Still On The Fence: More Thoughts on Life Balance and Having Number Two

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything here again. I have excuses, yes, I’ve been busy. Working on my manuscript, teaching workshops, pitching classes, doing housework, engulfed in family life, and so on. I’ve started posts for this blog, but not finished them as more pressing deadlines take over. And my perfectionist tendencies always keep me from just rattling off a few random paragraphs. That’s not really my forte, anyway. I’m an essayist at heart, not a blogger.

           

But in any case, I still regularly feel the need to purge the crusty layers that build up, to vent, to muse, and to locate my center of gravity beyond all the thoughts and tangents: to locate what, at core, has been going on. So, here goes.

First off, I finished another round of Writing Motherhood in October, and am now wrapping up a round of Writing Your Birth Story. Both have been good; and both have taught me how I might refine the experience, for the participants and for myself. Namely, I still want to make the workshops longer. One month always goes by too fast, but then I worry that less people will sign up if it’s longer—because of the time commitment, the money, and thus the greater element of risk involved. But I crave the opportunity to go deeper into the writing process and the community that we form each session, and that can only come from more time together. So next March, I will offer a six-week, in-person Motherhood workshop series that taps into craft, in addition to the usual free-writing and focus on process. And sometime in the late spring, another (mostly) online Birth Story workshop. Stay tuned.

Another thing I’ve been weighing still is whether I want to have another child. Some days, it feels obvious, if only because I can’t yet let go of the underlying longing to know what it would be like to go through the experience of motherhood “all over again”, yet on a new level. To imagine getting to know another child of mine, to go through a similar process of discovery and bonding, but also, to know that this child will be a completely different person than Cedar. How would this feel to go through motherhood again, yet this time a bit more seasoned, and with a different child? A part of me can’t stand to not find out.

There is something deeply fascinating to me about the whole unfolding process of motherhood, despite all the sleep deprivation and angst at not having enough time to myself. Motherhood has offered the ultimate paradox for my creative life, in that while I’ve been constantly struggling to get more time to write and teach, I also have never felt this over-brimming with projects and ideas of things to write about. Almost three years in now, and motherhood, more than ever, still feels like such a rich, unmined territory to tap. Whole stages of mother-child-father-universe relationships have gone by, that I simply haven’t had the time to capture by pen. And so if I do go through motherhood again, maybe I’ll get a second chance to approach these topics all over again. Granted, from a new layer of insight.

But then, my devil’s advocate pipes in, I will also be even more busy, and catapulted back into the early days with hardly any time to myself. Instead, now, my “breaks” will consist of time that I am “only” with the baby, while Cedar is in school or with others. It might be years before I regain the equilibrium I have finally gained now, the space where it actually feels possible to mother, to write, to publish, and to teach—to do a bit of everything I want to do to feel satisfied inside. Instead, I will have to go back to a period of “just mothering” (as if that isn’t intense enough by itself), with a little scribbling and reading on the side. Teaching will be put on hold for a while, because as much as I love it, some basic minimum amount of writing needs to come first for me. And publishing? This blog will have to continue to suffice.

Any big publishing goals I have will need to happen before another baby comes. This much feels clear. That’s why the last time I was expecting, I made a final push to send out my manuscript to small presses. That’s why I haven’t done much of anything with my book for two years, until finally late this summer I took the plunge and paid someone to read the whole thing and give me feedback, to will myself into seeing it and loving it and being motivated to work on it from a fresh perspective.

I wrote a new introduction and epilogue, drawing out certain themes, reframing the ‘arc’ of the book anew. I actually feel like it is good again, worthy of the work it will take to get it out there, worthy of the money I plan to spend to make it look professional (assuming I self-publish, the current plan). Worthy of the energy it will take to launch my own book tour, to market, to update my blog or make a new website, and to get myself excited about a project that is so old, all over again. I am motivated. I want to do this. I want to birth this labor of love of mine, this coming of age memoir, this project through which I’ve learned so much (and would like to have some closure around, please).

But the deadline keeps getting pushed forward. Because I have so little concentrated time to focus. I did have two and a half full days alone to work a few weeks ago (when my husband brought Cedar to his Grandma’s for the weekend) and I accomplished more in a couple days than I would for many months in the usual piece-meal way that I must work. I need more of those intensive working chunks. I am not planning any classes for December-February, with the hope that I will finish the book and start in on the publishing process then. But then I have been saying this—that I’m “almost done”—for a long time. And if I didn’t know myself better, I’d start to doubt in my own resolve. Only I know each time I say it, it’s that much more closer to true. And I know how much work I’ve already put in, and I know how close it is. And so I know, I must do this. I must put it out there into the world. And this must happen soon, certainly before any pregnancy or new baby could enter my life. This much is clear.

Writing will always be like another child to me, another child I need to take care of and take into account any time I’m considering adding something new to my life: how will this child be affected? Will I still be able to care for this child in a way that feels satisfying? Will this child be somehow left behind? These are not trivial questions to me.

So, here I am. It is almost December. Christmas is coming, gift giving, photo-organizing, tree buying, family gatherings. This all takes energy, time. Somehow I must be diligent in making sure that my few afternoons a week to myself don’t get completely sucked into this frenzy, alongside the usual housework, bills, chores, and correspondence. Somehow I need to dive back into the manuscript revisions, set clear small goals, personal deadlines.

Somehow I must also find a way to exercise more, to prioritize health, for this has fallen by the wayside over the last year, and I know how important it is to my overall well-being. (Although as I think about how my future ‘breaks’ would probably consist now of times when I just have the baby to care for, I console myself by remembering that at least during that baby stage you can pop them in a stroller and go on lots of walks. At least I got more exercise back then. And drank less wine, too.)

When I try to imagine what else about that stage would feel “easier” now that I can compare it to the toddler stage, I feel fairly steadied for the challenges. After all, we’ve already had our share of dietary, sleep, and behavior challenges—what are the chances that the next baby would be even more challenging? Certainly possible (and this thought fills me with both fear and humility), but not that likely (at least I hope, or pray).

Ah, so apparently I’m back at the topic of: to procreate again or not to procreate. Well, I’ve already decided that it would be hugely stressful, financially risky, and too time-consuming to try to build an addition before another baby came, so I’ve already (sort of) made peace with how we could add another child into our one bedroom, 850 square foot arrangement, by putting the baby’s crib (and yes, our baby is getting a crib this time) into the living room next to our bed.

It would be crowded. Our evenings would be subdued (assuming the baby eventually wakes from noise, as most babies do). And our marital life may, yet again, suffer. But, oh, the ultimate joy! (Right?) Oh, the joy of having a larger family to grow old with. Oh, these early years will go fast, right? Yeah, I don’t know. I’m still on the fence as I’ve said. Just trying to feel out if it is indeed do-able and, most of all, right. Do-able? Yes. Where there’s a will there’s a way. But, is it right for us? That is the bigger question.

