Perfect Parent

    Your baby should be doing this by this age. You need to do it this way. Why on earth do you do that? Oh you shouldn't do that, it's not good for the baby. Those phrases are said to parents over and over on a daily basis. It can make it a little overwhelming at times for any parent, especially a new one. The pressure can make a parent feel like they have to be perfect and if they do one thing wrong they have messed up their child's life.
     With my daughter I strived to do everything the way I was supposed to according to society. I kept track of what other parents did and how their children acted. If I slipped up and did it differently, I mentally beat myself up. If she wasn't doing things the same time other kids her age were, I was worried that I was failing her as a mom. Then her father and I split up. I panicked inside at the thought that I couldn't do everything for her. I would literally have mental breakdowns because I felt like I was a horrible parent because I let her watch more tv than the doctor said I should.
      When my son was born, I began to do it to myself again. I began to worry that I wasn't giving my daughter enough attention or affection. Then she started to argue more and I would have to discipline her when her arguments turned into tantrums. I know this is typical for her age, especially when a new sibling is introduced. I voiced to my partner that I felt like I was letting her down, and that I felt like by working outside of the home I wasn't doing everything I could for my children. He snapped me out of it. He made me sit down and realize that I have two happy, healthy children that have everything they need. They are loved and each get time with me even with my hectic work schedule. I do things in a way that feel comfortable and right to my inner mommy. I do things that society looks down upon. I cosleep with my children, let them watch tv(not much though), and so much more. I am human though and I am allowed to make mistakes. There is no such thing as a perfect parent, but there are plenty of great parents.
       Why do we feel so pressured to be perfect? Maybe it's because we see countless articles about celebrity moms who get their pre-pregnancy bodies back in weeks. We see them buying organic everything for their kids, and we see how their kids are even living their lives. Our society has raised us to pick at each other and tear each other down by comparing each other's lives. We as moms should embrace each other and encourage each other as we raise the future leaders of this world. I read an article in a parenting magazine about how the Unite States compares to other countries regarding parenting skills. We worry a lot more than they do. We feel the need to be on a strict bedtime schedule, milestone schedule, and something must be wrong if we do not stick to them. We separate ourselves from our kids when it feels more natural to have them near us. Mothers are not looked up to like they used to be in society. We give birth(or adopt which is a tremendous step accomplishment as well in my opinion), nurture, teach, and guide little human beings as they grow. We multitask beyond belief in a single day, let alone a lifetime. We should celebrate our roles as mothers, rather than worry if we are doing it exactly as we should. Since coming to this realization that I can never be a perfect parent, my stress level has decreased greatly.

