Happy Hump Day! I hope you're having a lovely week, had a lovely weekend, and to all the mothers I wish a belated happy Mother's Day. To those of you who, like me, celebrated your very first Mother's Day, I'm sending a special hug and happy smiles. This Sunday was certainly a joyous occasion, and although nothing incredibly exciting was planned, I thoroughly enjoyed the relaxing, calm day I spent with my little family. We got to visit my own mother, spent several hours at home just enjoying the company of each other on our new deck, and ended the day with a special surprise visit from my mother-in-law. It was really a perfect day, full of love and free of expectations.
Before I celebrated this milestone Mother's Day, though, I celebrated another milestone: my 30th birthday. Up until this point, for the past several years, I have kept my age a closely guarded secret. I didn't do it because I was ashamed of my age, but because I didn't like the idea that people who asked to know it were trying to use that information as a gauge for my status and accomplishments in life. For example, sometimes you'll hear people talk about some prodigy like, "He's only 20 and he's already bought his first house!" Or you'll hear the opposite, as in, "She's already 27 and she hasn't settled down yet." I just didn't like the idea that my age had to define me in any way, so when people asked, I politely declined to answer by smiling and replying, "I'm old enough." (That phrase evolved as the years went on, I should confess, from "old enough to know better.") Sometimes I would get a little ballsy and reply, "I'm almost 30," but I used that phrase long before it was really accurate. In the months leading up to my 30th birthday, however, I began to feel excited as I wondered how I would respond to this question going forward. And I realized something: I was looking forward to turning 30, and I had no problem sharing that information.
A Little Thirty Never Hurt Anybody
In the days just before my birthday, as I was running last minute errands and preparing for a birthday bash, I told every stranger who opened up a conversation about my weekend plans that I would be celebrating my first Mother's Day and turning 30. Everyone seemed duly excited for me, and I basked in the warmth I received. The night before my birthday, I had some friends and family over for a celebration, and had more fun than I've had in a while. (More on that spectacular party later.) So many people congratulated me on turning 30, and for me it really felt appropriate to be congratulated. My family knows I went through some dark times in my 20s, and those who are closest to me know a secret: I never wanted to make it to 30. Before the party started, I sat on the couch with my mom, reflecting on how different my life is now, how truly amazing it is that I'm here, alive, and happy. We shared some tears and some laughs, cuddling the sweet Scoops in my lap and marvelling that there had been a time when I was so incredibly dissatisfied with my life that I wanted it to be over. I feel like a completely different person now. I'm so in love with life, my husband, and my sweet baby. I'm in love with myself. I like who I see when I look in the mirror. I know I'm a good person, and I strive to be good to others. This desire for goodness perpetuates itself, so that the more I want it, the better I become, and the better person I become, the more I want to be a better person.
So this is how I entered my 30s. Rather than feeling terrified of getting older, or lamenting the crinkles forming around my eyes, or mourning the loss of my youth, I felt like I was approaching a rite of passage into adulthood. Probably the fact that my first Mother's Day came along with this milestone birthday helped cement that feeling, but I think I would have felt the same even if they were on separate weekends. The party was a chance for me to dance and be loud and sip champagne, and generally party like a 20-something would. I reveled in the fun and attention from friends and family, and had an appropriately great time. My actual birthday, the following day, was a time of quiet reflection on the strides I've taken towards creating the best life for myself; to calmly enjoy the company of my husband and daughter in the present moment; and to eagerly look forward to the years ahead, which I'm sure will only get better with the unique challenges and rewards they bring. I anticipated my birthday by saying "a little thirty never hurt anybody," and I still feel that way. We can't slow down time, we can't go backwards, and we can't fast forward. We can only be in the present moment. And the present moment is turning out to be exactly where I'm supposed to be, and I love it. My aunt told me that my Terrible Twenties are now behind me, and she's right. I feel like I've really come into myself, full of love and acceptance, and completely comfortable with who and where I am in life.
