The "Perfect" Parent

Today I was motivated to write about the "Perfect" Parent as I had a run-in with one today that really just got under my skin. My goal today is not to rant, but to remind us all that the world would be such a better place if we all respected our differences and actually appreciated one another as who we are and not who we think others should be. Being a parent is hard enough. The last thing we need is someone else confirming our worst fear that maybe we aren't doing it right.

There's a reason why there are hundreds to thousands of parenting books on the shelves. Everyone has their own view of what they believe to work. Being a first-time mom I thought it was important to get as much info as I could cram into my already exhausted, sleep-deprived brain, but when I read these books about how my son's feeding, playing, and sleeping schedule was supposed to be I felt I was doing something wrong. How come his schedule wasn't like who the books were saying it should be? Am I doing something wrong? Is my son only two weeks old and I'm already failing as a mother? Finally, I came to the conclusion that I should just put the books away and follow my son's orders as to what he needed and when. That was the biggest lesson I learned stepping into my roles as a mother. Do what feels right and everything else will fall into place. I mean, pregnancy and childbirth is a very natural process. Why should parenting be any different? (Ok, I realize there are likely lots of differences and contributing factors, but I'm talking in general here). No one is telling you during delivery that if you breath for three pushes that you have to play for a certain amount of time with a certain type of toy to stimulate a certain part of the brain before you can push again! The nurses and doctors often ask you to tell them when your body feels the need to push. While mothering doesn't come totally naturally to everyone, I think everyone at least comes with an understanding that babies have certain needs to be met. 

So back to my point-- I think it's natural to question whether you're doing things right because I think we can all agree that a good parent wants what's best for the child, but the "Perfect" parent seems to portray a sense of some unidentified entitlement. This person just gets under your skin for reasons you can't always pinpoint. When they begin talking about their newest parenting tidbit they read from the most recent N.Y. Times Best Seller list you just want to poke them in the eyes to get them to stop talking. Most often it's because they attempt to point out comparisons of your child to theirs or make comments about how you could apply what they learned to your own child. The "Perfect" Parent is constantly posting on Facebook about how their child is sleeping through the night at 2 months or making comments on others' posts about other their methods (i.e. how long to breastfeed, how to get children to sleep, what kind of diet is best).  These posts often consist of black and white thinking and very often some serious judgements about others who don't agree with them. Ugh! Just thinking about them makes me cringe. I have attempted to filter through my newsfeed to get these people out of my face and have even gone to the length of deleting people who I really thought wouldn't notice. In person, though, is much more difficult. Thankfully I have been blessed with the ability to breastfeed up to this point, but when my son was closer to 3 months a mother asked me what my breastfeeding time limit was. I shared that my goal was at least 6 months, but would like to go to a year if I could. I explained that the women in my family had not had a lot of luck with breastfeeding and I was hoping that I would be an exception. THIS LADY HAD THE NERVE to tell me that breastfeeding was more about the amount of effort one put into it and not one's physical ability. Um, hello! If your body stops producing milk, then it stops producing milk! I know multiple people who took the supplements, pumped until their pump when kaput, and STILL they could not produce.

The "Perfect" Parent has a way of making you question the confidence you actually do have in raising your child. No one needs this. As I said earlier, we are all new to this job and we all question whether we're doing a good job. No one needs to have the rug swept out from under them. In my opinion, the "Perfect" Parent is like the rest of us...initially clueless in this new role we've all found ourselves in and on some days is just floundering to keep their head above water. Perhaps maybe they are even more insecure in their new role and use the "Perfect" Parent persona to cover this up. I mean, isn't that what we were all taught in middle school?--That the bully is the one who feels bad about themselves so they have to take other people down to make themselves feel better. The problem with the "Perfect" Parent is they never pass up an opportunity to show off. I cannot stand show-offs. Ugh. 

