Category: Parenting

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Letter to a New Mom: Unsolicited Advice From Someone Who Has Been There

Pffft.  Unsolicited advice — just what every new mom needs, am I right?  As if the poor gal isn’t the target of mountains of the stuff every.  single.  day (which is, in itself, a beautiful metaphor for the laundry that comes with motherhood).  My absolute favorite piece of advice I got as I neared motherhood myself came from a woman who happened to work at the same place I did.  She told me, with certain authority, that as soon as my baby was born, I would want to place a hard boiled egg in a baby sock and nail it above the baby’s nursery door.  This would prevent teething pain.

Of course it would.

Like I said, pffft.

The advice I am providing you, though, is different.  Of course.  My advice is golden, sure to calm, soothe, reassure, and provide confidence in this new role of a lifetime.  This advice is hard earned wisdom, yo, from someone who’s been at this thing since 2005 and whose motherhood carries several different descriptors to qualify it — grieving mom, biological mom, adoptive mom.  I dare say those things have earned me some serious mama street cred.

In the early hours of my labor with Donna. We went to the local mall as it was cool. I kept making Mary Tyler Dad take these photos of me with prophetic messages at Kohl's. Sort of breaks my heart when I look at them now, but that's motherhood for you.
In the early hours of my labor with Donna. We went to the local mall as it was cool. I kept making Mary Tyler Dad take these photos of me with prophetic messages at Kohl’s. Sort of breaks my heart when I look at them now, but that’s motherhood for you.

Humor aside, I have learned a thing or two along the way with my own personal motherhood trials and triumphs.  I’ve also learned that giving advice has to be done with a grain of salt, as most of us don’t heed the advice we get — even the advice we seek out.  Given that what I offer you is unsolicited, well, I get that most new moms will have to come to this wisdom on their own.  That’s cool.  You’re missing out, but that’s cool.

Ha!  On to the advice . . .

  • You don’t need that thingamajig.  Seriously.  You don’t.  Whatever you see on the end caps at Buy Buy Baby (the most egregiously named retailer in the history of retailers), ignore it.  Step away, new mom.  That shit is nonsense.  Wipe warmers?  NO.  Individual plastic bags to encase a poopy diaper like the most unfortunate sausage ever?  NO.  A bottle cover shaped like a stuffed elephant/giraffe/monkey for $19.99?  HELL NO.  Your baby might have been born yesterday, but you weren’t.  Think about what your grandmother used to raise your mom.  Buy that.  You’re done and would have saved yourself a ton of money that you can put towards diapers and bibs, of which you will use way more than you could have ever possibly imagined.
  • Put the book and keyboard down.  I have never ever read a parenting book.  Sure, I own a few, and even use them on occasion, just as I do a very few parenting websites, but overall I find that outlets for baby information tend to breed hysteria and insecurity.  They are full of mysterious letters, acronyms, and abbreviations that clearly mean something to the regular consumers, but for us mere mortals, they are confusing and lead to a state of feeling out of the loop and dumb where our own baby is concerned.  Ask a trusted source instead — your own mom, a sister, close friend, trusted neighbor.  Ask a person whose parenting you admire and, if you need to, put that person on speed dial until you get your feet wet enough to start trusting your own instincts.
  • Some days will be overwhelming in a really bad way.  I guarantee that at some point you will be lying on a heap in the middle of your kitchen or bathroom, rocking your baby, covered in pee or poop or vomit, unshowered, wearing maternity clothing whose expiration date was 8-14 months ago, feeling about just as bad as you can ever remember feeling, but you will be holding a little one, too, who will most likely be wailing to add to the atmosphere.  It’s okay.  It will all be okay.  This too shall pass.  I promise.
  • Some days will be overwhelming in a really great way.  You cannot imagine the joy and love and wonder that will be heading your way, the magnitude of which you yourself have not known since your own childhood.  There are days ahead that will be etched in your memory forever.  Days so profound and perfect they will bring you comfort in your old age while you rock back and forth waiting for that baby, now grown and off in the world, to come visit you.  Your heart will burst at the smiles you will receive, the spontaneous sticky hugs, the homemade cards, the pride felt at watching this beautiful creature you tend to every day fly like a bird.
  • Build a village.  This parenting thing is hard.  You will need help.  I don’t care how Type A, organized, or overachieving you may be, you will still need help.  Find that help.  For some, that will be grandparents.  For others, friends.  Nannies and babysitters are part of this formula, too.  Be creative.  I have a mix of friends, neighbors, and school support.  Know that your village will evolve, too.  Each of my three children has benefited from a series of people outside our immediate family that helped in their day-to-day care when needed.  I am still working on a solution for my youngest at eight months, so know that it takes time and effort, too, this building of villages.  The flip side of this, too, is making yourself available to be a part of another mom’s village.
  • You will make mistakes.  This has to be understood.  You are not perfect.  Do not expect motherhood to be different than any other venture you have set out on.  Our kiddos are resilient.  They actually improve with our mistakes, I am convinced, as long as those mistakes are not the same ones over and over.  And when you make a mistake, own it, learn from it, integrate it.  Then, by all means, move the hell on.  Guilt is no one’s friend, especially to the new mother.
  • Stop comparing yourself and your child to those around you.  Yeah, this is not good.  And with this social media, Pinterest world we live in now, comparing ourselves has become something of a blood sport in motherhood.  You don’t have to engage in that shit.  You really don’t.  If Jenny puts a photo of homemade cupcakes in her newsfeed, give Jenny a cheer, but don’t you dare for even one moment think that Jenny’s cupcakes have any bearing on your life in any way, shape or form.  Truth.
  • Control is an illusion.  With my first child, I breastfed and made my own baby food using organic produce.  She was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died.  We do the best we can, but in no way are we in complete control of what happens to our children.  And rather than that putting you in a place of fear, I hope it liberates you.  Life happens, but only if you live it.
  • You have a strength that you never thought possible.  You are a mother now, dammit.  I can hear your ROAR from here, and I’m all the way in Chicago!  This mothering thing will challenge you like nothing else you have encountered.  You possess a strength and core of steel that you never realized because you never needed it before these moments.  Use that strength, trust that strength, and never, ever abuse that strength.  Our babies rely on us for everything.  E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.  That is some powerful stuff, there, mama.  You got this.

