fighter

May 12, 2012 By 5 Comments

Makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter*

The beast crept in while we were still in the hospital.

It saw it’s opening when every other person in the world held my baby rather than me.

It sneaked in as I encouraged Cort to hold him and snuggle each night in our hospital room, and it stuck to me as the nurse came and wheeled him out to the nursery as Cort left for the night.

It disguised itself as normal as I spent more than the allotted “normal” time crying about everything.

Then the baby started crying…screaming, rather.

And didn’t stop for three long months.

The beast wrapped itself around my brain and whispered in my ear that I was not enough.

That I couldn’t be what this baby needed.

The beast robbed me of my memories of the good times when the baby did not wail.

It put blinders on me so that I could not see myself learning to mother.

Rather, I began to believe that the baby would be better without me.

The beast moved into my chest and preyed on my heart.

It tried to tell me to leave this baby and my husband.

All I did was cry.

I was so mean to everyone.

I couldn’t even mother the baby right.

Why did I even try anymore.

As the beast had it’s way with my heart and mind, something kept me going…

kept me rocking in that chair with that tiny anger ball of an infant…

made me get up in the night and provide nourishment and love…

wouldn’t let me leave him to feel alone while he wailed…

something made me keep trying to be a mom…

something put a sheila over my soul…

or someone.

Until I could get help.

And even now, in the days when the beast sits crouching in the corners of my mind,

and in the crannies of my heart…

someone shines a light on it so it scurries away.

Or at least reminds me that I am not helpless.

I can claw and scrap and kick at that beast.

I do not need to be passive.

When I think that I cannot,

his smile tells me I can, and I will.

He didn’t let me give up.

He made me fight.

If Charlie healed me, it’s because Eddie made me a fighter.

Already my sons are protecting their momma…

and they don’t even know it.

our mad-we're-not-gonna-take-it-anymore faces. otherwise known as "Llama Faces" 'round here

*lyrics from Fighter by Christina Aguilera

*************

Where else I’ve been this week…

Thursday I guest posted at Naked Girl in a Dress…I Ain’t Afraid of No Teenagers.

Today I have TWO posts up on BNV:  Placenta: It’s What’s For Dinner and the next in my school series: Getting Schooled Part II: Private Schools

Filed Under: anxiety, depression, Eddie, Katie, mental health Tagged With: , ,

a gift

May 7, 2012 By 27 Comments

My dad works with his hands.

His job, for a very large office furniture company (Herman Miller), is Model Maker.  Simply put, the designers create new visions of chairs and desks and partitions and other office furniture things and my dad makes work models.  He takes their vision and makes them into something tangible.

From there, he works with the designers to get out the “bugs” before anything can go to production.

My dad has always worked with his hands.

Not only can he–in my mind–fix anything, but he can create things too.

When he had children, he made us blocks.

When my parents finally replaced their 1970′s TV which had it’s own metal, rolling stand to hold it, my dad created cabinets out of oak for the new TV and for my mom’s stereo.

When my brother was being potty trained, he built him a bathroom stool.

When I decided in elementary school that I wanted to paint little wooden animals, he made me some.

When my mom wanted a shelf in the bathroom for her nicknacks, he made it and hung it.

When my brothers needed big boy beds, my dad designed and built them bunk beds.

And there has been more.

That is why, when it was time for Eddie to move out of the nursery and into a Big Boy bed, I asked my dad if he would mind making bunk beds for my boys.

I knew it was a big thing to ask.

Yes, he has made them before, but it’s not something you just whip up on a free weekend.  It takes a LONG time.  Especially since my dad is a perfectionist.

But he said yes.

And proceeded to cut down the tree for the type of wood he wanted to use.

That’s right, he didn’t go to the lumber yard or to Lowes for wood, he chopped it down and dried it himself.

I told you, he’s a perfectionist.

He started the whole process this past fall.  Last Sunday after months of work, most of which was recounted step by step to my mother, he was done..  My patient wonderful mother.

The past few months were filled with measurement double-checks and stain choices…until finally we got the big reveal.

fuzzy because I had a toddler moving me around.

He came over and put together one of the bunks for the bunk beds.  Of course, we only need one right now.

But he had a surprise for us.

After all those months of asking questions and buying new tools and machines just for the bed-making, he managed to add a little something.

Yup, my dad did that.

Cort saw it first as my dad was putting the bed together.

“Oh wow,” he uttered softly.

