The Nap Time Blues.

In a lot of ways, I love nap time.

When I say nap time, I'm referring to my daughter's nap time, which is around 2:30 every afternoon. As a stay at home mom, that moment when I see those numbers on the clock is a moment I look forward to every day. No, I'm not saying I don't love my kid. No, I'm not saying I don't enjoy being home with her. I'm just saying: Mommy.needs.a.break.

And I'm so thankful that Sarah gives me those breaks. She has been a wonderful sleeper since about 4 months old, and I am ever so grateful for that. I know that a lot of moms fight a daily battle in getting their child to sleep, and I know that I am incredibly blessed to be able to say I have a good sleeper. And after hours of playing peek-a-boo, hanging out in her tent, reading the same page of the same book 100 times, I am even more thankful for my good sleeper. Doesn't every mom need a few minutes to sit and eat some lunch, without a little human being yelling "Biii! Biii! Biii!" at you, over and over again? ("Biii" is Sarah speak for "bite", by the way.)

So anyway, like I said. I love nap time. Thank God for nap time. Seriously.

But sometimes I get the nap time blues.

What are the nap time blues, you ask? The nap time blues, for me, is when I close the door to her room with the knowledge that I have the next hour or two to do what I need to do...and then I realize I could never possibly do it all in those two hours. What should I do first? Should I eat lunch? Should I pick up her toys? Should I clean the kitchen? Should I unload the dish washer? Should I take a shower and wash my nasty, greasy hair? Should I eat lunch really fast, then pick up her toys with lightning speed, and then take the fastest shower of my life just so I won't have to be scared of myself every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the rest of the day? Or should I do none of that and sit down with my laptop, or the remote control, and pretend I don't have a zillion other things I should be doing?

These are my nap time blues.

It happened today when I put her in her crib. I walked out of her room and all at once, the kitchen was staring me down, the dog was whining to be let out, the toys were tripping me up, and the shower was calling my name. That was about 30 minutes ago. 

So here I am writing this blog entry. At the moment I'm pushing all the other options aside in order to do something for myself. I write on here because I love to write. I love being a mother too, and I love being a wife, but it's still okay to do something every now and then that's for me, and me alone, right?

Now, I'm going to eat some lunch (at 3pm in the afternoon), and then I might take a shower. If she's still asleep by then, I might do some cleaning. I might not. She will probably be awake by then anyway, and I'd much rather play with her than clean. Most of the time.

But seriously, despite the nap time blues...

I love nap time.

I used to judge you.

Before I became a mom, I was judgmental of...moms. I didn't realize it then, but I realized it very soon after my daughter's birth by cesarean section (the daughter that I swore I would give birth to with no epidural, gently holding my husband's hand, with happy baby music playing softly in the background).

Yeah, her entrance into this world didn't exactly go that way. At all. I was still pregnant after her due date, and despite my protests, my doctor insisted (with good reasons that I didn't want to accept) that I needed to be induced. Off to the hospital we went, and though I knew that pitocin induced contractions might actually be worse than regular, normal contractions, I still had it figured out in my head. After all, I took that 5 hour long class on a Saturday morning that told me exactly how to get through labor without allowing a giant needle to be stuck in my back. I didn't sit in that uncomfortable chair on a weekend morning for nothing. 

Yep. I was induced Thursday night, and by Friday afternoon I was ready to slap the anesthesiologist when he told me I wasn't sitting in the right position for him to properly insert said gigantic needle into my back. That thing hurt. Seriously, it hurt. But oh my gosh, the relief that stupid needle brought was almost heavenly. 

I hadn't even given birth yet, and I had already broken my first self-imposed rule. 

I've been breaking all my rules ever since. 

I swore I would breastfeed my daughter for at least the first 6 months of her life. I'd hear of moms who failed at breastfeeding, or hear of moms who didn't even try to breastfeed, and vow to never be like them. Then, I put my newborn daughter to my breast (while I was pretty much high on morphine post c-section), and...ouch. That kind of hurt. That was okay though, because I read all the books and did all the research, and I knew it would hurt. 