So, no home remodel yet (although at the rate our appliances are dying, we’ll at least get an all-around updated kitchen by then). I’m also looking into other preschool options for Cedar so that he could be in school more than the three mornings a week that co-op preschool (which we love) will entail next year. We can afford that, I think, though I have yet to do any math. So that leaves the publishing goals, the teaching, the writing… the weaning and toilet-training goals too (both of which keep getting put off for now, for lack of interest, or resolve). A lot still needs to happen before I want to remove my IUD.

My husband and I would also need to have a good budgeting talk, a sound financial plan laid out, as well as a plan as to how we plan to prioritize marital peace, connection, communication, and overall sanity. And that means: regular date nights (or afternoons); even once a month will do (obviously we haven’t set a high precedent here). And a new agreement forged between us as to what degree of personal time it is realistic to expect—for me, to write (and do everything else I do to maintain our household). And for him, namely, to fish. Because that is his passion, his religion, his connection to nature, his exercise, his primary release, and I get that.

Sure, I’ve spent plenty of time over the last couple years begrudging his desire to go fishing (Again? Haven’t you gone enough already?), with a lot of back and forth negotiation (You can go every other weekend for the day, if I get to go write for a few hours every weekend. Fair enough?) But then there were the long weekend trips out to the Olympic peninsula which began to take their toll (Most parents of young children are lucky if they get to go on one long weekend, bachelor style trip with their buddies a year, much less four!). Until we finally reached the place where nursing had decreased enough that I could leave Cedar for longer stretches, and reached a wonderful, almost equitable agreement called tit-for-tat: you get a weekend, I get a weekend.

I say ‘almost’ equitable because his “weekends away” have typically consisted of about three full days, whereas mine are more like one point five. But it’s hard to complain about this when for almost two years, the longest time to myself I ever got was something like four hours to go to the spa. And so, in my ongoing quest for shared parenting equity (tit-for-tat, if you will), I’ve now proposed that we count “days” versus weekends, because I still mostly feel like I end up with the short end of the stick. I believe my husband begrudgingly agreed (translation: grunted). And so now, I’m fine with him going away fishing for a weekend, as long as I get my time to write in exchange. I need it, and now more than ever. I have serious goals. Limited time. The decision to have or not have a child may hinge on this factor!

Anyway, the irony of course is that even if we manage to finally come to a place of “total equity” regarding parenting duties, if another child were to come into the picture, this equation would no doubt get thrown back out again for another year at least. (And I don’t expect to get “back pay”, so to speak, because somehow that would just be way too demanding of me and the expected maternal sacrifices.) Maybe the next baby won’t nurse or co-sleep for as long, and won’t be as dependent on the boob to go to sleep. Maybe we’ll consciously decide to make it easier on ourselves, and especially on me, not following quite such an attachment parenting model (not that I ever set out to be an “attachment parent”, mind you; we just made the choices that felt right at the time).

Don’t get me wrong, I stand behind the parenting choices we’ve thus far made, for the most part, and for this particular baby, with this particular temperament. But there are things I will probably do differently. I tell myself. Of course, the true test will be what actually happens when we are in the thick of it. And there is a sense of adventure and an exciting challenge inherent in this imagining… mixed in with impending fear and dread. In moments though, there is an overwhelming optimism, that says, in the end, how could we ever regret it!? But in some ways, this sentiment is naïve, for I’m sure some parents actually do regret having another, on some level, but this is not a socially acceptable sentiment so you don’t hear about it.

But still. It is exciting, you must admit, the whole baby-imagining, baby-making, birthing process. It’s high drama. It’s life and death from its most peaked and illuminating vistas. And it’s also a bit like… falling… into an abyss. First and foremost. Before you slowly climb your way out again, and before you are so worn down and seasoned that you are finally able to enjoy the view from each stage and even in the midst of each new challenge; where you are so humbled by the whole life-altering experience of parenthood, that you’ve stopped waiting around for those promises of the future plateaus, and you truly are just along for the ride. Or something like that. Doesn’t it get easier as they say, even as it gets harder, with two? Don’t you experience even more of a degree of ego destruction, humility, and self-surrender? And isn’t that ultimately a good thing?

Hmm… I’m not completely convincing myself, although I am trying. I truly do see both sides. The amazing and awesome, and the terrifying and terrible. Parenting is at heart a paradoxical experience. It’s rough. There’s no escaping this, no matter how “easy” or “hard” of a baby you had. Parenting is hard on marriage, on your body, on your personal goals or dreams, on maintaining your former idea of yourself. And yet, it is also so hands-down incredible and amazing. To watch a child grow. To be so intricately tied to their experience of this earth. To laugh with them, dance with them, nurture them. To see the world anew through their eyes.

Sometimes I wonder though how much of this desire to have another baby is tied up in societal norms. If the majority of mothers around me weren’t having number two, or planning on it, if I were in the minority for considering another one, would it be easier then to let go of the lingering desire and embrace the sanity of just one; i.e. the quicker return of my equilibrium, creative life, and quality time with my husband? It’s worth pondering. There is something of the fear of “missing out” at play here. Not wanting to miss out. The clock is ticking, it’s now or never, so just go for it!

And then, a friend recently mused that after she had her third child (who incidentally was a “surprise”), she definitely no longer had that feeling of baby lust around infants she’d still had before number three came along. None whatsoever. And so that makes me consider: would the lingering baby lust still be there, even if it weren’t meant to be? Will I somehow just “know” at some point that I want to do it, or will I have to make the harder choice (in some ways), of deciding “no,” and in turn letting go of whatever lingering visions I might have had of a larger family or round two of motherhood anew?

Why does it feel like deciding not to have another child would leave me with more questions and potential regret, than deciding to have one? I think it’s because the decision to have one is proactive, decisive, and once I decide something big like that, I stand behind my instincts that led me there. Whereas the decision not to do something can feel more passive (even if it isn’t a passive decision, but deliberately thought out); still, it can feel like something you just “let happen” by letting “time slip or opportunities slip away from you”.

Perhaps this is also tied up in how our culture values “doing” more than “not doing”. More is better. And “not doing” is often seen as laziness or fear, whereas more “doing” is usually applauded and admired, at least from a distance (wow—look at how much that person is accomplishing!), even if it drives one to emotional, physical, or spiritual fatigue.

Hmm… this is an interesting discussion, Anne. But now I must go and pick up my child. I am sure these thoughts will be continued in a future post, (sadly, yet realistically) months down the road. Until then, dear readers, thank you for indulging me. And feel free to share with me more thoughts on your experiences with having number two. I’m definitely still on the fence. Sticking with just one at times can feel pretty sweet. 