I was like, “what??”

And then I saw it.

And then the tears burned in my eyes.

My dad kept working at putting the bed together without saying much.

After they left, I ran my fingers over the letters.

I thought about how my kids sleep in the beds he made for my brothers when they stay at grandpa and grandma’s house.  And someday, God willing, when Eddie and Charlie’s kids stay at our house, they can sleep in beds with their dads’ names on them.

My dad isn’t just making beds.  He is making family heirlooms.

Something that we will have for always even when we are all gone.  Something for my boys to have.  And their kids.

bed made by my dad, quilt and matching pillows made by Cort's grandma Sluiter

My dad isn’t finished with Charlie’s bunk yet, and I told him  he could take some time off since we have a while.

He said, “Oh, I was planning to.  I have other things on my To Do list for a bit.”  Then he chuckled.

Because he’s awesome like that.

He takes the duty of “Grandpa” to his three grandsons very seriously.

Well, not too seriously.  He was the one, after all, who taught me nothing in life should be taken too seriously.

Thank you, dad.  For this gift you have created with your hands.

It is beautiful.

Filed Under: Eddie, Sluiters Tagged With: , , ,

using your words

April 26, 2012 By 10 Comments

twinkah, twinkah, wittah sta…
how I wondah what you ahh…
Uppah diamon inna sky…
twinkah, twinkah, wittah, sta…
how I wondah what you ahh!

My dear Eddie…

Just a year ago you had maybe five words.

One of those words was Da-Eee…which you used freely to call to your daddy all the time.

But you had no word for me.  At almost two years old.

Most people told me not to worry, while also telling me to ask my pediatrician why you were still only babbling.

But then one day toward the end of spring break…you called me Ma Ma.

And you haven’t stopped talking and singing since.

You make us laugh every day with your sayings and your descriptions of every day life.

We definitely have to pay attention to what we say, because you are listening,

You will exclaim, “Oh Heavens!” or “Oh my GOODNESS! (That would be from me.  Yes, I have turned you into an 80 year old woman).

The other day when the phone messed up and daddy told you our phone stinks, you said, “We tell mommy our phone is stinky.  PU!”

You don’t just have a word for me now, but you actually call me “mom”.  Like you’re a teenager or something.  Sometimes it’s “mommy,” but mostly, you will yell things like, “MOM!  CAN’T FIND MY PIPEY AND LAMBY!”  or “MOM, I POOP!”

And the QUESTIONS!

“Mom?  I play Mario?”

“Mom? I help you make juice now?”

“Mom?  I play outside?”

“Mom?  I have snack?”

“Mom?  Mom?  Mommy?  Mom?  I sit by you and baby Cha-wee?”

You have so much to say and usually your brain works quicker than your mouth.  Daddy and I wait patiently while you find what you want to say.

“Mom?  Um…umm…I….Um…me….um…Mom?  Umm.  I ride my scooter at Nae’s today. And Mom?  um…um…Um…Mom?  I went super duper fast!”

You love to tell everyone about stuff you are proud of:

“I ride my bike all my own self!”

“Dats baby Ch-wee.  He is my own baby brudder.”

“You come see my own room? My Gwamma Swy-ter make my banket and pi-yo”.

And you fill my heart with your words:

“Bye Mom! I yuv you!”

“I yuv my baby Cha-wee.”

“Jack is my favorite boy.” (Jack is his 7 year old cousin)

“You read me book on your new book in my own bed?”  (my “new book” is my Nook.)

“Me a good boy, Mommy.  I not throw food on fwoor.”

And of course there is the way you talk to your baby brother:

When he is crying…”it’s ok, baby cha-wee.  shh shh shh…it’s ok.” (as you give him his pipey and kiss his head).

Or…”mommy’s makin you bott-ah, baby cha-wee.  it’s ok.  it’s coming.”

When he is laying on the floor…”Hi baby cha-wee!  Hi bro-ver!”

Being in the car with you is one constant stream of observation.  In fact, when I am alone, it’s almost too quiet.  No one is pointing out trucks and motorcycles.  No one is telling me about the piles of dirt or kids on bikes.

Oh Eddie…you are so innocent and observant.

Chatting with you is one of my most favorite things about being your mom.

Even yesterday, when I told you I was going to wear a hoodie just like you and you said, “ye-yo yike mine?”

No, mine is pink, I told you as I grabbed it and started to pull it over my also pink T-shirt.

