peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

No one ever prepared me that mothering would be so tough. That there would be many unexpected bumps in the road.

Christmas Day nine years ago was exactly this.

On Christmas morning, we were opening presents, with my 13-month-old daughter on my lap. Joyous? Giddy?

Not so much. She felt hot and lethargic. A fever was brewing. I started worrying. I readjusted her on my lap and felt something odd under her armpit. She squirmed. I excused myself from the family to check out what was up.

I took off her jammies only to reveal a lump in her armpit–the size of an egg–inflamed and hard as freaking rock.

WTH??

I quickly put her outfit back on, went downstairs, and quickly motioned for my husband to come with me for a second opinion. I didn’t want to alarm my son and mother who were enjoying the festivities.

Calls to the advice nurse. Calls to urgent care. Nothing open. It was Christmas Day, so the emergency room it was.

We decided that we would divvy up for the day. I would take my daughter to the hospital while my husband, mother, and son would head over to my in-laws to meet up with the rest of the family. And I would meet up with them in a bit. “A bit” turned into 10 hours later.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. Prodding. Testing. Perplexing.Worrying.

Turned out that it was an infection. Medicine was given. A follow-up appointment was scheduled. Then later, a surgery.

We spent 10 hours in the hospital on Christmas Day. A mother cradling her sick baby. I nervously ate an entire Tupperware container full of chocolate chip cookies that I hastily grabbed at the last minute.

But she would be OK. That was all I needed to hear.

Bumps. Lumps. Sickness. Injuries. Disappointments. Failures. Sadness. They happen. You get through it.

As a parent, you deal with your own “bumps” but also your children’s “bumps.”

May you handle the bumps in the road ahead, whatever they may be. And may they smooth out.

At the hospital, the nurses told me to hold my newborn like a football when I fed him.

Now this six-foot-tall young man plays football. With swarms of teenager girls watching.

I was not prepared for this.

I have mothered this boy-man for 13 years. As the years and milestones pass, I try to support his independence, steer his choices, but ultimately let go. And it’s difficult.

One of my favorite parenting mantras is:

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give to our children. One of them is roots. The other is wings.”

I’m better at the roots part. You know, the love and nurturing part?

I am trying to be better at the wings part.

Take for example, football. Do I want my son playing a sport where his body is jostled around and he is required to wear a mouth guard–not only to protect his pretty teeth but to prevent jaw injuries at mega impact? It’s nerve-racking signing all of the concussion waivers. It’s also kinda awesome seeing him in his full gear–with helmet and pads–looking like a man.

He really really wants to play. And he is committed to doing his best.

I am proud of his dedication and enthusiasm. And because of this, I must let go and let him grow. And be his cheerleader.

I can’t help but think of the children’s song, Eagles, which sums up my belief in raising children: letting go.

May this big boy of mine fly down that football field with his mouth guard and his budding wings. I will be watching with love, support, and faith in him. And I may also be sporting a tear or two.

These pictures show me with my son then…now.

Birth stories (La La La). I’m not listening.

Not because I don’t like pain and contractions and epidurals.

I just don’t want to hear about YOUR labor story or HER labor story. At least, not so much.

I mean, you probably don’t want to hear about MY labor story, right?

It’s like this. You get a group of women together and when one starts talking about HER labor story, the others want to jump in and share their stories. When I was in labor…

“I was 6 centimeters dialated.”

“I had a water birth.”

“I only pushed twice.”

Blah, blah, blah. Then suddenly, everyone is talking at once. And no one is listening to anyone. And then women start trying to top each other with who has the most impressive-scary-wild-amazing birth story.

You nod. You gasp. You sympathize. You oohh and you ahhh. Because, like, that’s what you’re supposed to do when chatting about labor with fellow mothers.

But do you really care about the other woman’s story? No, I didn’t think so. Deep down, you want to tell YOUR story.

