Posts Tagged ‘motherhood’

Starting baby on solid food: An unofficial guide

Monday, January 26, 2015
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Disclaimer: I feel like I must prequel this post by saying…This is NOT meant to be a real guide to starting your baby on solids! Consult your pediatrician for advice and instructions on solid foods.

Step 1: When baby is a few months old, read about when to start solid foods. Tell yourself you will stick strictly to the American Academy of Pediatrics’ recommendation of exclusively breast-feeding for the first six months of life.

Avocado baby food...basically just boring guacamole.

Avocado baby food…basically just boring guacamole.

Step 2: Go to your baby’s four-month check up. Your pediatrician asks if you have started baby on solid foods (No, you have not told me to!). Listen to your pediatrician confirm the AAP’s recommendations – six months. Shake your head in agreement. Listen to recommendations on first foods and think to yourself, “I will definitely listen to my pediatrician.”

Step 3: After many a sleepless night, wonder if the rumors about babies sleeping once they start solids are true.

Step 4: Realize that your baby will be 24 weeks before the six-month anniversary of her birth. Decide that 24 weeks is close enough to start her on solids.

Step 5: Google the following: “Starting baby on solid foods,” and learn that everything you’ve heard is wrong! Become thoroughly confused.

Step 6: Notice baby is more hungry than usual. Decide that 22 weeks is close enough to 24 weeks. Try to convince husband that baby is ready to eat, and he gives in because he knows he is fighting a losing battle.

Step 7: Decide what food to give baby first. What a life-changing decision! Debate benefits of various “first foods.” Call friends for advice. Call mom for advice. Google for advice. Finally settle on oat cereal.

Step 8: Take your baby food blender out of the box to get a head start on making foods and find a recipe book and food guide. Realize you could have saved a lot of time if you had discovered this earlier.

Step 9: Wash baby spoons, baby bowls, baby-food-making accessories. Set baby in high chair; make sure she has on a large bib. Get out the camera. Make oat cereal exactly how the box instructs. Brace yourself for the big moment. Your child’s entire future depends on this first bite. If you mess it up, she will either never eat anything again or only like chicken nuggets for the rest of her life. You are sweating in anticipation.

Step 10: Give baby her first bite of solid food. None of it makes it in her mouth. Continue to “feed” her. The whole ordeal lasts about two minutes before she gets bored.

Step 11: Realize you may have thought about this too much.

Alone On the Curb

Wednesday, January 21, 2015
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I have no doubt that every child who went to elementary school during the 1970’s experienced the same trauma I did. Fortunately, I only experienced it once – or at least I only remember one incident. There may have been more, but none has stuck with me like the one that occurred that day in second grade.

I remember feeling completely lost and alone as I sat on the curb waiting for a mom who hadn’t arrived.

I don’t remember why I had stayed after school. I just remember that I did and was quite excited to do so. Bon the curback in those days, afterschool activities weren’t the norm for the under ten crowd. We had music lessons and 4-H and Scouts, but none of those activities were associated with school and there was no such thing as afterchool care.

Whatever the reason my friends and I had stayed late, it must have been  a special occasion. I still remember chatting with my friends as we stood on the sidewalk by the playground fence waiting for our moms to pick us up. (In those days, the moms were always the ones who picked up the kids.)

As other moms began to drive up to the curb and my friends climbed into their cars (usually into the front seat, generally without seat belts and always with absolutely no concept of contraptions called car seats), our group got smaller and smaller and smaller.

Eventually, I was the only one still standing on the sidewalk until I tired of that and sat on the curb.

I know anyone born after 1980 is wondering where the adult supervision and teachers were. My answer is “I don’t know.”

Back in those days, vigilance didn’t exist like it does today, and teachers usually went home when the students did. There was a sense of trust in the parents and a sense of safety in daylight – especially in small towns. There was also a belief that situations usually worked themselves out.

Except when they didn’t.

As the sun started making its journey behind the Juniper-covered hills that surrounded the town in which I lived, I sat on the curb and waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, a teacher who had stayed late happened upon me as she walked to her car. She didn’t, however, see the same gravity in the situation that I did.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look as though you lost your best friend.”

I remember contemplating her words. My good friends had all left me, but I didn’t think I’d actually lost them. But I didn’t share those thoughts. Instead, I told her I was waiting for my mom.

“Oh, I know your mom,” the teacher said. “I know she’ll be here soon.”

