Parenting Archives – Page 2 of 6

Where is My Mom Tribe?

I’m excited to be featured on Parent.co today! Check out the piece for my thoughts on “mom friends” below, or directly on Parent.co.

It takes a village.

What a cliché, I used to think. Of course – before I had children.

Because back then I didn’t need a village. I had my husband, our dear friends. We had our jobs and our hobbies and our travels and our home. We loved our far-flung village, family outside of the country who we could call and email and visit any time. And they came to see us too. Reminded us that we weren’t alone and could call them for anything. And we did. Well, we would have – if we weren’t already so assured (smug, almost) in our own self-sufficiency.

But then the kids arrived. One – two – three in rapid succession. And suddenly I realize that I’m an outsider, standing alone just beyond the village gates. Desperately searching for my tribe, my people. The ones everyone says I should have. NEED to have. The ones who are going to help me through this.

They were right, of course. It does take a village. I see now how important the tribe is. To pick up a preschooler while I take a toddler to the ER. To watch a sick child while I run to pick up medicine. To delight in our kids’ visits, welcoming me with an ear and a shoulder when it’s all become too overwhelming.

It seems that everywhere moms are boasting about their tribes. Their close knit mommy groups that coordinate everything from carpools to casseroles. Built in play dates every day of the week. Field trips. And impromptu home gatherings where everyone toasts with wine and laughs about the trials of motherhood.

And I wonder – where is my village?

It’s becoming big business. Every week I see a new app or website that boasts higher success rates for matching you with the perfect mom friend. Like a dating app, except instead of romantic chemistry you’re searching for mommy chemistry. Someone who sides with you on all the mommy war topics. Who you can let your hair down with. Someone who will come over when you’re at your worst, help you pick yourself up, and take the kids out for ice cream.

Do I need to download a mommy friend dating app to find my tribe??

I complained about this to one of my non-mom friends. She is unapologetically child-free, living her best life and diving head first into excitement and travel as she sips her bubbly and flips her shiny, freshly washed and highlighted hair. I grumbled about being too old to find mom friends. About how the moms I meet locally are no less than one to two decades younger than me, with nothing in common.

“Eh, F it,” she shrugged, “Who needs ‘em anyway? This is yet another reason why I’m not having kids!”

She topped off my glass and we laughed. Then moved onto topics related to upcoming events and dream trips.

But still, the following Monday while she was at work and I was with the kids, I found myself anxiously searching for my tribe.

So I made dinner plans with an old friend. Someone who is my age, but whose children are nearly grown. A person I have shared more laughs and aspirations with than I can count. I knew that she would understand, and I wasn’t disappointed. She listened to me and nodded knowingly.

“I know, it’s so hard to find people you can trust,” she sighed.

We talked about our kids. College plans for hers, preschool plans for mine. Joked about her visit to my hospital room after baby number three, made complete by a bottle of margarita mix. Commiserated over the crazy-making that parenting can be. And she suggested that over time I would likely find local moms I vibe with.

So where are they?

I turned to my best male friend, a surfer carpe diem type guy who is forever inviting me out to Happy Hours and meals with the gang. I finally agreed to shower and attend a ramen outing (a daytime outing, but a meal out just the same). As I sat with my son in the company of men, I whined to the guy next to me about how I can’t find any mom friends to do this type of thing with. He reminded me that he is a father, a single father at that, and has been a longtime friend – but I told him it’s not the same. He reassured me that soon I would find some mom friends – I probably just needed to get out more.

So I did. I ventured beyond the local parks to a further park. And lo and behold – I met someone! Someone about my age, with two children, who I clicked with. We laughed and joked and agreed to exchange numbers… Then she let me know that she would contact me the next time she was in town. Turns out she is the aunt who lives across the country.

I shared the story of the new mom friend who almost was with a close friend that evening. An out-of-state friend of almost two decades who I talk to several times a week. I told her that my little one was sick, and if I could just find someone to come by and help for two hours, I could catch up on my work. She understood and said she wished she could still help. Before she left the state, she was that person. The one to come over and relieve me over a lunch break or in the early evening. The one who would join me and my clan, her two kids in tow, on outings to Costco and Target. And now she was gone.

