Mommy Needs A Hug

Breastfeeding is hard. That’s it. That’s the post.

No I’m kidding.

Breastfeeding a kid with PKU is inherently hard because he can’t do it all the time so I have to pump too. I hate pumping. That’s a different story for a different day.

Aside from that, breastfeeding can be really uncomfortable sometimes. Not necessarily painful because if it is painful, you likely don’t have a good latch if you’re past the first few weeks of life. What I’m talking about though is the discomfort of breastfeeding.

It’s really difficult when you are overwhelmed and touched out to then have a tiny human connected to you. Also, have you ever felt baby nails??? They are tiny little daggers. And when you get to the distracted phase and they start clawing at you it hurts more than a little. I keep this kid’s nails cut because if I didn’t I would look like I got attacked by a tiger only on my boobs. I went 2 weeks without cutting his nails and my boobs looked like a war zone from him pinching and scratching while he was eating.

The distracted phase also brings with it the abrupt disconnecting or turning their head with a nipple in their mouth. I don’t know about you. I may be built like a Pixar mom but I do not have the powers of Elastigirl that my boob can stretch across the room. It hurts. Again, its also really frustrating when you are touched out and breastfeeding anyway and then have them latch and unlatch every two seconds. It makes me so angry.

Not to mention that some people get intensely angry during letdown anyway. It’s called dysphoric milk ejection reflex, or D-MER. Can you imagine? And, like, it’s a baby, so it’s completely irrational because they don’t know better. And your mind knows that it’s irrational but you’re just, angry or sad for no logical reason.

My current situation: The distraction phase + first tooth poking through + plus a clog in both boobs that I can’t get out because he isn’t getting it out (distraction), and I can’t get it out with a pump (even Joe tried to help. Yes. He did. As any husband should do if it’s necessary in my personal opinion. You should want to help your wife if she is comfortable with you doing so to ease her discomfort. If you have an issue with that you should unpack that with a licensed therapist.) + overstimulation + pointy ass nails.

This kid has been yanking his head around and biting down because he’s distracted and GIRL (or boy) it hurts. He is clawing and pinching my skin because he’s distracted. I have clogs so there’s a lot of pulling and soreness already. It’s a time. I’m over it to be honest but the anxiety about starting him on solids with a low protein diet right now keeps me going. Low protein food is typically medical food so its expensive and then we have to start counting protein and phenylalanine (phe) and I’m not ready for it yet. I’ll get more into PKU and that scenario at a later date. In the meantime, send help.

What are some struggles you have had with breastfeeding and pumping. Share in the comments.

Sidenote: Go take that survey I posted a few weeks ago. It is also linked on the Contact page I believe. Thank you.

Bruised and Battered Boobs Signing Out.

I am feeling a lot of feelings about this one. My second grader just came in my room with tears dripping down his face. I asked him to come over to my desk and I could not have predicted what came out of his mouth. It crushed me.

I asked him what was wrong. He was visibly distraught, so for the first time in what seems like ages, he laid on my lap. He said to me, “I miss you when I’m at school.” I said I missed him too but asked if something was going on. The last thing I want is a repeat of what happened in daycare. He responded back, “There’s just a lot to learn, and I’m only one person.” A piece of me broke in that moment. I hugged him really tight as I came up with the words to say. All I could muster was “I know buddy. It’s hard.” Then he told me that no one plays with him at recess. He’s such a great kid. It really breaks my heart.

I know he has problems focusing, but he has never had trouble before like this. He has always excelled at school and never expressed any concern.

Let me just say, I understand teaching is hard and they are doing the best with what they are required to do. Most of the curriculum is predetermined and they have standards to meet. I appreciate teachers for what they do and how they manage with so little. I get it. I really do. I know this is going to be the hardest part of teaching when I start doing it myself.

That said, what the actual fuck? Has the school system gotten so far that we bring second graders to tears? They are children. They should not have so much pressure on them that they are so stressed about the workload they are crying. The priorities are off. They need to learn, but like, it’s day four. DAY FOUR! It’s too much. He even said earlier when our daughter expressed her concerns about not getting a nap time that “you get less sleep the higher the grade.” I brushed it off but let that sink in too. There’s proof that short naps make you more productive.

At kindergarten orientation they told the parents that they shouldn’t miss any days of school because they’ll fall behind. They said that the kindergarten curriculum is what they used to learn in first grade. They really stressed that “9-5” mentality and perfection. They all but flat out said that children should not take vacation during the school year or they’ll fall too far behind that they’ll never catch up.

I really can’t wrap my head around this. Leave a comment about your thoughts on where the school system is. Am I being too sensitive? Is this more serious than we realize? Should we be pushing literal children this hard? Have we prioritized test scores so much that we are having the opposite effect on learning? I remember still having fun at school in second grade. What happened?