Especially this little one.

Defrosting the Placenta

Placenta Prints

The other week, we finally planted Cedar’s placenta. What? Yes. It’s been in our freezer wrapped in a bread bag for almost two and a half years. I had planned to plant it right after his birth, under a young tree or plant, to mark the occasion, to join a part of our bodies with the earth, then watch the plant grow bigger each year. But, as you might imagine, other things took priority right after he was born—like nursing and sleeping and recovering from surgery-- and so it has sat, frozen in waiting.

Our friend, Amy, who was at the birth, gave us a small lilac plant in the weeks that followed. We’d wanted something that puts out fragrant blossoms in the spring around late March, when Cedar was born. Lilacs bloom a bit later, more like the end of April, but whatever, that’s close enough. Matthew and I both love their scent.

The lilac was tiny and we weren’t sure it would make it, so we kept it in a pot on our deck and watered it for the last two years, while the placenta receded further into the back of our freezer. (Is that a flank steak? A block of raspberries?) Then last week, since we were sticking around all day doing house projects, and it was a beautiful, sunny, early fall day, it struck me as the perfect opportunity to plant it. By now, I didn’t need the planting to be done on some particularly auspicious day—like Cedar’s first, second, or third birthday. At this point I just wanted it out of our freezer and the lilac in the ground before it died without ever even having the chance to flower.

A giant cedar tree had come down about a year ago, opening up a big exposed hole between our yard and the neighbors’, so we had a perfect spot for the lilac which may eventually grow quite large. First I let the placenta defrost--just a bit-- in the sink. Somehow it struck me that it should not be rock hard frozen, that I wanted to see its juices touch the soft dirt. Then I began to dig the hole. Matthew helped me make it deeper, then cut out some roots and filled it with homemade compost. Cedar then dropped in a couple small trowel’s full of fertilizer (his usual job when helping me plant flowers), and I cut open the bread bag, gently shaking loose the placenta while trying not to touch it.

Despite the fact that you may already think I’m weird for keeping it in the first place, I was not exactly eager to touch or smell the placenta. Still partially frozen, I didn’t readily detect any odor—and nor did I sniff it to try to locate one. Yet the blood had begun to seep onto the plastic and the hard, dark red mass was indeed revealing itself for what it was: a bodily organ. This is why the hospital was required to label it ‘hazardous waste’ when they gave it to me, sealed in a white plastic bucket. And this is why the whole process struck me as both slightly disgusting yet profoundly cool.

After I dropped the placenta into the hole, Matthew shook the root-bound lilac out of its pot and shoveled more dirt around its edges. How strange, I thought, that I could still see and touch the actual blood of my body, blood of our birth. I go through each day now so tightly bound to my son, 24-7, in touch with his rhythms, listening for his calls, responding to his needs. We are as connected as ever, morning till night, eating the same foods, running the same errands, going on walks, playing in parks, befriending sets of mothers and sons. But the memory of Cedar’s actual birth has grown faint, usurped by the constant forward momentum of our lives, our growth, our balancing acts, lessons, and needs.

           

So now, two and a half years later, to spontaneously decide to unfreeze, unwrap, touch and plant the very organ that once physically connected us, that gave him life while he was in my womb, felt beautiful in a quiet and unassuming kind of way. It wasn’t an overwrought ritual. We were just planting another plant, something we’ve done all summer long. But in other ways, of course, this was a very special plant indeed.

My sister and her baby, Avery, a mere two months old, happened to be here to witness our planting and snap a few photos. She asked if we were going to explain to Cedar anything. “He won’t understand,” my husband shook his head. “Maybe, we’ll see,” I said, wanting to leave it up to the moment. In the end, all I said as I shook out the dark red form from the bag was, “This is very special fertilizer.” And then: “This is a lilac plant. It will grow purple flowers in the spring. It is Cedar’s special plant.” 

This felt like enough.

A Rant, Three Sighs, and A Plea

Life has been a little hard lately and I need to vent. I’ve been busy, giving a lot, emotionally drained, and with never enough time to do it all—to cook, to clean, to answer emails, to plan classes, to advertise, to write, to edit, to write, to love, to pay attention to my husband, to honor his needs, to be kind to my family, to keep in touch with good friends, to reach out to new friends, to cut down on screentime, to keep the plants watered and the weeds from taking over, to pick up the fallen fruit before it rots, to get a haircut, to EXERCISE and feel good inside, to cut back on wine, to be kind to myself, to drink enough water, to remember to speak Chinese, to keep submitting old works, to think about marketing my book, to worry about marketing my book, to try to stay positive, to remind my husband about his chores, to keep up with my own chores, to not let any one place (the toilet, the kitchen floor) get too disgusting, to apply for a writing residency, to remember the projects on the back burner, to keep up with the blog, to remind myself that I should really update my website, or make a whole new one altogether.

Sigh.

This is, more or less, the stuff that churns through my head all week, changing emphasis depending on the day or state of my domestic neglect, the state of my creative neglect, or both.

And when I get too tired, when I’ve had a terrible night’s sleep-- or going on several since Cedar still wakes a couple times a night, and I am now the lightest sleeper in the house, actually hearing him rustle as he get out of bed (in my half-asleep state) so that by the time he is standing at my bedside, I’ve already looked at the clock and am sitting up, ready to lead him back to his own. Anyway, when I get too tired to tackle anything on my to-do list, or to feel particularly positive about anything, then there’s always wine and Facebook, or wine and Netflix, or wine and walking around the yard. There’s always the act of just giving in fully to fatigue, just zoning out until I’m dead tired and ready to sleep, dear dear sleep. Of course, I never remember to drink enough water, then drink a glass near the end of the night, and spend the whole night getting up to pee. But I wake up in between almost every sleep cycle anyway, because my body has been trained by a little boy named Cedar and a little thing called Motherhood to do this. Because-- although I have not studied this to offer proof—I’m pretty sure that our sleep cycles are still intricately connected even if he now sleeps in his own bed in the adjoining room.

Sigh.

I need to vent, and I need to hike, or power walk, or do zumba, or get really drunk and dance at some club, speakers pounding, heartbeat rising into my own internal flurry of rage and joy, or write and write and write, and have multiple entire days of solitary retreat, not just one every few months if I’m lucky.

I’m sick of having to rush all the time—to rush cooking, rush writing, rush dashing to the café and back home and back to pick up Cedar, rush trying to squeeze in laundry, a phone call to the utility company to request a yard waste bin I’ve requesting since July, rush watering some dying tomatoes and flowers that come September I suddenly don’t care about so much anymore because they are on their last blooms, almost gone.

