Mother's Day Meanderings

Ah, Mother's Day. A complicated day. A day that used to be so simple; filled with handmade cards and innocent gifts for the mother I adored. A day that adulthood has made more nuanced and difficult to process. 

I never wanted to be that person that ruined Mother's Day for everyone.  I recognize, and even applaud the fact that churches and individuals have tried to become more sensitive to the pain that Mother's Day can bring to many women, for many reasons. But why shouldn't mothers be celebrated on this one day for all they are and do? My not being a mother does not negate all the selfless ways that mothers care for their children. After all, I have a mother who is 100% amazing at being a mother. So each Mother's Day I would resolve to celebrate fully. I would heartily wish other mothers a happy day. And I meant it! I wanted to be bigger than my own desires.

But if I'm completely honest with you and myself, for the last 15 years or so, Mother's Day hurt. 

Badly. 

Mother's Day highlighted the fact that my arms were empty. 

Empty.

Empty. 

I would head out to church with great resolve to be cheerful and thankful.  Usually I succeeded...as long as nobody kindly recognized my secret longing. For instance, two years ago I sat through a lovely church service on Mother's Day, proud of my sincerely joyful attitude. But then during sharing time, a woman that I greatly admire, sensitively asked for prayer for women who yearn to be mothers and are unable. It opened the floodgates.

I sat in my chair and silently wept, hoping I could pull it together before church let out.

As hope of becoming a mother turned to fear, and fear to reluctant acceptance that motherhood was not in my cards, I tried to comfort myself in lots of ways. Perhaps God had called me to mother in ways other than the traditional definition? I loved my role as an aunt to my eight nieces and nephews! Maybe I was called to fill a special role in the lives of those children by being a dedicated aunt. And oh! Oh how I loved my role as a piano teacher.  I never took for granted the fact that each of those children had one-on-one time with me each week for learning and connection. Maybe that was that was the way that God called me to "mother" the children I came into contact with? It could be enough.

But it didn't take away the ache I had to mother in the truest sense of the word, to be a momma to a little bundle of flesh and potential.

So here I was, in 2016, looking at my very first Mother's Day as a (be still my heart) momma! 

With this newfound role, has come a healthy side of guilt.  You see, for so long it seemed that motherhood was a club that I was excluded from.  I longed so much to be part of this club. I didn't want to be excluded from this group of women just because I didn't have a baby of my own. Couldn't they see that I loved children, wanted to know about their children and their struggles? But it seemed impossible to get my foot in that door.

Now I find myself a part of this exclusive club. And I love it. So much! I love gathering with other mothers and their babies. I love discussing the ways in which we mother. I love this baby of mine. So much! I love mothering even when I don't like all of its aspects. I am sometimes overwhelmed by the strength of my emotion.

So I feel guilty. Because I know there are so many women out there longing for this, still waiting for their membership card to this motherhood club. How dare I feel so happy when for so long I was excluded and others are still being excluded? How do I honor these women? Sometimes I'm not sure how to deal with this question because this pain became such a reflex to me, that I often have to remind myself that I don't have to feel it anymore. 

Our son's name is Julian Zane. Zane is the Hebrew form of John, meaning something along the lines of "gracious gift of God." And he is absolutely my gracious gift from God, with his perfect fingers and toes and smile and laugh and weight in my arms as he goes to sleep. When I give someone a gift, nothing makes me happier than seeing that person enjoying that gift. I want to see that person unwrap that gift, use it, and for that gift to bring happiness. Julian is my perfect gift from God. So I will enjoy him every day. I will unwrap him each morning and enjoy all the moments of bliss. I think that I waited for this long enough that I can claim this, even as I wish this same fulfillment for all the other would-be-mommas. 

This Mother's Day, my first mother's day as a momma, bloomed full of sunshine and happiness. I embraced every second. (Brian assured me that I should enjoy it to its fullest.) Brian brought me coffee in bed as well as a beautiful gift. There was a potluck at church and I allowed that village to take care of my child while I ate with both hands! I napped with my sweet son on my chest, breathing steadily and clutching my shirt. I didn't change a single diaper. In the evening we gathered with family for another meal where I watched others nurture my boy. It was Mother's Day, finally realized.

It was:

perfect. 

The River Runs Dry

(This overly dramatic, sentimental, and sappy post brought to you courtesy of the James Taylor that keeps playing on my Simon & Garfunkel Pandora station. You're welcome.)

This week marks a milestone in the Showalter household.  Julian has been in our lives for six whole months. (Yay!) But this also means I met my six-month-goal of pumping breast milk for him, thus giving myself permission to stop if Julian still wasn't nursing. That if always looming large in my head and heart. As long as I was still pumping, there was a chance that we might still succeed in breastfeeding. This week I had to accept the inevitable reality that this would not be part of the story of Julian and I.

