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Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

July 27, 2016 | Anna Jordan

It was a Friday. I was 40 weeks pregnant. My 18 month old woke at 5:30 to come snuggle in our bed.

“We have to make her stay in her crib,” my husband mumbled as I wedged her already sweaty little body between his arm and my giant belly.

“Shhh… she’s just a baby,” I murmured.

“Not for long.” He said as he rolled over.

I pulled my for-now baby in close and breathed in the whisps of her fluffy blonde hair. I had prayed that I would go into labor nearly every night for three weeks, but as much as my body wanted pregnancy to conclude, my mind screamed, “You’re not ready!” How would I manage returning home from the hospital with another little girl who would occupy our bed in the wee hours of the morning? What would I do with two babies in a queen-sized bed? It just didn’t seem fair to send my husband to the couch. Because this was my third baby, I could confidently say that there was room in my heart for more, but, literally, was there room in our bed? In our house? In our schedule?

My son straggled in around 6:45, so I heaved myself up and shuffled to the kitchen. I threw open the door to the patio to let the dog and the toddlers out to play while I made breakfast. This was the part of the day that I had down: coffee, breakfast, outside play. I could unload the dishwasher while boiling water and scrambling eggs (our kitchen is small, okay?). But as I stacked cups and pulled the toast out of the toaster I wondered: What would I do with a baby during breakfast? When will I nurse her? What if she’s crying? Should I wear her? Set up the swing in the kitchen? Perhaps these were questions that I should have been pondering all along, but third pregnancies don’t really pull focus the way other pregnancies do, and I wound up at forty weeks a lot faster than I’d expected. So there I was lockstep into my morning routine wondering what on earth would I do with a baby? 

By 7:30 it was already 85 degrees, and I was – thankfully, I guess - not having any contractions. I tried to fold laundry on our patio table, but I quickly regretted it. Heat plus drought plus small children equals dustbowl, and in an effort to cool my children down/clean them up/distract them from hitting each other with the broom, I opted to let them use the hose for just five minutes in order to fill buckets and play naked carwash (This is a family favorite: Take off clothes, wash outside toys. You can pin this if you want). By 10:30 they were in the bathtub cooling off and scrubbing the morning grime from their sweaty little bodies, and I was pouring my second cup of coffee. Hashtag the usual.

It was about this time that my son declared his concern for our dog: “She scratching her booty so much, mom.” I looked over at our aging maltese-poodle viciously digging at her behind. Waddling over to where she lay, I already knew what I would find: fleas.

I hauled the children from the bathtub and plopped their dripping bodies in the hall. Grabbing the flea soap from the cabinet, I gritted my teeth.

“Mommy, why do dogs get fleas? Does God makes fleas? Can we get fleas? Can people get fleas? MOMMY DO I HAVE FLEAS? Vivi, look in my booty! LOOK!” My son stood and bent forward, sticking his rump in my daughter’s face.

“Gross! Brother’s booty!!”

I swear to you I said a lot of F words. Not the actual F word because I didn’t want to add that to list of things I needed to explain in the moment, but otherwise lots of Fs. So many.

I scrubbed the dog pretty meanly, and berated myself for not remembering the flea med refill, and also what in the world would I do with a baby in this situation? I didn’t know. As I viciously rinsed flea-ridden fur, my mind flooded with doubt: We were gross. My house wasn’t clean. I was a bad dog owner, and therefore probably a really bad mom. Why did I think I could have another baby?

My kids had wandered into their bedroom to play, and I consoled myself with the fact that they were really quite easily entertained and maybe that would solve all of my –

“Vivi pooped on the floor! MOM! By the train table! It’s a LOT of poo!!”

“I did. I have a poo. Right there. RIGHT THERE.”

Shockingly, I did not cry.

***

We survived the poopocalypse. Barely. After diapering and dressing my people, I hurried them out the door to take the dog to the vet. Although I’d scrubbed her, vacuumed, and cleaned the dog bed, the thought of bringing a new baby home to a potentially flea-ridden living room pushed a lot of my anxiety buttons. I may not know exactly how to manage another human, but I could try to keep her clean.

I buckled the car seats, and as I pulled out of the driveway, the thermometer in my van read 100 degrees.

I want to tell you that we really turned our day around, that by the time we arrived home from the vet the day that had been filled with poop and sweat and fleas and conflict was redeemed by a blissful nap time where I rejuvenated myself with iced-chai and thought lovely birthing thoughts in preparation for my new sweet bundle of joy. Sorry, no. None of those things happened, and as I plied my son with Daniel Tiger episodes I heard my daughter yelling from her crib: “Need pizza! I NEED pizza! NO NAP."

I softly opened the door to her room. I lifted her up and plopped us both on the loveseat next to her crib. She laid her head on my chest. Thankful that she wasn’t still yelling about pizza, I simply rubbed her tiny back. My big baby daughter tucked her knees on the sides of the belly that housed her tiny baby sister. Her feet gripped my hips as the baby wiggled inside of me. I can do this, I thought. I don’t have the logistics worked out yet, but I will. I could snuggle my daughter and the baby at the same time. I could really figure this out. I can do this.

I felt my daughter’s breath begin to steady as she drifted off on my chest. My shoulders relaxed, and I leaned my head back. The fan blew in the corner of her dark, cool room, and I brushed away a fuzz that was tickling my arm. I could think my loving birth thoughts here. This was probably more restful than our sweltering living room. I brushed another fuzz away. I need to clean that fan, I thought. It was admittedly pretty dusty, and I can’t have it blowing fuzz all over the room when the baby comes.