And so is my fleeting enthusiasm for all things summer, for the promise of new exercise regimes and camping trips and BBQs and overall carefree frolicking fun, which never happens as I envision anyway because even something like camping now is still more like 90% parenting a toddler, 10% enjoying the environment. Perhaps I exaggerate, perhaps I am forgetting a few stellar moments of existential joy I had while in nature this summer, perhaps I am forgetting to remind myself in this moment how good I have it, but dang it, I can still know I have it good and have reason to vent and rage, right?

Rage sounds like a strong word for these things I am feeling, but I swear, a part of this all—a repressed, socially unacceptable, under the radar part—can manifest as rage. The way I fling dishes and dirty clothes about when I am cleaning but would rather be writing or climbing a forested path by a river, sweaty and cleansed by my own breath. The way this “rage” is really just another name for hardened, crusty residue built up from fatigue, too many days without a true break, too many tears that need releasing.  

Yes, a subtle undercurrent of rage manifests when I feel like the thousands of times I pick up a toy or sock or unload a load from the dishwasher goes unseen. Never happens. Is erased the moment my son and husband spill into the room and leave trails of new toys, shoes, cups, crumbs crushed underfoot. Rage manifests when I feel like “my time to write” is actually my time to write, clean, cook, pay bills, plan for my child’s needs, and keep the house from falling apart in general.

I know I shouldn’t complain for I have so much more time than I used to at least, so much more than I did during the first year of motherhood when Cedar was even more tied to me and my breast. These days I get an average of six hours a week from my folks, three to five from trading childcare with friends, plus maybe a few hours on the weekend from my husband—to do “my thing.” Whether that’s a long neglected haircut, a two-hour writing session at a café, a two-hour class to teach, or a sudden desperate need to clean up mold or grime (go figure). Whatever it is, all of these tasks get lumped together into the category called “my time” and the actual writing or editing that I do so often gets squeezed into a mere few hours.

I know I should be grateful that I am able to both stay home with my son AND continue to pursue writing and teaching, but it’s hard to feel like I’m taking writing seriously enough when it gets squeezed into a few measly hours like it does, a token thread of connection to what, at heart, I still consider to be my primary vocation. Never mind motherhood. Yes, THAT is now my primary vocation, hands down, not even complaining (for the most part). What I’m complaining about is the part that’s parceled out to me as “my time.” “My time” that includes not only chores and work for pay, but also any attempt to rest, heal, or otherwise feed my heart.

Why am I so overwhelmed at this particular juncture? Mostly, it’s good stuff, like finally having had a pocket of time (in August) to think about my Searching for the Heart Radical manuscript again, and to motivate to hire someone to give me feedback, which in turn motivated me to write a new introduction and epilogue, to frame the manuscript anew and actually make me excited and proud of this thing again, this labor of love that I cannot shelve, that I still need to somehow send out into the world. Plus I’ve got two upcoming workshops and the necessary preparation and advertising that goes into launching classes on my own. In exchange for this recent flurry of work, I’ve let the state of my home to slide and have neglected to exercise and breathe, never mind interacting much with my husband.

Sigh.

Also, there is the issue of sleep—the return of poor or mediocre sleep should be enough to justify maternal angst alone. It’s getting better again, thank god, but by now I just laugh at the whole subject on some level. We’ve tasted far worse, so I’m done with complaining about sleep.

On top of all this, perhaps a big part of it in fact is that I’ve had some stuff going on that I can’t go into here online, but suffice it to say that it has drained me profusely. Right now, I’m still recovering from the drama that has passed and is barely on my mind, yet I know that the residue of the heart’s emotions that the whole debacle brought out of me is still coursing through my veins, still here, still needing to be exhaled, exercised out, danced out, laughed out, cried out—I’ll take any outlet I can get-- just let me sweat and curse and love it all out.

Pain, my pain, other people’s pain, the world’s pain. And sorrow, so closely tied, often just beneath the surface. Tenderness. Ache. I hadn’t felt my heart literally ache like this for so long, and I was reminded recently of what this feels like-- how everything we take in goes straight to the core of this taut beating muscle. How this is the filter through which we process our well-being, this is the clearest measure of our happiness and state of mind-- whether we realize it or not, whether we feel our heart’s ache directly or are numbed to its’ sensations—how everything we take in is still channeled through this muscle. Everything we ever have done or will ever do can be reduced to how it impacts our heart. And how, when we feel our hearts come alive again—and I’m not talking symbolism, I’m talking real physical sensation right there-- we can remember again the true stakes. How we are all so fragile, how life can be taken in an instant, and how we forget this, all the time, or never really knew it in the first place. Until we do.

If I had one wish right now, it would be that we all have more time to just dwell in our hearts. Our heart’s longing, our heart’s fatigue; our heart’s bruising, and layers of amnesia and neglect. To pause, and sink into that inky, bloody fertile space. To savor the feeling of that pulsing radical impulse in your chest-- to break out, break free, break down, or hold tight, and beyond everything else: to love.

Having Number Two: A Clear Yes or No

Up until recently, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I was going to be okay with just one kid. I cringed when I imagined how hard it’d be to take care of a newborn and a toddler at the same time. I cringed when I imagined how I’d go back to having hardly any time to myself, even less so than the first time around, and how I’d have to put all my teaching and writing projects back on hold. My husband was pretty much in the same boat.

With one, we could gain back our freedom to travel sooner—whether on weekend trips with just the two of us, or family trips that involved more distant locales (even China, I fantacized, for several months… we could rent out our house, take up in some quaint town (or tolerable city), immerse the whole family in Chinese).

Then there was also the question of money and space. With just one child, we would not be pressed to add on to our one bedroom cabin as quickly; we would not be forced to take out a loan before we felt like it was a smart financial decision. Hell, if other factors outweighed a desire for more space, we could even put off remodeling indefinitely. It’s been working out just fine the last couple months with our bed in the living room. Plenty of families all over the world wouldn’t blink an eye at raising a family in 850 square feet.

It wasn’t that I’d made up my mind or anything; I knew that there was a distinct possibility that I could feel totally differently in a year. But when I’d see moms with a baby and toddler and feel a wash of relief that I wasn’t them as opposed to envy, I thought that was a pretty good indicator that I was happy with what we have. Cedar is an awesome kid. But he wasn’t an easy baby with all his food sensitivities and sleeping challenges. He’s bright, active, and will keep delighting and challenging us for years to come. He’ll have plenty of playmates; I don’t think he’ll be lonely. And meanwhile, Matthew and I continue to reclaim vestiges of our former adult life back.

