ago, I joined Urban Active to try to shake off the last of the baby weight.  I would meet with a trainer two or three times a week and do a little cardio on my own another two days a week.  I didn't get back to my pre-baby weight, but I got close.

Somewhere along the line, my husband joined Urban Active as well.  His schedule didn't allow him to go very often, but he did try to keep up a weekly game of racquet ball.

Then one day, it was announced that Urban Active had been bought out by LA Fitness.  "Don't worry," they said, "all the changes we're making are going to be for the better."  That was hard to imagine since I was pretty happy with things the way they were.  Just as I had feared, it wasn't long before the changes started to trickle down, and they were certainly not "better."

First, the Kids' Club took a steep dive.  I stopped going to the gym until my husband was home to watch Molly.  That greatly reduced the opportunities I had to meet with my trainer.  It didn't matter, though, because within two months of the takeover, my trainer told me that she was quitting because LA Fitness was screwing them on their salaries.   I tried to just workout on my own, but you know how that goes.  Plus, the facilities were not being kept up at all.  I stopped going to the gym altogether shortly after my trainer left.  As soon as my initial contract period was up, I canceled my own membership.  My husband hadn't been to the gym in who knows how long, but he didn't want to cancel his membership.  He liked having the option to play racquet ball...once a month.

It pained me to pay $35 a month for the possibility that my husband could get the guys together once in a blue moon to slam a ball into a wall, though, and I asked him several times if I could cancel his membership.  He hemmed and hawed and said, "I want to start working out again."  But it just never happened.  I mean, the man has been out of town 27 of the last 44 days.  He's been home just long enough to sleep, repack his bags, and eat breakfast some weeks.  So the other day, I made the command decision to cancel his membership.

Of course, just like in that episode of "Friends," you have to cancel your membership in person.  So I dragged my fidgety pre-nap toddler and my trying-to-nap infant into the gym.  "I want to cancel my husband's membership," I announced.  "Hmmmm...okaaaay.  Well, let me see what I can do for you," the perky blonde behind the counter said.  She asked for the phone number associated with the account.  Mine didn't work.  My husband's cell didn't work.  I couldn't remember his work number off the top of my head.  Then she asked for the debit card associated with the account.  Mine wasn't the right one.  "Look, can't I just give you his name?  Surely you can find it that way," I said.  "Weeeeeelllllll, I could try that," she stalled.  All the while, a large man was standing over her shoulder watching the screen intently, as if I might try to jerk it off the desk and leave with it.  "Hmmmmm...well, I think I found it, but...hmmmmm...if you cancel this, you won't have access to the Kids' Club anymore," she insisted, as if it was Disney World or something.  "We don't need the Kids' Club.  If you look at the account, you'll see that it hasn't been used in several months.  And he never used the Kids' Club to begin with, so it doesn't matter," I huffed.  Molly had spotted the smoothie bar and was trying to get my attention.  I knew we were moments away from a "Mama, THIS  way!" meltdown.  "Look, can we hurry this up?  I have two little time bombs here who could blow at any second," I insisted.  She answered, "The thing is, the Kids' Club member ship is tied to his account, and if you cancel his account, you won't have access to it anymore."  Now I was beyond annoyed.  "Uh, yeah?  I don't care!  I canceled my membership a year ago!  In fact, one of the big reasons I quit was because your Kids' Club wasn't providing quality care to my child!  So I don't care about the Kids' Club membership!  I just want you to cancel my husband's membership, and I need you to do it as quickly as possible!"  She clicked a few keys and chirped, "All set.  Anything else I can do for you?"  I just turned on my heel and left.

Aaaand cue the toddler:  "THIS way, mama!  I want a juice!  No, THIS way!"  Yep.  I knew that was coming. 

It would have been easier just to close my bank account and open up a new one. 

To Have or Have Not (a Third Child)

I don't mean to brag, but my husband and I produce pretty darn perfect babies.  Both of our girls were sleeping through the night at eight weeks.  With Molly, we only ever had to "cry it out" for about five to seven minutes on about three or four nights before she began putting herself to sleep.  With Maggie, we never had to "cry it out" at all.  We just put her in bed when she starts rubbing her little eyes (or even when we're ready for her to go to sleep), and she just goes to sleep.  And they wake up in the morning happy as little larks, Maggie cooing to her hands and Molly singing to her dolls.  Between the two of them, we have only had about eight instances of spit up, and only one was a clothes-changer.  They are non-cranky teethers.  In fact, every tooth in Molly's little head was a complete surprise to me because she never gave any indication that a sharp object was trying to erupt through her gums.  They love taking baths.  They're good little travelers.  And when it came time to get rid of Molly's binky, she didn't shed a single tear.  They are the most easy-going, most pleasant little girls you have ever met.  People actually say, "You make such wonderful babies!  You should have ten of them!"  And I reply, "Aw, shucks!  I mean, they're OK, but let's not get carried--  No, you're right!  They're the best babies EVER!"

So why don't we have another?

Were this ten years earlier--or even five--we probably would have another child.  But here's the thing:  I'm 39 (and a half), and my husband is almost 49.  Is it time for us to humbly thank God for the blessings He has given us and just be glad for the two best babies ever?