“Oh.  pink like your boobs.”

I giggled and looked at my shirt and said, “Yes, pink like that.”

Eddie, I hope we never stop chatting.

It’s so fun.

Always use your words, my love.  They are wonderful.

Filed Under: Eddie Tagged With: , , , , ,

clash of personality

April 17, 2012 By 47 Comments

I love Eddie.

I have to start with that.

He is my heart and soul and we have a deep connection due in part to our rough beginning, but also because of how alike we are in every possible way.

We get each other.

That is why I posted about our sweet moments yesterday.  They do happen.

But.

There are also the other moments.

The ones that seem to take up so much space in this house and in this family lately.

Which is what has been on my heart lately.

This post is an honest plea for advice or reassurance or honest feedback.

My son is going through what I really hope is just a tough phase.

But sometimes the doubt creeps in.

I don’t even know how long it’s been going on.  It feels like forever.  I know it started before Charlie got here five weeks ago, but it’s worse now that he is here.

I try to tell myself it’s just Eddie’s adjustment period, but it’s rough.

It’s like he is walking around with a faulty anger switch.

One moment he is sweet as pie, and the next you better check to make sure your head is still attached.

Each day at 5pm, I watch as Cort pulls the truck in the garage.

I listen for whining or chatting.  I watch out the front window to see how/if Eddie bounds to the mailbox with daddy for the paper and the mail.

When the door opens, I wait.

I let him talk first.

Most days I get, “Hi, Mommy!” before he even sees me.

Some days he is already crying because of something daddy would not let him do.  Those days I am extra cautious.  One ridiculous question (how was your day?) will get my face barked off with an angry scream.

He will be playing ever-so-sweetly with his toys or watching a show nicely when BAM!  A toy will fly through the air or he will walk past the coffee table and with one swipe whip everything onto the floor.

Or he will send his sippy or empty snack bowl sailing through the living room.

When I tell him to pick it up and put it away, he yells, “NO!  I DON’T WANT TO!” and then grunts and possibly slaps a piece of nearby furniture.

At dinner he will be eating nicely and then he will randomly start dumping food onto the floor.

We will tell him to stop and he will look straight at us and do it again.

We have taken away dessert and snacks and treats and TV time.

We have taken away the toys he throws.

We have issued time outs

He seems stunned each time a consequence happens, but it doesn’t stop his angry behavior.

He just starts hitting things (luckily, he almost NEVER hits people) or screaming as loudly and long as he can.  Or grunting at us like an rabid animal.

Even time outs have become more of a struggle.  He used to go, sit, and cry.  Now he is getting more rebellious and trying to scoot out.

We send him to his room to do his tantrums there.

50% of the time that works.  He will go down to his room, cool off, and come back.

But the tantrum is never fully over.

He will sweetly ask for the item (Mario Kart time, screen time on Cort’s tablet or my Nook, craisins before bed, or an episode of a show on Tivo) that he originally lost with his bad behavior.  When we tell him no, he loses it all over again.

Each time I sit and watch him.

I want to cave.

I know that is awful to admit, but it’s true.

I want to give in to his demands because I like to see him happy.

But I know in the long run that will create a horribly spoiled and demanding person.

So we stand our ground.

The other day he wouldn’t stop spitting at dinner.  Because I couldn’t set him in time out without taking five minutes to clean his hands and face of dinner, I snapped.  I grabbed his face and squeezed his cheeks together so he couldn’t spit.

“STOP SPITTING!  IT’S GROSS AND RUDE!” I said in a voice that I didn’t know I could use with my little buddy.

I held for one second longer before I let go, sat down in my chair, and stared at my plate.

After a pause, he started hysterically crying, “OWWWWW!!!!  Mommy HURT me!”

I wanted to crawl in a hole.

I wanted to pick him up out of his booster and hug him to my chest and apologize and shower him in kisses.

But I don’t want him to be the kid that spits.

I know he is also overdramatic.

My mom says it’s uncanny how much like me he is.

When I was that age, I used to stomp off to my room and moan, “WOE IS ME…NOBODY LOVES ME.”

He is like that.  Exactly.

I know I didn’t really hurt him.  I know I scared him because he has never seen me do that, but it didn’t hurt.

I would never hurt my children.

But I did scare myself.

I’ve always said I don’t believe in punishing with physical pain when my beliefs are that violence and pain do not solve problems.

But now I am questioning it.