One of the major elements that we’ve recently started to reclaim is sleep. Cedar is finally sleeping through the night, pretty much every night, in his own bed. That doesn’t mean he always gets enough sleep, seeing that he wakes up around 5 a.m. But we no longer have to spend half our night listening for his waking whines, then rushing in to put him back down before he fully wakes. He no longer depends on nursing to fall asleep, and he knows he won’t get any milk from me now until 5 a.m. (which I’d like to try and change to even later; that’s the next goal).

In addition to all this, he just recently started going to sleep without anyone staying in the room with him until he drifts off. This feels huge! We do our usual stories, I leave, then him and Matthew say night-night to various animals, objects, and people, and then they turn on the noise machine, say a final night-night, and Matthew walks out and closes the door. Brilliant. This whole shift happened quite effortlessly one night after Matthew had enough of Cedar squirming about, climbing on top of him, and keeping himself up by distraction. Matthew decided to say goodnight and leave that night—and Cedar let him without a cry of protest. So that was it. Matthew then did the same thing the next few nights, staying in the room for an even shorter amount of time, and Cedar hasn’t protested at all. The most he’s done is get up and crack the door open, listening, then shut it and go back to lie down. I wish I could see what he looks like as he lies there going to sleep on his own and know how long it takes him, mostly to bask in the pleasure of my little guy getting to be so independent and taking so many changes in stride. But I don’t need to see him to know how good it feels to have an entire evening now where me and my husband can both relax, off duty for hours, by ourselves.

So needless to say we’re pretty happy about all this, and it’s probably no coincidence that now that we’ve FINALLY gotten over this poor sleeping hump, I’m lo and behold a bit more open to the idea of having another. It’s totally ironic, yes, that the minute I start sleeping better I’d begin considering being thrown back into total sleep deprivation and chaos. And on top of this, I’m thinking about weaning soon—almost looking forward to it as much as I’m dreading it—and I don’t exactly want to go straight from weaning to nursing again. I’m banking on having at least a good few months, if not more like a year, to remember what it feels like to not be producing milk as a primary occupation.

Here’s the thing. If I wasn’t 37 and a half years old, I wouldn’t be in a hurry. I’d say, let’s wait until Cedar is at least four or five, out of the toddler stage, before we even go there. Let’s give ourselves a few years off from this early intensive stage of parenting. Let’s get our finances together and remodel first, and let’s not kid ourselves about how long that process might take in itself. Let me also get my teaching life that much more established, not to mention self-publish that dusty manuscript of memoirs that I’ve been saying I’m going to publish for so long. Let me achieve some major goals that make me feel good and satisfied as a writer, before I dive back into the intense beauty and torture that is mothering a newborn. In other words: let’s take our time and think about it.

But the reality is, I don’t have a ton of time. After you hit 35, it becomes significantly harder to get pregnant each year that passes—the curve sharpens dramatically. I know people over 40 who are trying to get pregnant now, and who are mourning their belated realization of just how much difference a year makes at this stage. I know that if I were to decide that I did indeed want another one, I should just bite the bullet and do it NOW, or in the next year at least, because wouldn’t that suck to finally decide you wanted one and then to not be able to get pregnant?

Other people my age seem to know this too, because there’s been an explosion of births in my world this spring. I know of seven or eight women in my son’s preschool co-op class alone who just gave birth to their second or are due in the coming months. Then there are my friends on Facebook; the three babies born recently on my block; two of my oldest, dearest friends; and, finally, my sister who gave birth just last Friday.

Seeing people get pregnant and hold their new amazing babies doesn’t have anything to do with my new (old, revitalized) line of thought, does it? Nah…. Of course having lots of pregnant women and babies around me is tugging at my tender heart strings that holds this process up as one of the most amazing gifts in life of all; of course it is. But I also want to make sure that I’m not just caving to some kind of socially accepted norm and unspoken peer pressure—the kind that carves into our psyche from the time we are young that families are supposed to consist of two parents and two or three kids; and that it’s the most natural wonderful thing in the world to want more than one.

I told my husband the other day, the same day we went to meet my sister’s new baby, that I wanted to talk to him about the possibility of having another. He immediately got defensive and antagonistic, forcing me to play devil’s advocate and act as if I indeed knew I wanted another one, when what I really wanted to do was just explore and hash out the idea verbally, see how it sounded saying it aloud, return to the part of me that had always imagined I’d like to have two, a pair of playmates, a pair to grow old with, share holidays with, share affections with, preferably a daughter and a son, the so-called “perfect” family.

I also told my husband the story of some friends of ours, a couple who was trying to decide if they wanted to have another. After much soul-searching they finally decided that no, they did not, they were fine, they were done. And then the minute they decided this and made it real, they realized that they did indeed still want another. It’s that element of regret at play. Wanting what you could have had, but didn’t choose.

The thing is, how many parents ever regret having a child, whether that child is number one or number five? It seems like once you have a child, once they are real and breathing and in your life, there are few who would ever, on a deep soul level, regret having that child. The thought would be unspeakable, for that baby was here and thus meant to be. It might have made your life insufferably hard for many years, but in the end, it was worth it right? You wouldn’t have had it any other way? Or is it simply such an unspeakable taboo that we never hear from the parents who do?

That’s how it seems to work. Once they are here, you can’t imagine them never having been here. But what if you wanted a child, but never had one? Or never had the second one? It seems like the possibility to regret is much greater. I am almost 40, but I still have many years ahead of me to nurture students and to write and publish books. I am almost 40, but I don’t have many years ahead to have more children. This, my dear husband, is why I’m now starting to talk to you about this. This, because it does feel like now or never time. This, because even though we are both still on the fence, we love each other deeply, and if we do want this, we can make it happen. This because it will always be scary to contemplate something so huge as to choose to bring another life into the world and your life. But it will not always be possible to do so.

This is what I don’t want: I don’t want to passively choose to not have another one (by letting time slip away) because of money or space issues. Those are the things that we can figure out, make work. And nor do I want to passively choose to have one (how could you, really?) because of a fear that I would regret it if not. If we have another one, I want it to be because we are so fucking excited by the possibility of being able to experience the miraculous process of coming to know a new being so intimately related to the both of us, and yet so ultimately unknown and mystical, and to know all the joy and riches that such a darling spirit could bring into our lives. That leap of faith.

Yes, there’s always the chance that she/he could have a birth defect, or be a terribly difficult bad seed. (I have yet to see, Dear Kevin, but it’s on our queue). But chances are, they wouldn’t. And even if so, then they’d be meant to be ours to love and grow with anyway. I know of no other “path” than parenthood that rocks your world so tremendously, and that if you choose to accept and let it, will transform you in brilliant ways in the making. Despite all the sleep deprivation, time alone deprivation, and undeniable challenge and hardship.