This brings me to my next point. Who is the GOOD parent? The GOOD parent:

• often wears stains on their clothes to work knowing that that one last goodbye kiss may be wet with Cheerio crumbs, but is oh so important to baby
• sometimes cries in the shower because they are so exhausted from being up at 12:30 a.m. then 2 then 3:30 then 5 then 6 but gets out ready to cuddle that poor teething little munchkin
• has a regular inner battle about letting baby sleep in the car seat and park it for awhile or waking them up to go into Target
• often uses this opportunity to catch some much needed quiet time and peruse Facebook/email/Pinterest on the phone while baby naps in the backseat
• sometimes falls asleep while breastfeeding at 3 a.m. only to be awakened by a screech from baby who is now laying lopsided in their lap
• lets baby play with an unopened box of tampons while they shower because that is the only 5 minutes of non-crying they can get in order to get rinsed off
• recognizes that they may never go to the restroom alone again
• dances and sings down the aisles of Wal-Mart without a care who is watching to keep baby entertained while grocery shopping
• leans uncomfortably over the crib while singing a lullaby until baby falls asleep only to start the process all over again when their ankle pops (CRACKS!) and wakes baby as they attempt to sneak out of the room
• knows that baby likes the blanket just over his nose and not over his eyes when he is ready for bed and his hair brushed this way instead of that when rocking to sleep
• eats a bite of slobbery cracker because baby is learning to share and has decided that this would be something nice to share with mom
• offers their shirt as a snot rag at all times (ok, may not offer but baby knows it's there to use)
• has found themselves counting down the hours to bedtime
• finds themselves daydreaming about a glass of wine on particularly grueling days
• finds themselves almost brought to tears (ok, not almost) when thinking about how deeply they love their little one.

Part 2 of a Two Parter

For those anxiously awaiting my follow up from last week (probably just my mom) I have finally found a moment of peace and quiet to collect my thoughts and put them in order. So it looks like we left off just as I was being admitted to the hospital thoroughly embarrassed...

After what seemed like forever waiting amongst a roomful of disturbed waiting room occupiers (recall the F-bomb from the previous post?), the nurse FINALLY called us back and lead us to Room 7. I remember thinking this was funny at the time because this is the room we were shown on our tour of the hospital during our Caring for Your Baby class we took a few months before. For those of you who know my husband, the fact that he immediately began pacing the width of the room is no surprise to you. For those who don't know him, saying he tends to be anxious by nature is an understatement. Fo' real. While I had somehow managed to keep my cool despite my body acting in ways I had never known before and preparing for some major system shock, my husband was bordering on needing to be sedated. I mean the trenches he was walking could have safely prepared any troop for battle. I even remember the nurse noting, "Wow, you two balance each other out well." Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm pretty sure that each nurse that entered the room commented on his pacing.

During this time, both of our families were burning up the highway trying to get to the hospital. Thankfully my husband's parents had already been headed our direction when they got the call my water broke. My parents on the other hand made it to the hospital in a record amount of time miraculously WITHOUT being pulled over. My mom drove and made an hour and a half trip in 45 minutes! Crazy! My dad still talks about worrying about whether they would arrive to meet their first grandchild in one piece.

Shortly after the nurse confirmed that my water did in fact break (Um, hello-duh! I realize now that this is protocol, but it was still annoying at the time), both sets of parents arrived to the hospital. This was my and my husband's saving grace. Once our families arrived the anxiety level decreased by 150%. Everyone was there. I purposely chose to have both my husband and my mom in the delivery room knowing that there was a high chance my husband just may in fact lose his head. God love him, but he just doesn't handle high intensity, anxiety provoking situations very well-- Especially when someone he cares about is involved. I needed someone to be able to help keep us both calm during delivery.

I realize now that I was very likely experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions about a week or two before I actually arrived to the hospital, but only wrote them off as cramps. I swear I never had regular contractions until after my water broke and I arrived at the hospital.  (DISCLAIMER: If you are pregnant and are not ready for a completely honest description of my labor experience I suggest you stop reading now and cut down to the next paragraph; otherwise, please continue.) I was very intrigued once I was hooked up to the monitors that allowed me to see the exact intensity and duration of each contraction UNTIL...I began experiencing back labor. BACK. LABOR. Balls-Back labor is killer! For those who don't know, back labor is believed to be caused by the baby's position. Generally a baby is born face down, head first. Back labor is said to result when the baby's position is face up rather than face down. Some say this is a myth and is not really the cause of back labor. In my case, my son was face up and the back of his head was pushing on my lower spine with each contraction. This position is also believed by some to slow the progression of the baby through the canal. I believe and also experienced this to be true. I had initially hoped to go as long as possible without the epidural knowing that once I got the drugs my labor would likely slow considerably. I always knew at some point I wanted the drugs- "Gimme the drugs!"- but really wanted to go as long as I could without them; HOWEVER, I did not intend on having back labor. BACK. LABOR! Once back labor hit I was balled up, crying, unable to even breath due to the pain intensity, and dreading each minute that followed my last contraction knowing that I would be hit at any minute with another episode of excruciating pain. I was ready for some drugs not even an hour and a half into my labor experience. Some may say this a labor failure and to you I say, "You must not have had BACK. LABOR." If you did, excuse my assumption and I am in awe of your pain tolerance level. Seriously. Props to you!

