What I Gave Up When I Became a Mom

Well, time keeps flying by, and I can't believe my little one's second birthday will be here in a few short months. The first friends from her playgroup turned 2 this week, which has kicked off quite a bit of reflection, thankfulness, and "slow down time!" in my mind. So, with that, I bring you a few more thoughts on my first couple of years of parenting.

Getting ready...

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I had some thoughts about the things I would have to give up when I became a mom (though at least I would get back the wine, deli meats, and unpasteurized cheeses I was so missing during pregnancy!). I imagine I anticipated things that most expectant parents do. We would give up taking spontaneous, last-minute weekend trips. We would give up spontaneous date nights (and probably date nights altogether for a little while). We would give up eating out as frequently and socializing with other adults as frequently. We would give up watching as much TV. I would give up my career for an undetermined amount of time. And most of those things did happen. I will say that we are still able to travel somewhat spontaneously (over Memorial Day weekend, for example, we decided 2 days in advance to take a trip and pulled it off), but we sure do take a lot more luggage! We're blessed with a little one who is (so far) pretty good in public, so we still eat out when we want to, but we do it around her schedule. We watch far less TV than we used to, but that's probably good for everyone! And what we've given up surely pales in comparison to what we've gained. 

Now, more than a year and a half after becoming a mom, if you asked me what I gave up, none of those things would be on my list. Instead, I would think of the things I didn't really anticipate - or at least fully appreciate - until the moment I had my baby. 

I gave up being able to not worry about myself. This seems counter-intuitive, maybe, because many moms seem to spend all of their time worrying about someone else and none worrying about themselves. But I don't mean things like getting my hair cut or my nails done or even just taking "me" time - none of which I do that often these days!  I mean on a larger scale. The minute my daughter was born, I was overcome with concern for her. I kept saying over and over, "is she okay?" She was crying her lungs out, and the doctors assured me she was. I still made my husband leave my side and go literally count her fingers and toes to report back to me if she had them all, what her color was like, and if she looked okay to him. Over and over, regardless of repeated assurances, I asked, "is she okay?"  I paid no attention to hushed talk of pitocin, blood loss, a spiking fever, and a potential blood transfusion. Almost an hour went by before it occurred to me that it was taking them an awfully long time to stop my blood loss and get us on our way to a recovery room. And suddenly, my question changed: "Am I okay??"  All I could think was that I had to be okay because my daughter needed me. She needed me to feed her and hold her and take care of her. Here she was, minutes old, totally dependent - what would she do without me? That was the first moment I realized that gone were the days of taking my own health lightly. When someone else needs you the way your child needs you, ensuring that you stick around for them as long as you possibly can suddenly becomes paramount. I take my own health, and that of my husband, much more seriously than before.

I gave up being able to use the expression, "I couldn't go on." As a newlywed military spouse, I used to think only fleetingly about the dangers inherent in my husband's job. When he deployed, I trusted in his skills, his training, and his colleagues to bring him home again. Whenever the topic of "what if the worst?" came up, my first thought was always, "I couldn't go on without him; my world would crumble." My husband went to Afghanistan less than 2 months after our daughter was born, and I discovered that I can't say that anymore. Without doubt, I can still say things like, my heart would shatter. My world would be broken. I would be completely and utterly devastated. But I would have to go on. I would have to go on for her. And I would want to go on for her. When bad things happen - whatever they are - as a parent, I've given up the ability to just crumble and fall apart. For her, I have to go on in the face of fear, loss, or setback. For her, I have to prove that life always goes on.

I gave up ever being carefree. By this, I don't mean that I gave up the ability to let down my hair and have a good time. I still love a girls' night out, a date night, or a vacation. I can still relax, and I can still have fun. But I am never "carefree." There is no moment that passes that I don't think about my daughter and, if she is not with me, hope that she is happy and healthy in that moment. Everything I do is now filtered through the lens of being a parent. Driving has become not just getting from point A to point B, but a task that must be undertaken carefully and defensively every time, always mindful of that rear-facing passenger in the mirror. Those who drink-and-drive, text-and-drive, or just drive poorly are no longer just annoying; they present real and frightening threats to my child. Watching the news is at times not just difficult but heart wrenching. Kidnappings, missing children, and the deaths of children are almost unbearable to watch. Cases of racism, hatred, gun violence, and war are met with my usual heartbreak and outrage, but also now with the realization that this is the world in which I must raise my child and the world I must somehow explain to her. Whatever notion I had of being "carefree" before my daughter was born is certainly gone.

I could go on for much longer on this topic, but in the interest of keeping this "blog post length," I will leave it at this and with the final thought that when I think of all these things I didn't realize I would be giving up forever, I wouldn't have it any other way. Truly, all that I have given up pales in comparison to what I have gained.

On Memorial Day: We Stand Indebted and In Awe

I didn't write a post this month for Military Spouse Appreciation Day (though I invite you to check out last year's post), but I do not want to let Military Appreciation Month go by without sharing some of my thoughts on this military life that we share with so many. This year, I want to offer a few thoughts on Memorial Day as it rapidly approaches. 

Earlier today on social media I shared a piece from another blog entitled To My Civilian Friends on Memorial Day. The gist of the piece was that, as I think we all know, Memorial Day is not really about parties or barbeques or kicking off the summer. I especially liked the tip in it to have the festive party that you have planned, but to remember to set an extra place at your table and leave it empty for the service member who didn't make it home.  The piece also stressed that people need to "stop tagging every veteran you know on Facebook and wishing them a 'Happy Memorial Day.'" While I agree with that statement as a whole (and with the fact that many confuse Memorial Day and Veterans Day), I don't think there's anything wrong with reaching out to (or tagging) the veterans you know this weekend. But thinking about what you should say inspired me to write tonight.