How am I ever going to find new mom friends?

I texted my frustrations to a dear friend who lives about an hour away. A person I met at work many years ago. The friend who cared for my other children while each of their siblings were being born. Someone I trust completely. I told her I felt like I was Losing. My. Mind. without the quintessential mom friends that everyone speaks of. She texted back immediately, as she always does, comforting me and letting me know that she would come by that weekend. Asking if she should take a day off work during the week to help me. Reassuring me that we would figure it out. Together. That I wasn’t alone in this.

And suddenly it hit me.

THIS is my tribe. These people and the others in my life like them ARE my mom friends. Whether local or not, moms or not, and even female or not, these people make up my imperfectly perfect village.

They support me. They laugh with me and cry with me. They show up for our events, our celebrations. They bring us meals and wine and gifts for the kids. They send me cards. They miss the children, ask about the children, beg to babysit the children. They visit us and call us and text us – for no reason at all. Just because.

They may not be here every minute of the day. They may have other obligations. They may not even reside in the same state. But they are THERE. Available to me on a moment’s notice. Supporting me and checking on me and expressing their willingness, their desire even, to drop everything should we need it. Expressing their love. And we love them right back.

And this, I realize, is what makes a mom friend. Not the women perfectly manufactured from the mom friend mold, but – by definition – the people who surround a mom and who are her friends. That is a tribe. And I realize that while I’ve been peering in the gates of a village I thought I’d been locked out of, my tribe has been behind me the entire time.

Guest Post: Co-Parenting 50/50 – How One Family Makes it Work

Today’s guest post is from Dr. Yana Weinstein, assistant professor at the University of Massachusetts Lowell and co-founder of Learning Scientists. She joins us to talk about her co-parenting arrangement.

My daughter is turning 4 in August, and for the majority of her life, her dad and I have not been together. I won’t go into why we broke up, but let’s just say it was not my decision and yet it worked out for the best for everyone.

Co-parenting is by no means easy even under the best of circumstances, but for now, we are making it work. I thought it might be worth describing how we make it work, in case others going down this road need hope and ideas.

Our co-parenting arrangement has had two distinct phases. I will be discussing the first phase today, and the second phase in a future post.

We officially split up when our daughter was 18 months old, and for the next year we handled it one way, and a year later, a different way; but in both cases, our daughter spend 50% of her time with each of us.

Phase 1: Business as usual?

Because our daughter was only 18 months old, we didn’t want our split to affect her routine, which was typically: dad gets her out of bed, does the morning routine, and takes her to daycare; mom picks her up from daycare and does dinner and bed. But, we didn’t want to keep living together – one of us had to move out, and either come over in the mornings (him), or in the evenings (me).

For various reasons, we decided it made more sense for me to move. I found a room in a shared apartment in the city, and every weekday my schedule looked like this:

Graphic created by Yana Weinstein using images from Pixabay.com

We also split the weekend, so we got one full day with her each; and I slept over at my former place/now my ex’s place one night per week (Friday or Saturday), so that he could go out.

How do you handle the logistics of 50/50 co-parenting? #coparenting Share on X

In case you’re considering a similar arrangement, following are the pros and cons of this routine:

Pros

Our daughter’s weekday routine didn’t change at all – she still woke up with her dad there, and went to sleep with her mom there.
Our daughter got to stay in the same house with all her familiar things, and in the same daycare.
We (the co-parents) both got equal amounts of time with her, both on weekdays (mornings or evenings), and on the weekends (1 day each).
I got to have evenings to myself – after 9pm I could go out with friends, and even date – more on that in the next post!

Cons

Because I lived in one town, worked in another, and took care of my daughter in a third, I did an immense amount of driving every day (see diagram).
Even though we were each with our daughter 50% of the time she was awake, as a Mother-(aka, Monster)-Who-Was-No-Longer-Living-With-Her-Child I felt constantly judged by everyone. This was probably mostly in my head, but still resulted in my feeling intensely guilty almost all the time.
I had to see my ex every single day, at 8:30pm when he came home (to what you used to be our home) and I left. Anyone who’s ever been through a breakup will be able to imagine why that’s not ideal.
My ex always had to be home by 8:30pm on weekdays, except the one day per week where I stayed over; in that respect, he had a lot less freedom than me.
Speaking of staying over, sleeping on the couch in the house I used to share with my ex and our daughter was fairly miserable.

