motherhood Archives – Leap of Faye

7 Reasons to NOT Have a Baby in the United States

The United States is a country based on family values. We preach loudly about the children being our future, and about how important it is to make them our top priority.

Yet the sad fact is that we’re the only industrialized nation in the world with no paid parental leave. The only one. And in the bottom three of every country worldwide that does not mandate paid time off for new parents.

But wait – there’s more! We have little support systems in place for new parents, and even fewer for the children themselves. Physically, professionally, and financially, many American families struggle once having children.

It’s no wonder that my Canadian cousin once called the prospect of having a child in the United States “barbaric.”

Having a #baby in the United States is not for the faint of heart. #pregnancy #parenting #birth Share on X

WTF??

For a nation that touts family values, this is shocking. Appalling. And, for the parents who live it, incredibly difficult. Here are just a few reasons why.

Pregnancy is considered a disability.

You heard that right. In the great old US of A, new working mothers are put on Short Term Disability for either six weeks (vaginal delivery) or eight weeks (cesarean delivery) postpartum. Salaries – or portions of salaries – are paid by Short Term Disability insurance during this period.

After the 6-8 weeks are up and assuming she is recovering normally, the new mother’s Short Term Disability insurance runs out and in most states she’s now left without pay unless she – wait for it – returns to work. Never mind that she’s still waddling around the house in pain. If she wants money to buy new baby necessities (or simply pay the bills), she’ll need to get back on the job STAT.

Breast is best in theory only.

We talk the talk but don’t exactly walk the walk. Considering the fact that a mother’s milk supply isn’t even fully established until up to 12 weeks, we are sending her back to work long before there is a chance of that occurring. Once there, she has to contend with meetings, schedules, and discouraging bosses while trying to find the time and a good area to pump. It’s no wonder most American mothers aren’t successful over the long term.

We care more about Mom fitting back into her skinny jeans than the physical ordeal she’s just been through.

Other countries focus on nurturing and caring for new mothers after the births of their babies. In China, for example, new mothers are expected to rest and concentrate on eating and nursing for 30 days – while family or friends (or even hired helpers) care for them and the needs of their families. Mexico has a similar tradition, and even France keeps new mothers in the hospital for close to a week.

But here, new mothers are sent home a day or two after giving birth. They’re then expected to not only jump back into everything they were doing before, they’re expected to do it with raw and leaky nipples, sore and tender nether regions or tummies, and brand new babies.

Oh, and the minute Mom arrives home is the minute the clock starts ticking for her to get her “pre-baby body back.” Even a simple trip to the market can be misconstrued as a planned “debut” of her post-baby bod.

Many employers are not supportive.

Granted, you can’t blame them with the limited laws (often ignored) protecting pregnant women and mothers. While more employers are becoming more open to the fact that – gasp – a pregnant woman or new mom CAN remain a committed and valued team member, there are many that see it as a stark disadvantage.

From being asked about whether she plans to have children to the anxiety of telling her boss she’s pregnant to having to fight for maternity leave rights to being mommy-tracked once she returns from leave, new mothers have seen it all in the workplace. And it ain’t pretty.

Having a baby is excessively expensive.

And you better believe that medical facilities upcharge every chance they get. We’re talking thousands upon thousands of dollars for prenatal care and delivery – and this is WITH health insurance. I often wonder how families can even afford to have babies anymore.

I recently reviewed the medical receipts from the birth of my third child and was blown away. In addition to the exorbitant fees I was charged for a natural delivery that occurred 11 minutes after my arrival to the hospital, I was additionally charged for a can of Dermoplast at 25 times the listed cost on Amazon. Better yet was the daily “bassinet rental fee.” Yep – you read that right – the bassinet that my baby was placed in at the hospital was later billed to me at a daily rental rate.

No wonder more and more women are considering home births.

Mothers commonly work right up until they give birth.

Imagine it. You are nine months pregnant, sore, uncomfortable, and ready to give birth at any moment – and still working. While the federal Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) does provide job protection for up to 12 weeks, it is unpaid and must be due to an approved reason – such as pregnancy complications certified by a doctor. Even if a mother DOES qualify to begin her FMLA prior to birth, it shortens the period of job protection she is eligible for after birth.

So you have a choice – use it before the baby is born (unpaid), or after (and combine it with Short Term Disability to receive pay for the first 6 or 8 weeks).

Given these options, no wonder mothers work until their waters break. Every penny of salary is needed before a new human being is brought into the world, and every postpartum minute counts in a country where new parents are given mere days to bond.

We don’t prioritize affordable quality childcare.

Do “affordable” and “quality” even belong in the same sentence? After paying thousands of dollars to merely have the baby, working parents then struggle to find reliable childcare that won’t break the bank.