As a military spouse, Memorial Day brings to the surface thoughts and emotions that are difficult and overwhelming and always there, just under the surface most days. I am lucky - beyond lucky - that for the 5 years of our marriage and the 15 years that he has given so far to our nation's Armed Forces, my husband has always come home. But I know that it didn't have to be that way. On any one of a number of days, in any one of a number of situations, he could have been the one who didn't make it home. He has had friends and classmates who didn't make it home. He goes to work every day knowing that he and his colleagues do a job where making it home is no guarantee. What must Memorial Day mean to him? Truly, in my view, he lives his life every day in a way that honors the fallen and the ones they left behind. He will honor them on Memorial Day, of course, but he will do so again on Tuesday when he returns to work. And again every day after that. 

Yesterday, on a public Facebook page, I saw a post from a woman who was saddened that she would not be able to see the flag placed at her husband's grave marker in Arlington National Cemetery this weekend and get a photo of it. She has plans to visit soon, but the flags are removed immediately after Memorial Day each year. Her husband - a Vietnam veteran - died last year, and this is his first Memorial Day resting in Arlington. So, today my husband and I took our daughter to Arlington to see the flags, and we spent our afternoon finding this man's grave to take photos for his wife. The section of the cemetery where he lies was at the opposite side from where we parked and entered. So, we had to walk all the way across the cemetery - beautiful, solemn, inspiring and heartbreaking. Then I read name after name after name as I looked for this stranger's husband. Name after name after name. There are not words adequate to describe the flood of emotions, and though I will post some photos that I took today here, be assured that they utterly fail to capture the vastness of the place, the beauty of the day, and the enormity of the sacrifices.

My daughter and me last year

I am the daughter and the niece of Vietnam veterans, and I wonder without really wanting to know how many names on the Vietnam Memorial and how many markers in Arlington National Cemetery are the friends, colleagues, and brothers in arms of my father and my uncle. To how many of them might they owe their lives? How many of their lives might they have tried to save? What must Memorial Day mean to them? I am lucky - beyond lucky - that my father and my uncle, years before my birth, came home. But so many did not. They are not strangers. They are not nameless "fallen heroes". They are the real life Soldiers and Marines who trained, who ate, who slept, who dreamed, who laughed, who cried, who fought next to my family. They are children and parents and spouses and friends who left behind loved ones who undoubtedly feel the void every single day.

So on Memorial Day, let us not wish our Veterans a "happy Memorial Day." Let us instead think in a real, concrete, meaningful way, of the friends, the confidantes, the brothers and sisters who did not come home with them. Let us appreciate deeply the fact that our Veterans were willing to risk, for all of us and for the country we call home, that they too might not come home. Let us appreciate that our active duty service members willingly take on that risk every day - that even as we enjoy a day off work with our friends and family, there are service members this very moment in harm's way; and they are there willingly, ready to make whatever sacrifice is asked of them in the name of honor, duty, and freedom. Let us remember the service members lost just in recent days - in Nepal, in Hawaii, in New Mexico. What must this weekend mean to their families and loved ones? Taking all of this under serious consideration, I doubt sincerely that "happy Memorial Day" would be the words that came out of anyone's mouth. I would encourage you to say whatever is in your heart to the Veterans in your life, and if that is only "thank you," that is enough. Today I knelt at a Vietnam veteran's grave and said, "thank you, sir; your wife will be here soon." And it was enough.

This weekend my family will appreciate the fact that we are together this year. We will give thanks, as I do every single day, that my husband has always come home to us, and we will pray that he always does. And we will set an extra place and pour an extra drink in honor and in remembrance of those who did not come home - who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. Today I looked out at a veritable sea of white grave markers and American flags, and I stood, as I do every day, indebted to and in awe of our fallen heroes. Enjoy your Memorial Day weekend with your friends and family, but do so in honor of them.

When I'm Having A Second Child

When I got married, I was 26 years old. I turned 27 a few months later. My husband was 28. We were both young professionals, and I was only one year out of law school. And still it seemed the question came before the ink was dry on our marriage certificate: when are you going to have kids? Parts of that day are a blur, but I'm pretty sure someone actually did ask me that on our wedding day during our reception.

Sign here, here, and when are you having kids?

Amongst my law school classmates and colleagues in the legal world, 27 would have been young to have a child. Most people in their mid- to late- twenties were where I was: working to establish their career before focusing on starting a family. But amongst our military friends and my husband's colleagues, it seemed we were downright ancient to not have kids. I'm not saying we were the only ones, but we were certainly in the minority. The question came up at almost every military event we attended and even in social situations with our military friends. But it wasn't limited to the military context. Friends from high school and college, relatives, and even colleagues in the fast-paced legal world would ask. Frequently. When are you going to have a baby?

I had a ready answer to the question that made a lot of sense to me. In short, it was always: "not now." My husband deployed twice during our first two years of marriage. We celebrated our first anniversary half a world apart. In the first 2 years that we were married, we spent only 13 months living in the same place. I was also in private practice for the first time and working hard to establish myself at the firm. There were late nights and weekends spent in the office, and even when they weren't long, the hours could be unpredictable. During the precious little time that we had together, my husband and I wanted to focus on each other and enjoying our marriage before throwing children into the mix. I was - and still am - very happy that we made the decision not to have children immediately, but the question still got to me a little bit more every time that it was asked. I turned 28, and then 29. The question only came more frequently: when are you going to have children?

In 2013, my husband began a "shore tour" during which he would not be deploying for 6-8 months at a time as he had been in the first few years of our marriage. We moved, so I left my job and took a step back from the world of private practice for a while. This, we decided, was the time to focus on starting a family. So, we did. Our first child was born when I was 30 years old, my husband was 31, and we had been married for three years. Finally, I thought, the question would stop. We had the child it seemed everyone had been waiting for (and indeed that we had longed dreamed of but wanted to have at the right time). 

