And my longest finger goes to…the Newborn Baby Manual

trena

By Trena Elizabeth Morton

Guest blogger

As a new mom, I started my journey just like the rest of us: obsessing over every detail of making sure my son’s life was perfect.

Wake up, pump, feed baby, change baby, stimulate baby, swaddle baby, nap, feed yourself, bathe yourself, sanitize everything, and keep your home maintained.  Keep track of all the 2017 parenting faux pas, adopt the “old school” methods that actually work (and won’t cause long term damage) ; while balancing the latest and ever-changing “new school” parenting commandments that are constantly being SHOVED down your throat respectively by your elders and peers.

Then, remember to keep up with your thank you’s, texts, social media posts, and missed phone calls.  Do all the aforementioned and much more while managing the recovery from vaginal or cesarean delivery, bleeding profusely, and coping with the “baby blues”.  Your head spinning yet?

PLUS, all the things and vices that would normally bring you stress relief are restricted.  No wine or cocktails as you are breastfeeding.  No exercise for six weeks.  No sex for six weeks.  No shopping because you are either broke or still packing on baby pounds.  The baby is too young for an excursion to temporarily change up your scenery.  You are stuck like chuck with the ultimate case of insecurities and unpretties and forced to deal with them “straight up with no chaser.”  Literally.

And then it happens, you snap!  You question what the hell you got yourself into, if you are even capable of pulling this new role off, if my child is normal, am I normal, do I like this new life, is my life over?  You find yourself staring in the mirror with your disheveled hair, in your pajamas or old sweats, looking at your forever changed body, noticing your engorged and possibly leaky chest, scrutinizing every blemish you ever had, tired beyond exhaustion, and crying without being able to explain why these tears are falling and you cannot make them stop.

WELCOME TO MOTHER LUVIN’ MOTHERHOOD!

If you are reading this and in that first six to eight week stretch, let me assure you that it does get better.  I promise, just hold on!  For me, better days came right at the moment that I threw away all the excessive rules and noisy advice; and began to raise MY son.  When I looked at him as a miniature version of me versus this fragile and foreign object, and simplified to plotting his needs just as I would my own.  And just like that I began to love molding Traf, as we affectionately call him, for the unique, happy, HUNGRY, side sleeping, chunky cheeked, advanced progressing, mitten removing, sock missing, tons of curly hair having, mild crying and snorty soul that he is.

Traf required 6 ounces when the world told us 4.  Traf is a stone-cold side sleeper when the world told us he must be placed on his back.  Traf does best with two teaspoons of plain, purified H2O versus over-the-counter laxatives to ease constipation.  And guess what?!? Traf is doing just fine.  Just like we were after drinking from the water hose, riding in the cabs of pick-up trucks, riding bikes without helmets, and eating peanut butter before the age of three.

I encourage you to know the rules and why they exist, yet know that sometimes the rules will not apply.  Know that what worked for Jack, may/may not work for Jill.  Know that no matter what you do or how perfect you plan, the throes of parenting will swing you in an imperfect direction.  Know that those tiny, bobbly head newborns are really resilient beings.  Know that ‘What to Expect” will still bring you the unexpected.

So, the only advice I have for new parents is to do YOU!  I mean it.  Sincerely.  From the bottom of my heart.  Do what works best for You, YOUR child, YOUR household, and YOUR marriage.

Here are 15 things I learned as a new mom

1. Your life is not over, just different. How you define that difference is up to you.

2. Infants really only need to be fed, diapers changed and loved. The rest is for our convenience.

3. Infants also only need onesies, sleepers & blankets. They will never wear 50% of those cute clothes you just had to have.

4. Deadbeat & absent parents should have their genitalia mutilated, jailed, and subject to work release from 9pm – 6am to soothe, feed and change 10 newborn babies under strict supervision until they sleep through the night.

5. Parents that physically, sexually & mentally abuse children should be starved, stoned, and tossed off a plane into the everglades.

6. It truly does take a village.

7. Postpartum depression is real. Being cognizant and having a good support system makes it manageable. No woman should ever feel ashamed for their baby blues, and we need to talk about it more.

8. You can glue two pieces of paper together with a baby booger and a little post feeding drool.

9. Parents MUST still date and find their “me” time. An occasional break is healing to the soul.

10. If you cannot afford the medical and lifestyle bills of children, you shouldn’t keep having them. Everyone needs help at times and we are blessed to live in a country that supports those that need it, but these babies are not meal tickets.

11. Folding your legs crisscross applesauce style and placing your baby in the folds is the original Boppy pillow.

12. Carrying and delivering a baby is practically miraculous. My respect for my gender and body has been taken to another level.

13. Saving for a college fund/your kid’s future is greater than purchasing name brand & designer apparel and shoes. If you can do both, kudos to you. If you cannot, the now investments are critical in setting your child up to thrive in this competitive world.

14. Teaching self-love & God’s love is more difficult than ever. Social media teaches our kids to look to the world for “likes”. Make sure we do not overly emphasize doing things for Facebook and Instagram.

15. Raise your tallest finger to a lot of the rules and advice, and rear your little bundle of love just as they were uniquely designed.

Our hearts beat on

notes

Cleaning out closets and drawers is a necessary evil. Especially when you are preparing to move. I make notes on scraps of paper and stick them in drawers and forget about them. Some are mundane: an address or phone number; a note about work or a household chore.

These notes stopped me cold. Seeing them again nearly two years later made the tears flow. I had jotted them down in a  tiny notebook I carry in my purse, a habit from many years as a journalist.  They were made in May of 2015 at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Lexington, Ky. while talking to a very honest and somber doctor who tended to my father when he came into the ER for shortness of breath.   Fluid. Infection. Cancer cells. An oncologist. Neurologist. MRI.  