Obviously, it's 2014, and age isn't the factor that it once was or was thought to be.  Still, the older you are, the higher the chance that you will experience an unexpected turn in your pregnancy.  I'm not just talking about trisomies here.  Did you know that your chance of having multiples increases with age?  Yep.  When we discussed age and trisomy with our OB, she said, "Well, at 40, your risk for Down Syndrome and other trisomies doesn't really jump that much.  However, your risk for multiples does."  Uh, I did not know that.  So if we go for three, we could end up with four.  Whoa, horse!

Actually, for me, that wouldn't necessarily be bad.  I don't like the idea of having three kids that much anyway.  I mean, it's not that I wouldn't love to have another child, but three is a tough number.  What if you're at Disney World, and none of your kids wants to ride Space Mountain alone?  Now you're stuck riding Space Mountain, which is quite possibly the most overrated ride in Disney Kingdom-dom.  And if you have three kids, it's impossible to talk your way around the "middle child" thing.  There will most definitely and unarguably be a "middle child," and that spells disaster.  Speaking of "middles," you'll have to add a middle seat to your vehicle to accommodate a third child safety seat.  You know what that means:  Minivan.  It's not that I'm against a minivan, but having only three kids in a minivan seems like a waste of space.  You should have at least two little butts in each row of seats. 

So three is a less happy number for me than four.  But, wow...four.  Can we afford that?  With our school districts being rezoned, Catholic school has suddenly become a very real possibility.  Twelve years of Catholic school tuition times four kids...you do the math.  Then they will go to college.  I'm sorry, but my husband and I have five degrees between us, and both of us have terminal degrees.  College is non-negotiable.  And then the weddings.  Hoo, boy!  We already have two daughters.  What if we have two more?  I mean, at this rate, my husband would have to work until he's 80 if we had four kids.  Plus, if we don't have twins but have a fourth pregnancy instead, then we're talking about having a new baby at 42 and 52 (eep!).     

But part of our indecision is that, mentally, we don't feel our years.  If you've ever met my husband, you know he's 48 going on 18.  And while I'm staring down the barrel of 40, I don't feel a day over 30.  It's easy to forget that when Molly and Maggie are going off to high school, we'll be 50 and 60, not to mention this hypothetical third (or fourth) child.  Of course, older parents aren't the creepy weirdness that they were when I was the kid with the parents who were only slightly younger than my friends' grandparents; but I don't want my children's lives to have to slow down because we are slowing down.  So maybe today we feel ready to take on the world with a few kids in tow, but how will we feel in ten years?

And then I think, Well shit!  We're already older parents.  Is there really a difference between having a child at 36/46 and 38/48 and having a child at 40/50?  Except, we'd be parents of a newborn at 40 and 50 and have two increasingly active toddlers to boot.  Will we have enough stamina for that?  

Still, I know that I'm going to be 40 and have two have beautiful, (if not always) sweet toddlers and think, I want another baby.  We've already established that my husband and I make the most wonderful babies, and maybe this one would be a boy!  My husband is an only son.  He wouldn't trade his two girls for anything in this world, but he did finally admit not too long ago that it might be nice to have a boy, too.  (For reasons that seem silly and archaic, it's important to me for him to have a son as well.) 

Beyond age and financial concerns, my husband also worries about our marriage if we add another child.  He felt an added strain when Maggie was a tiny baby.  I'm not going to lie.  He's right.  Our children have put a strain on our marriage.  I feel like our relationship has changed immensely since Molly was born, mostly on my end.  I have poured so much energy and emotion and love into those two little girls that I sometimes feel like I have nothing left to offer him.  So, yeah, I worry, too, that adding another little person to this equation may leave him even further down on my list of emotional priorities.

So those are our concerns about deciding to have another child (or two because I'm a nut ball who doesn't like the idea of three children).  But then I also have concerns about deciding against having another child.  The biggest can be chalked up to good ol' fashioned Catholic guilt.  I feel like God wants me to have more children.   I mean, He has not given me one single reason not to have more children.  Aside from the fact that we have the sweetest little angel babies, I have the smoothest, most uneventful, most enjoyable pregnancies.  On top of that, I have had the quickest, most pain-free recoveries from both of my c-sections.  (I actually begged my doctor to let me go home a day early when Maggie was born.)  So I think, Why would I not have any more babies?  I'm clearly built for this.  Maybe this is God's purpose for my life.

And just for shits and giggles, let's add in a little Grandma guilt.  Grandma once told my cousin, "You will never regret having a third child, but you may regret not having a third child."  Now, granted, she has never said that to me directly, but she told me that she said it to my cousin, so I feel this sort of subliminal messaging in her relaying the discussion to me.  Oh, and let's not forget that Grandma was 40 when her youngest of six children was born; and her mother was 43 when her youngest of eight children (twins--just like my doctor said!) were born.  (My husband's mother was also 40 when he was born.)

But, really, who needs the external guilt, when I can churn up plenty of internal guilt?  I honestly feel like the reasons my husband and I have for not adding more children to our family are incredibly selfish reasons.  Financially, we'd be more comfortable with fewer mouths to feed and butts to diaper.  Physically, we'd be less exhausted if all of our children were sleeping through the night.  Mentally, we'd be happier if we could still slip away for twice monthly date nights and weekends away without the kids.  (The difficulty in securing a babysitter goes up exponentially when you hit three kids.)  Isn't that ugly and disgraceful, that we would rather have an annual weekend getaway to New Orleans than a third child???  At the same time, though, if we're honest with ourselves, these are real concerns.

It's just such a difficult decision to make, especially when we have friends who would give anything to have a baby right now. 