My parents didn’t hit us (ok, an occasional butt swat, but it was never a first resort), but they did grab our face or under our upper arm when they needed something super annoying or out of line to STOP. THIS. INSTANT.

Do I feel good about it?

No.  And now I know they didn’t either.  It sucks to have to do that to what you love best in the world.

But what else do I do?

I can raise my voice now and give a look and Eddie cowers and quits what he is doing.

I sort of hate that.

And I try not to use that.

But he WILL. NOT. LISTEN lately.

Sigh.

I am frustrated.

I want more of the sweet moments back.  The ones we have at bedtime (when he is not fighting or stalling).  The ones when he and Charlie and I are all piled in my chair and watching Busytown Mysteries or Sesame Street.

I hate having to get angry, and I feel like I am getting angry most of the time.

Is this normal two-almost-three-year-old behavior?

Is my kid overly anger?  Does he have anger problems?

Am I doing the right thing?

Help. I feel like I am failing.

Filed Under: Eddie Tagged With: , , , , , ,

a new song

April 16, 2012 By 11 Comments

“Sing to me, mommy,” he whispers in the dark.

“Sing me a new song.”

The twin mattress makes him seem so small.

“Ok, Eddie.  This one was your Papa’s favorite.”

He nuzzles his head close to me and I smell his hair.

Gone is the sweet baby smell of lotion and Johnson & Johnson.

It has been replaced with the smell of shampoo and toddler.

Sweat and dirt and spaghetti O’s and sweetness.

I was once told when he was only weeks fresh that his smell would be with him forever.

That he would always smell like Eddie.

It’s true.

Under all those boy smells, I could still find that scent he was born with.

I smiled and I began to softly sing,

Cracklin’ Rosie, get on board
We’re gonna ride til there ain’t no more to go
takin’ it slow.

I paused.

I was thinking about the rest of the lyrics–and the man who loved them–when a small hand touched mine.

“Again, mommy.  Sing my Papa’s song again.”

Three lines were enough.

I sang them again.

This time I could hear him whisper some of the words into his memory.

“Again.”

A third time I sang the lines.

“Again, mommy.”

“You sing to me, Eddie.”

“My Papa’s song?”

“Yes.”

Caklin’ Wosie boad
wide aw night
slow.

“I like your singing, Eddie.”

“Thanks, you, mommy.  You lay by me for a little bit longer?”

In the glow of his nightlight I look around his new room.

Everything is Big Boy sized now: the dresser, the chair, the toy box.

I even bought him his first package of toddler underwear this past week.

Then I look over at the little creature pressed into my side.

Hair standing up like chickens sleep in it.

A hint of chocolate by one of the corners of his mouth.

Scrapes and boo boos from tumbling off his bike or rolling down the grassy hill in our yard.

And the longest lashes I have ever seen framing two bottomless dark pools staring at me.

We look at each other for a long time in the quiet darkness.

Under this new Big Boy uniform he is growing into, I start to see hints of my baby.

Chubby cheeks.

Sleepy, long blinks.

And the soft squeaking sound as he sucks his pipey.

I see my baby wrapped in a Big Boy.

I whisper, “I love you Eddie.”

He smiles behind his pipey and rubs Lamby to his nose and sleepy eyes.

“I love you too, Mommy.”

*************

Filed Under: Eddie Tagged With: , , , , , ,

this is a post about poop

April 2, 2012 By 6 Comments

Poop used to be funny.

Before children, Cort and I made constant poop jokes.

We even have a fake turd we pass back and forth.

But after this morning, I am officially waving the white flag in the direction of the brown stinky.

Yes, Poop, this is my surrender…

I apologize for giggling about you for all those years.

I am sorry for calling you Big Ones and Pooper Dupers and Buckies.

Forgive me for laughing so hard at the smell you emit that tears run down my face.

I will never again refer to something as tasting or smelling like “poop” or “sh*t”.

No, this morning you got your revenge.

I should have know you meant business (no pun intended) when you exploded out of Eddie all over the bathtub.

While I recognized we were lucky, I clearly tempted the poop gods by still giggling about turds.

It’s really hard not to though, when it seems that you can’t have a family dinner without discussing at least one of the children’s poop frequencies and/or poop consistency.

We have to laugh or we would gag.  Don’t you get that?

First it was whether or not Eddie’s were too hard or too loose or too infrequent or too frequent.

Now we have added infant poop to that discussion.