Turns out, I was wrong. The question was immediately replaced with another one: when are you going to have another child? What?! My daughter was less than 4 months old the first time I got that one. I don't think I was even fully recovered from her birth yet, for which I had to have surgery at 12 weeks postpartum. Another one? Surely you must be kidding. But no, people are not kidding. And the question persists. So, I would like to answer it.

For the record, this answer is not for close friends with whom this topic comes up naturally in conversation. And this answer is not for family who certainly have a legitimate interest in our children. This, rather, is for the casual acquaintances, the colleagues, and the, yes, strangers, who see me with my toddler and somehow feel it appropriate to ask me when I'm having a second child. The answer is... drum roll please... none of your business! The answer is also, however, that I don't know if or when I am having another child. But here are some of the reasons I'm not having one right now.

We are really enjoying our daughter. And we want to keep just enjoying her and our current family dynamic for a while before we consider altering it with another child. While we will undoubtedly love any future child(ren) with the same fierce and unconditional love we have for our daughter, right now we really like things the way they are. She has settled into a routine, we have settled into a routine, and after the chaos of the newborn stage and figuring out how to be parents, things feel comfortable and wonderful. The time is not right for us to add another child to our family, and that is reason enough not to.

We are financially comfortable. Right now I am able to stay home full time with my daughter, and we are still able to travel with her (she took more than 10 flights in her first year!), sign her up for lots of fun mommy and me classes and activities, and regularly save for her college education. Certainly we could afford to have another child, but it would dramatically change our budget to have a second child to feed, clothe, and put in diapers (oh so many diapers!). Right now we are in a good place financially raising just the child we have, and we are not eager at this moment to cross the budgeting bridge of becoming a family of four.

2013: a vessel for another

2015 belongs to me!! This is a big one, folks. That's why it gets two exclamation points. This might be TMI for some, but if you ask a TMI question, you get a TMI answer. For most of 2013, I was pregnant. I couldn't eat what I wanted or drink what I wanted most of the time. When I was sick or in pain, I was stuck with Tylenol and things like saline nasal spray instead of, you know, medications that might actually help. And speaking of pain, I was in a lot of it. I had a painful pregnancy and, though it was more than worth it in the end, I was uncomfortable most of the time. In 2013, my body belonged to my unborn child, and every decision I made, I made for her. 

 

Cheers to ME!

For the last month of 2013, and all of 2014, I was breastfeeding and/or pumping for my baby. So, while it's a lovely myth that you get your body back after pregnancy, I still couldn't really eat or drink whatever I wanted. Foods were chosen based on the effects they might have on milk supply. Any alcoholic drinks had to be carefully timed so as not to be too close to feeding or pumping. And, while I did at least get ibuprofen back in my life, I still couldn't take most medications for even things as simple as the common cold. So in 2014, my body belonged to my infant daughter. I finally stopped pumping on December 30, 2014, and in 2015, my body belongs to me. When I go out to eat, I order what I want without studying, Googling, or otherwise researching it to death. If I want a drink, I have one. If I am sick, I take medication. Whatever medication works best. It. Is. Glorious. I hear rumors that some women really enjoy being pregnant, but my friends, I am not one of them. I need this time to feel like my body is my own again. I am cherishing this time. And I am not ready for this time to end. So please, if you must ask when we are having a second child, save it until 2016.

Spend 5 Minutes In My Mind - If You Dare!

I know, I know: it's only April, and already I haven't met my goal of posting once a month.  So, I owe you posts, and posts you shall receive!  I started this blog mostly as an outlet to write about my life as a mom, a lawyer, and a military spouse, and in hopes that maybe others could relate and would enjoy it from time to time.  Lately, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the intersection of those 3 roles in my life, and today I'd like to write about a struggle I'm in the middle of right now. 

It is always easy (for me, at least) to look back on experiences in a positive light - to say how everything happens for a reason, how everything worked out for the best, and how very blessed we all are.  For example, looking back on my last FULL time job - now 2 years ago - it is easy for me to talk about how much I enjoyed the people and the work, and how very fortunate I was to find that job.  But at the time?  There were 3 months of unemployment and job searching, during which I stressed constantly about money - needlessly, as it turns out we had enough with my husband's salary, but it was still real stress.  Then I started my job as the only junior associate in my office.  The day after my husband deployed.  It was lonely.  Really lonely.  There was a lot of self doubt as I worked to get up to speed and prove myself at the firm.  I was in a new city.  I didn't have real friends yet.  And when I went home at night, the person I would normally share the day's triumphs and frustrations with was halfway around the world.  There were tears.  Most days.  I wanted to quit.  I didn't quit, and I'm so very glad I didn't quit, but the point is that hindsight is often lovely even after some very real struggles.  So, for once, I'm going to write in the midst of the struggle, in hopes that one day I'll be able to look back on this very post and talk about how beautifully everything worked out for the best.

5:00 PM in the private practice world

When my husband and I relocated for his "shore tour," I had no intentions of working full time at a big law firm.  My hours in private practice could be quite demanding, and while that was fine when my husband spent over half the year deployed anyway, during THIS tour, I wanted time to enjoy our marriage and to just enjoy having dinner together and all of our weekends free.  So, despite many offers of assistance and potential leads, I did not look for work when we moved.  Shortly after the move, we found out I was pregnant with our first child.  I had always intended to spend at least the first year of my theoretical future child's life at home, so I took a few contract gigs during my pregnancy, but continued my not looking for work.  I'll be honest: the transition from working at least 50+ hours a week to... not, was tough.  I was bored and lonely at times during my pregnancy.  I missed the working world more than I thought I would. 