And she was right. My mom did arrive…eventually,

In those days before Google calendars and other electronic reminders, she had simply forgotten that she was supposed to pick me up at school. And, in those days before cell phones, answering machines and vigilant school personnel, I was powerless to remind her. Those things just happened to those of us who grew up in the 1970’s.

Mom may have told me why she didn’t worry when the bus arrived without me. Or she may have told me that she had a meeting and she thought she had babysitting duties covered. I don’t remember because her words never registered. I was too relieved and grateful that I wasn’t going to have to spend the night on the curb and wear the same clothes to school the next day.

I was reminded of this incident a few weeks ago as a read a post that has been recycled through social media a few times. It is a reminder of what would now be considered parenting fails but  were acceptable when I was young. And my generation survived anyway.

We didn’t wear bike helmets (although I do remember the humiliation of swimming caps). We played outside with no supervision (unless you count our dogs which all ran free without any type of fence – even electric.) And we weren’t electronically connected to everyone we knew.

If we were out of our parents sight, they never knew where we were, if we were safe or when we would actually arrive home.

I can’t imagine being a parent during that time period, and I give my parents kudos for being so strong.

Apparently, I am much weaker.

Both of my children have cell phones with which they use to constantly communicate with me.

I know if their plans have changed and they are going home with a friend after school. And when they text me such information, I can immediately text the friend’s parents to confirm.

I know when the band bus is running late or early, so I can arrive at the school in a timely manner. I don’t have to sit in a parking lot for hours waiting for a bus to arrive and imagining all that could possibly have gone wrong.

And I know that the school has my cell phone number so I don’t have to be sitting at my office desk to get a notice that my child is sick or is in detention (yes I have experienced that parental fail.)

Those of us who had the true 1970’s childhood experience may laugh at how much we protect our children these days, but deep in our hearts, we are also extremely grateful. Changes in technology and society ensure that our children will never be sitting alone on a curb waiting for a ride home.

And if that isn’t progress, I don’t know what is.

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering or writing, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.

Life with a 5-month-old baby

Monday, January 19, 2015
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The great unknown – that’s what I considered my future when I was pregnant. I had no idea what life would be like with a baby. So, instead of consulting a psychic and a crystal ball, I read mommy blogs. My favorite? “Day in the life” posts. I read them all: stay-at-home moms, working moms, work-from-home moms and everything in between. For me, it’s reassuring to see that I’m not alone in having weeks of clean laundry living in a pile in my laundry room, or that in that “cooking dinner” is sometimes throwing in a frozen pizza. So here it is, your stereotypical “day in the life” post. If hearing about how long it takes me to get out of the house in the morning isn’t your cup of tea, then I suggest you stop reading now. I don’t pretend that my days are especially difficult or original; I would say they are pretty average (or below average!). Enjoy…

  • 3:00 a.m. Wake up to baby crying on the monitor. Change diaper, nurse baby. She luckily goes right back to sleep. Crawl back in bed.
  • 5:30 a.m. Wake up to baby crying on the monitor. Chris gets up, changes her diaper, and brings her to me to nurse. Then he takes her downstairs to eat breakfast and I get in the shower. The day has begun!
  • 6:05 a.m. Realize I am not in the shower but still in bed. Actually get up and get into the shower.
  • 6:30 a.m. Chris passes AJ on to me. Take her downstairs with me to eat breakfast (cereal) and make coffee.
  • 6:45 a.m. Back upstairs to finish getting ready. Put AJ in her bouncer chair and she watches me put on makeup and do my hair. Talk nonsense to keep AJ entertained, topics range from how to put on mascara to why I love Taylor Swift. Then Chris picks her up and changes her into her clothes for the day.
  • 7:15 a.m. Finished getting ready. Wonder how early I am going to have to get up once AJ is mobile and I have to chase her around all morning. Go downstairs and pack my pumping gear; Chris gets AJ’s bottles ready. Say goodbye to Chris and AJ (he takes her to daycare) and leave for work.
  • 7:34 a.m. Walk into work (thankful for a short commute).
  • 7:34 – 8:30 a.m. Emails, read news, to-do list, coffee.
  • 8:30 a.m. Pumping time. Bring computer into the motherhood room with me so I can continue working.
  • 9:00 a.m. – 10:45 a.m. Work. Return phone calls, write emails, tackle to-do list.
  • 10:45 a.m. Pump again, earlier than normal because I have an off-site meeting during lunch.
  • 11:15 a.m. – 1:30 p.m. Off-site lunch meeting.
  • 2:30 p.m. Pump.
  • 3:00 p.m. Work.
  • 4:30 p.m. Leave work to pick up AJ at daycare. Wonder if she will still be in the clothes she arrived in (it’s about a 50/50 chance). She is!
  • 5:15 p.m. Arrive home after a car ride of AJ crying. I think she prefers 102.7 to NPR. Lament that it takes me 10 minutes to get to work and 45 to get home. Throw on black yoga pants and a T-shirt and immediately change AJ and get her in the bath, something we’ve been doing to combat cold and flu season.
  • 5:45 p.m. AJ is out of the bath, toweled, diapered, lotioned and PJ’ed. Nurse her. Chris gets home around this time.
  • 6:15 p.m. Chris plays with AJ while I tackle dinner. Despite not having been to the grocery store in ages, decide that we absolutely cannot eat out and scrounge the fridge for something edible. Surprisingly come up with an egg, cheese and Quinoa combination with a side of green beans and a slice (or three) of bacon.
  • 7:15 p.m. Eat dinner, then play with AJ. Make lots of funny faces, help her sit up, and listen to the chirps and squeals of her toys. Chris cleans up and washes the dirty bottles and pumping accessories.
  • 7:40 p.m. AJ gets fussy and I know the reason. So it’s upstairs for bedtime, which involves nursing, lullabies and rocking.
  • 8:30 p.m. AJ decided to rally and is wide-awake. Give up on the rocking and take her into our bedroom, where she falls asleep to the sounds of the previous night’s episode of Modern Family.
  • 9:00 p.m. Put AJ in her crib and creep out as quietly as possible. Choose bill paying over laundry folding for my end-of-the-evening activity. Wish that a wiggle of my nose would transfer the two baskets of clean, unfolded clothes neatly into drawers.
  • 10:00 p.m. Wash face, brush teeth, and call it a night.