Yeah. A couple of weeks into her life, I gave up on putting her to the breast and decided to pump instead. I grit my teeth and vowed to at least pump for six months, even though my attempts (every four hours, every day) barely produced two ounces. Finally, 4.5 months later, for the sake of my sanity, I quit. I packed up the pump with tears running down my cheeks, put it on the top shelf of the nursery closet, and finally accepted my long-term relationship with Enfamil.

I think that was the moment when I let myself off the hook. That was the moment when I realized all of my grand expectations of myself were just that -- grand expectations. I couldn't possibly live up to every single one of them. That was the moment I realized I was way too harsh in my previous judgment of other moms. We're all just trying to get through it, one day at a time.

Today, I found myself driving to Walmart with a McDonald's bag in the passenger seat. I ate a french fry, then handed my daughter one. I ate another fry, then handed her another. Then I gave her a chicken nugget. 

Did I mention I was wearing sweats? I went to Walmart, without a shower, wearing sweats, and feeding my kid fast food on the way. I don't think I can ever judge another mom, ever again. 

None of us are perfect. Lord knows, I never will be.

You're not perfect either, and that's totally okay.

But gosh, I love my kid. And I'm sure you love your kid too. 

That is what makes a good mom. 

P.S.  My kid only took two bites out of her nugget. What kid doesn't like nuggets?

Dr. Google, I despise you.

I have struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. In the first grade, I tried to get out of going to school because I was terrified of my teacher, thinking she would toss my less than perfect work in the trash for the mere joy of embarrassing me in front of my classmates. This teacher was awful, and actually, that may have been something she did at some point in her classroom career. Still, that is not the point of this paragraph. My anxiety about my not so likeable first grade teacher literally made me sick to my stomach at the young age of six.

For the most part, my worrying habit is a personal battle that I kept to myself until I met my husband. He is the lucky one who gets to hear many of the fears that keep me up at night, the unsubstantiated ones and the ones that could actually come true. Sometimes he is a calming force, and I realize that he is of course right, and I am just being crazy. Sometimes he is a frustrating force, however. When you're worried, hearing that  you shouldn't be worried sometimes just makes you irritated, and no less worried.

Today, and for the last few weeks, I have had a new fear that I haven't been able to alleviate. About 10 days after receiving her MMR and Chicken Pox vaccines, Sarah came down with a high fever. I treated the fever with the usual Tylenol and Advil combo and put her to bed, thinking she'd be good as new in the morning. The problem is that she wasn't good as new, and began having trouble with her balance. Though she hadn't been walking for long, it seemed she'd suddenly regressed. My fairly decent, steady walker suddenly seemed to be doing a drunken weave.

I thought maybe it could be an ear infection, so I took her to see her wonderful pediatrician (seriously, I love my kid's pediatrician). There was no ear infection, and the good doctor was a little stumped, but the blood work showed that my stumbling toddler probably had a virus. The pediatrician sent us home with instructions to come back in one week if the balance problems were still happening, as she would probably order some tests (an MRI, for example) at that point.

Two days later we were praising God. Our little girl seemed to be completely back to normal. She was walking steadily, chasing the dog around the living room, laughing, eating normally, and acting as if nothing had ever happened.

Fast forward to two weeks later. Sarah developed a sudden high fever, sometimes over 104, that lasted for approximately three days. Back we went to the doctor, and were told she had another virus. We were sent home knowing that the fever would probably stick around a few days, but if it wasn't gone as of Saturday we needed to head back in.

Today, her fever is gone, and our girl is laughing, giggling, and happy again. But...her balance is once again off. She can still walk, but she is stumbling...over her own two feet, into the couch, over the dog, everywhere at times. I, of course, am frustrated because I thought we were done with this. 

And that is where the worrying part comes in. My mind automatically goes to worst case scenario mode. I'm constantly going over it in my head - Is it just an ear problem that the pediatrician is missing? Did she have a terrible reaction to her vaccinations? Is something severely wrong?

And this is where I have to take a deep breath, let my husband calm me down, and step away from the computer. Worrying will get me nowhere. If she's still stumbling in a few days, we will take her back to the doctor and ask for further investigation. If it goes away, we will once again praise God and hope that it doesn't happen again. Until then...deep breath, Jamie. 