People without kids or who haven’t had little kids in a really long time look at us as if we have lost our minds.

In the same minute that we have been discussing the unseasonably warm Michigan weather, suddenly Cort and I are talking about what Charlie’s poop looks like.

And we don’t flinch.

It’s just family news to us.

(It’s yellow and seedy  most of the time, in case you want to know.  But getting exceedingly stinky.  Thank you, formula).

But apparently we have been joking around too much because this morning, you decided to get your revenge on me.

I changed no fewer than four HUGELY full, past capacity, VERY near blow out, ungodly stinky baby diapers in less than four hours.

I found yellow smears of poo on my arms, fingers and clothing.

And the whole time the baby scream-cried.

And kicked those little bird legs of his.

And put his little bird feet in the poop.

And kicked it onto me and his changing mat and his other leg.

Yes, Poop, you are winning today.

By a landslide (again, no pun intended).

But tomorrow I will regain control.  I will kick your booty, Poop.

Otherwise all of Sluiter Nation is going to start to smell very, VERY bad.

Filed Under: Charlie, Eddie, Sluiters Tagged With: ,

mommy lessons

March 23, 2012 By 24 Comments

Dear Eddie,

I know it seems like on the day your baby brother turns 10 days old, I should be writing to him.  But it’s YOU, sweet boy, who has been on my mind and heart.

Your brother?  He is doing great.

And I feel like I owe a lot of it to you.

You see, Eddie, when you were born, it was traumatic.  For both of us.

I labored all night and day with you.  Had everything been ok, you should have come into the word by noon on your due date.  But things were not ok.  My body wasn’t shaped right.  You weren’t coming out right.  And so many other variables.

Things went downhill and I had an emergency rush C-section.

You know the story.

Anyway, people were with us in the hospital nonstop.  They loved to love on you.

Daddy stayed until late at night to watch the Tigers play and to cuddle you.

Those three days in the hospital didn’t really involve you and me being together.  I think I fed you once.

Our bonding was difficult.

I was stressed out, anxiety-ridden, and depressed.

You were colicky, gassy, and all around a mess.

WE were a mess, Eddie.

I was learning to be a mommy and you were learning just to BE.

As time marched on, I got better and so did you.  We figured each other out…mostly because we are just so much the same person.  And now our bond is something so strong and unique.  We are a powerful pair, you and I, my Eddie Bear.

And that is why I am writing you today.

You taught me everything I know.

My days in the hospital with Charlie were so easy.  Our bond came quickly.  I don’t cringe when he cries.

I am more patient with everything.

We have bonded instantly.

But instead of celebrating this, I spent days after coming home from the hospital re-living yours and my experience.  The guilt of how hard it was with you crashed down on me so hard, I could hardly breathe.

You suddenly seemed to be so grown up…and I had missed these precious first few months of your life.

What kind of mother was I?

As I cried and mourned and grieved and worked through it, you came to me.  You told me, “don’t cry, mommy.”

You dried my tears with your little knuckles.

You asked me every day when you came home from daycare if I was “feeling bettah, mommy?  How your owie?”

You crawled on the couch and leaned close to me in the evenings for a good cuddle before bed.

And you made me realize…

It is easy with Charlie because you taught me how to be a mommy.

You made me a mommy and you guided me in the ways of being a good mommy.

Yes, I made mistakes.  Yes, you definitely let me know about them.  And yes, that is a big downfall of being the oldest (boy, do your dad and I relate to that).

But because of YOU, my sweet Eddie Bear, I can be calmer, better with Charlie.

Your brother is 10 days old today.

And he has YOU to thank for a mommy who knows what she is doing.

Thank you, my Eddie.

Thank you for helping me every single time I am sad.

Thank you for being the light in the all-consuming darkness.

Thank you for needing me.

Thank you for making me a mommy.

I love you.

 

Filed Under: Charlie, Eddie, mental health Tagged With: , ,

things I can’t…or won’t…say

March 20, 2012 By 30 Comments

hospital rooms are safe.
secure
quiet and warm.

restful days
snuggly evenings
sleep-filled nights.

Going home was exciting.
the couch felt good.
my own blankets felt soft.

the first nap
best sleep ever.

then the tears came

fast and hard

Eddie is not small anymore

(the tears, they lie)

He doesn’t need you.

You missed his whole childhood.