Sprinkle in a few meltdowns and a diaper run here and there, and this is my typical day with my 5-month-old. The weekdays go by incredibly fast, and the weekends even faster.

#Horriblemom

Wednesday, January 14, 2015
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Of my many flaws, believing that I only have a few isn’t one of them.

On the flip side, I’m very, very good finding fault in almost everything I do.

It’s a trait that I come by honestly – it was passed down by the maternal side of my family, but I’m not sure whether its longevity is linked more to nature or nurture. While my mother and grandmother excelled at identifying their own weaknesses, they were less successful at keeping those discoveries to themselves.

I am cursed by these same behaviors.

As a little girl, I  grew up hearing my mother talk about her mistakes, missteps and misfortunes. When I became a teenager, she no longer had to point them out because I did an outstanding job of doing that for her.  Now, I just point out my own.

And even though I’m well aware of the warnings from psychologists and child development experts that we can damage our children when we speak poorly of ourselves, I do it anyway.

And yes, my children picked up on my behavior. What they haven’t done is repeat it. Perhaps their father’s side of the family is more dominant than mine, because they haven’t even taken my concerns about my inadequacies very seriously.

Instead, they’ve turned them into a running joke

When I started saying “I’m a horrible mom,” to note that I had experienced a parenting fail, they quickly picked up on the phrase.

When I expressed dismay or worry about a decision, one of them would say “Hash Tag Horrible Mom.” They found it so amusing that they began using it as the punctuation mark to most of my sentences – almost as a sign of affection.

And while I may suffer from an intense need to openly identify all my faults, I don’t lack a sense of humor.

That means I can not only appreciate how ridiculous I can be, I can also have fun.

And so it was last Sunday night when my daughter and her BFF were trying to complete a display for their social studies fair project. I tried to assist as needed, but I was actually contributing to the silliness as much, if not more, than they were.

I was attempting to restore some order to the overly loud and raucous high -jinks, when my daughter  played the Celine Dion song “My Heart Will Go On.” Kendall knows none of us can be serious when that song plays – especially since her brother shared Matt Mulholland’s  You Tube video “My Heart Will Go On – By Candlelight.”  (My Heart Will Go On – By Candlelight)

As soon as the first sorrowful notes began to play, I stopped in mid reprimand to launch into song – complete with overly dramatic arm gestures and facial expressions. The girls joined in, and the social studies project was forgotten.

At least, it was forgotten until my husband marched into the family room to complain about the noise level, of which I was a primary contributor.

When he left the room, I muttered “what a grumpy dad” under my breath.

The girls picked up on my words immediately. “Hash Tag Horrible Mom Hash Tag Grumpy Dad,” they said. The line has stuck.

Ironically, I no longer consider their words to be a reminder of our faults.