Deep breaths. 

Deep breaths.

Time: It Really Does Fly

I first created this blog one day all the way back in April of last year, and typed my first post that same day. Sadly, that first post was my only post until now. It's not that I haven't wanted to post something new. It's not even that I haven't logged in and clicked the "New Post" button multiple times. It's just that every time I've done so, something more urgent has come up just as I began to type the first sentence. A baby waking up from her nap, a timer going off on the oven, a hungry husband arriving home from a hard day of work. These things are my priorities, my role in life right now, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I do miss writing, though.

Just as the time has gotten away from me when it comes to this blog, so it is with my entire life. Sometimes it feels like yesterday that I gave birth to my healthy, happy, 8lbs. 9oz. Sarah Kate. Lying nervously on the operating table talking to my husband, listening to the anesthesiologist jokingly trying to lessen my fears, hearing that first cry and meeting my daughter for the first time as my husband held her up to me and said, "Look at our baby!"...all such vivid memories I can almost smell the smells and hear the sounds.

When we brought her home from the hospital, my husband and I were two adults who had never taken care of a baby in our lives. We laid her down in her crib for a moment, and stared in awe at how tiny she looked lying in what now seemed like such a massive bed for a baby.

We got settled in and began an adventure that continues to this day. We no longer had nurses available at our beckon call. It was our job to figure out when she was hungry, when she was sleepy, and it was our job to inspect the consistency of her poop. It was an adventure that included c-section recovery, breastfeeding woes, and simply adjusting to our new normal. Clueless, we learned a little more every day, until finally it began to feel natural. The love in our hearts grew stronger each and every day. We were not just clueless babysitters. I was now a mommy, and he was now a daddy. And honestly, it was kind of cool.

I have to stop here and say it was in no way easy. It was hard. Those first few months of her life were some of the most challenging days I've ever experienced. I pumped milk for 4 & 1/2 months, clinging to my resolution to breastfeed by a tiny thread called Medela. It took me THAT long to accept the fact that it just wasn't going to happen, put away the pump, and call it a day. Besides dealing with breastfeeding failure, there were postpartum anxieties to be dealt with, and 3a.m. arguments about who should get up with the baby. There were lots of tears. But there was also laughter.

A lot of laughter.

Today, our little girl isn't really a baby anymore. She is officially a walking, laughing, talking toddler. She brings us joy, she brings us laughter. She is our most amazing blessing, and sometimes our biggest frustration. She is Sarah Kate.

And we wouldn't have it any other way.

Finding the words.

There was a time when writing was my "outlet". It was something that I enjoyed, so much so that I had a three ring binder full of "poetry" that I scribbled down somewhere between Calculus and French class during high school. Still, it wasn't ever something that I ever shared with anyone. Be it the shy girl, or the perfectionist in me, I just never felt that the things I wrote were worth sharing.

My life has changed a lot since high school, thank God. The shy girl is still there to an extent, of course (as we all know). The perfectionist...well, that's still there too. Just ask my husband. Actually, he's one of the many reasons I'm typing this now.

As I was saying, my life has changed. A lot. I have been a wife to a wonderful, caring man going on two years now. Six months ago I gave birth to an 8 lbs. 9oz., beautiful baby girl. I spend my days changing dirty diapers and reading The Pokey Little Puppy. I spend my nights laughing with my husband as we hang out with our sweet girl, and our aggressively friendly dog, Charlie. Boring? No way. Easy? Of course not. Worth it? Absolutely.

So about the writing...I used to think that I wrote my best when I was sad, or angry about something. Then, one day I realized that wasn't the case at all. It was just that in the happy times, I'd forget to slow down long enough to write. This blog is me, doing just that. Slowing down long enough to write.

Is it because I want people to read it? Not really. Is it because I think I have some sort of writing or blogging talent? Not in the least. Honestly, I'm just hoping to find the words to capture the details of some of the most amazing yet challenging moments of my life.

So, hi. I'm Jamie, wife to Ben, Mommy to Sarah.

This is my blog.