Baptism by Fire

Before Reilly Kate was born, I really and truly believed I was going to be a great mother. I thought I had good instincts. I researched everything. I was starting down a path of good choices and sound parenting philosophy. Little did I know that it was really the path straight to hell.

Within a few days of Reilly's birth, she was hospitalized. The whole ordeal is still so painful that I cannot even delve into much more than to say she was the right infant at the right time to play practice patient to four interns... and I was unable (and perhaps unwilling) to protect her the way I should have. That single week has colored every day of my mothering existence. Therapy, which I will someday seek to sort through this, will only take the edge off my torment at the cost of thousands of dollars. Not a great way to start out. My rock solid foundation of confidence was left in crumbles.

Then there was the breastfeeding. I had resisted the temptation of getting breast reduction surgery for ten years because I knew I wanted to nurse my children. I thought it would be this magical experience, a thing of beautiful bonding between me and my baby. Like everything else, I researched and read, attended classes and workshops. I was prepared, armed with enough information for a titty convention all my own. I watched my friend, four months prior, effortlessly establish a wonderful and awe inspiring nursing relationship with her first born. I had no reason to expect anything less.

I put Reilly Kate to my breast and... it hurt. The worst fucking pain and that's saying a lot having just come out of a pitocin induced labor without pain medication. I was told time and time again that if it hurt I was doing it wrong. Unlatch. Relatch. Painful? Unlatch. Relatch. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. As proof of my inability to get a proper latch, my nipples blistered and bled. Not once did anyone suggest that this might just be normal. Not once. I saw lactation consultants, post partum doulas, midwives, doctors, even LLL leaders. They all told me that my discomfort was the result of a poor latch.

I've been nursing for almost five years straight now and I can tell you, without any doubt, that when I put this third child to the tit it is going to hurt like holy bloody hell. Not only is the pain totally normal for me, I've discovered it is the dirty little secret of breastfeeding. Yeah. It hurts. Suck it up and be a woman. If only somebody had told me that. Instead, though, I added it to my growing list of motherhood failures. I still nursed, but thought my pain was my own fault.

Then there was little Miss Reilly Kate herself. This child... I just couldn't figure out how other moms were doing it. I couldn't let her be for five minutes. She hated the sling, the bouncer, the swing (which she did use for her once or twice a day fifteen minute long nap), the floor, her crib, my bed, my lap. She was only really happy if attempting to do something. Yes, even when merely just weeks old. First it was the rolling. She would attempt to roll and would get very pissy and vocal if I didn't assist her. Then it went to sitting, then standing and crawling, and finally to walking followed shortly by running. Thus was her infanthood gone by the ripe old age of 8 months.

She completely gave up on naps at about 3 months. This isn't to say she hasn't taken a nap since. She has. Just the other day she laid down for a nice half hour snooze. But it's been rare and a struggle. I tried all methods. The schedule. Co-sleeping. Crying it out. Ferber. Baby wearing (by about four months she would actually do short stints in the sling which normally would induce a bit of shut eye provided I kept walking). Driving around in the car. Eventually I quit trying and was happy on the occasion that she did take a nap.

By the time she was about five months old I had come to the conclusion that I wasn't such a good mother. In fact, I was pretty lousy at it. I felt like I didn't know what I was doing and what I was doing was all wrong. This feeling continued until Roman came along and I realized it wasn't me. It was, well, it was her.

Not that anything was or is wrong with Reilly Kate. She's just a different kind of child. Completely different. She marches to the beat of her own drummer. Literally. Many of us have children like her, that are different and as a result challenge and at times outright difficult. But those of us blessed with our special case as our first child have our confidence shaken. I've met a few other mothers like me and they've all felt the same way. It isn't till the second child comes along that we realize we don't suck as much as we thought.

Other mothers didn't even believe me. When I would complain about the extraordinarily difficult day I had, I would get rolled eyes or come backs about how all of us were going through the same thing. Many of my internet friends got horribly angry with me since I was scarcely online. They'd sit in chatrooms for hours during the day while their newborns napped or played with their toes whereas I was lucky if I could squeeze a five minute shower in without having her turn purple with frustration.

I've even been called a liar, to my face, when I talked about the stuff Reilly Kate was doing. She was crazy early on her milestones which to some mothers who's children aren't in this category is a badge of honor flaunted around to make them feel less than. Sadly, ask any of us who've had their three month old roll themselves around the house. It's nothing to envy. Having a child like this can kill any sense of competition one might have.

All this has been rummaging around at the forefront of my brain lately as I think of what this next addition is going to be like (due date, by the way, is February 6th). I tried very hard to remember how difficult Reilly Kate's babyhood was so that I didn't just remember the good times. I think mothers somehow forget how hard things were and only remember the warm fuzzy moments. Once, while grocery shopping with the two kids and older woman came up to me to tell me how much she missed her children being small. Much to her shock and dismay, I replied, "I cannot wait until I miss when my kids were this age." Times are always better when they are past.

Regardless of what this next baby is like, I'm a good mother. I know I am. I'm not great. I'm definitely not the best (although, Reilly Kate does tell me that I am the best several times a day). But I am good. Good enough. So I look down at my ever expanding belly and think, "Bring it on, baby. I'm ready for you. I've been baptized into motherhood by fire."