This is a topic that was requested, so I am going to try and do this sooner rather than later. I would like to make a disclaimer that this is my personal experience as a mother of four, and this will not apply best for everyone. I did struggle with PPD, postpartum rage and PPA, so that is also a factor in my answer. These are more common than some people think so look up the signs of these and resources to help in those cases as well. If you need help finding resources I can help look for some. One thing that helped me was finding an online support group. It allowed me to talk to people who went through similar struggles and also gave me a break from the stress of postpartum while Joe was with the kids when I went to the group. I think it is important to do thorough research into your partner’s love language and the ways that they personally feel supported. I will also be enlisting my husband’s help to talk about this one because he has the partner perspective that I think could help in this case.

How exactly should you support your partner postpartum? We all know that they just pushed out a human being, and their body is healing and not the same. This means that physically you should support your partner by caring for them and the baby when you can. Feed the baby if or when you can. Change diapers often. Bring your partner food and water to help them nourish their bodies whether they are breastfeeding or not. There are times where I needed physical support. I would be in the bathroom and need help to get up or need something that wasn’t within reach. It is so important to be there and help instead of letting your partner struggle. When I did not have help in these times I would go into an emotional spiral where I struggled with anxiety, anger, and just overall panic. Helping with the physical things like chores, your partner’s needs, and the baby’s needs are a great way to try and minimize the amount of emotional turmoil they will endure in the postpartum stage. One of my largest sources of emotional struggle was the overwhelming mental load of housework that I had to do. Do things around the house or with the baby before they have to ask. If you know it’s time for the baby to have a diaper, change it (Download and app and track feedings and diapers if you need to). If you know the dishes are piled up in the sink, wash them. If there is laundry that needs to be done, do it. Don’t make them carry the mental load of having to ask. When I had to ask I usually ended up doing it myself because it was easier and then in the long run it made my physical recovery slower and made me angry and resentful.

*Postpartum is not just having a newborn. You are not fully back to your “normal” self until two years postpartum. Remember that these things do not just end after a few months. This really just ties into being a supportive spouse in general*

With the physical changes come emotional struggles, but there are also hormones raging and other potential struggles that emotional support is necessary to offer in the postpartum period. Regarding the physical changes, something that helped me was having my husband reassure me that my body is still amazing and perfect. Having him let me know that he is still attracted to me even though my body is different, broken, and beaten in many ways.

Something else that proved helpful was communication. This seems like a no-brainer, but I will give a specific example. We sometimes do a “feelings check-in”. This is where we sit down with each other. Joe and I will discuss how we are feeling periodically and what we can do to better support each other. I do think that during these check-ins it is important to not minimize your own feelings and hold them in. Be honest, but also understand that they did just push out a baby and have hormones changing so while your feelings are valid and need attention too, they should not always take the priority during these talks.

Validate your partner’s emotions. Don’t make them feel bad or crazy for feeling a certain way. It might seem irrational that they are crying because of something minuscule, but that is how they feel. I’ll bring up an example. I have had a complete breakdown postpartum over being unable to find my shoe. Like I would be crying, shaking, angry over it not being where I left it. Is this rational? No. No it’s not. But would it be helpful if Joe told me I was being stupid and walked away? No. No it would not be. It was more helpful when he would hold me while I cried, tell me that he would help me, and then help. Or another time he would tell me to go sit down and relax and he would find whatever it was himself.

Give your partner time for self care. This looks different for everyone. If they like to take baths and showers, let them do that. I know for me having the energy to gather the items and actually do it were a lot emotionally so I just wouldn’t. A way to make it easier is to gather everything: towel, soap, start the water, find them clothes, all of those things. This takes away that stress and makes it easier for them to want to engage in self care. If their self care is getting their hair done, make an appointment and stay home with the baby while they go. And then LEAVE THEM ALONE! I cannot stress this enough. If they are engaging in self care and you are constantly asking them questions it is not helpful and makes the entire experience stressful and irritating. You do not need to call them every 15 seconds. Take pictures of the baby while they are gone so you have them but you do not need to send them unsolicited. Let them be themselves for that time and unwind.

This is something that I will stress, whether postpartum or not. Get set up with a therapist. Have your partner get set up with a therapist. This becomes increasingly important if they show signs of PPD or other postpartum issues. You should also have a therapist. Or set up couple’s counseling. Your marriage does not need to be in trouble to go to couple’s counseling. It is super helpful. Having a child is a big change for both of you, whether it is your first or fourth.

My last suggestion is to take pictures of her with the baby. Something that always made me really sad was looking back and having no pictures of me with the kids. This doesn’t mean take pictures and never show her (Joe!). Share them with her.

Overall, just be there for them. Hold them when they need to cry. Let them feel their feelings. Be there. Be present. This was something that really helped after the baby’s PKU diagnosis. I felt really guilty and sad that I did this to our child. The most helpful thing at that time was Joe holding me while I cried, rubbing my back, and talking to me about my feelings.