What I want is to take a poll of all the new moms of two out there and to ask you: tell me the truth, how hard is it? How much sleep do you get, how much time do you get to yourself and with your husband? How much harder is it to balance the whole work-family continuum with two than one? Do you ever get pangs of regret?  I want to hear from the new parents, not the seasoned ones who have made it past the hardest years and are now coasting in the land of “kids are in school during the day” and “couldn’t imagine it any other way”. I want to hear from the newbies because if we do choose to go this route, I want to know what I’m in for. I don’t want to fool myself into thinking I might be that much wiser at hiring help or carving out more time for myself this time around that I’d avoid all the depressing, suffocating pitfalls of new-immersion-motherhood.

I’ve already heard sentiments from moms of two young ones about how it now feels like a “break” when you “just” have the baby to watch, and not both kids. My selective memory is remembering the days of long stroller walks where you could have long continuous conversations with other new moms and get exercise at the same time while watching the baby, and thinking, that wasn’t so bad… But then simultaneously wondering if this kind of activity would be the closest thing to a regular “break” that I’d get in a long time. And, of course, my problem is that I don’t just want your typical mom “breaks” to go work out, go to the spa, or to read on the couch—I want those too, yes, on occasion, but mostly I want time to write and do my work (writing and teaching)-- work that doesn’t pay much if any money.

So my conundrum has always been how to afford a babysitter to do my work that doesn’t pay for a sitter, and still have time left over for yoga or walks or necessary mental health breaks. In short, if I decide to have another, am I deluding myself if I think that I’ll somehow manage to have time for all of these? I can handle a sacrificial period without for maybe six months or so. But after that, I want back to it. I want to write, I want to teach, I want to work. This calling is like another child of mine, one I must take seriously. I don’t want to return to that deep motherhood cocoon quite so wholeheartedly as I did the first time. I want that elusive work-life balance.

My husband (and my selective memory) would do well to keep reminding me about how miserable I’ve been at times during the last couple years, and how it is only just in the last six months or so that I’ve had the energy, resolve, and time to teach again, in addition to everything else. Nobody needs to remind me of the joy of motherhood though. That reminder is breathing and singing and screaming with me every day.

Anyway. I know that after hashing it all out, by myself and with my husband, I know that in the end it won’t be a rational decision. It will either be a clear (but slightly fearful) yes or a clear (but slightly wistful) no resonating from within my heart.  

New Life

Yesterday, my dear friend gave birth to her baby. When we heard the news that she'd gone into labor we lit a candle and, when it went out the next day, we lit another one which we'd keep lit until well after the baby was born. Each time I saw the flickering flame, as I went about my daily tasks or got up to go pee in the dark, I was suddenly reminded again of what was going on for her, at this very moment, imagining her in the throes of the wildest, most intense ride of her life.

Today, I’m feeling immensely grateful. Grateful for the birth of her baby. Grateful that my husband is taking the week off, and letting me have a stretch of three mornings to go write. And grateful that on Friday we will take off for our first camping trip of the year, to Mt. Rainier, and that the weather is actually forecast to be sunny!

Yesterday, my online birth story workshop also ended, and next Monday, my “letter writing” workshop at the Hugo House will begin. In between the two, I have this wonderful week ahead of me that, despite the usual childcare duties, chores, and sleep deprivation, still feels like a vacation. A good part of this sense of pleasure I think comes from having completed the birth story workshop—a goal that started out as an idea, that I dreamed of long ago, then planned and advertised for, made a reality, dove into, and accomplished on my own. My daily work of motherhood on the other hand is also deeply satisfying and challenging, but it isn’t a job that one ever “finishes” and is thus allowed that sense of satisfaction that comes from something that has a clear beginning and end.

             

The birth story workshop was deeply satisfying in so many ways. I love the process of helping other people find the time to write, delve into their memories, let go of expectations, find their voices, confront their sorrows and joys, and go deep into their interior landscape. And I especially loved doing this within the context of writing about the births of our children—such a profound experience that so many of us women go through, and yet that the world at large so rarely gets the opportunity to hear about in detail.

             

Prior to being pregnant and preparing to give birth myself, I don’t think I’d ever heard a birth story told in person. Perhaps I remember a crazy video of a birth shown in a high school science class (or am I imagining this?), and perhaps I’d read some brief account here or there (right?), but to actually hear what it felt like, what it looks like, how many hours or days it could span, and all the variables of what could happen? Nope. Not a clue. How about you?

             

Why is it that we don’t collectively hear or know more about childbirth and labor? Well, for one thing, once the baby comes, parents are usually so overwhelmed and deeply immersed in the intense care of a newborn and the desperate hope to catch up on their sleep, that there isn’t exactly time to sit down and tell everybody about the crazy ride they have just been on. And yet, no matter what happens in a labor, no matter if it lasts four hours or four days, it is nothing less than profound. Think about it. Birth. All of our metaphors for talking about the journey that a person, a country, or a culture go through can be framed through the lens of birth and death. All of us are born—again and again and again—as we go through different cycles in our lives, different lessons, journeys, travels, jobs, tragedies, accomplishments. These are the stories we live for, the stories we look towards for all of our hope and inspiration. And all of this movement, all of these lessons and cycles and metaphors stem from the actual physical process of a mother giving birth.

           

When you strip life to its core, we are left with the image of a newborn baby, naked and screaming and thrust into this new life through her mother’s birth canal. Covered with bodily fluids, connected the darkness of the womb through the lingering pulse to the umbilical cord, so dependent on the care of others to survive, and yet nevertheless out here for the first time in the world, in the light, taking in your first breaths on your own.

             

It’s crazy really to think about birth. What happens, how it happens. The countdown of days, then hours, as the mother’s uterus starts to contract, as the baby signals to mother it’s readiness to be born. It’s crazy, really. Crazy beautiful and intense. There is nothing else like it, this journey that mothers prepare for, this need for her to let go into the experience—to let go of fear, expectations, inhibitions, life as you know it. To know that everything you’ve just done to prepare for the birth is both enough, and also could never possibly be enough to prepare you for the unknown journey of this labor—what it will feel like, how long it will last, how you will respond, how you will know yourself—or not know yourself, not even identify with a sense of “self”—in the act of giving birth.

           

My dear, dear friend of many years, perhaps many lifetimes, just gave birth yesterday. I still have not heard the details, but I thought of her throughout the day and night each time I looked up and saw the candle we’d lit: burning, a constant reminder that while we were going through the daily acts of our lives, she was in the throes of sweating, breathing, and pushing—of what will probably be the single most intense act of her life. Unless you count her own birth—or her own death. Neither of which most of us are able to remember and put into words.

