Life ain't always rainbows and cotton candy

Here's a Keeping it Real moment. I keep a journal for my son to read one day (who am I kidding? I'll be happy if his wife even reads it.)

2 years, 10 months, 9 days                                                                                                                     9-16-12
My son. Some moments you make me beam with pride, astounded at how much your little sponge brain absorbs. Some moments you make me absolutely crazy, not seeming to listen to a single thing I say. Yesterday was the typical mix of the two. Some phrases you would’ve heard me say were, “Don’t stand on the couch!”, “Why is there pee on your shirt?”, “Don’t touch your penis and then go touch your sister.”, “Get your foot out of your cup!”, “Why is there blue crayon on your teeth?” You get the idea. I do NOT understand most of your little boy antics but I have to remind myself that they are a result of your mind figuring out this complex world of weird smells, textures, emotions, etc. You’re doing great, big boy, even if it seems I’m always lecturing you. Last night was one of those wonderful never-want-to-forget memories that I had to include in your journal. One of those fleeting, please, God, don’t let me forget a thing about this moment. We were in your sister’s nursery around 8 pm. The room was dim, lit by one lamp. I was attempting to nurse your sister. 

As you will realize, I nursed you without a single problem for your first full year. You had not a sip of formula. I will do this for your sister too. During my pregnancy, my determination to repeat this was clouded with doubt. How could I possibly have another child with no “latch” issues, the same enthusiasm for nursing, etc? I just didn’t think it was possible to have two years worth of easy, painless, blissful nursing experiences. Lightening surely wouldn’t strike twice. However, she was born and we have had, virtually, no problems. One “issue” we’ve had that I cannot solve though is your sister’s CONSTANT motion. Even while nursing, I feel like I’m wrestling a cat on speed. I feel like I’m chasing her around with my boob like a crazy person. Usually she’s oblivious and gets her nourishment regardless of the fact that, when finished, I’m sweating, my ponytail is sideways, shirt is backwards, and left eye has developed a twitch. It seems to bother only me. 

Well, last night, something was bothering her. I was, as usual, chasing her around but she was screaming. She would latch on, suck for 3 seconds, let go, scream, and then root around to latch on again. Rinse and repeat for 30 minutes. I had tried the “low stimulation environment” (aforementioned dim nursery) despite wanting to watch my football. I had even tried unbuttoning her gown and placing her skin-to-skin. I had tried Mylicon and burping her about a million times. Nothing. was. working. You walked in and caught me crying along with your sister. I so rarely get frustrated breastfeeding as I have the confidence of your year under my belt. Perhaps, though, it was the fact that, when I woke with her 4 am feeding that morning, your Daddy and I chatted easily until you woke up. Those are some of my favorite moments of the day and “just us” moments that we so rarely get. However, now we were both going on about 5 hours of interrupted sleep. Not a good combination. Anyway, you looked at me with a shocked expression. I so rarely cry and you didn’t know what to think about this change in roles. You patted me on the back and asked what was wrong. I told you, “I’m just frustrated because your sister doesn’t feel good and I can’t fix it. It makes me sad when I can’t make you guys feel good.” You nodded your head, so wise beyond your two and five-sixth years. About that time, your Daddy brought in 3 ounces of my previously pumped liquid gold. “This will give you both a break. We have plenty,” your Daddy said. I took it, put it in your sister’s mouth, and she began greedily sucking it down. You asked to help and held her bottle for about ten seconds. “Here, Mommy, you can feed her. It is frustrating feeding her.” (Though she was doing nothing but eating at this point.) You started rocking on her rocking horse (yeah, the one that’s actually yours but you don’t have space in your room for it.) You looked over, rocking gently, and said, “You’re strong, Momma. I know you can do it.” I couldn’t do anything but laugh (and ask you if you were going to be a motivational speaker when you grew up.) You wanted to know, “What’s so funny?” I took a deep breath, looked at my two healthy kids, and smiled. Perhaps I would, in fact, survive another day of raising an infant and toddler. Thank you, my boy. Now, go get your helmet out of the toilet.