Joe’s Input

Joe agreed with all the above. He also put in some suggestions. He said, if she wants the baby, give her the baby. If she needs a break, take the baby. Let her sleep and recover. (I’ll add on to this a bit because now that he brought it up I have direct examples. In the mornings he will take the kids, get in the car, and go get coffee while I sleep. This is SO helpful. He also does the majority of the night feedings and diaper changes. I breastfeed the baby all day from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep, sometimes more. It is so helpful when he does the night shift, even part of the night, and lets me sleep.) Another suggestion he gave was in regard to visitors. If there is someone who wants to visit that brings either of you stress, take the lead and tell them they can’t come. Make up a reason if you have to. Eliminate unnecessary stress because if those visitors are bringing stress without offering something helpful, they are just there for the baby and that is not helpful for anyone honestly. Take time to enjoy each other and the baby. Be there to help when you can. Process your emotions together and separately.

I hope this is helpful. Feel free to message me, leave a comment, send me an email if you have questions, need clarification, if you want to tell me I got this wrong, or if you have other topic suggestions.

I can also find some resources for anyone if you just ask. I like researching. I also may have some resources on hand that I can post another time.

Side note: Please take my survey. It’s super important to me. Copy and paste the link to take it. https://www.jotform.com/build/232495629584066

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I created a quick survey so that I can confirm or deny a hypothesis that I have crafted. If you are so inclined, feel free to answer at the following link.

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I definitely did not realize that it had been almost two months since I posted my birth story. Really left you guys on the edge of your seats with that “to be continued.” Not really.

Before I start, I just want to thank everyone who has been continued readers since the beginning of this thing. It means a lot to me that I can connect with everyone and you can get a glimpse into the unfiltered portions of my “people pleaser” mentality. No matter how infrequent this has been a great way for me to practice writing skills, spark discussion, and get things off my chest that I wouldn’t otherwise because I feel like I have to be the good girl that sits quietly and gets walked all over. So I truly just want to thank you all for following along with my journey as it twists and turns in its ever-changing path of life and motherhood. Now that I have said that, let us proceed shall we. *Curtain closes. Lights dim. Act 2, Scene 1* I’m not funny (Please laugh. I’ll cry if you don’t).

Now where did I leave off?

Welp. A tiny person just exited my body for the fourth time. I’m alive. He’s alive. He’s just beautiful. I am riding the high of just giving birth and feeling pretty good despite it being the literal middle of the night. The nurse has helped me get into a chair because I just don’t want to be in the bed anymore. She also gave me a PB &J. I don’t have it in me to tell her that I hate jelly because the only other option was a ham sandwich and I hate ham more. Also its the middle of the night and I am not going to eat a ham sandwich in the middle of the night. I need to be fully cognizant if I am going to put myself and my sensory issues through that. I also haven’t eaten anything in hours and I need this. I can tell you a PB&J and ice water has never tasted so good as it did that night.

She told me not to get up out of the chair without her help, but I’m not any good with rules like that. I feel fine anyway and I really have to pee. So I stand up and I immediately regret it because blood gushes onto the floor in what seems like a ridiculous amount. I sit back down and we call the nurse in. She essentially tells me in a really nice way that I am an idiot and could have fallen down. We get past this whole thing and get moved to our room for the night. Its in a quiet little corner of the ward.

This is the most hilarious part of any hospital stay because Joe couldn’t figure out how to turn the chair into a bed so he just kind of slept with it half unfolded. This continued the first like three times he tried to do it so I just kept taking pictures of him every time he tried to sleep because it made me laugh. The loud ass squeaks from the chair just cracked me up for some reason and then him sleeping on a glorified ottoman was just *chefs kiss*. Now don’t you go judging me and say I’m an asshole cause that is just how we are and I would bet my left toe that he would have found it just as funny if it happened to me.

(A disclaimer, I don’t proofread this or fix it and Grammarly is already telling me I’m an illiterate piece of shit. The website is also telling me this is unreadable. So. Sorry. Take it or leave it.)

At some point I notice that the baby isn’t waking up and feeding like he should be. We go hours and he doesn’t wake up to eat. I think in the first 8 hours of life he ate for maybe 15 minutes. And that might be generous. They keep asking but he isn’t eating. Then it hits me that he hasn’t had a wet diaper or a poop yet. Weird. That’s a new one for us. I keep trying to put him on the boob but he won’t stay awake long enough to eat. I just decided at one point that he was going to be a formula baby and ask for bottles. Again, he isn’t really eating the bottles and what he does eat he’s throwing up. I bring it up to the nurses but they aren’t concerned yet so I’m not too concerned. I get some sleep since he’s sleeping.

They keep coming in to do fundal massages and check on us. As they do. Morning hits and we get eat and then go back to sleep. At some point they take him to do his blood test and bath and then bring him back.

They get his results and his bilirubin levels are high. Now I start panicking because they said they were pretty high and they were going to retest him again in a few hours and to just make sure he’s eating and peeing. He isn’t. He just won’t stay awake. They retest and his bilirubin levels are still high. At this point my mom is now texting me asking when we are going to come home as if I’m on a tropical vacation and I’m late. It hasn’t even been 24 hours. I tell her what’s going on but she tells me she has to go to work tomorrow. I’m spiraling into an angry rage at this point. How am I supposed to control a newborn’s bilirubin levels?! I’m sure I said something snarky about it not being 24 hours but I honestly can’t remember between my panic and seeing red. All I know is I was crying tears of rage about how I would never do that to my daughter but that’s neither here nor there.