My 1st Mother's Day
After a full 24+ hours of birthday celebrations, I was ready to celebrate my new status as a mommy. Spending time with my own mom was a great time to hear her recount her experiences raising me, and to celebrate all the joys I encounter daily while raising my own daughter. I felt more firmly on this special day what I felt as soon as Scoops was born, what I knew while I was pregnant with her, and what I sensed even as a child: motherhood is my calling. I was always meant to be a mommy. It seems so cliche, but it's 100% true. Even while I denied it for many years and at one point swore I'd never have kids, a part of me has always known that I was destined to be a mom. Not until my daughter was born did I fully understand that truth. Everything I've read or been told about parenthood is true: it is hard, it is work, and it is by far the most enjoyable job on the planet. I wouldn't trade this for the world. I never thought I'd be so content to be woken at ungodly hours, to listen to annoying cries, or to clean up so many scoops of poops. This little girl means everything to me, and I can't imagine life without her.
A few months before I got pregnant, a colleague did a card reading for me, just for fun, and the cards she pulled, from two different decks, both indicated major change was just around the corner. They both discussed a coming of age event, a rite of passage, a transition to full adulthood. I cried as she read the cards to me, because I had been struggling with knowing whether it was the right time for my husband and I to start to grow our family. I wasn't sure I was ready to really grow up, become responsible for another person, and leave my adolescence decidedly behind me. This felt like a solid omen, and about a month later I had a very clear experience telling me to start trying in January. We did, and the rest is history. Ironically, I ran into that colleague this Mother's Day while I was out with my husband and daughter. She was delighted to meet Scoops, we briefly caught up, and then she was on her way. I find it incredibly poignant that I saw her on my first Mother's Day, when I haven't seen her in several months. It's almost like the universe was confirming that everything is going exactly according to the master plan.
As a kid, I always found it annoying that my birthday fell on or around Mother's Day. I didn't like having to share my birthday with another holiday (or my mom), and my friends often couldn't attend my parties if they were spending the weekend away with their mothers. When I realized my 30th birthday would fall adjacent to my first Mother's Day, though, it seemed fitting. Turning 30 and becoming a mother are both excellent times to make the transition to full adulthood. And of course I was born around Mother's Day. I was always meant to be a mother.
Recently it seems I've seen a lot of blog posts and status updates about the sudden new-found hatred for a pet that comes, apparently inevitably, with bringing home a new baby. I admit I was pretty much feeling this way after I brought Scoops home. My dog, Opie, who was of course my first baby (and also my first dog, incidentally), was suddenly no longer a soft snuggly creature to be cuddled, but a disease-carrying vermin out to contaminate my helpless child. I shouldn't say "suddenly" because the feeling actually developed over a couple of weeks.
The first few poops and pees in the house were expected. His barking at the wind as soon as I finally got Scoops to sleep was pretty much a given. I wasn't even surprised when he stole one, then two, then three of Scoops' soft toys (my mistake for leaving them within his reach, but in my defense, baby came early, and mama didn't have time to finish the nursery). But when the behavior not only continued, but worsened over time, I quickly went from mild annoyance to absolute intolerance. I blame sleep deprivation, but then I've never been entirely patient by nature. Let's be honest, I was royally pissed to have to clean dog poop and/or pee off the stairs almost on the daily while trying to figure out the mystic marvels of breastfeeding, sleeping when the baby sleeps (seriously, does anyone do that?), decoding baby's cries, and actually eating a meal. I was even less thrilled when I returned to my half-eaten homemade meatball stew one night (seriously, the one time I bothered to cook a proper dinner) to find Opie had climbed on the table to finish it for me while I ran off to the nursery to change a poopy diaper. I let my overwhelmed self cry more than I would have pre-baby when, just a week after we brought Scoops home, we discovered Opie had fleas (keep in mind, first dog = first time dealing with fleas, and in my sleep-deprived head, it was the end of the world and we were all going to get The Plague from flea bites). But when the dog straight up growled and showed his teeth at Scoops, I just about lost it.