Giving birth to our babies, though? We do have the capability to translate and preserve these stories. For ourselves, for our loved ones. And as much as giving birth is an “out of mind” experience, as much as we seem to forget so much of it in its aftermath, there is still so much of the experience that we can convey-- for ourselves, and for others. To help us touch upon the mystery that is life, the mysteries embodied within nature and our internal cycles, the mysteries embodied within this act of a new life coming into the world.

             

Who are you, who will you be, little one? Why is it you, chosen, for this couple, and not another? Why is it you, only you, that is meant to be the one to radically alter your mother’s lives? How is it that birth happens all around us, every day, and yet there is only this one small window, when the memory of labor is still fresh and the sense of your unfathomable newness to this world still so breathtaking. Before long, at least on the surface, all the human rituals that we attach to babies seem to take precedence, or at least this is what we see and talk about: the cute outfits and photos posted on Facebook, then the endless conversations about feeding, burping, and sleep.

When you reach a certain age—mid-thirties for our generation—all kinds of people in your immediate world (tidily represented by Facebook) who had held off until now start to pop out babies. First, you hear the announcement, usually when they are about 3+ months (with a lesser risk of miscarriage), or else with the first cute belly shots, when they really start to show.

             

Then, depending on the person, you are reminded of their pregnancy through weekly updates on their changing sleep, eating, or energy patterns. We get updates about  finding out the sex, about going on a “babymoon”, pictures of the new nursery, and then finally those last posts when entering the final stretch of days left at the job, the Braxton Hicks contractions, and a mounting sense of anticipation, anxiety, and excitement.

             

Then: silence. Then: the first trickle of news, the baby is here! The name, the length, the weight. Then: the first photos. A giant wave of congratulations. The biggest news that one could possibly share. The greatest achievement to reflexively ‘like’. What’s not to like? A new being is here. No one has died in the process. Another fleeting reminder of the miracle of life. Something we’ve all gone through: the birth canal—or at least the transition from darkness and womb to air and light.

             

Then: silence. Mom and Dad (or Mom and Mom, or Mom and whomever she has) are exhausted. Learning. Overwhelmed. Busy. Swept up in a vortex of sleepless nights, breastfeeding, diapering and swaddling. On the sharpest learning curve of their lives. If they are lucky, they are brought meals, cared for by family, ushered into a cocoon of safety and soft voices, all for the love of the baby. If they are lucky, they are able to sleep a bit, to rest, to cry, to stare with wide open gaping mouths of sputtering love. If they are lucky, they have people around them to help them, to care for them as they are newborns themselves. If they are lucky, these same people make sure to give them their precious alone time, time to nap together as a new family of three, time to stare with mouths open agape, time to cry.

             

No matter the birthing experience, it is a proper response to cry. No matter vaginal or cesarean, no matter long or short, no matter tearing or no tearing, no matter boy or girl, healthy or not healthy—no matter the experience, there is no more appropriate response to the entrance of a new life into the world than to cry.

             

Oh, dear God, dear Universe, dear Allah, dear Nature, dear pagan gods of the underworld, dear unfathomable Unknown: a baby has been born.

             

Oh, dear mother, dear father, dear heartbeat, dear blood line, dear family and friends and all of my relations: you have helped give birth to a baby.

My dearest friend has just given birth. And soon, in a matter of days, my sister will give birth too. Just recently she asked if I could be available as a back-up support person, in case her husband needs help, or in case she wants me there at her labor. My heart leapt. Yes, of course! I will be there, if I can be. I had figured she was okay with just her husband being there, and also she’d probably assumed it’d be hard for me to commit to being there because of my responsibility for my son. I went ahead and scheduled a camping trip for the few days leading up to her due date, figuring it’d better to schedule it before the due date than after (as it is more likely that she’ll be late than early for first-time births). But now, I’m hoping more than ever that the baby won’t come early and that I’ll be able to be there for my sister and her husband. And, although I don’t assume this, that I might even get to witness the birth if she wants me there. This possibility feels akin to being offered the opportunity to go on a spiritual retreat of unknown proportions, for which you must commit to dropping everything in a minute, quite possibly emerging ragged and exhausted, but from which you can be absolutely sure you will emerge profoundly moved and changed.

Even if I only get to rush in with flowers and tears after the drama has unfolded behind closed doors, I am incredibly excited for my sister to give birth to her first baby, Cedar’s cousin, my niece.

I feel poised on the cusp of so much new life right now—with one baby just arrived, and another on its way. Also, with one workshop just completed, another on its way. And in between, this stretch of days left open to enjoy and revel in life, summer, nature, family, writing, home, my own incredible good fortune.

I love you, my sisters. I love you, my babies. I love you, my students, my teachers, my friends. I love you, my life.

Thank you for the never-ending, unfolding reminder that this, this act of creation, is what it’s all about.

One Goal at a Time: Another Update on Sleep

I want to write about something besides sleep again, but until I’m actually getting enough, this topic will remain forefront on my brain. So here goes, one more time.

I’ve been tired lately. And busy. And we have tackled a lot in the last six weeks. We went from all three of us sleeping in one bed, with Cedar waking every few hours and nursing back to sleep for his entire life, to-- in six weeks—Cedar now sleeping in his own bed, in his own room, and sometimes for a nine hour stretch without nursing or waking. It sounds like we should be celebrating, right? It's hard to, though, when most nights he is still waking a couple times and the new wake up call is often 5 a.m.-- resulting in an even more sleep-deprived child than before.

           

The back story (last post): we moved our king bed into the living room, creating a little nook for my husband and I, and giving the bedroom to Cedar. Now, even if we still have plenty of bad nights, it does still feel like a small miracle each morning I turn to my husband and ask, “Did he wake last night?” And he says, no. Even if nine hours is still is not enough for Cedar to be fully rested (he needs at least 10), it is still a major milestone. Here is how we did it.

The first couple weeks after moving the bed, I would rush in whenever Cedar woke and nurse him, eventually just giving up and going to sleep next to him because I couldn’t fall asleep apart from him myself. Not only did he seem to be waking more (and not less like we’d hoped) without our presence in the bed, but I also didn’t realize how much I would miss sleeping next to him, how strange it would feel to be so far away from him. Of course, this feeling was only compounded by the fact that my body felt tensed on alert, ears listening closely for to any noise coming from the adjacent room—regardless of the fact that my husband said he would listen for Cedar and wake me. Somehow, just knowing that I’d be on duty sooner or later, and wanting to be able to respond right away to my son in order to ease the transition and any potential anxiety he might feel about suddenly being made to sleep alone, made it near impossible for me to drift off easily in a separate bed. Co-sleeping for two years was too deeply ingrained.

