I really started feeling like an old mom after #2 arrived. I was up every night with Girlie and Sweet Boy was not taking any naps unless it was in the car. Certain things got left behind, like hair cuts, makeup, cooking. My husband helped, but he also had a very time-consuming job working 60 and 70 hour weeks.
It was at Girlie’s 3-month check-up that I first got asked if I was her grandmother. I was 39 and at the moment I looked like hell. I might have showered. Or not. I might have combed my hair. Or not. I probably had spit-up on me, but the question is really was it on my shirt, shorts or both. I was mortified, but I was just too tired to give the woman a piece of my mind.
A quick side thought– at the time of this appointment, the local hospital had just relocated the pediatric office to the same floor as the OB/GYN. I don’t think I was good advertising for the OB at that moment.
Turning insult into insight
When I got home, I started thinking about my friends who are close to 40. Altogether, we had kids of all ages, from infants to college. And there were some with no kids at all. So I reminded myself to be grateful. Grateful for the chance to be a loving mommy to two sweet kids–even if I did look like a grandmother.
Number 1‘s first year was filled with so many ups and downs. He was such a sweet boy. Still is, but now he’s 4 and knows everything (He still doesn’t believe me that the green stuff on a pond is called algae, not allergy). I absolutely adored finally having the chance to take my baby for walks, sing him lullabies, watch him hit all his milestones early, even as a preemie. I was so proud of my Sweet Boy.
He was just 7 weeks old, playing on the floor with him as we watched the news coverage of the Boston Marathon Bombing. Suddenly, he rolled over from his belly to his back. It was the only happy news on my Facebook feed. I like to think that sweet boy brought a little bit of happiness to a small part of New England that day.
I over-shared everything. Every cute picture, every trip to the store, and every new food. It all went up on social media. I was so happy to finally get my turn to be a mommy that I just had to tell everyone. (Incidentally, this is the reason I’m not using their real names or pictures. They’ve been shared enough.)
Sleep, Baby, Sleep
But there was the other side of it all. #1 was a terrible sleeper. For the first 6 months, he only slept in his car seat or on my chest. Of course, I had read horror stories about babies dying when they fall asleep with a parent. I was just too afraid to let myself sleep too. He was my boy. My job was to take care of him. Mothers are supposed to be selfless. On the good nights, we kept the infant stroller in our room so we could keep him nearby while he slept in his car seat. His favorite place to sleep though was always with mommy. And I always let him, as I played solitaire on my phone and felt him breathe.
At 6 months, I put my foot down. The boy must sleep in a crib. He was starting day care and would need to sleep flat in a pack and play. Plus I was starting back to work and I actually needed to shower, commute, teach small children and come home to cook and clean. I would need to get some sleep. He finally got in the crib after a few weeks of tears (mine and his), but he was never able to fall asleep in there. It just broke my heart to hear him cry while he was laying there. So we always let him fall asleep on us and gently placed him in his crib, if possible.
In fact, I think one of my husband’s favorite memories with Sweet Boy was playing Baby Beatles on the computer while watching him drift off to sleep. I would pray that he wouldn’t wake up when laying him down in his crib. My husband would pretend he was Indiana Jones. If he woke up, the process would start all over again.
I had this horrible guilt about it. I had read every article on sleep training (during my solitaire breaks) and I was doing it all wrong. My much younger mom friends were doing “the right thing” for their babies, but only “the wrong thing” worked for us…