*     *     *     *     *

So in the middle of writing this (it takes me a few days of stealing away to my office to cough up a blog post these days), my 89-year-old father-in-law became ill and ended up in the hospital.  An overnight stay has turned into a 5-night stay and will probably become a week-long stay.  Needless to say, my husband has had to be with his parents a lot over these last several days.  There's no question that he should be with them.  But I've been left here alone with the girls and my thoughts, and it occurred to me that all four of our parents are elderly.  Pop's hospital stay is just the beginning in all likelihood.  My God, what would we do if we had three or four children and a parent in the hospital?  His parents are only two hours away, but mine are six hours away.  And what if the kids were in school and involved in extracurriculars, and I was back at work?  Then what would we do?

I don't know.  No matter what our situation--two kids or twelve--God always seems to provide.  I was anxious about adding Maggie to our family, and it was, all things considered, an almost seamless transition.  I was worried about how I would juggle a toddler and a newborn, and there really wasn't much juggling involved.  I lost sleep over how I would find the hours in the days to be everything to everyone who needed me, and 24 hours seems to be enough.  God just makes it all so.

Even still, I think I'm finding myself on the verge of saying, "No more.  Our family is complete."  But check back with me in another week.

A Mother's Day Gift to Myself

A few months ago, a blog post was spreading around Facebook riling up mommies like an angry toddler.  I won't dignify the post by linking to it, but the gist of it was this:  If you are a stay-at-home-mom/homemaker, you are a worthless embarrassment to womankind who offers nothing to society.  I remember thinking nothing more of it than that this woman was a bitter, mouthy idiot; and I quickly moved on with my worthless, stay-at-home routine.

Then today, I was tuning in the Barefoot Contessa as I prepared to fold two loads of laundry in the waning minutes of nap time, and I thought, Wow.  What has become of my life that my "job" has led to the memorization of the Food Network schedule and dressing in yoga pants to "go to work" on the couch?  And then I had an even more stark, stomach-knotting realization--that I somehow felt like I had to apologize or feel like some sort of failure for making my job in the home.  What the hell is wrong with me?  What the hell is wrong with women in general that we have forced ourselves to judge our usefulness to society based on what we "do"? 

As offended by and indignant about that blog post as I had been all those months before, there is still some part of me that feels like I am letting down womankind and society in general by not pursuing a career at this time in my life.  At least once a week, I feel this pang of guilt for not using either one of my two degrees to contribute to the household income or to society.  And every time someone asks me what I "do," I feel this warm tingle of embarrassment when I say, "Oh, I'm just a stay-at-home-mom," followed by, "but I used to be an attorney, and I do plan to work again some day."  Again, I ask, what the hell is wrong with me?  I shouldn't feel embarrassed or that I have to make excuses for what I "do."  I am raising two human beings to (hopefully, I pray to God every day) be good, kind, loving, socially responsible, and successful women! That seems like a pretty damn important endeavor, don't you think?

For ten years, I was an attorney working in the courts of West Virginia.  Not to sound self-important, but the work that I did impacted lives throughout the state every day.  You can find my work published in legal case reporters that are found in law libraries all across this country, and legal opinions that I drafted are cited as authority in other cases.  And guess what...none of that work will ever have the impact that the work I'm doing right now will have.  That pre-child, feminism-affirming, "valid" work that I did will some day be forgotten in favor of newer, more contemporary legal authority.  The words that I put to paper will at some point sound arcane and irrelevant.  The mark that I left on the world through my legal career will be relegated to a dusty, musty corner of the stacks that only librarians see as they rearrange the older volumes to make room for the next generation of irrelevant legal authority.

My daughters, though, they will be leaving their own mark on the world by then.  Maybe they'll write new legal authority.  Maybe they'll cure cancer.  Maybe they'll vanquish poverty.  Maybe they'll "just" raise another generation of members of society.  I don't know what they'll do, but they'll do something; and if I hadn't taken the leap from career woman to mother, their mark on the world (whatever it turns out to be) would never have been known. 

Is that to say that I'm better or more valuable to society than those women who choose not to or who cannot have children?  No.  They're leaving their own marks on the world in their own ways.  And God knows that I'm not saying that I'm better or more valuable than the working mothers.  My hat is off to any woman who works one part-time or full-time job outside the home (or from home) and then has to work another full-time job at home!  (I honestly and sincerely do not know how working mothers do it.)  My point is simply that my job is no less important or valuable to society just because it is done in yoga pants and largely in the confines of my home. 

I know that, but sometimes I forget that I know that.  So as a Mother's Day gift to myself, I'm going to tell myself once and for all that being a stay-at-home mom is neither worthless nor embarrassing and that, in fact, it is one of the most important jobs in the world.  And I don't need to apologize for it.  I need to be proud of it.  No, I will not leave the sort of mark on the world that Jane Austen or Harper Lee or Mother Theresa or Sally Ride left on this world, but none of them would have had the chance to leave their marks if their mothers hadn't chosen to be just that--a mother.  Am I right, or am I right?

Letter to My Formerly (Sometimes Still) Smug, Childless Self

Dear Childless Me,

I see you rolling your eyes.  I hear that deep, heaving sigh that you fully intend for me to hear.  Yes, I know.  My child is crying and screaming at the Target check out, and you think I should do something about it.  I can hear your unspoken thoughts:  Are you not even going to say anything to her?  If she were my child, I'd jerk her right out of that cart and take her crying little butt out to the car!  Then I'd give her something to cry about!  But I sure as hell wouldn't just stand there and let her cry.  