Then, my daughter was born.  The days got much more busy.  I took on several major volunteer commitments.  I did some more contract work.  She grew, and suddenly her activities - play dates, mommy and me classes, and trips to the library, park, farm, you name it - started to rapidly fill our days.  Suddenly, I profoundly appreciated being able to stay at home.  I've seen all of her firsts - the first time she smiled, laughed, rolled over, crawled, waved, walked, everything.  I was there.  I didn't miss a thing.  It literally brings tears to my eyes I feel so fortunate. 

SCOTUS Admission Day

Now my little one is nearly a year and a half old, and I have started to VERY slowly test the waters regarding going back to work - chatting about the possibility with former coworkers and other moms of young children, talking it over with my husband, cleaning up my resume.  But even before I have seriously begun consideration of this topic, it is already anguishing.  Some days, I can feel the weight of my law degree (and THREE bar admissions...and did I mention all the dues payments?) hanging over my head.  What on earth did I get all of those things for if not to practice law?  Don't I have some sort of duty to society to be using those skills that I worked so hard to develop?  Plus, I was a pretty decent junior associate, I hear.  I had some talent, which I actually really enjoyed working on.  I don't want those skills to get terribly rusty.  Nerdy as it may be, I miss legal research, crafting arguments, writing briefs.  I do.  Some days I get glimpses of my former life - like last year, when I had the opportunity to be sworn in to the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States and watch oral arguments there.  On those days, I miss it a lot.  On those days, I resolve to get back into it.

Plus, there's the money.  We live comfortably on my husband's salary, and we are even still able to fund multiple retirement accounts, savings accounts, and our daughter's college savings plan.  For that, there aren't even words adequate to express my thankfulness.  But just imagine what we could be doing if I was making private practice money again (let's ignore the outrageous cost of childcare for a moment).  Huge contributions to her college savings, more cushion in our savings accounts, little splurges on meals out and luxury items without worry, big vacations (that is, if I ever had the time to take them).  Do I owe it to my daughter to be making a bigger financial contribution to our family when I know that I could do so?

That sounds logical and wonderful and terrible and selfish to me all at the same time.  Do I owe it to her to make more money?  What about spending time with her?  Don't I owe it to her to spend as much time as possible with her?  Would the things I could give her make up for the fact that I wouldn't see her at all some days?  Is it fair to go from spending all day every day with her to putting her in full time child care?  I didn't go to daycare as a child, and I had a very happy childhood.  Do I owe it to my daughter to try to replicate that as best as I can?  Surely there is nothing more valuable to her right now that her mother's time and attention - especially in light of her father's unpredictable... let's call it work schedule.

But then, wouldn't being a practicing female attorney be an awesome example for a young girl?  Don't I want her to see and to know that she can be anything, do anything, and achieve anything she sets her mind to?  Shouldn't I show her that I can be a wife, a mother, and a lawyer, and do them all well (setting aside, for the moment, the question of whether I can, in fact, do all 3 well at the same time)?

Now, toss in the fact that we are a military family, due to move again within the next 12 months, and again a few years later (and again a few years later - you get the picture).  That adds additional stress and difficulty to the process of even finding a job, and also compounds my concerns about affording my daughter as much stability in her life as I possibly can.

You just spent about 5 minutes on any given day inside my head.  And it repeats more times than I would like to admit.

This is a post that won't come to a neat and tidy conclusion.  I honestly haven't decided what to do yet.  To the outside world, it must look like I'm stalling.  Or lazy.  Or just not motivated to do anything about my career.  To those who know me, I hope they know that none of those are true.  It's just a decision I'm not yet ready to make.

Right now, in this moment, I'm not ready to be at work full time.  A few years ago, the stress of a law practice was something on which I thrived.  The deadlines, the partners, the clients, the cases - keeping all the balls in the air was something that pushed me to always do better.  Right now, I know myself well enough to know that I would not be thriving under the stress.  Added to the stress of leaving my daughter in someone else's care, I would crumble under it right now, in this moment.  I would be neither the attorney nor the mother I want to be.  So right now, I focus on mothering. 

But, unlike a year and a half ago, I am at the point that I'm ready to think about working again.  I'm ready to start talking about the options.  To start exploring what I could do or would want to do if I go back.  I'm taking baby steps (no pun intended), and I don't know where they will lead.

Right now I know that I am a lawyer.  Being a mom doesn't take that away from me.  Even not practicing law doesn't take that away from me.  I earned that with 2 degrees, 2 bar exams, 3 bar admissions, 4 court admissions, and all the hard work I have done.  I am also a mother.  Nothing can ever take that away from me.  Going back to work won't change that, nor will continuing to stay home.  I'll be my daughter's mother forever, and I love that.  And I'm a military wife.  While a lot of people see that as a negative when looking for a job, I will always strive to cast it as a positive.  I am creative, resilient, determined, and successful, because I have to be.  Who wouldn't want that in an employee?

This post is pretty scattered and very open-ended, as are my thoughts these days.  Today, I am mostly venting - thinking "on paper" instead of in my head.  Maybe some of you are in a similar place and can relate to the constant back-and-forth - the feeling that no decision is the right one.  Maybe some of you have made this decision already.  Maybe you are working full time, conquering your career and raising your children to be proud of and inspired by all that you are.  Maybe you are staying home with your children full time, delighting in accompanying them on play dates and field trips, and still undoubtedly raising them to be proud of and inspired by all that you are.  In either case, I salute and admire you.  Maybe you don't have children yet, and this post sounds a little nuts because you're pretty sure you know what you would choose.  I was you, and I never imagined how hard this would be.  

One day, I hope to look back on this piece and write a new one about how everything happened for a reason and how well it all worked out, but I hope this piece will help me to not forget how real this struggle was and to be sympathetic to others who find themselves in this place.  Stay tuned for that.