Mommy's Ink

 I have a tattoo...a very obvious one at that. When people meet me and my children they tend to notice the bold ink on my left wrist. Some simply shake their head while others roll their eyes. Those are the ones that usually see it as a fad among us young mothers. Then there are those who criticize me for desecrating my body with ink. I try to ignore them most of the time, because they do not know the truth. They do not need to know it either. If they knew the truth they may not like it, or they might feel sorry for me. I do not want pity, I never have liked pity. I want understanding though and often find myself lacking it. So I think I should write about the hidden meaning behind "Hope."
   To understand why I had "Hope" inked into the skin on my left wrist, you need to know about my childhood. My parents loved me, and it took me years to understand this. I went through psychological and physical abuse by both of parents from about the age of four until I moved out when I was seventeen. Most of the physical happened at the hands of my father. My mother used more psychological abuse than physical, and years later I know why. My mother went through some horrific events as a child and never received counseling. My parents were not always bad towards me, there are some wonderful memories of them. They just needed help and never received it. The most traumatic event occurred when I was about five years old. My father's brother came to stay with us for a visit that summer. In the middle of the night he molested me. My mother woke up, groggy due to her medicine. She was sick after my brother was born. She thought she saw my uncle coming out of my bedroom and adjusting his pants, but she was not sure. The next morning when my parents woke up, my uncle had already left. He had originally planned on being there for three more days. My mother tried talking to my father about what she thought she had seen, but he brushed it off. Nothing else was ever mentioned of it, even despite my drastic change in behavior. For the next twelve years I struggled with the anger, fear, hurt, depression, and hatred that no child can truly cope with on their own. I became very depressed as I got older. I was tormented in middle school by my peers and my home life was not the best. By the time I reached high school I had began to cut myself. My left wrist was my favorite place to cut. Part of me hoped that I would slip and cut too deep. I wrote poetry every day, pouring my emotions out onto the pages. I tried showing them to my mother, but she would simply say I was overreacting. I was alone, at least it felt that way, with dark thoughts I can not describe fully nearly eight years later. I began to rebel against my traditional Christian upbringing. I began to drink smoke, and have sex behind my parents' backs. My grades slipped from straight A's to nearly failing, but I didn't care anymore. I planned on killing myself one night, but my baby sister came into the room. I broke down crying and confessed everything to my friends the next morning. I was sent to a mental health facility where they addressed my cutting, but the underlying problems. I was about to be sent home when I told them that if I went back home I would either be back in two weeks, or they would be reading my obituary. I admit I had a flair for being dramatic. So my grandmother took me in. I was supposed to receive after care, but never did. So needless to say two months  later I was worse than ever before. One night I went into the bathroom and slowly swallowed my sleeping pills, anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, and my grandmother's pain medication. I then laid down in bed and sent a goodbye text to about fifteen friends. One friend became extremely concerned and called the sheriff department. I was rushed to the hospital where I had to drink charcoal to absorb the toxins. I was once again sent to mental health facility. This one was better than the first one and I was able to address my underlying issues.
   For the next seven years I would struggle with the depression caused by everything I went through as a child. My recovery was hindered by an abusive marriage. I am not healed, I do have moments where I break down. When my daughter turned three I decided I wanted to get a tattoo. I wanted something to remind myself to never give up hope. Despite all of the darkness in my life, there is so much beauty in it. Had my friend not cared enough to call the cops, I would not be here today. Two beautiful children would not exist. Had I not gone through the pain though, I would not be who I am. Instead of scars on my left wrist, I can now look down and see the reminder that here is always hope. Hope will always be there, even when it feels like all hope has vanished.

To spank or not to spank

 This is a very touchy subject, and I risk a lot by posting about it. Spanking. Many parents do it, many speak against it. Some parents keep their opinions about it to themselves out of fear of being judged by their peers and society. So here I go, on a limb to speak my personal opinion and to share my own experiences.
  My parents love me, this is a fact I know now. I say now, because at times I did not believe this. I grew up in a home where spanking was the usual punishment. Sadly my parents often let their anger control them and I received the blunt of their anger. Choking even occurred on a few occasions. I will not go too far into detail, because there are some things I do not feel should be shared with those reading my blog. My brother also received blows out of anger, mostly from our father. I began to ask over and over, "Why?' I wondered why they hurt me. What had I done to make mommy and daddy so mad at me? I internalized the abuse and eventually hurt myself. I struggled with depression and to this day I still do. My brother externalized it...at me and later our baby sister. He became very violent and still has outbursts to this day.
   When I had my daughter I vowed I would not spank her. I failed in that promise. I did spank her and did not realize I was hurting her. I began to catch myself and walk away in order to not take anger or frustration out on her. My husband at the time did not stop himself. When we divorced I was hesitant in him having visitation with her due to his history of violence towards myself. I had to let him have her every other weekend due to our state's laws. I began to notice changes in my daughter's behaviors and she even regressed in her potty training. She was only two at the time. Then she came home with bruises on her legs, and not the normal bruises kids get. That was the last straw. I ended up taking him to court and the judge mandated supervised visitation, which he refused. Fast forward two years and my daughter still struggles with understanding it. I had hoped that with therapy she would heal. It is a very slow process.
    I do not spank her, not even a slight swat on the bottom. My mother finds this absurd and has even told me I was spanked and turned out fine. I remind her of my depression when I was younger and she claims someone must have convinced me that her spanking me was abuse, because she did nothing wrong. When I lived with my parents this past year my father spanked my daughter, hard enough for me to hear it in the other room. He did it out of frustration like he had done with myself and my brother. I had to put my foot down and had a stern talk with my father. Luckily he listened to me about it.
    While I do not spank, my daughter does face consequences for her actions. She loses privileges, toys, etc.  She has to do extra chores(age appropriate) when she does certain things. I make sure she understands why she is in trouble each time as well. It works for us, and she does make improvements. I also encourage her when she exhibits good behavior. So, this is why I do not spank my daughter. I am still the boss in my home, but I do not worry about whether I am controlling by fear. I do not want my child to behave out of fear of being hurt. I want her to behave because she knows right from wrong.