Overall, the big pros for our daughter (keeping her schedule and spending equal amount of time with each of us) outweighed the inconveniences and discomfort we suffered as a result…up to a point. In the end, it was not sustainable.

In my next post, I will describe Phase 2, which we’ve been in for the past 18 months and plan to continue for the foreseeable future.

Dr Yana Weinstein (@doctorwhy on Twitter) is an assistant professor at the University of Massachusetts Lowell. She co-runs the Learning Scientists blog, which is a resource for teachers, students, and parents interested in the science of learning. Follow the Learning Scientists on Twitter at @AceThatTest.

I Hated Pregnancy – But Now I Kinda Miss It

I hate being pregnant.

And not just a little bit. This is a big hate. A loathe-every-minute and check-off-every-day type of hate. I detest it.

You can’t really blame me. I have pretty awful pregnancies grounded in all-encompassing sickness. The kind of sickness that relegates you to bed for months on end. That leads to depression and apathy. That isolates you from your loved ones and everything you used to care about. The kind of sickness that forces your husband to take over every aspect of your life and the family’s just to keep things going.

I dare say he hates it almost as much as I do.

And yet I’ve done it three times, with my last pregnancy ending just weeks ago. I still can’t believe it. My husband and I toasted to the end of my final pregnancy. The end of the debilitating sickness. The end of my misery. Finally – the start of our lives as a complete family of five.

And I was relieved. And absolutely overjoyed with the three incredible fruits of my labors. Thrilled to be done being pregnant.

Except.

Somewhere, somehow, there is a glimmer of longing. A pinprick ache in my heart for the days of pregnancy.

Am I crazy?

I hated #pregnancy. A loathe-every-minute and check-off-every-day type of hate. I detest it. Share on X

The memories of illness are still fresh in my mind. I got sick yesterday watching a show that I watched while I was pregnant – the association is still that strong.

But there is more to it. More than the miserable physicality of it.

There’s the anticipation. The hours of wondering about this new life. What he will be like. How he will look. Who he will become.

The joy of watching his heartbeat flickering on an ultrasound screen. His little bean-shaped body floating behind the consistent blink blink blink of that busy heart. Grainy pictures that prove he is there even before any symptoms appear.

The fascination surrounding this miracle. This new human being who didn’t exist and now suddenly does. Who is growing independently while at the same time remaining completely dependent on me.

The deliciousness of the secret. A confidence that only my husband and I share as everyone else goes about their business, unknowing. The hushed discussions about when to reveal our news, making it official and real. Putting it out there for better or for worse. Making all of us vulnerable.

The wonder of new baby flutters. Questioning if they are kicks until soon enough there is no doubt that they are kicks and hits and rolls. A baby exploring inside, safe and warm. Knowing this is the only time I can keep him with me and guarantee his protection.

The hiccups. Revealing the baby’s humanity and normalness. Pondering what foods may have triggered the reaction. And counting each hiccup until they slow and ultimately stop.

The doctors. The appointments. The tests. The scans. All monitoring the fragile life that is maturing inside. Reassuring me that all is going well and that development is proceeding as expected. Making me feel triumphant, that I am doing things right, when really I have no control over any of it.

The joy of naming. The excitement of coming up with a lifelong moniker. Will he like it? Will it fit his personality? Is it the right one? Incorporating family names. Saying it over and over until it sounds like nonsense rolling off the tongue.

The fearful anticipation of delivery. Coming up with a perfect birth plan, full well knowing that I have no influence over the birth whatsoever. Compiling emergency numbers and recruiting trusted friends to help with child care. Packing maternity bags and touring hospitals.

The discomfort of false labor pains. Reminding me that the magic hour is coming soon, but not quite yet. That my body is warming up for the big day. Readying itself to help propel our miracle into the world.

That startling moment when I realize that it’s no longer a drill. That this is it. The trembling. The increasing waves of pain. The panic as I face the certainty that there is no turning back. The rush to the hospital and the teams of doctors and nurses attending to me and my fast-approaching baby. The combination of excitement, dread, agony, and anxiety as my limbs are stretched and monitors are beeping and doctors, nurses, husbands are drowned out by the screaming. My screaming. Knowing that I can’t handle it another second.