What I Learned In My First Year of Parenthood

Hi, there!  Wow, it's been a while since I gave this blog some attention.  But, new year, fresh start, right?  In 2015, I hope to be a bit more consistent and get some decent content up at least monthly.  Turns out being the stay at home parent to a constantly-on-the-go toddler is busier than I thought it would be, but that's no excuse.  

Speaking of the toddler, along with the busy holiday season, one of the biggest events of the past couple of months was my daughter's first birthday.  We were at my parents' house, since her birthday is quite close to Thanksgiving, and we had a lovely party for her there.  It really was exactly everything I had envisioned.  And, OK, I'll admit it, the party was every bit as much for us as it was for her.  See, Exhibit A:

Cheers to Baby's First Year!

Yes, we did it.  My husband and I survived our first year as parents.  And so did the baby!  So let's put a check in that box and raise a glass, shall we?  Speaking of checking off boxes, I thought this would be a good time to reflect back on a goal I set many months ago: to love my daughter unconditionally and let the rest fall into place.  Did I do that?  Not entirely.  But without a doubt I love her unconditionally, and I certainly got better at letting the rest fall into place.  So, overall, I'll check that box too.  While I'm reflecting, I thought I would share a few thoughts on what I learned in my first year as a parent.  I'm not sure how much "wisdom" I have to offer only a year into this job, but I think some of this could have helped me a year ago.  So here you have it, my own top five.

1.  It really does take a village.  This, by far, is my biggest take away.  Certainly, people do this on their own.  And had I been on my own, I would have found a way to survive, because make no mistake: I would do anything for the little girl sleeping down the hall from me.  But it would not have been pretty.  My village is too big to name or thank here.  It includes, of course, my partner in all things, my husband.  It includes my parents who went above and beyond their role as doting grandparents to come and stay with me when my husband had to spend extended periods of time overseas this year and while I had surgery 12 weeks postpartum.  It includes our extended family who have showered our daughter with love, kindness, gifts, and attention over the past year.  And it includes my daughter's and my mommy and baby friends.  I first wrote about finding some fellow new mommy friends in Strength in Numbers.  Since that post I have graduated from the "new moms" group, and my baby has become a toddler.  But what grew out of that new moms group is a playgroup that gives my daughter at least weekly interaction with her very first group of friends, lunch dates, coffee breaks, moms' afternoons out, and the group of women I would without hesitation call my best friends here in Virginia.  Without these women and their babies, my daughter and I would have gotten through this year.  Because, see above: for her, I would do anything.  Failure is not an option.  But we would have gotten through it with a lot less laughter, a lot less joy, and - for me - a lot less sanity!  So to those in our village named here, THANK YOU.  I had no idea looking down at my newborn in a hospital room on a cold November day how much I would need you all.  And as for the advice piece?  If you're a new parent, find other new parent friends.  Do it any way you can.  Check your local hospitals for new moms groups.  Take a mommy and me yoga class or music class.  Go to story time at your local library.  Find moms' groups on MeetUp.  But find them somewhere.

2.  Don't compare your baby to other babies.  Except that I know this advice is futile, because you will.  I do.  I resolved not to, and I still do.  It's impossible not to.  Especially when you find those new parent friends that I just advised you to find.  How could you possibly hang out with other babies the same age as yours and not compare them?  You can't.  And you won't.  But hopefully, over time, you'll learn to do it the way I try to now.  At first when I made these comparisons, I panicked.  I would come home from the new moms group and say to my husband: so-and-so rolled over today, and she's younger than our baby!  Why doesn't our child roll over?!  She's clearly developmentally delayed.  I probably didn't give her enough tummy time.  I don't interact with her enough.  I've failed her already.  Nope.  Turns out she was just a late roller.  But by the time she was a year old, she rolled, crawled, stood up, and walked all on her own.  Go figure.  And what a waste of time and energy all that panicking was!  Most of the babies in our playgroup are between 10 and 18 months old right now, and here's what I've learned from all these months of comparing them.  Every.  Baby.  Is.  Different.  That's it.  Really and truly.  They're all different, and the fact that one of them does something earlier or later appears to mean absolutely nothing.  Looking back now, it seems so trivial that my daughter rolled a few weeks later than most other babies.  But at the time, it seemed like everything.  So now, when I look around at all of our sweet, loving, amazing baby friends, I marvel at and appreciate how different they all are.  I celebrate each of their milestones and have no doubt that each of them will reach each milestone in his or her own time.  So try not to compare your baby to the one other baby who is doing things faster.  Look at a lot of babies that same age and notice how very different they are.  They'll all get there.  For now, enjoy whatever stage your baby is in.  Turns out all those people who said I would miss the days when she wasn't mobile were right!

3.  Don't read too many books.  This was some of the advice I specifically mentioned in my post On Teaching, Mothering, and Perfectionism.  And I've actually done pretty well with this one.  I Google much less, and I haven't picked up What To Expect in months.  But, occasionally, I still trip up on this one.  I went into my daughter's 12 month doctor's appointment not just a little upset because the "Ages and Stages" questionnaire asked if she was saying at least 3 words as one of the communication milestones.  She wasn't.  At most she was saying "mama," and I estimated that to be unintentional at least half the time.  I nervously brought it up to our pediatrician, who very kindly and patiently looked at me like I was insane.  It's fine, she said.  Does she make sounds?  Yes.  Point to things?  Yes.  Don't worry.  I felt silly and relieved all at once (but mostly relieved).  So, I got to learn that lesson one more time.  But that's OK, because it's a valuable one to learn.

A rare date night!