Little Moments

 I am a mother first of all, but I also work outside of the home. I work as a waitress which means I can either work for just a few hours before going home, or I can work up to twelve hours without a break. It is an exhausting job, but honestly I love it. I get to interact with people and exercise all at the time. Carrying those heavy trays and walking all night at a brisk pace is a big work out. So of course by the time I get home I am beyond exhausted. I then clean the house and do all of my motherly duties as well.
  With the exhaustion I sometimes find myself frustrated and feel like I am missing out on my kids growing up. I am in such a rush to get the house clean, pay the bills, run the errands, etc. There are other days where my exhaustion catches up to me and I just want to lay on the couch watching television with the kids. This morning was one of those lazy days. I find myself feeling guilty when I relax instead of cleaning house. I was laying there, curled up under my warm blanket just relaxing. I began to nod off, which was not my intention. The kids had been playing on the living room floor near me. Suddenly I felt someone grabbing my leg and I looked down. Milk Monster was standing there, smiling at me. He just recently started standing up and I could tell that he was proud of himself.
    As I sit here thinking about that moment this morning, I realize my life is full of these little moments. Sometimes with the hectic running around and exhaustion I find myself missing these moments. Milk Monster grabbing my leg this morning was a little reminder to slow down and enjoy these little moments.

Teaching by Example

 The saying we often hear is that children learn from example. Sometimes we find ourselves scoffing at the very idea. Yet if not by our example, then how else do they learn? As I go through this adventure with my children, I can't help but think back on my own childhood. It's not a pretty trip down memory lane, that's for sure. While there are wonderful memories I try to cling to, there a lot of instances where a bad example was set.
  As I grew up, I saw my father spend less and less time at home in order to avoid conflict with my mother. When he was home, he wanted to be left alone or at least relax after working. My mother would try to explain how I or my brother had misbehaved, and often ask him to discipline us. Since he wasn't home when it happened, he often did not grasp her rules around the house. So in my mother's eyes he would undermine her and say something that went against her rules. She expected him to back her up, but it did not seem that he did. So in our eyes we saw a parent completely disregard what the other one said. This is a simple example that shows us how parenting works. It is teamwork that requires both parents to cooperate in order to teach the children.
  A harsher example I learned was how to view your body. My mother had often struggled with her weight, ever since high school apparently. She was rise and fall in a rapid pattern, causing her to be miserable with herself. I would often see my mother looking at herself in photographs, and I would hear her complain about her body. My mother was not a big woman in my early childhood. Yes she did have some curves and a little meat to her, but she was absolutely beautiful. My mother came from Irish and Cherokee heritage and had a broad frame. Her adoptive father often commented on her weight because she was bigger than her sister. He even forced her to go onto a diet when she was younger. Then when she married my father, her in-laws also began to criticize her for her weight. After the criticism, she began to take it to heart. What my mother did not realize, that as she bashed herself over and over in front of me I began to look at my own body the same way. She was constantly watching what I ate, afraid I would begin to struggle with my weight as well. When I began to go through puberty I did begin to gain weight. I became very depressed about my body and felt that a man could never be attracted to me. By the time I reached high school I started to starve myself. It took counseling after a dark moment in order to stop starving myself. I have struggled with my body image ever since. Only after the birth of my second child, and the support of my partner have I come to love my curves.
   I guess my point in sharing this story is to be wise about the example you set. Children watch every little thing you do, and hear everything you say. I have been doing my best to not let my daughter see my struggles with my body image. I tell her she is beautiful the way she is, that she is beautiful inside and out. I want my daughter to be confident in a way that took me years to become. I do not want her to go through the struggles that I went through. I know she is young still, but puberty will be rough for her as it is for any child.