Instead, they are a reminder that, even though we may do many things wrong, my husband and I have obviously done just as many things right.

We encourage our children to pursue their passions. We help with school projects.  And, perhaps most important, we have a home that promotes creativity and freedom of expression (within reason of course).

If the worst my children can say about us is “Hash Tag Horrible Mom and Hash Tag Grumpy Dad,” then I maybe I should start ending my sentences with “#notsohorribleofamomafterall.”

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering or writing, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.

Baby talk

Monday, January 12, 2015
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“Grab her Sophie,” I said, as my mother stared blankly back at me.

“Her what?”

“Her Sophie! …The giraffe toy.”

“Did you name her toy Sophie?”

“No, that’s her name,” I responded. Then it occurred to me that not everyone knows what a “Sophie” is. “The name of the toy is Sophie. Sophie the giraffe. She’s French.”

Sophie is the favorite chew toy of millions of babies, including AJ. A “must” on many registry lists. Mention “Sophie” to a mom with a baby and she most likely knows what you mean.

For my whole life, I was on the “what?” end when it came to conversations about babies or baby things. Now, bring up the brand Medela and I’ll jump in with a “mine is the double automatic” (Medela is a breast pump and breastfeeding accessory brand).

“Put her in her mamaRoo,” is another phrase I say often, and get blank stares in return except when I’m talking to my husband. AJ’s mamaRoo is a type of infant swing; it looks like a space ship and has five different swing settings, including ‘kangaroo’ and ‘car seat.’

“Rock n’ Play” is another type of infant sleeper swing that even doctors will refer to as common language. If you are expecting, it’s time to brush up on your infant swing brands. Us moms refer to our swings with the same affection we use when talking about a loved one. And for good reason, when all else fails, mamaRoo comes to the rescue.

I started to realize just how ingrained I was into parenting speak when I put together a Christmas list of items for AJ for the grandparents. I had to include web links of examples on almost all the items. If you would have shown me the list I created a year ago I would never have heard of anything on it.

There are countless other brands, words and phrases I never knew or used before I was a mom – bulb syringe, Boogie Wipes, tummy time, just to name a few. Not to the mention the subjects I never knew could be so interesting, like a discussion about sleep methods, introducing solid foods, or poop.

I’m sure a couple years from now, my parenting lingo will include the latest Disney princess movie, the sippy cup that AJ likes best, and maybe even some words she’ll make up on her own.

I knew motherhood would change me in many ways, but I didn’t know an increased vocabulary would be one of them.

The Pink Lady and the Microfilm Machine

Wednesday, January 7, 2015
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I am a more than three decades older than my daughter, and she reminds me of that on a daily basis.

She doesn’t actually say anything to me. She’s simply 13 and in the eighth grade while I am quickly closing in on a half century.

She can watch her favorite television series on Netflix. When I was her age, only very lucky kids, of which I was not one, had VCRs. If I missed an episode of my favorite show, I had to wait for a re-run and hope that my brother didn’t want to watch something that same night.

She has her own cell phone that tracks everyone who calls her (although she gets many more text messages than actual phone calls). When I was her age, my family had one land-line phone and no one had answering machines.  If we missed a call, we just missed a call.

She literally has a world of information at her fingertips, whether on her phone, a tablet or computer. When I was her age, I had no options but to go to the public library when I wanted to do research.

But sometimes, even in these high-tech days, 13-year-old girls still need to go to the public library to do research.

Such was the case this past weekend when I took Kendall and Bri, her BFF (best friend forever) to the local public library. They are doing their social studies fair project on the history of a local theater where they love to perform. During their interview with a long-time volunteer and default historian (an interview Bri recorded on her iphone instead of on a pad of paper or on a tape recorder), he gave them a list of resources in old newspapers dating back to 1912 that they could probably research at the local library.

That’s the reason I found myself giggling with two 13-year-old girls on a rainy Saturday afternoon as we browsed reels of microfilm from newspapers published more than a century before.

The content was both microfilmamusing and educational.

There was an three-column story about a “well-respected colored man” who had died after eating a large meal. The article described his last few minutes right down to the moment when he raised his hands above his head and proclaimed “Lord have mercy” before he collapsed.

There was a story about a “musical mule” that ate the keys off a piano.

And there were many, many articles about the day-to-day happenings of local residents who had gone on vacation, visited relatives or held parties. There was even an article about my daughter’s great-grandfather.

As we used the rather antiquated technology of microfilm to take a trip back in time, Kendall and Bri snapped photo after photo on their iphones as they giggled and sent text messages. I couldn’t help but note the paradox.