4.  Make and take time for all your roles.  This one, I don't think I've done as well with.  So this section is advice to myself as much as anyone else.  I think in the early months of my daughter's life, I put everything I had into being a good mother.  Every single drop of energy, every ounce of me, I gave to her.  And so I wasn't a very good anything else.  I could have been a better friend, a better daughter, a better sister.  And, though my husband would tell you otherwise, I could have been a better wife.  I was so wholly devoted to nurturing my daughter and building my relationship with her that I neglected most of the other relationships in my life.  Luckily, I think most of the people in my life have forgiven me, and if you are among them, I hope you accept my sincere apology.  I think I've gotten better on this one too.  I make time to keep in touch with family, and often my daughter and I will Skype together with my parents or sister, involving everyone in the conversation.  We have been able to find time in our daughter's first year to visit with my 99-year-old grandmother 5 times, including attending her 99th birthday party, to attend my brother-in-law's wedding, to visit my sister where she attends grad school, to continue a tradition of my mother and me celebrating our birthdays together in person, and to celebrate the holidays with family.  I could still - though he would still tell you otherwise - be a better wife.  This one's on my to-do list in 2015.  We have slowly - oh so very slowly - found a few babysitters we trust.  So we are slowly - oh so very slowly - starting to go on some date nights.  To take some time to nurture our marriage independently of our role as parents.  And while I believe that our marriage and our role as parents are inextricably intertwined, I also believe that it's important for my husband and me to make time for ourselves, and we haven't done much of that so far.  But we're getting there.  So the advice piece of this one (and I should take my own advice) is to try to make and take time for each of your roles.  You may be a child, a sibling, a spouse, an employee, an employer, a grandchild, a parent, an aunt or uncle - countless things.  And those are all really important parts of who you are.  Don't lose sight of them.  And don't feel guilty for taking the time to sustain them all.  Your child will be better for having a sane and well rounded parent.  At least that's my hope!

5.  Try to let go of the guilt.  Or, at the very least, don't punish yourself for it.  Mommy guilt is the most crushing guilt I have ever felt.  Prior to being a mother, the worst guilt I ever felt was survivor's guilt.  But mommy guilt takes the cake.  I have felt guilt over everything and nothing in the past 13 months.  Guilt that I left her alone to play on her play mat (in the same room as me) while I checked my email or drank some coffee.  Guilt that I wasn't giving her enough independent play time.  Guilt that I wasn't working and bringing in extra income to spend on her.  Guilt that I somehow still wasn't spending enough time with her.  Guilt at the mere idea that I would go back to work someday.  Guilt at the thought that I wouldn't.  You get the picture.  It's overwhelming.  At least, it can be.  The first step, I think, is to not punish yourself for the guilt the way I did.  I felt bad enough with the guilt, and then I felt bad for feeling bad because surely I shouldn't be feeling this way.  I remember, for example, when I started the process of weaning from the breast pump when my daughter was between 12 and 13 months old.  I felt an incredible amount of guilt and could not understand why because, believe me, I wanted to stop pumping more than anything in the world.  I finally read an article explaining how the weaning process causes another major hormonal shift in women that can bring on feelings of intense guilt.  And then I felt so relieved - it was like something made it OK for me to feel the way I feel.  So, I think step one is to appreciate that there are so many crazy hormones in the first year of motherhood, and all moms have mommy guilt - it's OK.  You're OK.  Everything is going to be OK.  Step two, which is harder, is to, if I may quote Frozen, let it go.  Easier said than done, I know.  I fail to let it go on a daily basis.  But I'm trying.  It's also on my ever-growing list for 2015.  Because for all these things I felt SO guilty about over the past year, we don't seem to have screwed anything up too monumentally.  Our daughter walks, runs, laughs, and is starting to talk.  She loves us.  She is happy almost all the time.  How bad a job can we really be doing?  So, if you can, learn from the hours I wasted on guilt, and try to let it go.

And for now, that's enough.  If I had known those 5 things when my daughter was born, it probably would have made life easier.  But I'm still thankful for every moment of the past 13 months that taught me these lessons.  And hey, if I think of more things later, I'll make another post.  Because it's my blog, and I do what I want.  But seriously: find your village, let your baby be him or herself, make time (not just for the baby!), and let it go.  You'll be happier for it.

Her First 9/11

A year ago, on September 11, 2013, I wrote a 9/11 post in anticipation of my daughter being born a couple of months later.  Today, it seems only fitting that I should write a new one.  Today was her first 9/11.

Thirteen years ago at 8:46 am, I was seventeen years old.  I was getting ready for class in my dorm room at 11th Street and 3rd Avenue in Manhattan.  I heard it on the news before I saw it for myself.  Then I walked outside, and nothing was ever the same again.  This year at 8:46 am, I was feeding my 9-month-old daughter.  The two of us sat together in silence for one minute - she, content in her mother's arms, and me, silently awash with every emotion I can think of.  Today I felt the need to be somewhere meaningful, and here in DC, I knew where that was.  I have never done anything particularly "9/11" on 9/11, but after my daughter's morning nap, we loaded up in the car and headed for the Pentagon.

Pentagon Memorial - 9/11/14

Our visit to the Pentagon Memorial today - the first for both of us - was, like all of my thoughts and feelings about 9/11, many things.  It was sad.  It was difficult.  It was beautiful.  It was inspiring.  It was humbling.  But most of all, it was peaceful.  After walking the perimeter of the memorial a couple of times, my daughter and I found a shady spot and sat down on one of the benches - each represents and is marked with the name of a life lost at that site thirteen years ago today.  There were many people at the memorial today.  Traffic buzzed by on the nearby interstates, and planes constantly took off and landed at the nearby airport.  But as we sat there quietly, the most distinct noise I heard was the sound of babbling water coming from the small reflecting pools underneath each and every one of those benches.  "Isn't it peaceful?," I said to my baby daughter.  Oh how far we have come in thirteen years.  There was a time when I would never have believed that "peaceful" would describe any part of my 9/11.