I may or may not have uttered some harsh words to poor Opes McGopes. Logically speaking I completely understood what was happening, and at the same time simply could NOT understand why he wouldn't stop acting out (aside from the fleas, which obviously weren't his fault, but certainly didn't improve my sentiments towards him). He really wasn't neglected. While my husband and I didn't always feed and walk him ourselves, and almost certainly not on the exact schedule to which our dog had been accustomed, we had countless family and friends who very graciously and lovingly fed, walked, and cuddled Mr. McGopes when we couldn't. We sought advice and tried various techniques to curb his bad behavior, but every time it seemed we'd turned a corner, he'd stare deep into our eyes and pee on the space heater, or the couch, or our shoes, as if to say "I know exactly what I'm doing, and yes, I'm still pissed you brought that whiney hairless puppy into our den."
Suffice it to say, I very seriously considered more than a few times calling any one of the several people who had offered during my pregnancy to take Opie off my hands if he ended up not getting along with the baby. (I think it's important to note I scoffed at ALL of them when they offered, because I adored my dog and had no doubts that he would in turn adore my baby.) Surely this qualified as not getting along with the baby, right? And yet I never called anyone. I most certainly continued to ask visitors to walk him, feed him, play with him, and snuggle him, but never asked anyone to take him home with them (at least not seriously). Why not? I don't honestly know. Maybe I felt that sending Opie away would mean I'd failed as a pet parent, and being a pet parent was supposed to have prepared me for being a people parent (ha!). Maybe I just didn't want to admit how absolutely hopeless I felt about the situation. Whatever the reason, I kept miserably awaiting the next bad behavior, quietly letting hatred for my dog take hold in my heart and grow. I felt very much alone, as I'm pretty sure even my husband didn't feel the same level of angst against Opie that I did.
And then, like magic, someone posted in an online forum about this very thing. Another new mom opened up and bravely asked the question I'd been dying to ask: Did any of you find yourself suddenly hating your pets after you brought your newborn home? She was honest, I might say at least somewhat apologetic, but boldly shared her story and feelings as pure fact.
The comments. Blew. Up.
Friends, I can honestly tell you, I don't think I've ever seen more judgement in a new-mom forum. Every other comment on this mom's post was in one of two camps; the yes-omg-thank-you-so-much-for-writing-this-I've-been-feeling-the-same-way camp, or the omg-you're-a-horrible-person-and-you-don't-deserve-your-pets-who-are-clearly-much-better-"people"-than-you-are camp. It was unnerving how many people wrote specifically to pass judgement on this mom and everyone else who agreed with or thanked her for opening up. There was shaming, and name-calling, and vile threats - the negativity was through the roof! No joke, I've seen nicer comments on posts from moms talking about how their kids were stressing them to the breaking point. Whatever solace I'd found initially by seeing the question posed was instantly erased when I realized how many people out there were horrified that anyone would feel, or admit to feeling, the way I and the author of the post did. One of the comments was from a veterinarian, who made such statements as "I hear pet owners in my practice say things like this, and it makes me sad because it's selfish," and "If you could just play with your pets for an extra 15 minutes every day..." Reading her comments, I almost felt personally attacked. Selfish? An extra 15 minutes every day? Lady, if you only knew the amounts of energy - mental, emotional, and otherwise - I've been pouring into rectifying this situation. Did I mention I'm trying to keep a newborn alive? I decided to keep my thoughts to myself after that. Clearly I was in the wrong, and needed to fix my selfish and wrong feelings about my dog.
More recently, however, I read this article by another mom who really opened up big time about her pet struggles post-baby. And then this one, which also echoed what I was feeling, and feeling ashamed for feeling, and the reader comments on both articles were excruciatingly vicious, just as they had been in that forum when I first saw this issue brought up. That first article I read, though, sparked something in me. Certainly it sparked enough to initiate a stronger desire for a change of heart, even if it didn't actually change my heart right away. I found myself in tears after reading it, not because I was angry at the author, but because I so wholly and purely sympathized with her. I saw my own reflection in her writing, and I didn't like what I saw. So I spontaneously began to pray for a change of heart. Tearfully, I asked for patience, tolerance, understanding, and generally to be a better pet parent. I kept reading about the issue, tried to avoid reading the nasty comments, and again found solace that I wasn't alone.