And then the euphoria. The screams replaced by the cries of a new person not ready for the commotion. The warmth of a perfect baby on my quivering belly. The first suckles. The tears. The never ending tears of joy streaming down my face as I caress a new baby head and cheek and arm and leg. For the first time. The frozen snapshot of a moment in time that will never be forgotten. That can’t be forgotten.

And this – all of this – is what I miss. I miss wondering who is about to join us. When he will join us. I miss the anticipation. The nervousness of meeting someone for the first time. The preparations. The knowledge that my body is creating a miracle. The sweet suspense of the wait.

And I realize that I’m sad we’re done. Possibly too sad. More sad than I would have thought.

But I know we’re done. Our family is complete. My countdown to the end of pregnancy is over. This last time was the final one.

I’m almost sure of it.

Things I Never Thought I Would Do Until I Became a Parent

I pretty much had it all together before I became a parent. The career, the social life, the travel and experiences. Everything was going along swimmingly. I knew who I was and what to expect.

And then my world was rocked.

Not once, not twice, but three times over the course of four years. By three little men who demanded my complete attention. My complete everything, really.

And as the memories of hip restaurants and exotic travel slowly dissipated into the background of my new sleep-deprived life, I found myself doing things my pre-kid self could have never imagined.

I suck boogers out of little noses.

Literally. With my mouth. Fortunately there is an apparatus that allows me to do so without actually ingesting said boogers (thank you, Nosefrida) but it is still disgusting. Yet necessary, as I’ve quickly learned that regular old nasal aspirators simply can’t suck out the same volume of snot as my mouth can.

I sniff butts for bowel movements.

Ah yes, I’m a pro at the old one-handed-butt-lift-and-sniff maneuver. It’s simply the only way to know with certainty whether a diaper needs to be changed. And in order to avoid a false alarm, I’ve mastered the art of discerning between the scent of an actual crap or a simple fart.

I watch Caillou.

Don’t judge me. You would too if it was a choice between that and a symphony of blaring musical toys and fights over who gets to turn off the bathroom faucet.

I clean fecal matter off of everything.

I used to think that picking up after the dog was gross. Now I can clean up human poop smeared all over little people and their belongings without a flinch. Bonus points for having had the conversation with an on-call pediatrician about how to handle a child who has possibly swallowed poop (and learning that it apparently happens “all the time”).

I go to sleep by 9pm.

Okay, 8:30pm. Maybe sooner if I’m lucky. Pretty much moments after I get the kids tucked in. Never mind that this would have formerly been the time of our dinner reservations, hours before we began getting ready to go out for the night.

Sucking boogers out of small noses is just one thing I never thought I would do - until I had kids Share on X

I lose my shit.

I used to be so cool. If I didn’t agree with something, I could easily let it go. But kids have a way of unraveling your very last nerve. I ask them nicely. They ignore me. I ask them more firmly. They continue. Then before you know it I’ve become a screaming shrew with a bulging forehead vein.

I scope out the neighborhood for cool parks.

And by cool, I mean parks that are fully enclosed with latching gates. With minimal concrete and maximum green space. And adequate shade.

I whip out my boobs anywhere and everywhere.

I offer them up willingly while cooing, “are you hungry?” Enduring tugs and bites on my calloused nipples. Wearing shirts and bras with hidden holes and stretchy panels for easy access. What about modesty, you say? Out the window from the moment I delivered my first child.

I implore people not to lick doorknobs.

Or their shoes. Or the Target cart. Or their brother’s foot. As I obsessively slather them in hand sanitizer in a futile attempt to prevent illness.

I drive a minivan.

I used to work for automotive companies. Which means that I was able to lease a custom ordered brand shiny new vehicle every year. And never once did I opt for a minivan. Not once did I even CONSIDER a minivan. But now it’s my vehicle of choice. The only metal box that can fit my entire brood and all their stuff. And, yes, I’ve become the mom who waxes poetic about the many practical features of her minivan to all her friends.

I go to chain restaurants.