So, for the first couple weeks of the new arrangement, I more or less slept with Cedar in his new bed. I didn’t consider this a failure (despite the fact that I thought it sounded this way to others when they would ask how it was going), for to my mind it was enough just to introduce him to the new furniture arrangement and the idea of his new bed, all his own. That part actually went over really well. Step one was accomplished.

At this point, I decided that I needed my husband to take over. We agreed that what really needed to happen now was to night wean. No more milk at night. I’d heard from many sources that once night weaned (or weaned altogether), their former terrible sleepers finally started sleeping through the night. So I convinced my husband to take over for a couple weeks (to start)—meaning to be the one to go in when Cedar woke, and he’d remind him that there was no more milk at night. I could then put in earplugs and fall asleep peacefully, knowing that—for the first time in over two years—I was no longer on night duty. Hallelujah!

As was to be expected, the first few nights were the worst. Lots of waking and complaining. Then we had one breakthrough night where Cedar slept for eight hours. Then 9.5 the next night. High five! I couldn’t help but proclaim my joy on Facebook. Of course, I knew better than to think that it would be smooth sailing from then on, and true to form, the last several weeks have been up and down—some bad nights, a few more nine hour nights, and most nights, something in between. On top of that, my body still seems to be trained to wake a couple times each night, and when I wake I have to pee. In short, sleep hasn’t really improved tremendously, but when you consider the fact that Cedar is now in his own bed and night weaned, and that we’ve had a fair number of before-unheard-of sleeping through the nights, then I realize that we’ve already come a long way.

We decided that “after the sun came up” would be our way of letting Cedar know when he would get milk. Coincidentally (or not so coincidentally), Cedar’s been waking around 4:45-5:00 every morning, and at that waking he’ll either stumble out to find me or Matthew will nudge me and I’ll go in. Then, Cedar will proceed to nurse or at least be attached to my boob for something like two hours! And since it’ll take him a long time to fall back asleep at that hour (if he does at all), I don’t dare move him off of me for fear I’ll ruin my chance of him—and me—getting in another hour or so of sleep. Because otherwise, like I said, nine hours sleep (and averaging six for me) is not enough.

And so, that brings me to the present, where we’re all doing okay, operating most nights on almost enough sleep, but not really—which over the course of a week creates quite a deficit. Matthew gets to crash hard for another two hours after Cedar wakes at five, so that helps to counter the couple times a night he might still have to get up. And I get the peace of mind, at very least, of knowing that when Cedar goes down around 7:30 or 8:00 each night, I’m off duty till the next morning. There is great joy in that.

Matthew was hoping that around now he could be relieved of exclusive night duty and we could start switching off nights. But I’ve convinced him to give it a little longer, with the hope that the longer the new sleep patterns can get ingrained, the easier it will be when we introduce yet another new variation on the norm.  I did put Cedar down one night recently when Matthew came home late, and I was a bit wary of what would happen when I would have to put him down without nursing (something I’ve never done). But to my great relief, it went just fine; Cedar didn’t even ask for milk until about ten minutes in when a light suddenly went on and he remembered this missing ingredient in our ritual, but then he only gave me a few token whines when I reminded him that there wouldn’t be anymore until morning. I did sing to him still and rubbed his back for a bit, but mostly he just lay there himself, and was asleep in 15 minutes. Success.

Later that night though, when it was my turn to try out night duty, I couldn’t fall asleep again—the curse of my anxious listening body reigned. Rather than risk all-night insomnia, I woke and begged Matthew to go back on duty, and he agreed. The next day I asked if he could just keep being the default nighttime parent for now, and he could let me know if he needed a night off. I reminded him that at least he got that nice last two hour chunk in the morning, whereas I’d be hardly functioning if I had to wrestle with my own insomnia, go in if Cedar wakes, and wake up at five to boot.

He agreed, for now, and I thanked him profusely. He has been a great support throughout this process. It would be so much harder to make this transition without him.

If he’d protested, however, I might have reminded him that I’ve been on night duty for over two years, so surely he could stomach a couple weeks, or even months. “But we had no other choice then,” he protested once. “Yes, I’m not saying you’re at fault, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I’ve been doing this for two years.” He was silent. I also told him about several couples I know of where the husbands took over at night once the baby was night weaned. I understand how it might be too much to ask if Cedar was still waking a ton and if it was increasingly hard for him to function at work, but if he was functioning okay, then surely he could handle a little more sleepiness. After all, it’s not like I don’t value my brain functioning well during the day as well. I suppose one could argue that my work is flexible enough that I have the luxury of deciding not to work on the days where I am brain dead, but this is increasingly not always the case.

Anyway, this argument is moot, because my husband has agreed to keep going like this for the time being. Our next hurdle to tackle is to try to get rid of Cedar’s 5:00 waking. We are thinking of getting one of those devices where some kind of light comes on or animal pops up at the time that you’ve decided it is okay for your child to call for you—even 6:00 would be so much better than 5:00. We’ll try to teach Cedar that he cannot get out of his bed until this magic moment. Although it sounds like a stretch, I know it’s worked for some parents and I also know that a mere couple months ago, the idea that he’d transition so smoothly to sleeping in his own bed for most of the night would have blown me away. Never mind that he’s not sleeping through the night every night yet still. We are on our own timeline. Other people’s norms do not apply.

And… the next step after that? Total weaning. Maybe by the end of summer? Or mid-fall? “Why are you waiting?” my husband asked. “Why not now?” Well, think of all the changes we’ve already introduced recently, I explained. I want to do this all gently, one thing at a time. Also, every week that passes, his diet expands. I’m still gauging each day just how much more dairy I can get away with giving him, thereby increasing his protein options exponentially. (Soy is not an option; meat is often rejected). I know he’d be “okay” without my milk nutritionally, but there are plenty of days still where he doesn’t get much more down than fruit, almond milk, and bread products, and on those days in particular, my milk source still feels like such a blessing.

The other hesitations? The fear that tantrums will increase, or be harder to calm down once full-blown. And? Of course, just losing our precious bonding ritual. All those chill moments of cuddling and winding down together. The end of an era, I suppose. And, yes, certainly I know this too: the beginning of a new one, filled with so much more freedom to get away. The ability to go on a week-long writing retreat, in theory anyway, if I could convince my husband and our parents to take over for that long—not an easy logistical feat. 

We’ll get there when we get there. For now, we got plenty on our plates. Namely getting over this whole sleep saga hump, which can be likened to the metaphor where you’re climbing a mountain and think you’re nearing the top, only to then realize that there’s yet another big hill to climb, and so on and so on. For now, we just need to remember to celebrate that what we've already accomplished is huge, and we just need to keep taking it one goal at a time.