Doubt Arises

  While I am now confident that breastfeeding is best for Milk Monster, and that he is perfectly healthy, there have been times where doubt arose. Milk Monster weighed a little less than eight pounds when he was born and was twenty inches long. He began to gain weight at a decent pace, then had a huge growth spurt within two months. At his four month check up he was about sixteen pounds and twenty-six inches long. I felt confident in him receiving the nutrients he needed all from my milk.
   When I took Milk Monster to his six month appointment, he had not gained any weight or gotten any longer. I was saddened by this, but his pediatrician made no comment about it. Instead she seemed satisfied with him being healthy and breastfed. That following week we had an appointment with WIC to have him weighed and measured. The nurse entered his height and weight into the system that keeps track of it for them. She became concerned by the fact that he was not growing, or so it seemed to her. I tried to brush it aside because his father's family is on the shorter side, and I am not very tall either.
     That night when I went home I began to doubt whether or not my milk was helping him grow. We had begun to introduce him to solids, but he preferred mommy's milk. I kept brushing aside my fears, trying to focus on the fact that breastmilk is best for him. Then a few days later he was fussy and seemed to be constantly nursing. He was screaming loudly, as if he was still hungry immediately after nursing. I broke down crying, believing my milk supply was decreasing. So I gave him a bottle of pumped milk that I had thawed. I began reaching out to breastfeeding communities for advice, hoping I could avoid switching him to formula. It was like going through what I did with The Princess all over again. I bought fenugreek and mother's milk tea in the hopes of increasing my supply. I went to bed that night crying, but hopeful. Luckily my supply had not dried up and after almost three months I have accepted that I am doing what is best for him. I can see Milk Monster has grown, and I am hopeful for his next appointment. Even though he is small for his age, he is happy and healthy. I will do my best from now on to not let others make me doubt my body's ability to provide for my child.

The Princess and I

  Breastfeeding is hard work, and when I first became pregnant with The Princess nearly six years ago no one mentioned that to me. I had dreams of nursing my little one for her first year of life, and was eager to begin my journey in motherhood. I was a young mother, not even twenty years old when she was born. My relationship with my own mother was tattered due to difficulties in my past. My SO at the time was, well, far from supportive. He was not happy about me not working even for the first six weeks of her life, and would often make it clear my affection for our daughter was robbing him of affection.
  I was young and alone for most of the day as well as the night due to my SO working two jobs. The Princess would not rest at night, and instead she was constantly nursing. When she wasn't nursing she was screaming as if in pain. My first night home was horrible and exhausting. I could not understand why she wouldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. My father came over the next morning to let me sleep and it was the best gift he could have given me at that moment. Once he left though it was back to struggling to get The Princess to sleep or at least stop crying. I began to doze off during the day when she napped instead of keeping our apartment spotless. This greatly irritated my SO and caused many arguments between us. He began to suggest I give her formula so I could get more stuff done. I didn't want to at first, but his persistence wore me down. We began to supplement and it seemed to help at first.
  The formula was a short lived answer to our problem. She began to throw up everything she ate, nearly immediately after she ate. I would frantically call her pediatrician's office trying to describe the projectile vomit that she was experiencing. At first family members and the nurse  all suggested it might be a milk allergy, so we gave her a different formula and cut back on the breastfeeding. I began to notice a lack of my milk supply and became saddened. I took this as a sign that I could no longer breastfeed her if we kept giving her formula as well. The new formula did not help her spit up problem at all. The pediatrician informed us it was quite possible that she had acid reflux so they switched her to a different formula. I was also told I could no longer breastfeed because she would not be able to keep it down. I had no one else to go to for advice so I trusted the doctor. The new formula eased her spit up issues, but not my personal doubts. To this day I wonder if maybe she could have been breastfed. Perhaps if I had been around more moms, had a support system, or a least one person who could help me I might have been able to succeed.
  So while I support breastfeeding as being best for babies, I understand that moms struggle. I have friends who have their milk dry up within a month, and I know others who experienced extreme depression while breastfeeding. Their depression caused them to have to stop in order to not hurt themselves or their babies. I also know there are so many other mothers out there that lack a support system. Young moms and even older moms alike need a support system through this journey. It is a difficult yet rewarding one and sometimes we need someone to offer friendly advice in order to succeed.