Then, a brief note about a lady dressed in pink who made male hearts flutter sent all of us into peals of laughter.the pink lady

When I finally caught my breath, I asked “Why would this be in the newspaper?”

Bri didn’t miss a beat.

“How is our news today any better? One-hundred years from now, people are going to laugh at us because we had headlines about Miley Cyrus twerking.”

She had a point – a really good point actually. And her words helped make our time together at the microfilm machine even more meaningful.

We left the library that afternoon with much more than a few pieces of copy paper for a social studies project. We left with a mutual understanding about life.

Times change. Attitudes change. Styles change. Even people change.

But the distance between generation shrinks when we realize our shared experiences, which we may document with different technology and with different language,  greatly outweigh our differences.

The pink lady – and the local public library – taught me that.

Leading by Example

Monday, January 5, 2015
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I bet you didn’t know you were reading the words of a criminal.

I’m mortified to admit this, but I stole something last week – accidentally. I was in the process of returning a Christmas gift of which we received a duplicate when I noticed a box of my favorite lip balm on the counter. I pulled one out thinking I would purchase it with the store credit I was about to receive. Then the manager notified me that since I did not have a receipt, I could not return the item (I gave up on trying to sort out the gift receipts from the gift wrap and packaging at Christmas). I understood and left the store. I noticed that the manager walked out after me and I thought he must be suspicious of me for trying to return something without a receipt.

This is a receipt I will be keeping for a while

This is a receipt I will be keeping for a while.

The next morning, I found the lip balm in my purse. I must have grabbed it, either forgetting that I had not paid or thinking it was the identical and already used lip balm from my purse. Whatever happened, I felt terrible. I promptly went to the store as soon as it opened to pay for the lip balm and apologize for my mistake. The cashier thanked me for my honesty and even admitted that she (also a mom) had once done something similar.

This lip balm retailed for a few dollars. It probably cost the store pennies. I didn’t have to go back to the store, admit my mistake and face the consequences. I had already “gotten away” with taking the item. But I made a mistake, however innocent it was, and I knew I had to do the right thing, which was go back and pay for the item. The manager who helped me the night before will probably always think I took the item on purpose, but it doesn’t matter.

Growing up, there were countless times my parents made me do the right thing after I had done the wrong thing. Through them, I learned about apologizing for and learning from my mistakes.

I’m not saying I always do the right thing, oh no no no, far from it. Many times I don’t even know what the right thing is, and even when I do I don’t always follow that path. Although a bit embarrassing, it was easy for me to do the right thing in this situation. It won’t always be that way. And now that I am a mother, I have to remember that AJ will watch my actions closely.

So after purchasing my stolen lip balm, I decided that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to lead by example, and show AJ how to do the right thing when she makes a mistake or does something wrong by trying harder to do the right thing myself. And AJ will eventually make a mistake, because she is human. And even though I will try my hardest, I will continue to make mistakes, because I also am human.

Time Warp

Wednesday, December 31, 2014
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Tradition demands that every new year, I take time to reminisce about the past 365 days and  look forward to the next 365 days.2015

And so I do.

But what tradition seems to forget is that the older I get, the more quickly the years fly by and lose their distinct identities.

Instead, they blend together into a colorful yet unfinished collage of meaningful, embarrassing, sad, silly, joyful and hopeful moments that comprise my personal history and therefore, whom I am.

Only years of significant life events maintain their autonomy: the year I graduated from high school, the year I got married and the years my children were born are all still etched in my brain. Everything else is marked by “before” and “after.” If  I didn’t have those markers, I think I would lose track of time completely.

Just this past week, I found a wedding invitation from 2010 that caught me completely off guard. I was sure the wedding had been, at most, two years ago. I clearly remembered what I wore, the conversations my husband and friends had and the emotions of the day.  Yet, in my memory, my daughter had been older, I had been younger and the event had much more recent.

After convincing myself that my internal calendar can no longer be relied upon, I also realized how unimportant that really is.

The event itself and the memories it generated are what are truly important. The wedding was memorable and holds a special place in the patchwork of moments that comprise my life.

My children are now starting into that phase when they will be defining their own significant years. In approximately 365 days, as the calendar turns to 2016, my son will be celebrating the year he graduates from high school. I have no doubt that will also be a year that marks “before” and “after” for me as well.

But, unlike the years before I had children, I will now appreciate and celebrate the small and big moments during that year, not that date itself. Moments, not a four digit number, are what define me, my family and my life.

