FC started kindergarten a few weeks ago, and it’s been an emotional time for the Fearless household. Suddenly, I’m back in that awful, confusing state of “what ifs”: What if this isn’t the right school for him? Did I make the wrong decision? Will he be okay? Is he having a hard time making friends? Should I switch him to a different teacher? Should I, could I, would I….?
But the hard, true answer is this: I don’t have all that much power. He’s out in the world, now. This isn’t nursery school, or mommy and me class. This is the beginning of childhood. No more coddling, or nurturing. Kids can be mean, there’s bullying, there will be times when he will be teased, or will do the teasing. Now is when his character will begin to truly reveal itself. The tough parenting starts now, and it will only get harder as he gets older.
I tell you this, because I think it’s so important to realize that you will have a million other opportunities to second guess yourself, to regret, to overanalyze, to wonder. You will have a million other doubts and triumphs and questions.
And thank god for that, you know? Seriously. Thank god for that.
Happy Friday, fearless ones,
I’ve wanted to write one of these forever and share my story, but I wanted to wait until I was fearless about my decision to formula feed or at least sort of happy. Well, today I became fearless.
I had a pretty normal pregnancy (in my family.) Preterm labor at 20 weeks that put me on lift and exercise restrictions. High blood pressure at 26 weeks that landed me extra appointments. A minor car accident at 28 weeks that put me in the hospital for monitoring. From 36-40 weeks, there was constant debate about inducing me, but my blood pressure always stabilized and my protein levels were always borderline. I know this after multiple 24 urine tests and an overnight stay in the hospital where I didn’t come home with a baby. Through all of the extra appointments, I always responded “yes” when asked if I would breastfeed. I figured I should do one thing really right.
I was induced at 40 weeks and 3 days when my blood pressure finally became enough of an issue to do something about. I had a perfect labor. When the OB came to break my water after my epidural, I was ready to push. My daughter was out in 15 minutes while 12 student nurses that I unwittingly agreed to let watch me give birth stood amazed since it was the first they had witnessed. Then came the problems. My daughter swallowed too much amniotic fluid and kept throwing it up. She couldn’t latch without gagging and vomiting. They say their stomachs are tiny, so I don’t know where she stored all that fluid, but it just kept coming.
The nurses decided since she wouldn’t latch that I needed to try to get something out right away. They tried to manually express and nothing. They went and got a pump. Nothing. I pumped every hour for 20 minutes. Three friggin drops the entire first 24 hours. Well, my daughter finally stopped puking up amniotic fluid and was actually hungry. I pulled out the trusty double pump and finally got something. Blood. It was that moment that made me a formula feeder. I demanded formula. I hit that nurse call button over and over until someone brought me something, anything to feed the tiny starving thing I was holding. The lactation consultant decided that hour was the best time to show up to my room. She poked and groped until my sister threw her out. I cried not just because it hurt but my feelings were hurt. My expectation of doing one thing right was shattered.
Fast forward 6 weeks, and we find out my beautiful girl has a milk protein allergy and reflux. She needs special formula, and breast feeding would have been a struggle. I am, however, still upset about it. Fast forward to three months, and whenever someone on the forum of ladies with babies born the same month as my daughter mentions breast feeding, I still get upset or sad or depressed or angry at myself. I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe my milk would have come in if I pumped enough blood first.
Now fast forward to today. A friend of mine from high school and his wife are expecting their first child, a baby girl. They found out at 28 weeks that the baby they have longed for and spent two trimesters falling in love with has trisomy 13. For those who don’t know, this diagnosis is fatal. Don’t google it, but this baby girl probably won’t survive to term and if she does will, more than likely, die during birth or shortly after. They aren’t deciding whether to formula feed or breast feed. They are deciding whether or not to set up the crib they ordered months ago that arrived a few days after they got the news. They are not deciding about cloth or disposable diapers but where to bury their child who they can still feel kick and wiggle in her belly. Her blog posts are heart wrenching. All about loving a baby who has no real chance at life… And I cry over not breast feeding.
This sort of forced everything into perspective for me. The end goal is not how you feed your child. The end goal is the child. That’s why we do all of this. That’s why we cuddle and soothe instead of sleep. That’s why we worry about making the best decisions and why that looks different for every family. I’m not saying losing a breast feeding relationship when it is something you had your heart set on is not something to mourn, but it isn’t the most important part of being a parent. Being a parent is.
I lost site of the end goal for a few months, but now that I’ve found it again, I am fearless.
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