Oh, really, Me? 

You can judge me all you want.  You can think about how you would just abandon the cart--it's only two packs of diapers anyway--and spare all of the other Target shoppers your tantrum-throwing 2-year-old, fleeing to the privacy of your car where you'd spank that tantrum-throwing 2-year-old and get control of the situation.  It's just that simple, isn't it?

It's not that simple at all.

Do you honestly think I'm enjoying this?  Do you think I don't wish I could just abandon those two packs of diapers and flee the store in embarrassment?  Don't you think that if I had some magical tool in my bag of mom tricks to make my child suddenly stop acting like Linda Blair, I would use it?

I had three simple errands to run today:  I needed to pick up my husband's pay check and deposit it at the bank, then I needed to go to the local chocolate shop to buy the first part of birthday gifts for both my father and father-in-law, and then I needed to come to Target to get these two packs of diapers.  It was my 4-month-old who was the wild card in the mix.  I had to wake her up from her nap to put her in her car seat. My 2-year-old wasn't even a concern because we were still hours away from nap time.

I got the paycheck and deposited it, which was no problem.  Then we headed to the chocolate shop, where I had no choice but to let my 2-year-old walk independently because they don't have shopping carts, and I had to carry 25 pounds of car seat and infant around the store while trying to grab my selections with my free hand.  That resulted in my 2-year-old helping herself to a piece of chocolate from a floor-level bin, leaving the foil wrapper behind in the bin...after I had already paid.  (You would have shot me a look for that one, too, but the shop keeper was much more gracious than you and told me not to worry about it.)

Then I headed to Target.  It was going well enough so far (aside from the petit larceny) that I even thought maybe I could sneak over to Kohl's afterward to find something else for my father and father-in-law.  But in the blink of an eye, it all turned to shit.

I got my 2-year-old out of the car and put her in the seat of the cart.  "No, mama! I sit in chairs!  I sit in chairs, mama!"  "What do you mean?  You are sitting in the seat."  "No, mama!" she said, pointing to the open cart where I needed to put the car seat carrier.  I put the baby in the cart and dashed into the store, trying to explain that the baby had to ride there, and there was no more room.  My 2-year-old didn't accept that and began to cry and try to climb out of the seat.  I tried to calm her down and distract her, but then I had an even bigger problem:  How could I get by the snack bar without her noticing it?  So I pointed to something innocuous and tried to talk to her to distract her.  Just when it seemed to be working, she remembered where she was and jerked her head around, saying, "This way!  This way!" and pointing to the snack bar.  But because I know you, and I know you wouldn't approve of giving in to her--after all, she didn't even eat the last bag of popcorn I bought--I stayed the course and walked as quickly as possible to the diapers.

The crying became more tantrum-like, mixed with screams and unintelligible sobbing words.  "No, mama!  This way!  THIS WAY!" and then, "Binky, mama!  Binky!"  The binky!  Shit!  I didn't remember seeing it when we left the chocolate shop.  She must have put it down when she unwrapped that chocolate that she stole.

As I grabbed the diapers, a young girl in a Target name tag--who I'm sure, like you, is childless--kindly asked if I needed help.  I wanted to say, "Yes!  Listen, I'm going to go up to the Starbucks counter and decompress for about 20 minutes if you could just watch my girls for me."  Instead, I said, "No, unless you happen to know where the binky is.  I'm sorry.  We're having a bad day."  Then hedging my bets that my 2-year-old was running out of steam--this is only her third real tantrum, and they usually only last about 3 minutes--I decided to quickly look through the new release DVDs to try to find something for those birthday gifts since Kohl's was off the table.

The crying and screaming continued as I followed another young, likely-childless girl down the aisle.  I didn't even try to make eye contact with her for fear that she would look at me a lot like you're looking at me.  Instead, I leaned in close to my daughter and whispered through clenched teeth, "Stop this right now!  I mean it, I'm done with this!"  Of course, that little bit of attention only made her wail louder.  (See, you think I'm just pretending like nothing is going on because I'm too busy enjoying my shopping excursion to discipline my child.  In fact, it's a coping mechanism.  Children like attention, even negative attention.)

So I abandoned the DVD aisle and headed as quickly as possible to the check out.  Surprise!  Every register has a line, and there's no self-check out.  So now here we are, you and Me.  My child is wailing all the louder now.  You're rolling your eyes and sighing and judging.  I'm boiling inside, wishing that I could just leave both my diapers and my embarrassment behind, but I can't.  This is my job.  I'm a stay-at-home mom.  I'm in charge of wrangling the kids and running the household, including shopping for my family's needs; and most times, I have to do both of those things at once, and it doesn't always go smoothly.  Today, I have to have diapers, and it just so happens that my child feels that she has to remind me that she's two. 

God, it was so much simpler when I was Childless Me!  It was so much simpler when I had it all figured out, how I would handle my kids in these situations.  It was so much simpler living in The Great Hypothetical.  But then you find yourself in The Even Greater Reality one day, and there is nothing more humbling.  You remember how smug you were.  You remember how you thought you had it all figured out, what with your 27 years of experience of being an aunt to 13 nieces and nephews.  You had spent years cataloging the mistakes that your sisters and brother had made along the way, and you were an expert, weren't you? 