It’s going by faster than you can see.

blurring

blurring

blurring

(the tears, they flow)

Charlie will be 6 months old when you go back to work

he will be so big

you are going to miss it

it will be the same as with Eddie.

What is wrong with you?

(the tears, they deaden)

When I am not crying, I am nothing.

Who am I?

What does happy feel like?

Who is Katie?

What is fun?

(the tears, they are a release from the robot-self)

disconnect

decompress

relax

recover

but
but
but

it’s so hard

the thoughts and feelings whirl

and then the tears come

take a breath

words from friends:
grieve the differences
soak in the now
feel your feelings
know it will pass

you are NOT alone

let it be

a visit from a friend
laughing
a glimpse at myself if only for a couple seconds
and then a few more seconds

and a sense of calm washes over

for now.

things are not easy this time.

but they are better.

and they will be better.

because I won’t let them not be.

Filed Under: anxiety, Charlie, depression, Eddie, Katie, mental health, writing Tagged With:

the day before

March 12, 2012 By 28 Comments

Dear Sluiter Boys,

This is it.  The day before our world changes.

I have been trying to soak everything in about all three of you this weekend.  I found a lump in my throat and hot tears in my eyes on more than one occasion.  Not because I was sad, but because I just couldn’t wrap my head or heart around how unbelievably blessed I am.

Eddie you amaze me.

You are a talking machine.  People always say this to me, and I know your voice is a constant in our lives, but this weekend I made sure to really, REALLY listen to you.

You have so many stories, and you are such a great little reporter on what is happening around you.  Everything is interesting and exciting and note-worthy.

My favorite thing this weekend was when we were goofing around and you just fell on me, squeezed, and said, “Mom?  I love you.”

I can’t imagine that I had a life without you in it.

How have you only been here for 32 months?

You are so smart and so big and so strong.

You are going to be an amazing big brother…starting tomorrow.  But really, you have already started.  You are so kind to your unborn brother.

And even though you have mentioned a couple times that you don’t want baby Charlie anymore, I know you are just scared and nervous.

I’ll tell you what, I am too.

Things are going to be different.  And it will be hard for you and me and daddy.  But you and me?  We are a lot alike.  Change is scary and makes us anxious and we cry and lash out.

But Eddie?  We will get through it.  I promise.

Charlie, I can’t believe you are only going to be part of me for less than 24 more hours.

This has been a crazy 39 weeks.

All the puking and reflux and restrictions and everything that was thrown at me this pregnancy is all about to seem like nothing when you are placed in my arms for the first time.

I’m not generally a fan of sharing, but sharing my body with you has been an honor.

While I am ready to have it back–let’s be honest, neither of us are comfy anymore–I will miss your movements that only I know about.  I will miss that connection I feel to you without having to speak.

I’m ready to meet you face to face.  To learn your personality and your face.  To fall in love all over again.

Cortney, I cannot tell you how much you make my heart flip.

Watching you laugh and play with Eddie one minute, and pat your unborn son in my belly the next had me fighting back my sappy mommy tears.

Each time you gave me the hairy eyeball for using the stairs or lifting something, something in me smiled.

Your protectiveness over your family is so attractive and cute.

You’ve put in so much for our team lately.  I know you are tired.  I know you need a break.

I wish I could say that tomorrow means a break for you.  But it doesn’t.

We both know this is the break right now.  Even though it so doesn’t feel like it.

Tomorrow you will be a single parent to a confused little toddler for three days.

Then you will have a wife with a giant abdominal would who will need help on top of that confused toddler.

Oh, and there will be a baby.  Who cries.  And poops.  And needs to eat.  And hasn’t figured out a sleep schedule yet.

Every time I think of how much you give, I want to cry and tell you I am sorry.

But you shake it off.  You tell me we are all worth it.

You tell me you love us.

And you smile.

And your smile gets me every time.

Because your smile is my safe place.  It is home.

So my boys…things are about to change for all of us.

I am soaking you all in how you are right now in this moment because tomorrow will be different.

A wonderful, chaotic, painful, beautiful different.

I love you all more than you will ever imagine,

Mommy (Kate)

 

Filed Under: Charlie, Cortney, Eddie, Sluiters Tagged With: ,

Take a Bottle…

March 7, 2012 By 52 Comments

Three years ago at this time I was almost seven months pregnant with Eddie.

Although I was blogging, I hadn’t found the blogosphere yet, but there was no shortage of mommy advice.  I mean, almost all my friends had already had babies.  All the people I was “friends” with on facebook–especially from high school–already had babies.