The places I would turn my nose up at in the past have now become our family hangouts. Kids menus? Cheap alcohol? Yes, please! If I drink enough I can almost imagine that my fried fish taco is a seared ahi tuna steak. And that the kids are eating organic free-range chicken breasts instead of heavily battered chicken fingers.

I allow myself to be mauled.

By little people climbing all over me. Grabbing, hanging, and hugging. Every day. Tugging at my clothes and clinging to my leg. Kicking me in the night. Sweaty hands cupping my face. Slobbery kisses. While I sit, sometimes patiently and sometimes not, trying to embrace the violent onslaught of affection that will be gone before I know it.

Because it truly is fleeting. I do recognize this and am trying to soak it all in.

Even as I shout at someone to stop jumping on the bed for the 149^th time.

And The Clock Keeps Ticking

Nine short days ago, I gave birth to my third baby. A little boy.

My last child.

Thrilled and completely drowning in love, we brought him home the next day. I was ready. I had been preparing for this day for months. Preparing for the crying, the feedings, the sleepless nights, and the adjustments my other children would go through.

If I’m being honest, I had been scared. Petrified, really. Wondering how we would juggle it all and get through the first weeks.

And yet now all I can hear is the ticking of a clock that is counting these fleeting moments. These last experiences with a newborn. And it is deafening.

There will be no more pregnancy tests. No more shaking hands as I stare in disbelief at two pink lines. Nights awake as I consider the future, our child’s future, and all the plans we have to make.

All I can hear is the ticking of a clock counting these fleeting moments. And it is deafening. Share on X

This is the last time I will go through the journey of pregnancy, difficult as it is for me. The last time I will experience the joy of first seeing my child on an ultrasound screen. The final time I will feel the initial flutters of movement that eventually turn into all out kicks and punches.

Never again will I go through labor. Feel the increasing intensity of contractions as a baby wills himself out of my womb. Go through the excruciating pain of delivery immediately followed by the transcendent euphoria of a newborn being laid on my chest for the very first time.

No more golden hours. Moments that span a lifetime as a newborn gazes up at me and slowly inches towards my breast. Tears of joy as I hold this precious gift in my arms and make a million promises of love and protection. A heart bursting full.

This is the last time I will bring a newborn home from the hospital. Driving 10 miles under the speed limit. Introduce the baby to his siblings and the dog before laying him in his bassinet for the first time. Dress him in his lovingly selected clothes purchased months before he was even born.

I will never again stay up all night, watching my baby breathe. Caressing his hair and cheek as I marvel at the miracle of his arrival. Pick him up to nurse in the dark, snuggling him close and loving the feel of his breath on my skin. Feel satisfied when he finally pulls away, drunk with milk dribbling down his chin. Smiling as he stretches his tiny arms above his head.

No more first smiles. Gummy, wet smiles that make my heart nearly leap out of my chest. Radiant eyes that light up my soul as they cast their beaming warmth over my tired, wrinkled face.

This is the last time I will hear a baby’s first coo. Lyrics of perfect contentment sung out of pink pursed lips. Gentle chirps followed by soft sighs of happiness.

Never again will I pump milk in the middle of the night. Soothed by the rhythmic whirring of a machine that chants whi-SHOO, whi-SHOO as it fills bottles with food for my baby.

No more obsessions over ounces gained and inches grown. Amazed by this infant who is literally sprouting into a little boy before my eyes. Willing his baby hands and feet to slow down, just a little.

These are the final tummy time sessions. The angry cries of a frustrated baby who wants no part of lifting his head off the ground. The encouragement and cheers once he does. The stunned face of an infant who has just rolled himself over for the first time.

And the last hours of perfect cuddles. Falling asleep under the comforting weight of a baby resting his head on my shoulder. Holding, forever holding, wanting to cherish every second before he’s too big to be cradled or pulls away to run and play. Smelling his sweet baby head and drinking in every sound and expression.

Ultimately, this is the last era of innocence. My final moments sharing the purest forms of love and trust with someone else. The last time I will ever be needed so wholly, so completely.

I feel lonely already.

So I squeeze him a bit tighter. Whisper into his delicate ear. And breathe him in as he clutches my fingers and begins to peek out at the world around him.

While the clock continues to tick.