So here goes Pippi’s birthing and labor stories in the off-chance you want to hear:

1. First baby. Was induced. In labor for 20 hours. Had a midwife. No epidural. Wanted one at the last minute, but it was too late. Pushed for 30 minutes. Learned true meaning of “ring of fire.” Baby arrived healthy. Whew.
2. Second baby. Was induced. Had Mexican food the night before. Mistake. In labor for 14 hours. No epidural. Umbilical cord wrapped around baby’s neck; the nurse told me to to lie down, with minimal movement, for the remainder. Doctor was on her way…running late. The nurse asked me if I could hold the baby in. Are you kidding me?? Pushed for 15 minutes. Baby arrived healthy, despite the cord. Whew.
3. Third baby. Was induced. In labor for 13 hours. No epidural. It was approaching midnight. Tried so hard not to have an April Fool’s baby. Pushed for five minutes. Baby arrived healthy three minutes after midnight…on April 2. Whew.

Post a comment with your labor story. I would just LOVE to hear it.

Read other great blog posts at this link. Tell ‘em Pippi sent you.

Babies in flower pots? Yeah, I love those. I wish I had taken pictures of my babies in flower pots. Or in pumpkins. Or in tea cups. Or in pea pods.

Seriously. These photos are adorable! And they show how tiny babies start out in life.

It’s a little late now… My baby is now kinda big. He turns 13 today. And has surpassed me at 5’10″.

But no regrets. I’m so proud to see what a nice young man he has become–after starting out, well, the size of a pea.

I look forward to watching him continue to grow and thrive.

It’s not a labor bag you need to pack, it’s your looking-pretty bag. And maybe a robe.

Because at the hospital, clothes don’t really matter. The hospital will give you a lovely, threadbare cotton gown, with gaps and holes, perfect for your bits and pieces to hang out.

What matters is the make-up. The pictures of mother and infant will be circling the globe–the ones taken immediately following birth and the next day, when all of the relatives bring their well wishes. Don’t you want to be look your best (even if you feel like crap?)

So you just gave birth. Ya might want to powder down that sweaty face. How about a little eyeliner? Or maybe some lipstick? Even out that blotchiness. Put a clip in that matted hair.

You may feel as if you’ve been run over by a truck. And you just ran a triple-marathon. And you have enough stitches in you to sew Raggedy Ann.

You just won’t look it.

I went out to lunch and I encountered a mother in the restaurant’s restroom who was at wit’s end. She was yelling at her four-year-old to stay RIGHT THERE. She was battling the blow-out her two-year-old made, forcing her to throw away the entire poop-covered outfit in the trash and to use paper towels to wipe up the mess. Then she proceeded to wrap her child in a paper towel “skirt” because she didn’t have a change of clothes.

Been there? I have. And it nearly brings you to tears.

Don’t judge that mother for yelling. Yelling happens. Don’t judge her for forgetting her baby wipes. Chances are she used them all up. Don’t judge her for throwing away clothes. Who would want to bring home poop-covered overalls? Don’t judge her for not bringing a change of clothes. Chances are, she did and this was the second blow-out of the day. Poop happens.

I felt sorry for her. I handed her the baby wipes I keep in my purse. I ask, “Do you want these?” = “I know what you’re going through.”

She said, “Yes, that would be great. Thank you sooooo much.” = “Thanks for understanding me and not judging.”

Who would’ve known the power of the baby wipe?

I made three babies. And I have had five unexpected body changes as a result:

1. Bigger feet. Yep, they grew a half a size. Time to go shoe shopping!
2. Belly roll. Gotta tuck it into my jeans.
3. Jaw that clicks. Giving birth to one of my children resulted in my jaw clicking and popping. Permanently.
4. Breasts. Breasts permanently increased a full cup size. Woohoo! But now they require a fork lift.
5. Heart bursting with love. Enough said.

Change is good.

You know the saying “Sleeping Like a Baby?” It means, “If you sleep very well, you sleep like a baby.” Well…

Most babies don’t sleep enough. Enough hours in a row. Especially in the middle of the night. Getting up at 3:00 a.m. just sucks. So does 5:00 a.m.

We know that sleeping babies are the cutest. Calm. Sweet. Precious. No crying. No fussing. You stare at them and watch them while they sleep and breathe. But you know that if you stare too long, they could…wake up!

And you need these precious two hours of quiet.

Time to shower and shave your legs. It’s been awhile. Or maybe even to take a nap yourself.

So the next time you’re trying to explain pure and blissful, dog-days-of-summer sleep, why don’t you just say “Sleeping Like a Dog.” Man, you can’t wake those suckers up unless you’ve packing some bacon.