  How did my little man become known as Milk Monster? That is a question some have asked me lately, and the story is cute. One night my little man was playing on the living room floor while I was sitting at the computer in the recliner. He crawled over to me and began to tap my feet, making noises to get my attention. So I leaned down to pick him up, and sat him in my lap. He turned himself around so that he could face me. For a moment he was simply staring at me, intensely. He laid his head on my chest and for a moment I thought he was being affectionate towards mommy. Oh how I was wrong. He put his arms on my shoulders and stood himself up in my lap, with his head on my chest. He began to then headbutt my chest, making an "mmmm" sound as he did so. He would then look up at me before sitting down with a grin on his face. This was followed by him smacking my chest repeatedly. He would wait for me to look at him, then he would begin to stand up and headbutt my chest again. So I finally asked "Do you want milk?" He stopped instantly, and laughed at me. That was my sign, well of course I want milk mommy. That was the night Milk Monster came to life.
    Moments like that make it easy to remember why I am breastfeeding. There are times of course that make it difficult to remember why I am doing it. I am talking about those late nights where all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep, but instead I am laying in bed nursing my son. There are nights where I feel like I get less than three hours of sleep due to him waking and wanting to nurse. His pediatrician and others have told me to get him to go back to sleep, or to let him cry it out. Yet something inside of me always felt this was wrong, letting him go without eating through the night. His tummy is so little compared to mine, and he has been continually fed on demand for nine months while growing inside of my womb. Maybe he does just want the comfort of being near mommy. How can that be so wrong? All of you moms questioning whether or not to co-sleep or to simply hold your little one in the night, pause for a moment and consider this. Your little one has been in your warm, safe womb for nine months. He or she has known your smell and your voice for nine months. Why do we suddenly expect them to sleep away from us and through the night so suddenly after coming into this strange world? Babies need reassurance that we are not leaving them, that we are nearby, in order to feel secure. The idea of keeping babies in separate spaces came about in a time when infants struggled to survive and children were treated as little adults. Babies were kept separate so that their parents would not make them ill, and children were expected to grow up very quickly. In most other countries, babies are kept close to their mothers especially at night. Babies do not cry to manipulate us because they do not know how to manipulate. They cry because that is how they communicate with us. Their cries tell us they need us, whether they need us because they are hungry, need a diaper change, or simply need us to comfort them. I did not always know this. I always felt better having not only my milk monster near me at night but also his 4 year old sister, The Princess. My mother co slept with my sister, so luckily she understood it to a point. However it took a lot of research and looking to other mothers on blogs to understand I was not alone. So although I may hear people telling me to not nurse him at night, or to keep him out of my bed, I know in my heart I am doing what is right for my child. We mothers have deep, natural instincts that come from generations upon generations of women making decisions for their children. Do not let someone make you feel bullied into changing how you raise your child. You are a mother and in your heart you know what is best. So even in those weary hours when you feel like you haven't slept in months, stay strong mamas. You are not alone.

 The moment the placed him in my arms I was determined to give him the best a mother can give. He was so small, yet so perfect in every way. He was a part of me, just as his older sister is. I lay there admiring him, admiring the life that had been growing inside of me for nine months. The nurses asked if I'd like them to clean him before letting him nurse. I simply shook my head and moved to latch him onto my breast. I rubbed the nipple against his cheek and instantly his mouth found it. As he nursed, his little hand reached for mine, and his eyes sought out my gaze. The nurses, the doctor, and my fiance were amazed how easily he nursed. My fiance beamed with pride as he watched me feed our son. From that day on I was determined to do what I had struggled to do four years prior. I had longed to breastfeed his sister, but a lack of support and an abusive relationship caused me to feel pressured into giving her formula instead. I understand some moms have difficulty breastfeeding and sometimes formula is necessary, but I felt saddened by not being able to nurse her. I wanted things to be different for my son, and I was a woman determined.
  Eight months later and we are still going strong. My son not only enjoys my milk, he loves it. He is very demanding for it and has been dubbed my milk monster. This cute little nickname sticks to him very easily for many reasons. I am grateful for all of the support I received in the beginning and through all of the rough nights with late feedings. I admire all of the women who blog about breastfeeding and offer advice. So now I will share my adventures with my milk monster in the hopes that I can help at least one other mother. So sit back, relax, and join me on this wonderful journey.