So there it is, my unsolicited advice to new mothers!  Is it everything you thought it would be?  Better?  If so, spread the word and share it with the new moms in your life.  They won’t heed the advice, but chances are they will resent you for sending it to them, so there’s that.  Ha!

Got milk?
Got milk?

If you want more of this, I have invited all of ChicagoNow bloggers to do as I have done here today and write a letter to a new mom.  You know there are some words of wisdom to be found in this experiment.  You can find all the posts catalogued here.

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Disappointing Your Children, Or How Much Mr. Rogers and My Dad Don’t Have in Common

There are certain things in life you can count on.  The sky is blue, all poop stinks, April 15 is Tax Day (that’s today, yo), and Jon Hamm is ridiculously handsome.  Another certainty in life is that if you are a parent raising children, you will disappoint them at some time.  It’s okay.  You’re supposed to.

I have distinct memories as a child of feeling disappointed, but keeping that disappointment to myself.  Not all the time — I absolutely was the master of pouting at the dinner table.  But certain times, when I was disappointed in a situation or a parent or at a birthday or holiday and I did not get what I wanted, well, I handled that disappointment privately.  How did I know how to do that?  Who taught me?

And is hiding disappointment good or bad?  Hell, I don’t know.  I do know that my five year old handles his disappointments differently.  He is a master of the PDD — public display of disappointment.  It never fails to embarrass me.  We talk about it.  Mostly, his disappointments revolve around not getting what he wants or at transition times.  Time for dinner, time for school, time for bed, time for bath — those times are often difficult and the boy thoroughly shows his disappointment in varying degrees.

His five year old displays frustrate me no end.  They bring out my parenting id and super ego.  Remember the image of the little angel and devil on your shoulders?  Well, those are just handy symbols for your id (devil) and super ego (angel).  My personal parenting id and super ego images will make you laugh.  They are none other than my Dad and Mr. Rogers.  Sigh.  What does it say for me as a mom blogger that I have no maternal representation of the id and super ego?!

This is when I should have a therapist on speed dial.

Anyway.

So there is Mr. Rogers on one shoulder in the midst of my boy’s little (or not so little) PDD reminding me that children having a full range of emotional expression is important and acceptable.  That it’s okay to be angry, it’s just not okay to throw that wooden robot against the wall in the midst of that anger.  And over there on the other shoulder is my dear old Dad — the ultimate authoritarian figure — tsk tsking about the boy getting the better of me and that he would teach him a thing or two with a pat on the po po.

My parental super ego -- Mr. Rogers! Probably the most he has in common with my Dad is that they both love cardigans.
My parental super ego — Mr. Rogers! Probably the most he has in common with my Dad is that they both love cardigans.

And there is me, smack dab in the middle between Mr. Rogers and my Dad, trying to figure out this whole kid thing.