The four digit number just provides that reminder.

Happy 2015. May it be full of memorable moments that make you smile, laugh and treasure your life, those you love and the joy of living.

A Baby Changes Everything

Friday, December 26, 2014
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The lights were dimmed; the house was quiet. The presents were opened, the turkey carved, the cookies eaten. We were home after a long and joyous day of Christmas festivities. As I slowly rocked AJ to sleep, I started singing one last Christmas carol. “A Baby Changes Everything” (Faith Hill) was the song I couldn’t get out of my head.

Last Christmas, I was newly pregnant and even though I had been dreaming and hoping for a baby, I was scared. I took a new interest in the Christmas story, for now I was looking at it from Mary’s point of view. How scared she must have been! I drew courage from her courage. I knew my life would change, but I didn’t know how it would change.

A baby does change everything. This Christmas season was unlike any I’ve had before. It started out extra hectic. Holiday traditions like decorating the home and baking mass quantities of cookies are a tad more difficult with a baby around; and I’m sure almost impossible with a toddler. Shopping with a stroller takes serious skills, skills I do not yet have, and so this season I quickly gained a new appreciation for online shopping.

Our Christmas Eve was different too. No late night parties or midnight church service for us this year. We spent our evening watching It’s A Wonderful Life, and I was so exhausted I didn’t even make it to the end of the movie.

Christmas Day was spent as usual with our families (we are lucky to have both sets of grandparents close). As expected, most of the gifts we received were for AJ and not for Chris or me. Baby clothes replaced adult clothes; toys replaced gadgets. And that was exactly how I wanted it to be.

This Christmas, we started forging new traditions, traditions that include the newest member of our family and our greatest gift yet. As I put AJ in her crib and said goodnight, I thought about how I will experience the wonder of Christmas through her eyes in the years to come. We still have a few Christmases to go before AJ can appreciate the magic and excitement of it all, but I’m already looking forward to how different every Christmas will be as she grows year to year. A baby changes everything, in wonderful and unexpected ways.

A Week of Firsts

Friday, December 19, 2014
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On Monday, I spent my first night away from AJ.

An early morning flight required a 4:30 a.m. alarm, so naturally AJ woke up at 3:00 a.m. to eat, leaving me about a half hour in between when I got her back to sleep and when my alarm was set to ring. Night 384 of terrible sleep marked off the calendar (okay, I know it hasn’t been that long since I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep, but sometimes it feels like it).

Traveling while breastfeeding requires a significant amount of planning and preparation, and the main theme of my travel seemed to be pumping, since that is what it felt like I was doing most of the time.

Most of my worrying happened before I actually left, while I was trying to build up my supply to make sure she would have enough milk for while I was away, taking into consideration that I may experience flight delays.

I had to call my hotel in advance to make sure I could get a mini fridge put into my room, and was pleased to learn that not only could I have a mini fridge, but in the event that none were available, the hotel had a special fridge for breastfeeding mothers to store their milk. It’s always a pleasant surprise when accommodations are available for pregnant women or mothers.

Another of my main worries was traveling back on the plane with my breast milk. But again, I was surprised with how easy it was. I read the TSA policy on traveling with breast milk in advance, so I knew that I was allowed to carry it on the plane, but may be asked to go through an extra security check. But I zipped through security without incident or delay; in fact I would say they might have been nicer to me than usual.

I didn’t worry about AJ while I was away, because I knew she was in good hands with her daddy. I showed all my coworkers at least fifteen more pictures than they wanted to see, and thanks to technology I was able to Facetime with AJ and Chris before her bedtime.

I wasn’t able to take advantage of the much-looked-forward-to opportunity to sleep a full night; I woke up in pain and needed to pump. (Night 385…check.)

I returned to town Tuesday morning, and that evening AJ came down with a nasty cold. She had one cold before, but it didn’t warrant a visit to the doctor. This one did. A congested cough and a stuffy nose kept her from sleeping, which kept us up all night with her. (I’m not counting nights anymore.)

So Wednesday we had our first sick visit to the doctor. Luckily, they ruled out any infections or congestion in her lungs. Not-so-luckily, there is not much that can be done for babies with a cold. Humidifiers, snot suckers and saline drops are the prescribed remedies, so that has been the make up of our bedtime routine this week.

AJ and I are both running on fumes from our big week, but we’ve gotten some of the not-so-fun firsts out of the way. Both were events I long worried about handling as a new mother, and both were less dramatic than I anticipated.