24 hours hits and I don’t know how many blood tests and bilirubin tests they’ve done, but its too fucking many. I’m allowed to get discharged if I want, but he needs to stay. I decide that I’m going to stay with him. They decide the next day that he can go home because his levels have lowered enough, but he needs to get retested the following day at the local hospital for his bilirubin levels. This entire time my mom is pressing me to get home because she has to get to work the next day. I just keep getting more angry. Who does this to their kid? Especially one who just gave birth?

I talk to a social worker about my anxiety and she gives me a blanket that is now dubbed the “depression blanket” because I couldn’t see how this blanket was supposed to help anyone. It was a really nice blanket and I’m grateful for it but at the time it seemed ridiculous.

We head to the truck and Joe hurriedly installs the carseat that he didn’t get the chance to the day before because I was having a literal baby and we really slacked off on it. Don’t you worry your pretty little head because we made sure it was installed properly before we drove home. We get home and I am honestly furious at seeing my mother’s face at this point but I put on a smile and mingle. I should be grateful that she even came at all after the whole debacle before. She hangs out with the baby for a bit and tells me the things she did around the house. That I actually am grateful for. Then she wastes no time in packing up and leaving. The kids get home from school to meet their new baby brother and its the cutest thing. They’re sad that MomMom didn’t stay though. They wanted to see her again.

The next day comes and we go to the hospital to get the bilirubin levels retested. It is terrible to hear him scream but the nurses are nice.

We wait impatiently for the results to come back. Right before we leave for school pick up we get the call that his results are good and we all let out a sigh of relief. Thank god for small favors right? We get in the car and as we wait for pick up I get a call.

It’s the children’s hospital.

His newborn screening came back abnormal. His levels are conducive with PKU. I hear her say that if he gets treated now “he might even be able to go to college.” We need to go to the hospital immediately to get retested.

I’m now in tears in the car. Joe gets the kids, and the entire way to the hospital, I’m researching and crying. It could be a false positive, I hear myself saying. I convince myself it’s a false positive by the time we get there. I go into the ER. Alone. While Joe waits in the car with the kids. We wait for what seems like hours before we go back.

When we finally go back they give me some cans of a formula I’ve never seen before and tell me they have to put in an IV to get blood for a retest. I should just breastfeed as normal until I get the results.

So now I’m here in a diaper. Bleeding, crying, with sore nipples not knowing what comes next.

They come in and place the IV. I can’t even hold him. He is two days old. He is screaming and crying and all I can do is rub his head while the nurse tells me I’m doing great. I’m not. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. They get the blood and we are on the way home. Several hours. At night. After the worst day of my life.

We get the call the next day that he has PKU.

What comes now?

I’m supposed to be doing homework right now, but I have been thinking about writing this for a while. Like 5 months. Who knew that pursuing a Bachelors, having four kids, getting out of the military, getting the kids to summer school, transitioning to a stay-at-home mom, handling all the paperwork, doctor’s appointments, and finances would be so time-consuming? Oh! Not to mention a PKU diagnosis for the tiny little lad. I kid. I knew it would be busy but I secretly love it even when it’s stressful.

As you can guess by the title, this is going to be my birth story. So buckle in, and if you get weak hands when you hear about birth: scroll, scroll. (It has come to my attention that using the term “weak hands” may be something only I use. I use the term “weak hands” to describe that feeling you get when you hear or see something gross or when you’re sick or something and you have no grip. Like you can’t grab anything at all.) Here. We. Go.

Going into labor when I did could have been at a better time. That’s for sure. I was 4 days past my due date. I had gone to the OBGYN and to do a non-stress test that morning. We scheduled our induction for 3 days later. I got home from my appointments to Rose being really sick. She threw up several times on the floor every time I cleaned it up. Then she pooped her pants. Now, Rose has been potty trained ever since she discovered she did not like the feeling of having a wet butt so this was very bizarre. I took her temperature and she was feeling hot. We got some Tylenol in her and I immediately rushed to urgent care to get her checked out.

5:30PM. As we are walking into the urgent care I get a pain in my stomach and feel it. My stomach is tense but I chalk it up to being a Braxton Hicks and keep going. As we are sitting in the waiting room, I am getting HOT. Here I am thinking, “I hope I’m not sick too.” Then about 10 minutes go by and I have another contraction. Not super painful. Probably just another Braxton Hicks. We are called back into the room a bit later and at this time I get another contraction. I decide its time to time them. Sure enough I having contractions that last almost a minute every 10-12 minutes. They have us sitting in the room waiting for a strep, COVID, and flu test while Rose eats a popsicle because she has not eaten or drank pretty much all day.