My dear Da, my personal parenting id, and some pretty insane product placement.
My dear Da, my personal parenting id, and some pretty insane product placement.

Parenting is hard and we all want to do it right.  I mean, by nature I am a pleaser — I want to do a good job, I enjoy pleasing those around me, and I benefit from the positive reinforcement pleasing folks brings.  But when my son sees red, so do I.  My first instinct is the thought — sheesh, I would never have gotten away with that!  My second thought, almost immediately following, is — it’s okay, he’s just expressing himself.  That parental whiplash can get exhausting.

As my son grows into childhood, I am learning to balance those id (dear old Dad) and super ego (Mr. Rogers) reactions, seeing them for what they are — two ends of the parenting spectrum.  As much as I love my Dad, his authoritarian ways will never be a perfect fit for my parenting.  And as wise and patient as Mr. Rogers was, I will never achieve his zen presence around children.

The best I can hope for and try to achieve is integration of my parenting id and super ego — that elusive thing called balance.  A little angel and a little devil, a little Da and a little Mr. Rogers.  Ha!  This is what I strive for in my mothering.  But make no mistake, it’s hard and a daily challenge. Some days I get it just right and other days I fail miserably.  Most days I fail at some parenting challenge.  Given that it’s a 24/7 kind of gig, though, that’s bound to happen.

Who are your parental id and super ego symbols?  What are the little voices inside your head telling you as you parent?  Please share, so I feel less awkward with this mini Fred Rogers on my shoulder.  

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Muddy Shoes

Monday was kind of a glorious day in Chicago.  Over sixty degrees and holding a whisper of warmth to come.  Like a movie trailer to the upcoming season, rated G for giddy.  The snow that started accumulating in December and just never left, well, it finally did.  Poof.  Gone.  All that remains of it are the photos and traumatic flashbacks, er, memories I mean.

We had a late afternoon play date at the local park with friends.  This is one of those good old fashioned parks with wood chips under your feet instead of odd rubber recycled stuff.  The trees are still naked and the grass is still brown, recuperating.  Children and adults alike looked happy and relaxed.  It was lovely.

This was my first time at the park with both boys since last fall.  Man, I was shocked by how much Mary Tyler Son has changed.  I don’t know if it was just being cooped up all winter or that his friend was there and he was feeling adventurous, but he was more physical than I had ever seen him.  Zipping in and out of the wooden fortresses, dodging from view more often than made me comfortable.  I was grateful for the bright green jacket he was wearing — easier to spot in the sea of kiddos.

At one point, he jetted off.  Running, running, running — away, away, away.  He went far enough that I thought it necessary to shout his name out.  He couldn’t hear.  That boy was busy, and it was clear he had an agenda.  I chased after him, Mary Tyler Baby in tow.  I finally found him about eight feet off the ground, climbing a tree.  Man, what a sight to see.

This was the same tree I remember him trying to climb last fall and feeling intimidated by it.  Pffft.  There was no intimidation Monday afternoon.  My boy conquered that tree.  He looked fearless and happy and free.  He needed a scolding for running away without telling me, “But I told my friend,” he said.  I didn’t have it in me.  I was too busy standing back and seeing my boy for the boy he was growing into.  A more adventurous boy, a climbing boy, a monkey swinging from vines kind of boy.

Glorious.

That is the boy I want to encourage.  That freedom in movement, that joy in play, that satisfaction in conquering trees.  I don’t take any of that for granted.  Each milestone my boy reaches is another milestone I reach as his parent.  Each thing Mary Tyler Son grows into is something his older sister never got to do.  I revel in that just as I imagine Donna does, too, somewhere.

Tonight, up late after crashing early, I found myself doing the things I wished I had done earlier — the dishes, sorting laundry, getting a few things settled for the morning rush.  I found Mary Tyler Son’s muddy shoes at the back door.  I meant to clean them yesterday, but didn’t get to it.  There they sat, at the back door, just where he took them off Monday afternoon.

Muddy Shoes

Muddy shoes.

As I reached for the cloth to clean them a bit so he could wear them to school tomorrow (am I the only Mom who cleans her son’s muddy shoes?), there was a gut check, visceral, about just how lucky I am to clean the muddy shoes of a healthy, thriving, joyful five year old boy.  I am the mom of a boy who runs and climbs trees and brushes the hair from his eyes as he looks to the next higher branch.

This boy is going places and I get to watch him.  And clean the mud from his shoes.  And choose to cheer him on rather than scold him.

Is there anything better?