And everyone wanted to know…”so are you going to breastfeed?”

It actually never occurred to me to breastfeed.  My mom didn’t breastfeed and every cousin or kid that I baby sat for was bottle fed.

Then I looked around and realized everyone was breastfeeding nowadays.  Everyone.  At least in my life.

I knew the “breast was best” rule and I am aware that a female’s bewbs are there to feed her newborn, but somehow, I just didn’t consider that to be the way I would take.

So when I answered, “no.  we will probably bottle feed,” you can imagine the questioning looks I got.

Or rather the raised eyebrows, the barrage of “why in the world not’s”, and the “oh you HAVE to!  It’s the best’s!”

So  I started telling people we weren’t sure yet.

It was a lie.  I was sure.

Something inside of me said, “don’t do it.”

I have learned the hard way that the little voice…not the selfish one…but the nagging one…tells you something, you listen.

I asked my mom what she thought.  She said I should do what I want.  That we were all bottle fed and turned out fine, but that breastfeeding is considered better for the baby.  She said whatever I did was going to be the right thing.

And aside: I love my mom.

I asked Cort what his opinion was.  He said it was my choice and that whatever was the case, he would do everything he could to help with the baby.

So. My choice.

And there was that voice from deep within…”BOTTLE”

Yes, it was starting to get yelly, hence the all caps.

But all these people were yelling in my face too…about using my bewbs.  They were sure I was being selfish with my choice.

But my choice had nothing to do with my being selfish.

I mean, I wasn’t concerned about what my bewbs would look like.  Regardless of whether or not I breastfeed, those puppies will never look the same.  Pregnancy coupled with gravity and age are not doing those sweater puppies any favors.

On the other hand, I did hear horror stories from the very people who told me they loved it.  Stories about how they wished someone else could take the baby so they didn’t feel like they were always the one that had to be there.  I guess selfishly I wanted myself back a bit after the baby was born.  I didn’t want to be the one who had to give him every. single. meal.

The cracked nipples and bleeding and clogged ducts and infections and all?  That didn’t scare me.  It was the part of finally having given birth, but still having a child attached to me constantly.  Of not being able to go anywhere without him.  Of Cort STILL saying he wished he could do some of it like he says all through pregnancy (and I know he means).

My friends and acquaintances still told me I should try.

Except for a very few who know me very well.  They said, “do what you feel is best.”

And I did.

When I went in for my pre-admission appointment for Eddie’s delivery, I answered “bottle” to the question, “breastfeed or bottle feed?”  And I braced myself for a lecture.

Instead, she smiled and said, “well then you won’t need the lactation specialists coming to your room!  Now, would you like us to use Similac or Infamil?”

I felt good.  I felt Ok.  I just hoped I didn’t regret my decision.

Then Eddie came along.

And so did his colic.  And my PPD.  And my PPA.

I’ll tell you what.  If I hadn’t had the ability to tag team the night feedings and to hand the baby away to someone else, I might not be here today.

I am so not kidding.

At one point I said to Cort, “what if I was breastfeeding?”

He just said, “Oh God.”

Right?  Even if it had gone easily for me, Eddie was a colicky mess and his ped said it had NOTHING to do with feeding.  He was just, well, a mess. And he had to work through it.

Had I been the only one who could have fed him during that time?  I am afraid I would have ended up hospitalized for my PPD/A.  In fact, I am sure of it.

And I never regretted not breastfeeding. In fact, since bottle feeding, I have found other things that have solidified my decision too, but that is not really the issue.  I am not trying to convince anyone to bottle feed.  I’m just tell you what has turned out to be right for us.

I loved feeding Eddie his bottles…and so did Cort.  And our moms.  And anyone who was there to help us.

I don’t feel our bond suffered because he was bottle fed.  In fact, his bond with his daddy was probably better because he was.

I am repeatedly glad I listened to my gut when it told me to choose the bottle.  My brain and heart were already preparing me for the overload they would be handling with a new baby around.  They were telling me where to draw the line.

And despite my PPD/A?  He and I are just fine.  We have developed an even more special, crazy close bond than I could ever imagine.

So yes.  We choose the bottle for our children.

And it really just started with “because we want to.”

So the tiny bottles have been taken out of storage, the size one nipples sorted out, and the bottle station set back up.

Because by this time next week, we will have a new little someone to swaddle up and serve up a bottle to.

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