In The Even Greater Reality, though, you realize that every word you say leaves a mark on a 2-year-old brain and that those words are often repeated, whether you like it or not.  (Imagine how you would feel to say something ugly to your child and then have her repeat those ugly words to a little friend or to Grandma.)  You realize that as much as you always thought you would spank your child, it's an entirely different thing when you have to look into those big blue eyes every day and, more importantly, in those first moments after you've hit her.  You learn that there is no cut-and-dry answer to discipline because every instance of bad behavior is different.  Even if this tantrum looks a lot like the last one, whatever you did that worked last time (which, in my case, was to ignore her, and within three minutes, she was distracted by the zipper on her jacket), it won't necessarily work this time.  You appreciate that you just have to survive every day any way that you can.  

I tell you what, Childless Me, why don't you let me buy you dinner in a few years when you've finally had kids of your own.  Unlike you, there won't be any eye-rolling or heaving sighs from me.  I'll listen patiently while you cry about how much harder it is than you ever imagined.  I'll pat your hand and reassure you that you aren't "doing it wrong" because there is no "right" way.  I'll make sure that the waiter keeps your Diet Coke filled because as much as you want a glass of wine (or three), you don't dare drink it because you know it will only make you sleepy; and you have two young children at home who may or may not sleep through the night.

And then I'll remind you of that time you saw me at Target and wondered how I could let Molly act like that.  I'll tell you that I didn't even thank the poor cashier as I grabbed my bag and raced out the door.  I'll tell you about how I literally threw Molly in the car seat and screamed, "Shut up!  I don't want to hear any more crying!  Your binky is gone!  Get over it!"  (It isn't my proudest parenting moment.)  I'll tell you about how Molly's borderline-fake tantrum crying turned to genuine hurt-feeling crying.  I'll tell you about how I felt "this big" and still boiling mad all at once.  I'll tell you that at that point, I wanted to cry.  And I'll tell you that we all somehow survived to do it all again another day because it never ends, this parent/child struggle. 

And then you'll get it.  And, wow, will you feel like an ass.

Sincerely,
The Mom Me

The Second Child Guilt Trip

While I was pregnant with my second child, I often worried--to the point of tears--that the Monkin would get left behind.  I imagined that I would be so busy with a newborn and then infant that I would have no time to really be with my toddler.  The baby would simply need me more, and the Monkin was fairly self-sufficient or, at least, self-entertaining.  I envisioned me stuck to the couch cushions cradling the baby while the Monkin puttered around by herself, talking to her dolls because no one else would pay her any attention.  "Do you think we made a mistake having another baby?" I would ask my husband, tears spilling over at the thought of my sweet girl being virtually abandoned in her own home.  Naturally, he assured me that we had not made a mistake and that the Monkin would not be left behind. 

Soon, the baby arrived.  There was no need to worry about the Monkin being lonely in those first two weeks because Grandma was there.  Mama WHO?  Whatever lack of Mama's attention the Monkin might have suffered went perfectly unnoticed by her.  In fact, I was the one feeling a little bit left behind. 

Eventually, though, Grandma and Pop left, and Daddy went back to work...and it was just the three of us.  The moment I had been dreading suddenly arrived.  Only, it didn't play out quite like I thought it would.  It wasn't the Monkin who seemed to be left behind, it was her baby sister, the Magpie.  The only way to really explain what I mean is by comparing the two girls, which I know I'm not supposed to do, but I do. 

See, when the Monkin was a baby, I spent almost every waking hour (and some mostly sleeping hours) holding her, looking at her, inspecting every feature of her.  I would talk to her and coo at her and take gobs of pictures of her.  (It's much prettier to picture it this way than to picture the early, early days of crying over the agony of trying to breastfeed her, and I've already beat that horse to death anyway.)  We'd listen to music and take stroller rides around the block.  I simply could not get enough of her. 

Poor Magpie, though, knows very little of this.  We don't spend mornings in our pajamas tucked into bed cooing and playing like the Monkin and I did. She spends mornings in her little rocker or in her swing while I pour bowls of Cheerios and slug coffee.  I don't have time to sit and stare at her or take albums full of pictures of her because I'm too busy sorting 8 loads of laundry a week or picking up the toys that have somehow migrated from the play room into the living room.  The Magpie "plays" by herself on her little mat while I eat imaginary bowls of soup prepared by the Monkin.  Or maybe the Magpie gets strapped into her car seat, which she hates, so that the Monkin and I can go "bye-byes" because we so desperately need to get out of the house.  When we get home, it's back into the rocker, binky crammed into her mouth in an effort to lull her to sleep while I fix lunch or dinner.  Before I even have a chance to think about it, Daddy is taking the Monkin to bed, and I'm counting down the minutes and seconds to the Magpie's last feeding so the rest of us can go to bed. 

And, suddenly, it occurs to me that for all my worrying about the Monkin being left behind, I never thought to worry about the Magpie being left behind. 

Now, I know that the Magpie will never know the difference.  Aside from counting baby pictures in albums, she won't feel like she got any less of my attention than the Monkin did, but I'll feel that way.  And it kills me.  She's already 10 weeks old, and I feel like I'm missing it.  Sure, I've studied her little face, and we've spent several late nights cooing at each other, but it's been in quick bursts between folding little clothes and washing bottles.  I want to be able to pour all of my energy into her, and I just can't, not now anyway. In the fall, the Monkin will go off to preschool for 3 hours a day, 2 days a week.  I can try to recover some time with the Magpie then, but by then she'll be 9 months old.  And let's be honest, I'll spend at least one of those mornings running errands to Kroger and Target.  That's not exactly quality time.