Then I found this article, and I felt a renewed sense of hope. It seems it is possible to love your dog again after bringing home a baby. And truthfully, I can attest to this. When I send up prayers of gratitude for my beautiful tiny daughter, my amazing and thoughtful husband, and my cozy little home, I send up a prayer of thanks for my dog, followed by the plea "make me a better pet parent." This desire alone I'm sure is responsible for my renewed sense of patience, and my rekindled love for my dog (although, I have to admit, I still don't always "like" him every day again - not yet). Most likely, falling into a regular sleeping pattern, and finding a rhythm to caring for my baby are both contributing to my improved emotional state as well.
I guess my point is not so much about loving my dog again as it is this: sometimes we decide to be brave and open up about our feelings, and we are met with judgement and shame. That doesn't mean your feelings are wrong, or that you're a bad person, or that you should never open up about your feelings. The way others react to you is a reflection on them, not on you. And sometimes we feel things we don't like or aren't proud of, and want to change. That desire for change is truly the most important part of the process! I promise you, the moment I said out loud and in earnest that I wanted to be a better pet parent, that I didn't want to feel any more negativity towards my dog, I started feeling better about the whole situation. And feeling better gave me the momentum I needed to start actually making positive changes and making my dog something of a priority again.
This journey with my dog has only started. Like everything else in life, I'm realizing quickly that we're still going to have bad days, or at least less-than-pleasant moments. It's a practice. I'm practicing patience, tolerance, and above all, LOVE, with my dog, my family, and myself. And I'm giving you the same permission I've given myself: to feel what you're feeling, express a desire for change, start making changes, and then continue to practice. No judgement. At least not from yourself, because you'll catch enough flack from the rest of the world. But try not to catch it. Try to let it just float on by as it's hurled in your direction, and continue to practice patience, practice tolerance, and practice love. Your pets, your family, and your own beautiful Self will thank you.
A friend very recently asked me to recount some of my pregnancy memories as part of a post-grad project she's working on, and as I condensed the story into a few sentences I realized how much I'm already beginning to forget. Scoops is not even 4 months old yet, but pregnancy feels like it was a lifetime ago. I knew motherhood would change me, but I also knew I wouldn't fully comprehend that change until it had already happened. Giving birth was a true rite of passage, and now that I'm on the other side, I look back fondly at my pregnancy and all I experienced. So here, in a nutshell, are the most memorable moments of my pregnancy:
I remember feeling literally dizzy with excitement when I found out I was pregnant. It was a Sunday morning, and I was frustrated with my period for being late again, so I stumbled to the bathroom to pee on a stick. In my half-asleep state, I suddenly realized mid-stream what I was doing, and the potential significance of the situation immediately woke me up completely. I was so ready to be pregnant, I just didn't believe I was. I thought it would take so much more time and effort. So when two little blue lines cheerfully appeared, I was floored. And elated! I laughed, I cried, and I definitely felt dizzy.
I remember the awful, horrible nausea of my first trimester. Ginger made it worse, Preggie Pop Drops made it better, until they didn't and made it worse. Then I found hot tea, of almost any variety, was a good fix, until it wasn't. I spent a whole beautiful sunny Saturday indoors with the blinds all shut, crying my eyes out and forcing myself to nibble on strawberry flavored coconut milk ice cream (God bless Trader Joe's!) because it was the only thing that didn't make me want to hurl (I did eventually add white rice doused in soy sauce to my diet). I remember finally giving in to taking anti-nausea meds, and crying because "If I can't handle the nausea how will I handle labor??"