As we sat there, I told her about the memorial.  I don't know how much of speech she understands at 9 1/2 months of age, but I can tell you she sat quietly and looked right at me the whole time I spoke.  She didn't drink her water or play with her doll.  For a few moments, she just looked at me and listened.  I told her that all of those benches we could see represented people who were not with us anymore.  They are people we lost right here at this place thirteen years ago.  Mommy was in New York that day, and she remembers it like it was yesterday.  It was a beautiful late summer day, a lot like today, but it was a terrible day.  All of the people whose names are on these benches are not here anymore, but we are.  We're still here.  And we have to remember them.  We always have to remember them.  And there are so many people who work inside this building - I pointed to the Pentagon, where the only marks remaining from 9/11 are a part of the facade that is newer, stronger, and somehow more proud - and who work with daddy and who work all over the world to make sure that never happens again.

It was simplistic.  But, after all, she is only 9 1/2 months old.  And it was something.  I managed to tell her something.  And yes, tears rolled down from underneath my sunglasses while I spoke.  But I wiped them away on my sleeve, and I kept talking.  My voice broke, but I cleared my throat, and I kept talking.  I told my daughter something about 9/11 today.

The Pentagon - 9/11/14

We walked quietly through the memorial a couple more times, then we started walking back toward our car.  I looked back a couple more times at the Pentagon, and I shed a couple more tears.  But this year, my tears were not all tears of sadness.  Some were.  Some always will be.  But today, some were tears of pride.  Our Pentagon looked so strong to me today; stronger, even, than it did thirteen years and a day ago, because now it has that newer piece of facade, facing the memorial and the direction from which the plane came, standing as a testament to the fact that they did not stop us.  We are still here.

1 WTC in April 2012

It made me think, of course, of One World Trade Center.  My husband and I were there in 2012 before it was completely finished.  I wasn't sure how I would feel visiting the site, but we went there anyway.  And I don't have the words to really explain it, but seeing it made my soul feel better.  I have seen a lot of things in that part of Manhattan.  I have seen the Twin Towers, an iconic part of the New York skyline that I so loved to look at when I moved there in 2001.  I have seen those towers billowing the blackest smoke against the bluest sky.  I have seen them burning.  I have felt the earth tremor when they fell.  I have seen a cloud of dust and smoke there that remained for months, illuminated each night by the bright lights of first search and rescue and then clean up.  I have long wondered if it could ever again not look empty.  To be honest, it always will look a bit empty to me.  But One World Trade Center makes me proud.  It reaches toward the sky, higher than any other building in the western hemisphere.  It too stands proud - a testament to the fact that they did not stop us. 

Actual letter - Nov. 2001

I have reflected a lot over the past year about how far I have come in the past thirteen years.  In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, I considered leaving school to join our nation's military.  Those of you who know me personally know that this is something I never envisioned for myself.  But it felt like it was time to fight.  Ultimately, I stayed in school.  I changed my major to International Relations.  I focused my coursework as much as possible on Islamic Studies.  I learned as much as I could.  After college, I joined Teach For America and was assigned to teach middle school social studies.  I can tell you that when I taught the unit on the Middle East, I did not teach it from the text book.  In the years since I have gone to law school; I have married a military officer; I have followed him around the country and found several volunteer roles in which I can also serve our nation's military families; I have given birth to a beautiful baby girl.  The military wars that began in the immediate aftermath of 9/11 were not my fight.  Those were and are my husband's fight, and that of his friends and colleagues.  But I have begun to find my own fight, and I finally feel like I am beginning to fight it.

A couple of years ago on the eve of 9/11, I wrote that my ongoing goal was to learn to live less with the guilt of seeing September 12, 2001, and more to honor those lost and to somehow leave the world more kind, more tolerant, and more just.  I have a long, long way to go, but today for the first time, watching my baby take in the water flowing, the flags flying, and the sun shining, I felt like I've made a pretty decent start.  Like I told her: We are still here.  They did not stop us.

On Music and Aviation (An Open Letter to the FAA)

Dear FAA:

People - MANY people - find it ironic that I am married to an aviator, as I myself am a terrible flyer.  Actually, I find it pretty ironic myself.  I think when my husband (then boyfriend) first heard that I was afraid to fly, he probably thought it would be cute and that he would be there to be my big strong protector and comforter during our flights together.  Of course, that was before he saw the white-knuckled, hyperventilating, real-tear-shedding, utter panic that is what I mean by "afraid to fly".  It is not cute.  But it has not always been that way.

Me, fearless master of air travel

I traveled internationally for the first time at eight years of age.  We went to Europe, and I remember it vividly.  We went again when I was eleven.  Then, we took the most unforgettable vacation of my life to South Africa when I was in high school.  I loved to fly.  I loved when my parents took down our big, leather suitcases from the attic that could hold two weeks' worth of clothes.  I loved being at the airport.  It meant we were going on another fabulous adventure.  Flying symbolized fun and family and priceless experiences.  I felt so grown up at the airport telling the ticketing agents that I had packed my own bag and no one had asked me to carry anything onto the plane.  And no, of course I hadn't left the bag unattended.  I was a very responsible eight-year-old.  I wrote countdowns in my trip journals of the days, hours and minutes until take off.  In flight, I watched movies, slept, and carefully watched our progress on the little map on the screen.  I wrote updates in my journal about where the plane was, how fast we were going, and what the air temperature was outside.  How amazing and fantastic that we were hurtling through the sky at 30,000+ feet, safe in our aircraft from the freezing air outside, and mere hours away from Europe.  That same trip took my grandparents, father, aunts and uncles days when they immigrated to the United States.  How fortunate we were.