The contractions are getting closer together. More like 8-10 minutes now. 6PM.

They tell us it’s a stomach bug and just to let her rest and relax. So we start heading out and there’s another contraction. Kind of stops me in my tracks. But we’re in a parking lot so I keep moving. When we get in the car I sit there for a few seconds before going home.

Back at home, I lay down in bed. 7:20PM. I tell Joe I am not feeling well. I am having contractions. I’m going to try and get some sleep and see if they stop. Spoiler alert: They don’t.

I start texting my mom that I think I am in labor if she could come to the house. We go back and forth for a while and she can’t come if I am not sure I am in labor so I wait it out a little longer to see.

My contractions keep getting closer together and more intense, but still manageable.

After several hours of trying to make sure I am in labor and trying to get someone there to watch the kids, I finally call it. I tell Joe that I have to go to the hospital. This is unmistakably labor. I have, after all, done this three times before.

So I drive myself to the hospital, about 30 minutes. 9PM. All the while just breathing through contractions and keeping my eyes on the road. I have come to terms with the fact that I will be giving birth without my husband here. He has to watch the kids.

When I get to the hospital I pull into the parking garage. Great. No spots on the first or second floor. Keep going. Breathe. Breathe. I finally find a spot. I don’t have anything with me but myself. I head over to the ER where I am ushered into a wheelchair. They are asking me questions while I breathe through contractions. Someone else is on the phone with labor and delivery.

Sitting outside the triage room waiting for a room number, I breathe. 9:38PM. Breathe. Breathe. This doesn’t hurt as bad as I remember. The nurse asks me why I have a thumbtack tattooed behind my ear as she wheels me to labor and delivery. “It was mostly to piss someone off,” I say.

Here we are. The labor and delivery triage room.

A nurse comes in and I get into the hospital gown and lay down. They hook me up to the monitors and do a COVID test. They get an IV placed and we are off to the races. Another nurse comes in a checks me a little while later.

I am 3 centimeters dilated with regular contractions every 4-5 minutes. It is now 10:10PM and it really sinks in that I am going to bring a human into this world without a support person there at all. It is just me. I am angry. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like. We made a plan. My mom would watch the kids. That was the plan. She would be available when I went into labor and she would watch the kids. Yet here we are. I am alone and they keep asking me if anyone else is coming. Nope. Just a baby. “My husband had to watch the kids.” I hear myself saying. This feels not real at all. My mom gets on the road shortly after because she felt bad. Now I am doing the math in my head. “If she gets there around midnight, 12:15 maybe, he can get here by 12:45 and still make it hopefully. This is going to take a while I am sure. 12:45 is plenty of time.”

They decide to admit me. 10:45PM. We are having this baby. I sit in my hospital bed breathing through contractions for about an hour, hour and a half. They got my negative COVID result back and I am good to get my epidural. The nurses keep saying I’m doing a great job and just to keep breathing through the contractions. Am I? Am I doing a good job? Hell yeah, I am! I am a warrior. Strongest person I know. The mind can trick you into doing and dealing with incredible things. They check me again right before the anesthesiologist comes in. 6 centimeters. It is about 11:15PM now.

The anesthesiologist walks in and he says, “You want an epidural?” Yes sir. Sure do. The anesthesiologist is about the nicest man ever. He turns around to try and give me privacy while I sit up. Those gowns sure do fly open.

Ok. Now it’s starting to hurt. Sitting up makes it awfully hard to breathe through the contractions.

He sets up the whole table and sterilizes it or whatever he does back there with his giant wheely cart of giant needles. I sign the consent forms. We do the whole “What are we here to do?” “Get an epidural.” thing. Good lord I do not remember an epidural hurting that much. I don’t think it ever has before. But I guess fourth times the charm.

The epidural is placed. He does the test dose and tapes me up. I get to lay back down and he hooks me up to the pump.

The midwife comes in after I get the epidural. We are around midnight now. 9 centimeters. She asks me the dreaded question of if anyone else is coming. I tell her that my mom just got to my house and my husband should be here in 30-40 minutes. She says that my waters are still intact and we will wait to break it until after my husband gets there.

I am feeling a lot of pressure. That familiar feeling of having to poop. But I know I don’t have to poop. The nurses know I don’t have to poop. So much pressure. I can still kind of feel right side but I kind of like it.

There’s some show on about making candy and the most popular candy in the world. Here I am having a candy history lesson and checking the time.

Joe had to stop for gas. I am panicking. He isn’t going to make it. There’s too much pressure. This baby is coming soon. I remember seeing the time hit 12:45AM and panicking. Then my epidural pump starts yelling at me. There’s air in the line. It is yelling at me.

Fuck. Now the heart rate monitor is going off too.

I anxiously wait for a nurse to come help me but no one comes. I press the call button and they come in. She calls the anesthesiologist and he offers a new pump, but the midwife tells me I am at 10 centimeters and I say I will just do without it. 1AM.