When I became pregnant breastfeeding wasn't even a question.  OF COURSE I would breastfeed! Why wouldn't I give my baby the best, and save boatloads of money all while bonding with, and nurturing my baby in the process? I had heard it can be hard; harder than we're all led to believe.  But I would overcome any pain or frustration presented to me, and I would succeed! It turns out, you simply cannot force a baby to latch who has no interest at all in the breast. It had almost nothing to do with me and my own determination and everything to do with my little guy's preferences.

I had an image in my mind of what breastfeeding would be like and I longed to know that relationship with a squishy little baby. After struggling with infertility for so many years, I relished the opportunity to share this special bond. I was prepared to nurse anywhere and everywhere and anytime he needed me, and for as long as he needed me.  We were going to share snuggles and smiles and gentle caresses. Instead this is what my journey with breastfeeding looked like:  

A pump and syringes and supplemental nursing systems and nipple shields.  All of it, ultimately, unsuccessful.  

Oh, but the success stories! I read so many stories of women who finally gained success in their sixth or seventh month of trying.  I read stories of adoptive mothers who were able to begin lactating and nursed their babies! If they could do it, without the benefit of pregnancy hormones, surely I could figure out a way to make my baby see that nursing was so much better than that darn bottle. Why could this not be my story?

I know what I would say to another momma.  I would say, "look at your beautiful, healthy, happy baby. He is thriving. You are doing the absolute best for him. Don't be so hard on yourself! You did everything you could do. He loves you regardless. Don't you dare think of yourself as a failure! Your little one is so lucky to have such an awesome mother who cares so much." I would try to love and encourage her into knowing what an amazing momma she is.

So why don't I feel this? Why is this not settling into my soul? 

I can't shake the what-ifs. What if I hadn't allowed the hospital to give Julian formula? (But he was so tiny and he needed to eat, and my milk wasn't in yet.) What if I had put him to my breast every single feeding instead of allowing Brian to feed him during the night sometimes? (But Brian taking turns with me was such a blessed relief in those first sleepy days.) Did I do the mouth exercises with him often enough? Did I try nursing often enough or hard enough? What if I hadn't taken that two week reprieve in trying a few months in? (But we both ended up crying violently every time we tried nursing and the stress was not good for either of us.) What if I had held him differently or controlled my emotions better? What if? What if?

What if once I decided just to pump for Julian, I had pumped more often or taken more supplements so my supply wouldn't have dwindled to practically nothing? (But it became so difficult to pump once he became more active and alert, so often crying the entire time I pumped.) 

What could I have done to prevent this failure? Because that's what this feels like - a failure. I have cried buckets of tear over what might have been.  I cried as I packed away the pumping supplies this week, surrendering to reality.  In the end, it is better for me to use my time being present with my little guy rather than fighting his frustration only to produce a few ounces of breastmilk a day for him. Even now I sit here fighting tears as my breasts leak, like some cruel final gasp at a dream that can't come true. It feels like a betrayal of my body.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the incredible support I received from Brian, who held me while I cried and said all the right things, even as I remained inconsolable.  I have had wonderful support and non-judgmental care from my lactation consultant and the wonderful group of other mothers that meet there. I know this is self-inflicted, all of it exacerbated by the worry that this might be my one and only shot at caring for a baby and wanting it to be perfect.  

Through all of this I have learned to be careful about expectations and judgements - the ones we place on others and the ones we place on ourselves. I have now been around enough mothers that I have just thrown all judgements out the window. Your child wants to breastfeed until they're six? Great! Do it. It's more strange to feed your child milk from a cow than from their own mother. You don't want to breastfeed? You have your reasons and mothering is hard. Choose your battles. You want to co-sleep? How cozy! You want to put your baby in a crib across the house? Hooray for getting sleep and having time where your body is your own for a moment. Cloth diaper or disposable diaper? Baby led weaning or baby food purees from Gerber? We all decide what works best for our family and makes each member healthy and happy.

(Also, don't believe the hype about breastfeeding and pumping helping you lose weight.  I put on 10 pounds in the months after giving birth because providing food for another human being makes you hungry!  Turns out this is common, but nobody talks about it lest breastfeeding seem unappealing. Expectations, people.) 
   
So, today I mourn. I might keep mourning tomorrow.  Maybe I'll mourn this until Julian is 18. Who knows? But it is time to physically lay this down, wipe away my tears, and put this energy and emotion into the next thing.

What, you ask, is the next thing? Tomorrow I turn to something I know darn well that I can do: cooking! My body may not want to produce milk for my baby, but I can sure as split pea soup make this child nutritious and delicious food.  He shall have all the food delights that any baby could ever dream of hating and rejecting.  (Because, you know, kids are kind of jerks.) Here's to the next chapter.  Bon apetit!