I remember feeling more beautiful than I ever had in my life, and I only felt more beautiful as my belly got bigger. I was the easiest time I've ever had accepting compliments. People told me I was glowing, and I actually saw the glow they were talking about. Plus, my skin completely cleared up (except for one "bad" bout of pregnancy acne in the very middle of my pregnancy), so that was undeniably a major self-esteem boost.
I remember waiting to feel "over it" and ready to rip the baby out myself like everyone swore I would, but when I finally did feel that way at almost 9 months in, it only lasted about 10 minutes before I was content again. I truly enjoyed being pregnant, feeling so close to my unborn child, and especially knowing that my baby was the safest she'd ever be while she was in my belly.
I remember worrying about my back giving out and not being able to labor and give birth naturally and without medication. I've suffered from chronic back pain and spasms since I was a teenager, so this was a very real fear, as a spasm was a very real possibility for me. Ultimately I had to practice mindfulness and constantly remind myself not to obsess over what might happen in the future. In the end, I had a terrible spasm the week before I went into labor, and spent the entire week resting in bed. Obviously I didn't know it was THE week before I was going into labor, because I was still a little less than 2 weeks away from my due date, but the point is I had the terrible spasm before labor, not during.
I remember feeling totally unprepared when I did go into labor, immediately after my back had finally healed from that week-long spasm. I remember crying, in fact, about how not ready the nursery and house were. The house was an absolute filthy mess because I'd been unable to clean for a week (but let's be real, it had been well over a week since I'd cleaned the place). The nursery had a crib, and a dresser with a changing pad set up, and that was about it. All the artwork I'd wanted to hang still sat on the floor, many of the gifts I'd been given hadn't been put away, and certainly nothing was organized. I had even started a big 4 foot square painting that was nowhere near close to finished (it still isn't). #nestingfail. Interestingly, however, I didn't cry because I felt unprepared for labor itself, just because I felt like my home wasn't ready to receive my new baby.
I remember feeling so grateful that my husband and I took birthing classes, because he was the best coach I could have asked for, and made my entire 33+ hour labor bearable. Aside from one faux pas (he ran over to the neighbors' house to give them a spare key so they could feed the dog while we were at the hospital, and snuck a couple garlic cheese balls while he was there -- I nearly vomited on him when he came back), he was by my side the entire time, even when he napped while my mom took over to give him a break. He said all the right things, massaged my back and hips, kept me hydrated, timed every contraction, and stayed in constant contact with our doula and family. He was so confident in his role as my coach, and I trusted him completely to help me get through the most difficult task I'd ever faced.
I remember the moment my daughter emerged from my body; how surprisingly quickly she was placed on my chest; how I was confused by my lack of immediate familiarity with that tiny, wriggly stranger, but how compelled I felt to cover her tiny moist face in kisses anyway. (I remember thinking for half a second "Is it weird that I want to kiss her even though she's still covered in body fluids?" But then immediately realized, "Nope, no it's not.") I truly was surprised that I didn't instantly "know" her. I thought after 9 months of talking to her, singing to her, dreaming about her, and waiting for her arrival that I would feel instant recognition when I finally held her. But when she made her appearance on that Sunday morning (ironic, huh?), I felt instead that I needed to instantly learn who she was! (Turns out, that's not a bad challenge to undertake.)
It's a little bittersweet to reduce my entire pregnancy into a few short paragraphs. At the time, it was absolutely the most important thing I'd ever done with my life, but I knew that it would pale in comparison to motherhood. I was pregnant last Mother's Day, and while some people asked me whether I was celebrating and some informed me that I ought to, I maintained that it was a practice round. I didn't fully feel like a mother yet because I wasn't one yet. Pregnancy is to labor is to parenthood what an engagement is to a wedding is to marriage. I honestly enjoyed every moment of my pregnancy (except for those 10 minutes near the end when I actually felt "over it"), and now that I've crossed the bridge into motherhood, I don't want to forget the important but relatively brief events that brought me here. I will never again be pregnant for the first time, and I hope I never forget what that felt like.