“I can’t tell you it’s cancer, but all signs point to it,” he told us.  

At that moment, all our lives shifted to focus on our patriarch.  When the official diagnosis came a few days later it confirmed the early suspicions: stage 4 lung cancer. The kind that strikes non smokers. Non-small-cell lung cancer that had spread to the bone.

My father did not want to know the prognosis in terms of time. The doctors respected his wishes.  They ran tests, treated a mass on his spine with radiation and developed a treatment plan that included Tarceva, an oral medication taken by some patients if they are fortunate enough to be a genetic match. Thankfully, my father was a match. As a result, he was spared the suffering and side effects that often accompany chemo.

Watching my father died was like witnessing faith in action. For decades, he’d been a Sunday School teacher, a deacon in his church and an attentive husband and father.  He prayed daily and studied the Bible often. He openly shared his faith with anyone who would listen, including a chaplain who came to his hospital bedside to offer words of comfort  the day before he died.

As he dealt with cancer, he continued to be the leader of our family — constantly calling or texting to check on how we were doing. After he and my mother settled into their routine of doctor visits and monthly treatments and tests, they slowly resumed their normal activities: dinner at Red Lobster; church; visiting family and friends, and tending to their grandchildren.

Daddy was not interested in all the internet research my siblings and I were doing about innovative therapies and alternative medicine. He agreed to come to Emory’s Winship Cancer Institute in Atlanta for a second opinion but was opposed to any experimental treatments or trials. In his case, none were offered because he was responding well to the Tarceva.

Fred Duerson simply wanted to live the remaining days of his life as fully as possible. He took great joy in seeing his youngest granddaughter become a pharmacist, the first doctor in our immediate family.  He relished being able to attend my retirement party and one last family reunion in July of last year.

Then one August eveing a few weeks after his 80th birthday —  in the same hospital where we received that initial news — he died peacefully with his family by his side.

Not a day goes by that we don’t think about him, talk about him, miss him deeply. Grief is funny that way. Many days you feel fine. On other days  it’s all you can do to get through. Faith-based grief counseling  helped put my father’s life and death in perspective. Our loved ones are not our own.  I like to picture Daddy in heaven, reunited with his parents and siblings. Free of all pain.

The notes I found in the drawer the other day reminded me of the short, sweet text messages he sent to me during the year after his diagnosis.  Hello Angela, how are you doing today?   On some days, the message was a passage of scripture meant to encourage me. His favorite was Psalm 27.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear?”

This Psalm of comfort is a great reminder of God’s love for us. We can rest on his promise that no matter what happens, his presence is a blessed assurance.

For more information on grieving and for a list of classes in your area, go to www.griefshare.org

 

Kids know how to keep it simple

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A large bowl of water. A container of bubbles. A ball and bat. A swimming pool or a swimming hole. Even a sprinkler.

There’s something magical about watching children at play with simple things that don’t cost a fortune. It fills us with joy and memories of our own childhoods.

I spent the first few days of vacation hanging out with my 7-year-old grandson and my 1-year-old granddaughter. Next week, my nephews, ages 4 and 10, will arrive from Kentucky for a little Auntie Angela and Papa Joe time. When these four cousins get together, it is noisy, chaotic and sheer fun. They will miss cousin Lena, but of course they will carry on.

We all have our special rituals. Grant loves to go to Target. Aaron, his little brother, comes right in and says “Auntie Angela, I’m hungry.”

I try to cook their favorite dishes – spaghetti or lasagna. Aaron loves veggies, Grant hates them. Papa Joe makes pancakes all around.

Austin will eat anything that isn’t nailed down. Ditto for little Ms. Olivia.

Once their bellies are full, they go back to the business of playing. Since it’s hot, they want to hit the pool. Forget the Georgia Aquarium or some other expensive attraction, give these kids a ball and some water and they are happy as clams in sunshine.

Last weekend,  Austin had one mission in mind: getting to the pool. We swam at his house and again in our neighborhood pool. A couple of weeks ago while in the pool, he turned a flip and chipped his tooth on the bottom of the pool. Since this happened on my watch, his mother was not happy with Mimi. My response: “How was I to know he swims with his mouth open?”

That’s a boy for you. Girls can be rough and tumble too.

Olivia likes nothing more than chasing her big brother around and she already has the battle scars to prove it. A cut lip, a swollen eye. It is not pretty. We pulled a long forgotten bright blue nylon play tunnel from the basement. Olivia wasn’t sure what to do with it, until her big brother showed her how to crawl through. And he didn’t just crawl, he ran-crawled – to her screams of delight.

We were mesmerized at how this simple activity brought them so much joy. Back in our day, we would play jacks or marbles for hours. In the evenings, it was kickball or tennis. We caught lightning bugs, sat on the porch with our Aunts and went on Sunday drives with our parents.

Aunt Pauline made the best hamburgers on the planet. Uncle Mack polished our shoes. Aunt Cakes fattened us up with her famous pies and cakes. When we were older, she taught us how to make pull candy. The temperature had to be just right for this winter ritual. Aunt Cakes would pour the hot sugary mixture into plates on her back porch. Our job was to pick it up and pull it until it turned from brown to white taffy.

Not long ago, a friend reminded me of how much fun we had as teenagers making pull candy and molded mints out of cream cheese and confection sugar.

Forget expensive toys. The needs of children are simple: a safe place to play, the watchful eye of an adult and plateful of good food.