Of course, no second child could ever have the same sort of face time with his or her mama that a first child had.  It's simply not possible.  But my heart still aches at the thought that the days and hours are slipping away from us; and soon she'll be a 2-year-old herself, and I'll be crushed to not have enough memories of my sweet baby...(likely) my last baby. I just wish there was some way to have that same experience with your second child that you had with your first. 

Maybe I'll go wake her up from her nap to sneak in a little quality time before the Monkin wakes up...

Why I Think We Should Retire the Notion That "Breast Is Best"

"Breast is best."  How many times have you heard that?  I mean, everyone agrees, right?  Breast is best!  Except when it isn't.  When is that, you ask?  Well, let me tell you.

I was not a breastfed baby.  My four sisters were not breastfed.  My brother was not breastfed.  My husband was not breastfed.  None of my 13 nieces or nephews were breastfed.  My great-niece was not breastfed.  (No, I'm not actually that old, but my oldest sister is 53, and her oldest daughter is 28, so I have a great-niece.)  We were all healthy, happy, well-rounded children.  Until I went to work in an office filled with young mothers who spent their lunch hours hooked up to breast pumps, I never gave breastfeeding any thought.  Even then, I never gave it any positive thoughts.  Sure, I heard over and over from the women in my office about how beautiful breastfeeding is.  "It's the greatest gift you can give your child and yourself."  "It's the most natural, most intuitive thing because it is exactly as God intended it."  "It's the greatest bonding experience you can hope for with your child."  Blah, blah, blah.  But I wasn't a mother yet, and I was skeptical.  Really, how "beautiful" is a huge, veiny boob?  And you gave your child life!  Isn't that the greatest gift you can give him or her?  And if feeding your child is the "greatest bonding experience" you can have with your child, then why would you deny your husband that bonding experience?  No, breastfeeding wasn't for me.  I could never envision myself doing it.

And then I got pregnant with my first child, the Monkin.  Suddenly, I found myself considering the inconsiderable, that maybe I would breastfeed.  I don't know how or when or why it even popped into my head.  Maybe it was a hormonal thing.  Maybe it was instinctual.  I don't know, but it seemed to make sense for a lot of reasons, and it somehow became my Plan A.

Since everyone had already told me about how beautiful and natural and intuitive breastfeeding is, I didn't really do anything to prepare myself for it, aside from taking the breastfeeding class in the cadre of pre-natal classes offered by my hospital.  I mean, you just put your baby to your breast, et voila!  Right?  Yeah, no.  I quickly discovered at the 2-hour class I took that there is a lot more to it than that.  There is a certain way a baby is supposed to latch, and you sometimes have to coax them into doing that.  And then there are all these awkward ways that you're supposed to hold your baby.  In fact, it's so awkward that you'll probably need to invest in a special little nursing stool and pillow to help you get it just right.  Oh, and a breast pump.  You'll want to have a breast pump so that you can (a) have a back-up supply of milk for the babysitter and (b) keep your milk supply up.  Of course, the best breast pump will run you $300 or so.  And watch out for mastitis...and thrush.  That's a nasty one because you and your sweet little baby just keep passing it back and forth.  To say that I was overwhelmed is an understatement. Breastfeeding was obviously far more complicated than I had been led to believe.

Nearly in tears, I approached the nurse after the class and expressed my doubt about whether I was emotionally and mentally able to breastfeed my baby because it all seemed so...hard and unnatural and not the least bit intuitive.  "Well," she said, "it will be hard for you because, from what you've told me about your own family history, you won't have a support network.  You'll be out there on an island with no mother or sister that you can call for help and advice.  But there are other networks you can tap into.  You can do it.  And, really, it's the most beautiful, most natural, most loving thing you can do for your baby, so you need to do it."  Whereas before becoming pregnant, that last statement made me roll my eyes, now it filled me with a bottomless pit of guilt, only like no guilt I had ever felt before...and I'm Catholic.  I cried all the way out to my car and then again when I got home to my husband.

My husband, with no frame of reference for breastfeeding either, said, "Well, we'll just try it.  If it works, it works.  If it doesn't, it doesn't.  It's no big deal."  "Yes, but it's the most beautiful, most natural, most loving thing I can do for this baby.  I have to make it work."  Yep.  Just like that, I had been brainwashed.

"Brainwashed"--I'm sure that word will offend most of you.  I'm sorry, but there is a degree of brainwashing in the baby feeding community.  Remember when I said that none of my siblings or nieces or nephews had been breastfed?  Well, that's because it wasn't really en vogue at the time.  It wasn't trendy.  There weren't clubs and play groups and political movements centered around nursing a child (aside from La Leche, of course, which I remember Suzanne Sugarbaker referring to as "La Leaky" on "Designing Women").  If you breastfed your baby, then bully for you.  If you didn't do it, that was OK, too.  No one castigated or judged you for your choice.  No one really cared how you fed your baby.  Now, though, it's become an "us against them" proposition.  There are message points with implications of who is the better mother: The nurser or the Similac mom.  (Obviously, it's the nurser, duh!)  There are "scientific" studies that "prove" that breastfed babies are better off medically, developmentally, socially, and emotionally.  (No one seems to take note of the fact that there's a huge socioeconomic variable to be considered in the development of a child.  No, it's definitely all about the breast milk, isn't it?)  There are websites and social media sites and storefronts that push breastfeeding, steeling themselves behind the "reality" that breastfeeding is better for a child.  So, yeah, women do get sucked in, and we get sucked in at the most emotionally vulnerable period of our adult lives--pregnancy.