Once my epidural was secured my labor experience was delightful. I was able to hold a conversation and simply enjoy our families while I sat in bed eating popsicles. The nurses came in to check my progress every so often and kept me up to date on where my doctor was at, what would happen next, assess my comfort level, and check how things were progressing. Let me remind you that it was September 11th and at this point it was only 6 p.m. I still had six hours to go before September 12th. I had come to terms with what seemed to be my son's birth date, telling myself that the dreaded September 11th date would really be of little meaning to him and his generation-just another date in history, much like December 7th (Pearl Harbor) or November 22nd (Kennedy assassination). Also, I just wanted him out if I'm being completely honest.

About 10 p.m. my nurse arrived to check on my progress and informed me it was time to start pushing. Finally! If I could have I would have totally jumped out of that bed and done back flips down the hallway! I'm going to meet my son! Now I don't know about you, but everyone I've known has had like 5-10 pushes if that and Shazam!-out pops baby in 15 minutes or less. Sooooo not the case for me. Every contraction I was to push three times. When they call it labor and delivery they mean labor as in work. I was taking so many deep breaths and pushing so hard, I seriously questioned whether I would be physically capable of taking a third deep breath for a third push without passing out. Now I did try to save face for the first hour, keeping my cool and not letting my exhaustion get the best of me. (Yes, did you catch that? " the first hour.") However, by hour three-yes, THREE-I had given up on grace and settled for doing whatever would get this baby out of me faster. Between contractions I heard rumblings of a C-section room being held for me and after three hours of pushing I was going to be so disappointed if I ended up having a C-section. I was not going to go through all that huffing and puffing only to wind up having a C-section! Now if it came down to it, it came down to it, but after all that work I wanted some sort of result. I did end up finally having my son naturally-very naturally I might add as the nurses had allowed the epidural to expire in order for me to better feel my contractions since there had been such an issue getting my son to go ahead and come on out. Now, if you've done the math you realize already that it was now September 12th! How great that I was scheduled to have him on the 12th and ended up having him on the 12th on my own. I still thank God for this sweet little comfort message-like he heard and understood my concerns (see previous post).

In the end, my husband did keep his cool and was a fabulous partner in the delivery room. We welcomed our first child, a little boy, on September 12th in the wee hours of the morning. He was a solid 8 pounds and 4 ounces and beautiful as can be! He laid on my chest the entire night. I did not sleep a wink that night and in total I stayed awake for 36 hours, but I would do it all over again for those sweet, precious first hours with my baby. I was a mom. My already beautiful life became millions of times better on September 12th, 2012. :) I am so thankful.

And so it begins...

Hmmm. Where to begin? Well, I think the best place to begin would be what got me started on this blogging journey-becoming a parent. Okay, well we all know how that whole process really got started so I'll omit those intimate details. You all know the story-lack of birth control yadda, yadda, yadda. I will note that we did plan this pregnancy.

Where I really want to begin is my son's birth. I'll likely talk about my pregnancy later, but for now his actual birth story seems to be most fitting as a start. I will say that his birth story did NOT go as planned. So, here we go:

I was down to my weekly appointments and I was within two weeks to my due date, feeling really, really uncomfortable when I asked my doctor what her policy was on going over the due date. I had this deep fear that the baby would be like two weeks late and I would end up with this county fair award-winning watermelon being forced out of my vagina. Shiver. The thought is still terrifying! My sweet husband had attended this appointment with me and was also curious about how this baby birthing process was really going to go down now that we were down to the nitty-gritty.  My doctor informed me that she was actually going to be out of town on my due date and would be happy to schedule an induction before she left. Wait-what? OUT OF TOWN?! I don't know about you, but this seemed to be some vital information that she could have shared with me a littler earlier than two weeks prior to my due date. I do realize now that babies are very often born by other OB-GYNs that are not the primary care physician, but being my first pregnancy I was really hopeful and found comfort that my doctor would be the one to deliver.  When the induction was set to be scheduled a week from that day I think my husband turned white as a sheet and mumbled something along the lines of, "So like next week. Whoa." For me this was also scary, but so exciting at the same time. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel where my feet would no longer be swollen, my hips would no longer hurt, I wouldn't be peeing every two minutes or worrying about sneezing, and I would be able to climb into my bed or my husbands truck without assistance. I would have my body back and I would finally meet this precious guy I'd felt moving and squirming, but had no idea what he looked like. Okay, the induction was scheduled. Not for September 11th, but for the 12th.  I made sure of that. That was one thing I stressed about my entire pregnancy was that my due-mid-September baby would be doomed with a 9-11 birthday. 