The midwife leaves and comes back in. They are going to break my water. 1:10AM. I’m panicking. Joe isn’t going to make it. They tell me that he is walking to the room now and they break my water. Immediate relief hits as he walks in and they rush around setting up the room around us.

Joe is holding my left foot. The nurse is holding my right. I get two good pushes in before amniotic fluid gushes into the midwife’s face. To be honest I am trying so hard not to laugh. Which seems crazy considering I’m crowning. Two more good pushes and the head is out. One more push. There he is. Our beautiful little boy. 1:19AM.

I half notice the midwife massaging my stomach and waiting for the placenta. I try to push it out. I have the baby now and can’t focus on anything else. He’s beautiful. Perfect.

I feel the relief of the placenta exiting my body.

The nurse says there is a laceration that won’t stop bleeding. The midwife says she isn’t concerned and I don’t need stitches. It’s just a very minor tear. I decide not to get it stitched. The nurse is still a little concerned trying to get it to stop. But it stops shortly after.

You would never believe me if I told you that the birth story was the least dramatic and stressful part of this, but it was.

To be continued.

Remember the Titans is one of my all time favorite movies. It has a strong message about the time period that I won’t ever forget. It has so many notable moments within the movie, while still bringing in comedy. But the quote in the title is the most relatable quote from the movie for me. I realize that not everything has to be related to my own life, particularly since this movie focuses on racism and I am a white girl born in the 90s. Just hear me out though because this quote echoes in my head. I hope you can see where I am going with this at some point. I am not trying to belittle the movie because I really do love the movie and all its messages.

My entire life I was made to feel like perfection was the only option. If I was not the best at what I was doing, it wasn’t good enough. Was this an attempt to be motivational? Maybe. But it wasn’t. All I wanted was for my parents to be proud of me, and nothing ever really seemed to get my father’s attention in the way I needed to be acknowledged. I needed to be perfect to get attention, and at this point in my life I don’t even think that would have done it. I strove for perfection anyway.

When I played softball my teams would lose constantly. I was never on a winning team. I was pretty decent at batting practice though. I would absolutely slay while I was in the batting cage. When I got out to the plate though. I remember a time where my father made me a deal after I hit my first double. He said he would give me twenty dollars if I hit another double, some amount for a triple, and then something like one hundred dollars for a home run. I started getting hits left and right. Never did hit a triple or a home run though and instead of getting recognition for what I did do, it got pointed out what I didn’t do. It wasn’t perfect. So I tried harder. Still never achieved perfect. Then I finally quit softball.

I swam my whole life. Again, I was pretty good at it. I remember when I broke a school record though I was told that I could have gone faster. When I re-broke the record I was told that I didn’t throw up so I could have gone faster. When I got personal records but didn’t place, it got brushed off and barely acknowledged.

I did my first triathlon and when I got to the turnaround point on the bike I fell and jammed my thumb. I wasn’t more than 12 years old. Instead of being commended for getting up and finishing in my search to reach perfection, I got chastised for falling. I tried time and time again to have the perfect triathlon, but there was always something. There was always some reason that it wasn’t good enough. I would get crumbs of compliments here and there. There was always a “but” though. It just wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.

As you can imagine I put myself through the same stress in the academic world trying to find that recognition. Still, it was never good enough. It wasn’t perfect and so it wasn’t good enough. If I got an A-, it could have been an A. God forbid I get a C or lower. By my senior year I was burnt out. With sports. With school. With everything. But I had to keep trying to get some appreciation. I needed him to be proud of me. I got accepted to CGAS and you can imagine the reaction when I failed out.

Even into adulthood I have strived for perfection in every aspect of the game. I joined the Coast Guard, got married, had kids, bought a house young, got promoted, and so much more. None of it has ever been done perfectly though. I can’t even be the perfect mother. My house isn’t spotless. I didn’t have the amount of hands to finish my bathroom remodel with the kids around. I painted my room wrong. I did a crappy job painting the kid’s rooms. I put my kid in speech therapy. I took my kid out of speech therapy. My kids don’t know how to pronounce every single word and they say “yeah” instead of “yes”. My kids draw on walls sometimes. My stove is dirty. My youngest still sleeps in my bed. I didn’t give Mark a pacifier and that was wrong. I did give Rose a pacifier and that was wrong. I breastfed Joey for longer than a month and that was wrong.

He doesn’t even acknowledge that I have a 4.0 GPA and am almost done with my requirements to meet Honors Program Distinction. I have even made the President’s List 4 times out of 4 semesters now. But that doesn’t matter.

I frantically clean my house any time I know my dad is coming because I am trying to get everything as perfect as I can so he has something good to say. I am always met with the negative though. The one corner I missed. The one piece of trash on the floor. The marker that I couldn’t get off the wall. The nails in my living room that we hang our stockings on. The grass. The bushes. The weeds. The deck. The pool. The patio. The smallest tiny little thing is what gets pointed out.

I have been criticized and chastised every single step of the way when all I really wanted was for my daddy to say “I’m proud of you”.

To be honest I could go on and on because this is why I am probably so anxious all the time.