For the last few weeks of my pregnancy, I went back and forth between going with formula and breastfeeding; although, deep down, I knew that I would breastfeed the Monkin.  My mother didn't get it.  My sisters didn't get it.  But I knew that I had to do it.  It was the best thing I could do for my baby.

The Monkin's birth didn't turn out like I thought it would.  I ended up having a c-section.  It was probably three or four hours before I even held her.  When they brought her to me, it was around 2am, and I had been asleep in my bed, pumped full of pain killers and gallons of fluid.  I remember that the room was almost pitch dark.  I was groggy and had a hard time even sitting up, and then the nurse held out the baby and said, "She's hungry.  You're nursing her, right?  Call me if you need help."  I doubt she'd even made it back to the desk before I called for help.  I had no idea what to do.  "Hold her this way.  Now hold your breast like this.  Now push her to your breast."  It was awkward and painful and just not working.  Naturally, the baby was screaming, either from hunger or general annoyance.  My first instinct was to say, "Just give her a bottle," but I didn't.  We fussed and fidgeted and tried to latch over and over until the Monkin gave up and went back to sleep.  Within a couple of hours, we were at it again.

Over the next four days in the hospital (my blood pressure was a little elevated), I bet eight different nurses and four different lactation consultants tried to help us latch.  Every woman who came in to offer help had a different approach.  I was so confused.  Should I hold the Monkin this way?  That way?  Should I support the weight of my breast or hold my nipple?  Should it hurt the whole time she's on my breast, or should it only hurt for a minute?  And speaking of pain, should it feel like glass shards are coming out through my nipple?  "Use a breast shield."  "Don't use a breast shield."  "Let her practice sucking on a pacifier."  "Do not, under any circumstances, let her have a pacifier."  "It may not ever work for you and your baby."  "If you give it enough time, it will eventually work for you both."  I was so upset and confused that I even refused visitors at the hospital.  My mom and dad both begged, "Just give her formula."  I dug in my heels.  Again, I had to breastfeed her.  It was the best thing I could do for her. 

We left the hospital on a Saturday.  By Monday, the Monkin had lost so much weight that the pediatrician was concerned.  The baby wasn't eating enough...she wasn't eating enough because she was sleeping all day and couldn't be awakened to eat...she was sleeping all day because she wasn't getting enough calories to stay awake.  Translation:  You're starving your baby.  What freshly minted mommy doesn't love to hear that?  It was like taking a bullet to the heart.  We were sent directly to a local lactation group.  No kidding.  The doctor even called and made the appointment for us.

The consultant we saw was one of the women we had seen in the hospital.  With my two hands and her two hands and even a fifth hand from my husband, we were able to get a decent latch, and the baby nursed for 20 minutes or so with less pain than before.  The lactation consultant sent us home with little syringes and instructions to pump and then feed the baby breast milk through the syringe after each feeding.

For the next two days, I spent all of my time either on the couch trying to nurse through extreme pain (due to a latch so poor that it left my nipple pinched flat and white) or attached to a breast pump or trying to wrestle a syringe into my baby's mouth.  I was exhausted and emotionally spent, but the Monkins did gain some weight back.  We spent another $200 to have the lactation consultant come to our house to try to help us in our own environment, and, again, with the help of an extra pair of hands adjusting the baby's mouth ad nauseum, we were able to get a single decent feeding.  However, when we were on our own with just my two hands or with my husband trying to reach in and help, it never worked right. I started to crack.  If it took at least four hands to get a decent latch, then how "natural" could this be for us?

Moreover, nursing the Monkin was so excruciatingly painful that I would almost come out of my seat every time she latched on to my breast.  I cried and cried and cried some more.  I absolutely dreaded feedings to the point that I would get sick to my stomach when I knew that another feeding was imminent because it was so incredibly painful.  And when I wasn't nursing, I was pumping.  That meant that the only time I had to bond with the Monkin was the time that I was nursing her, and that was not enjoyable time at all.  I cracked a little more.  So much for that incredible bonding experience.  How could it be "best" to breastfeed my baby when the very thought of it made me cry?

Then, after about four weeks, I gave up.  I would nurse the Monkin in the morning when we woke up and in the evening before we went to bed to try to stimulate milk production, but that was all that I could bear.  Otherwise, we fed her pumped breast milk.  I pumped for as long as I could, until my milk supply was gone.  In all, the Monkin got breast milk for about eight weeks.  From that point on, she was a formula-fed baby. 

Even after all of that, when I became pregnant with my second child, the Magpie, I decided to give breastfeeding another try.  Now a member of a play group where everyone nursed openly at play dates, I again felt the social pressure to nurse my child.  Besides, every child is different, and maybe this one would latch on with no problems.  I had to do it.  Breast is best.