Upon walking out of the office I found that I was spending more time reassuring my husband who I was still concerned may faint or have a panic attack. Seriously. He was headed back to work and I'm sure he got nothing done the rest of the afternoon while I headed back to the house. It was hot summer and being eight months pregnant in late August/early September is not a good combo. I was sweating in places I did not know one could sweat. Ugh. While I worried about the anxiety state of my husband, I did have my own worries about being induced. Now I'm no Saint and I think the last time I attended a regular church service outside of Christmas and Easter was probably before I went off to college, but I do consider myself a Christian and do have a concern for God's opinion on matters in my life. My biggest worry was about how God was going to feel about taking birthing matters into my own hands. It may sound silly, but one of my thoughts was, "What if God did not want the 12th to be my baby's birthday?" I also was disappointed that I would not have an exciting birth story to tell my son about his special day when he got older. I mean, how exciting is telling your child, "Well on the day you were born we woke up really, really early and went to the hospital where mom was given some medicine so you would come out and TADA!-- you were born." Lame. I wanted to have an exciting birth story, but it just didn't look like it was in the cards.

Fast-forward six days later. Knowing I would be induced on the 12th I worked up until September 11th, scheduling my last work-related meeting for 2 p.m. and planned to be finished by 2:45 to head back to the house to clean up, check off last minute to-dos, and prepare for family to arrive that evening. Let me tell you I must have been the laughing stock of Heaven. This is not how my day went by any means! So I'm sitting in my meeting, wrapping up last minute details, signing final paperwork and what? Am I peeing? Wait! I can't stop! My water! My water broke! I jump and announce that I believe my water just broke, grabbed my bag, and was heading out the door when another lady thought this would be the most appropriate time to barrage me questions about my dilation, cramping, etc. Um. Hello! I have water trickling down my leg and am currently uncontrollably soaking my pants lady! It still makes me grit my teeth just thinking about it. I quickly shut down these questions and dashed out the door. I made it to the bathroom stall before things got really embarrassing (a thorough soaking) and then somehow managed to make it to the car all while calling my mom and my husband to inform them of my situation. Somewhere in there I am sure I dropped the full on F-bomb out of sincere awe and mental chaos.  I don't know what came over me, it just came out. I have yet to share this detail with my husband or anyone else as I was alone and now driving myself to the hospital while soaking my seat. I know my husband would laugh himself to tears knowing this detail. He cusses like a sailor and I could probably count on my fingers the amount of times I've uttered a four letter word. Just not in my character. I tend to use abbreviations for some reason, as if this makes the word less powerful or crude(i.e. "a-hole", "what a b," "eff!"). Anywho, I digress. So I'm driving myself to the hospital-I choose to take the turnpike as this seems  to be(and one would reasonably infer) that this would be the quickest route. Oh no-CONSTRUCTION! Are you effing (<-- see) kidding me! CONSTRUCTION!  I cruise/blast through construction (Sorry daddies and cute daughters on signs) and make it to the hospital only to find a line at check in. Seriously? A line? I'm usually one to follow social norms and understood rules, but this seems to be an exception. I tapped the shoulder of the girl next in line and explained that my water broke and asked whether I could cut. Maybe it was the driblets of water on the floor or just the fact that I seemed to have more of a crisis on my hands than her lab papers, but she quickly jumped out of the way.

After checking in, my husband walks into the lobby full of people. He looks gaunt and scatterbrained as he approaches me and not quietly, but just loud enough for a quiet waiting room of people could hear drops a, "F**********CK babe. Are you okay?" Thanks honey. Yes, but now slightly more embarrassed. After reassuring him that I was fine, the nurse came into the waiting room to take us back to my room.

Looks like I'm going to have to stop here as baby is awake from his nap. I guess the actual birthing story will be for next time.