Why am I striving for something that is impossible though? He will never say he is proud of me. That is something he needs to work through with himself. Perfection is just not feasible. Perfection is not reachable. I will never be perfect. If that means he will never be proud of me than so be it. We will not be perfect in every aspect of the game. We will never be perfect in any aspect of the game.

I am a good mom. I am a good student. I am a good wife. I am good at so many things. And that’s enough. I may not be perfect in every aspect of the game, but I am good enough.

I had known for a few weeks since getting several positive pregnancy tests and a gut feeling that I was pregnant. I kept this hidden from people for a variety of reasons. I kept it hidden from colleagues and my bosses because they had made it clear to me that being pregnant was inconvenient for the unit. I “can’t run a shop with four kids”. A whole story in and of itself, honestly. Maybe one day, when my thoughts and opinions aren’t so critically scrutinized through the microscope of the government, I’ll be able to openly go into further detail.

Another reason was the judgment I knew I would receive from the general population and family. I have felt uncomfortable for quite some time announcing pregnancy because of this judgment. Too many “you can stop having kids now” comments. Or the “you have a boy and a girl that’s the perfect family”. Or even just the questioning of “you guys are done now RIGHT?” Large families are not a new concept, but the judgment from family, friends, and society that I would receive for having a fourth child had me keeping this pregnancy locked down tight.

The third, most prominent reason I can think of, is that I had a gut feeling that something was wrong. I kept denying to myself that I was pregnant. I carried on with my normal routine for the most part because it just didn’t feel real or right.

But when that first test popped positive, and I sent a picture to Joe, he was so excited. For the first time, if I’m being honest. He replied, “we did it!”. We hadn’t been trying, but we had decided we wanted one more. TOGETHER. For those people who are going to say that I coerced him into it. He was actually the one that ultimately suggested another child so eat my dick, ok?

He started calling the baby the Froot Loops bird. Which ended up being funny because we had decided the baby’s name would be Sam. So obviously, this evolved into referring to the baby as Toucan Sam. Despite my hesitation and gut feeling, I started to get excited. I started looking at nursery bedding and started a registry for the few things we would need. I looked up sibling shirts. I clicked “add to cart” on an adorable coming home outfit.

I had taken probably 3 tests that were all positive. I had finally started telling a few people. At 5 weeks and 5 days (predicted), I really started spreading the news among some friends that I knew would be excited because we had talked about it before. I had told no one in my family and had no intentions to until I went to the OB.

It was a Saturday night and I was finally starting to get comfortable with the idea that there was a baby. I was going to call medical first thing Monday morning so I could get set up with the OB. I was going to tell my command after my medical appointment. I had a tattoo appointment the following day, Sunday, that I was seriously contemplating canceling but had held off because I was unsure if I should trust my gut that something was wrong.

Now I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t.

Sunday morning I woke up not feeling well. I was crampy and nauseous. Something that I had chalked up to just morning sickness and an expanding uterus. I lay in bed for hours. And then I felt a gush. I ran to the bathroom, already tearing up, and called Joe into the bathroom. There was a lot of blood and I immediately knew that my gut feeling had been right and this was it. It was over. He went out and got more pregnancy tests anyway.

Negative.

Immediate dread filled my body. Was it really that quick and then it’s just over? I didn’t expect the test to come back negative so quickly. Everything says it takes weeks for the test to come back negative. I just wanted one more positive test. A reminder I guess. But negatives were all I got. Confirmation of my worst nightmare. I broke down into tears right then and just sat on the toilet for what felt like years. We debated if I should go to the hospital and get checked, but I decided that the show must go on and I had to pretend nothing happened because no one knew. Not even the kids. I slapped on a pad leftover from my postpartum days with Joey, and we got loaded up and on our way to my tattoo appointment. I just kept crying. Numb, but so sad at the same time. We went about our day not saying a word to anyone.

We went home. I went to work the next day. Still not saying a word. Just carrying on all week like everything was ok. I was ok. I wasn’t.

That week stands so vivid in my head right now. Heavy bleeding all week. The week following that too. Cramping. Just silently miscarrying hoping that nothing went wrong causing me to go to the hospital because I felt ashamed. I felt like I had failed the baby, Joe, and myself. I was cooking dinner one day that week when the kids wanted Froot Loops. I broke down in tears on the kitchen floor, giving myself 20 minutes to be held while I cried. I picked myself back up and kept going. The show must go on was my new motto.

All I have left now is the stuffed animal I bought for myself that I call Froot Loops and the coral the Joe bought named Froot Loops. But you know what really gets me. I felt guilty for being sad about it. I felt guilty that I was mourning this loss when I have three healthy, happy children when other people have none. Other people desperately want the family I have and here I am feeling sad over a fourth child that some people could only dream of. Guilt, shame, sadness, anger. No one would believe me. No one probably does. But I know. I know and I feel it all.

It was a bittersweet Mother’s Day. Trying to celebrate what I have while remembering what I don’t anymore. It keeps hitting me every few days and I relive it again. It’s dumb but it’s how I’m working through it for myself.