My arm started to itch. The fuzz was -- I sat up fast and flipped the switch on the lamp next to the loveseat: Ants. The fuzz was ants. Not just one ant. Not just ten ants. Hundreds.

Lest you think we are the world’s most disgusting family, let me briefly defend myself: we aren’t.

Between the drought, the heat, our half-acre of dry, dusty land, a barn cat, a couple of miniature horses, and a few cracks in the cement slab under our house, things got buggy. It didn’t help that someone left a small bowl of Honey Nut O’s on the floor of the nursery, which was basically a calling card for all ants within a hundred miles.

I texted my husband: ant emoji, ant emoji, gun emoji, exed out eye face with open mouth.

Husband: I’ll pick up dinner.

***

Here’s the thing about that terrible day – it was dreadful – but it was just one day. Poop, ants, pregnancy, fears, worries, these are some of the parts, but as far as motherhood is concerned, that bad day is not the sum total of my experience.

I think somewhere I got in my head that being a good mom meant that I could anticipate and circumvent any potential problem. If I were really a good mom, then I would have a plan for disaster before it ever struck. But the thing is, as much as I like to have a morning routine and a bedtime routine and an organized schedule of events for each day, I don’t have a plan a lot of the time. I can’t.

Days with dogs and kids include poop and fleas and heat and sweat and fights, and it’s not my job to keep those things at bay (as much as I’d like to). My job is to show my kids how to manage them – to learn through those experiences. Days with small children rarely go according to plan. I have to be quick on my feet, able to find joy in the happy moments and persevere in the tough moments, and in the process I’m modeling those characteristics for my the little ones who are always watching me.

I definitely cried into the burrito my husband brought me for dinner that night. The kids were cuddled up on either side of me watching Fireman Sam, and as my husband set the bag of food on my belly I burst into tears. A big, deep bean and cheese catharsis. My daughter rubbed her hand up and down my arm, and my son looked up at my husband: “There were lots of ants today, Dad. Lots.”

It was in that moment that I knew we were going to be okay. Not because I had a plan, but because it didn’t matter whether I had a plan or not. We had a rough day, but we got through it together. I didn’t know what I would do with a baby in that situation, but I knew what I would do overall: I would love her, hold her, cry a little (or a lot), and gear up for the next day.

We were ready.


Written by Anna Jordan. Photo by Sandra Kordazakis.

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In Pregnancy, The Days Are Long Tags anna jordan, bad days, life with three kids, life with two kids, transition
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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile

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Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
Her feet pitter patter across the tile floor as our daughter races toward the door. “Da! Da! Da!”
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I smile and stir the stew on the stovetop. The kitchen is warm, filled with the aroma of browned beef and stewed tomatoes. Glancing out the window, I’m surprised to find it’s still light outside--he hasn’t been home before dark in weeks.
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His truck shuts off, the dog kennel door clangs, and finally, his boots clomp across the porch.
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“Dad!” our son shouts as the front door squeaks open. “I want to show you something!”
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I hear him whispering to our girl in the entry. I add frozen peas to the bubbling pot on the stove.
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“Daddy, want to play play-doh with me?” our son asks.
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His hands are cracked and calloused, his sweatshirt dirty and faded. There’s mud on his pant leg and gray in his beard. His eyes are tired, but he puts our daughter on one knee, our son on the other, and scoops up a ball of play-doh without hesitation.
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He’s wearing the same black wool vest he wore on our wedding day six years ago. It’s faded to gray and it’s missing a couple of buttons. If you look closely at the seam you can see blue thread where I mended it last winter.
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That vest is a little like us.
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We’ve been torn apart by our egos and months-long unemployment, by our son’s undiagnosed cleft lip, and the feeding tube required to keep our daughter alive. We lost a button when the medical bills piled up, and another when we bought our fixer-upper.
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But we mended those places; our seams sewn back together with time and apologies and dedication.
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The way we love each other doesn't look how it used to, doesn’t feel the way it used to, either.
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Our love is no longer new and crisp. It’s worn and tested, like that faded old vest.
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And tonight, with soup on the stove and two babies on his lap, I can’t help but notice how good he looks in gray.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @carastolen
On a whim, I book a nursing photography session. It’s fall, and I buy new clothes for the session because that’s what you do in the fall. Time seems to be slipping from us as I move on autopilot, and years later, I can’t tell you how we spent our days. I only recall all the crying in the middle of the night, my hands that shook all the time, and how scared I was of what was happening, and what was to come. Then, what races through my head on repeat: I am a woman who gets left, a woman whose husband is sleeping with someone else, a woman who can’t even convince the father of her children to call them regularly. There is nothing worthy about me. "Put your fat stomach away. It’s ugly." Everything about my sons is magnificent and as much of a failure as I am, I am the only person they have to take care of them. That fact holds me hostage more than the voice in my head—"I don’t want to ever see that again. Do you understand?"—otherwise, I would never get out of bed.
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When the photos from the nursing session land in my inbox, it’s not the fading sun embracing us or the brilliant framing that catches my attention. It’s the way my baby is reaching for my face as he nurses, his eyes locked on mine, so it seems we are almost the same person still. My shirt is pushed down around my breast; you can hardly tell we are nursing: we could be just another baby and mama pair captivated by one another. My breath catches as I realize, he loves me. I don’t know what my baby sees in me, and over the next few days I become obsessed with flipping through the photos and trying to understand: What have I missed about myself, the person who doesn’t deserve to be loved?
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// From "Putting Fat Stomachs in Their Place" by guest writer @lacianne.schmidt, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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