Again, I had a c-section, but because this one was planned, I was able to hold the baby and attempt to nurse her much sooner.  At first, the Magpie's latch did seem a little more natural.  Within hours, though, my nipples were bleeding.  Every time a nurse or lactation consultant came in, she would look at my nipples and wince, commenting, "Wow, that's a lot of damage.  Does it hurt when you nurse?"  "Yes, like a mother.  But it's actually not as painful as it was with my first child."  I was trying to convince myself that we could make a go of it this time.  However, with each attempted feeding, the latch got worse and worse.  Still, I decided to press on even though, once again, I was crying to my husband over all my doubts.  Just before we left the hospital, my husband begged me to call the lactation consultants one more time, so I did.  When I expressed my frustration and told the nurse of my struggles nursing the Monkin with tears rolling down my face, she was bold enough to admit that breastfeeding isn't always what is best.  She told me that it was OK if it didn't work out and that the Magpie would be perfectly fine if she was fed formula.  She encouraged me not to forgo those first crucial weeks of bonding just for the sake of trying to breastfeed.  She said that it was far more important for me to be emotionally healthy and to enjoy those first weeks of snuggles and feedings than for her to have breast milk.  She was the voice of breastfeeding that you never hear. Yes, my husband had said everything that she said a million times before, but somehow, it seemed more "official" coming from this woman whose job it was to help women and their babies breastfeed.

We took the Magpie home on a Thursday, at which point she had already lost 10% of her birth weight.  By the time we went back to the pediatrician the next day, she had lost a little over a pound.  The doctor told us that we would have to supplement each feeding with formula at that point because she had lost 13% of her birth weight.  Because of the damage to my nipples, I was only able to nurse one breast at time in order to try to allow the other nipple time enough to heal a little for the next feeding.  I started pumping immediately, but I was only producing six to eight ounces of milk a day, and that was on a very good day.

We had to to take the Magpie back for weight checks every other day until she finally got back to a satisfactory weight.  The pediatricians encouraged us to see a lactation consultant and continue to try to breastfeed, but when my milk still hadn't really come in by day eight (I was still only pumping about an ounce at a time), I decided that I was ready to let it go.  I was just not willing to sacrifice my happiness, the baby's happiness (or health for that matter), or those first precious weeks of bonding again.

The Magpie is four weeks old now and exclusively formula-fed.

Here's the bitch of it all, though:  I still feel like a failure, like I've let my children down.  Why do I feel like that?  Do you know that in her 26 months of life, the Monkin has only been sick twice?  She had a cough that kept her up at night for two nights when she was 21 months old and a stomach bug when she was 24 months old.  That's it.  She's right on track developmentally, and she regularly outsmarts her father and me.  By comparison, she has two little friends who were exclusively breastfed for over a year, and they are sick all the time.  And still, I feel like I've let my children down by denying them breast milk.

Breastfeeding has become a social and political agenda (another word that will probably make some people cringe) in that its advocates try to hide and marginalize the negative aspects of it in order to protect its status as the "best" and, in their minds, only option for feeding a baby.  When was the last time you saw an article on a breastfeeding website that warned about all the problems and struggles that a mother could face?  You don't.  You only see the smiling pictures and hear all the happy talk that later leaves you to feel like an utter failure and fills you with guilt when it just doesn't work out for you and your child.  There's no acknowledgement that, for some women and babies, it simply is not "best" to opt for the breast.  In the minds of the breastfeeding community, it's an absolute:  Breast is best...end of discussion.  Of course, the corollary to that is that if you have to or choose to feed your child formula, then you are not doing what is best for your baby.  How is that "natural" or "beautiful"?  How is that empowering to mothers?  It isn't.

When I was struggling to nurse the Monkin, all I heard from the doctors and lactation consultants was, "You have to keep going.  You can't quit.  You have to push through and do this."  So I tortured myself and robbed my child of those early weeks of bonding because I "had" to.  That's precious time that I cannot ever get back. Thank God for that lactation consultant I met in the hospital who gave me "permission" to let go of the notion of breastfeeding the Magpie.  I cannot tell you how happy I am now, how happy we all are--my husband, the Monkin, the Magpie, and me.  We're relaxed.  We don't dread feedings.  We're getting rest (if not sleep).  The Magpie is healthy and growing quickly.  The Monkin and I have time to play and bond throughout the day.  And my husband enjoys coming home from work and feeding the Magpie to catch up on all the baby snuggles he missed while he was at the office.  He even happily calls dibs on a "shift" in the middle of the night.  (Although, honestly, we can get a good five hours out of our formula-fed baby girl, so there are not many middle-of-the-night feedings.)

I am by no means advocating against breastfeeding.  There are so many reasons to do it if that is what you want to do.  I am simply advocating that we should get away from this notion that "breast is best" and the pressure that comes with it because it isn't necessarily true.  Breastfeeding might be the way that it was originally intended to be, but there are many situations and reasons that it isn't always "best."  And no woman should be made to feel like she isn't doing what is best for her child if she chooses not to breastfeed. What is best for a child is to be fed in whatever manner promotes an overall healthy experience for the family. So when a friend tells me that she's pregnant and asks about breastfeeding, I tell her that I think it's great (and I mean it), but I also immediately tell her that if it doesn't work out for some reason, then it's just as great if she has to formula feed because I don't want her to go through the emotional hell and feelings of guilt that I went through when it didn't work for me.  And when a friend tells me that she's pregnant and asks about formula feeding, I tell her as well that I think it's great if that is what she wants to do.  I never follow it up with, "But breast is best," because I don't believe that, and I know firsthand of the unfair pressure it puts on a woman.