Sharing this is a lot for me because I know people will feel hurt they didn’t know or deny that it happened at all. But I am 1 in 4 and it is about time I share this. I don’t know if this will help anyone, but I hope it does. Shit. I don’t even know when or if I’ll share this on my social media and make it an open target for people to read and criticize but I needed to get it down because this is like therapy for me. Maybe one day I’ll be able to look at a box of Froot Loops again and feel happy with what I had for such a short time.

We will remember Toucan Sam forever, and I hope one day soon we will be blessed with another Toucan Sam. I’ll miss you for always buddy. I hope you are the one helping the next Toucan Sam make his/her way to us. And just know that we loved you, and still love you so much. Goodnight. Sleep tight. I’ll see you one day.

If I share this on social media, don’t be an asshole. Don’t make comments about how it could be worse. Don’t say it’s shitty that we still want to nickname our next kid Toucan Sam. Don’t make it about yourself and how you didn’t know. It doesn’t help with grieving. If you’ve suffered losses I would love to talk to you and get some tips on how to deal with this better. BUT If I see some fuck shit on my social media regarding this don’t ever expect to talk to me or my family again.

There is a list of things that I could go the rest of my life without hearing and not miss in the slightest. In fact, every mother probably has a handful of phrases that they get from people that grind their gears. When we had our kids close together, and then again had more than what people deem as the “normal” two kids, that list just got longer. I’ve seen a lot of mothers recently talk about the backhanded crap that people say to them, and it got me to thinking. So let us talk about it. Shall we?

“Geez don’t you guys own a TV?” Why yes Janet we do own a TV and we still had two kids two years apart because IT’S NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS what we do in our bedroom. Thanks.

“Why doesn’t that baby have socks?” Well, the baby hates the fucking socks. Like all babies hate socks. The baby took the socks off approximately .2 seconds after I put them on and threw them into the dark abyss. I figured I would probably rather just walk from my car to the door without the stupid socks than look for them for 30 minutes just for the baby to rip them back off.

“You can stop having kids now”

“Mom’s got her hands full”

“He sticks his tongue out a lot are you sure he doesn’t have Down Syndrome?”

“You should breastfeed it’s best for the baby”

“You should really give the baby formula. No one wants to see your boobs.”

“I don’t envy you” This particular comment was in regards to my grocery bill. Kindly fuck off.

“You have a girl and a boy. It’s the perfect family”

“Don’t try for another girl. You’ll end up with three boys” This one gets me.

“You’re going to end up like one of those 19 kids families if you keep it up”

“You should really teach your kid not to do (X, Y, and Z)”

“You shouldn’t talk like that”

“You shouldn’t dress like that, you’re a mother”

“What is that outfit they have on?”

“I really wish you would bring the kids to visit more” Oh I’m sorry that we have our own life and don’t live around the corner. Also, cars work both ways. That’s the crazy thing about cars.

“Why doesn’t that kid have a jacket on?” Let me break this down. You can’t wear a jacket in a car seat. Do you really want me to put a jacket on a child when they get out of the car to walk 10 feet to take the jacket back off? Also, I fought with them in the car for 15 minutes about wearing a jacket.

“Your kids should be kissing everyone goodbye” No. They don’t have to. See that’s the thing about consent. They have control over their own bodies and if they don’t want to kiss or hug somebody, that is their prerogative.

I’ll be quite frank about the older people (usually) that say this stuff. Many of you had your own chance to raise your kids and have a family and you didn’t do a great job. Look around. There’s a whole generation that labels themselves as “cycle breakers” while they suffer from depression and anxiety trying to cope with their childhoods. Please be mindful that unless you were a perfect parent or those children are in immediate danger that your opinion quite frankly doesn’t matter. If a house looks lived in but is not filthy, keep your mouth shut. If the kids are healthy and their doctors aren’t concerned, keep your mouth shut.

The dirty looks when a child throws a tantrum in public. Or when they’re on a leash. That mother is already having a hard enough time without judgment from a stranger.

It is easy to be a perfect parent and say “my kids would never do that” before you have kids.

A lot of you forgot how hard it was when you had small children. And a lot of people, in general, have forgotten The Golden Rule. Treat others the way you want to be treated. Treat mothers the way that you wanted to be treated when you had small children. Just be kind and patient because being a parent is fucking hard.

And if/when someone keeps a pregnancy out of the public eye, or even just specific people, look at it and realize that it is probably because people are rude and judgmental. So if someone doesn’t share big news with you, take a good long look at yourself and what you have said in the past that caused that. You can bet your ass that people see how you talk about other people and decide not to tell you things because of it.

And yes, I realize that this makes me seem like a bitter, angry bitch. And I’m fine with that. I am angry. I am bitter. When you hear the same stupid comments over and over again it gets irritating. I am at a point in my life where I no longer want people to think they can talk to me any which way about how I raise my kids. So kindly, fuck off.