If I was ever concerned, my father was there to reassure me.  I don't remember him being reassuring in a coddling way, but rather in a matter-of-fact way that made me feel a million times better than a little pat on the head and an "everything's fine" would have.  My father flew almost every week for work when I was young.  [Side note: as it turns out, my mother may well be a superhero.  See my post on The Law of Deployment.  As a young mother now, it boggles my mind how many wake-ups, meals, and bedtimes she must have handled without my father.  And my father may in fact be a superhero as well.  For all his time on the road (he flew a family of 4 to Europe business class on airline miles alone), I don't recall him missing anything.  Not a piano recital, not a volleyball tournament, not a holiday, not even a birthday until I was nearly grown.  For a man who worked his tail off for us, he was also a phenomenally present father.  They should probably write a book.]  Some weeks, my dad "commuted" halfway across the country or more for work.  When we were very young, he used to bring home all of his boarding passes for us, and we used them to play flight attendant.  As a child, the song Walking in Memphis made me think of my dad because of the line: "and I boarded the plane/ touched down in the land of the Delta Blues/ in the middle of the pouring rain".  I now know what it means, but at the time Delta was just a word printed on those boarding passes he brought home. Flight after flight after flight on airplane after airplane after airplane, and there he was.  Safe and sound as ever.  And my brilliant and well traveled father could always explain what was going on with the plane in a way that made me understand that of course we were safe flying.  Everything that was happening was exactly what was meant to happen, and any worries or thoughts to the contrary were silly and needless.  And that made me feel very safe.  And I loved to fly.

And then I woke up one crisp September morning in 2001 - my freshman year at NYU, located in lower Manhattan - and I never looked at planes the same again.  It's hard to say what changed that day, and it's far beyond the scope of a blog post to explain (though sometimes, I try).  But in the year after that, I developed a paralyzing fear of planes.  I didn't have to be flying on them.  Hearing them was enough.  Seeing them was enough.  My first flashback happened during the Spring of 2002, and then they were frequent for a while.  Triggered by planes, smoke, or just a quiet moment alone with my thoughts, coming sometimes in the form of nightmares and sometimes in the form of waking flashbacks, they became part of my reality.  The airport was no longer a happy place for me.  As I approached, my stomach knotted and my throat tightened to the point it felt like I could not breathe at all.  For a while, I required anti-anxiety medication to board a plane.  It wasn't as much the flying as it was the plane.  It was a new world, and it was one in which my childhood vision of planes as a symbol of fun and adventure had been shattered.

Yep, Miss Afraid to Fly married this guy.

In the more than ten years since, those feelings have subsided.  I can see and hear planes without the acute feelings and memories they used to trigger (and that's an awfully good thing since we're generally stationed near a military air base...).  I don't have sleepless nights every time someone I love has to fly (again a good thing, since I'd probably never sleep if that was the case!).  I don't see in all planes those planes anymore.  But as my fear of planes has subsided, my fear of flying has intensified.  Dramatically.  It became, instead of something I looked forward to and enjoyed, the thing I dreaded most in this world.  The first time my husband and I flew while I was pregnant (read: could not obtain any liquid courage before the flight), it only took that one time witnessing my terror-induced panic for my husband to agree I wouldn't fly again during the pregnancy.  I won't drone on about my flying-induced panic attacks here, but suffice it to say that: It. Is. Not. Pretty.

But I can end this blog post with a very happy development.  Not too long ago, the FAA decided it was OK for commercial passengers to use electronic devices during takeoff and landing.  Ladies and gentlemen, this development has been nothing less than life changing for me.  "Gate to gate": what a beautiful phrase.

Music, for one reason or another, has always been a powerful force in my life.  Classically trained on the piano since the second grade, music has always had the ability to alter my mood.  The right kind of music can calm me, excite me, or make me feel invincible.  A song can take me to a completely different place and time.  The way some people remember sights or smells, I remember what songs were playing at various moments in my life.  And not just big moments.  I remember what song was playing, for example, when the alarm clock went off in our hotel room on my first ever trip to New York City.  And any time I hear that song, I'm back in The Plaza Hotel, falling in love with a city for the very first time.  Music can focus me or be a beautiful distraction.  In giving me my music from the time I board a plane to the time I get off that plane, the FAA has given me a gift that it can never fully appreciate.  Earlier this year, my husband bought me some of those noise canceling headphones, and I yelled at him for how much he spent on them.  Turns out, my husband also gave me a gift that he can probably never fully appreciate (because while he has seen me panic on a flight, he is so comfortable flying that I don't believe he can comprehend what it feels like).  

As the plane taxis to the runway, I turn on one of those songs that makes me feel invincible.  I put it on repeat.  As the plane accelerates down that runway, I turn the volume up.  I close my eyes.  I don't hear the engines.  I don't hear the landing gear going up.  I don't hear the flaps changing position.  I hear my music.  I feel invincible.  I smile.  During the flight, I listen to all sorts of music.  Some takes me back to my childhood.  Sometimes I can hear my father telling me that everything is fine in a way that makes me feel absurd for thinking it might not be.  Sometimes I even laugh a little at a memory brought back by a song.  If we hit some turbulence, back comes the feeling-invincible music.  I take off those noise canceling headphones when we are back on the ground, heart rate normal, eyes and palms dry.  I have flown nine times this year so far, and I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that the new electronics rules have revolutionized my flying experience.  

So thank you, FAA.  Thank you for giving me my music, through which you have given me the ability to feel calm, to feel at peace, to even feel joy.  Music has done for me what no amount of reasoning or reassurance has been able to do in the past decade.  It has stopped the panic before it starts.  So here's to air travel, to going on adventures with my family, and to maybe, one day in the future of which I dare to dream, once again associating flying with a feeling of joyful anticipation rather than one of fearful dread. 

                                                                                                    Sincerely,
                                                                                                    A Hopeful Traveler