There aren’t many options available. Parents can opt for a traditional childcare setting, an in-home childcare, or pony up to pay a private nanny (or au pair). Childcare licensing leaves a bit to be desired, and nannies are not regulated at all. So no matter what, parents are taking expensive leaps of faith when they return to work and leave their tiny six or eight week old babies with hired help.

So where do we go from here? Change is necessary, and it is long overdue. There’s not a single right answer, but I do know that prioritizing our nation’s family values, as we say we do, would be a helluva start.

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Thank You to the Woman in the SUV

I’m excited to have this first piece published on Parent.co today, a dynamic digital publication that aims to inspire parents by sharing “useful, hilarious, and compelling stories every day.” I’ve enjoyed so many of the essays I’ve read there, and am excited to have one of my own featured. Check it out below or on Parent.co!

It was a rough day.

I had been up all night with a new baby and was on Day 3 of a migraine. I hadn’t showered and my hair smelled faintly of the garlic chicken dinner we’d made two nights prior. My husband had just returned to work after baby bonding leave, and it was one of the first days I would have to wrangle an infant, 2-year-old, and 4-year-old all alone.

The morning started with a bang – literally – as my toddler shattered a coffee mug and my preschooler spilled milk onto the dog and the floor. The kids fought over who would get the purple plate for breakfast and this ended with tears, a time out, and me admonishing that hitting is NOT acceptable.

The baby was suffering from his first cold a la his big brothers and couldn’t quite figure out how to nurse and breathe at the same time. He cried and bit in frustration, and I responded with yelps and pleas. Meanwhile the older boys unraveled an entire roll of toilet paper throughout the house – in order to “get a tissue for the baby’s nose.”

I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock, praying that afternoon nap time was near.

It was 9am.

I decided to walk to the park. The boys needed to burn off some energy and the fresh air would be good for the baby’s cold. Thus ensued another forty minutes of finding shoes, putting them on the right feet, going potty, dressing an angry baby, and mitigating fights over who would get to bring the McDonald’s Happy Meal toy with them.

Finally – FINALLY – we were out the door. I wore the baby in an infant carrier while pushing the toddler in a stroller. The preschooler was firmly instructed to hold onto the stroller as we lumbered down the alley two blocks to the neighborhood parkette.

We arrived, shutting the gate behind us, and the boys let loose like released bulls. The baby and I followed them, spotting, watching, and pushing on swings. I chatted with a couple of moms and nannies and not one commented on the spit up all over my shirt. The kids all shared a snack. And it seemed like the day was getting better. I could do this!

Then. A toy stroller was brought into the park. And all hell broke loose as the kids fought over it. Guardians rushed over to intervene and it was then that I noticed my son had wet his pants. We would have to go home and change.

He didn’t want to, and made sure the entire park knew it. He howled as I tried to coax him to the stroller. Dug his heels in as I took his hand. Ultimately forced me to carry him under my arm as he screamed and flailed like a fish out of water.

The commotion woke the baby who also began bawling in the carrier. And it was about this time that my third son decided he wasn’t going to sit in the stroller. This led to another meltdown as I had to forcibly buckle him in while all three wailed in unison.

The nannies looked at me sympathetically as I struggled with three crying boys. One of them held the gate open for me as I tried to maneuver a toddler dragging his feet beneath a stroller and a preschooler screaming under my arm – with a baby strapped to my chest. My head pounded from the migraine.

I glanced back just in time to catch a mom shaking her head and whispering something to another. My cheeks burned.

We made it out of the park and I stopped a few yards away, out of earshot. I placed my screeching son down and gripped his shoulder while I told him he needed to calm down and walk. He ignored me and bellowed louder. I threatened the loss of privileges. It didn’t work. He refused to walk.

I bent my head down and took a deep breath, tears of frustration pricking my eyes. I struggled to pick him up again and trudged slowly, awkwardly, into the alley. My toddler’s dragging shoes left skid marks on the street. The baby’s sunhat fell over his face. And the wails of all three echoed off the walls of houses.

Then of course. OF COURSE. An SUV turned into the alley and headed our way. On a one-way narrow street. I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath. It took all the strength I had to force the stroller and a fighting preschooler over to the side of the road. I stood there impatiently, willing the SUV to just hurry up and GO BY already.

But it slowed down. You’ve got to be kidding me. Surely the driver saw me struggling. I was standing there on the verge of losing my shit and someone was going to ask me for directions!?

As it got closer, I saw that the driver was a woman. And then suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps she was going to make a comment, a judgment, about my screaming kids. A “friendly” piece of advice about how to make them stop misbehaving. Something to make me feel like more of a failure than I already did. I remembered the mother in the park. The condescending look. The whisper.

A pit in the middle of my stomach grew.

The SUV stopped at my side and the driver rolled down the window. I turned towards her, annoyed, and lifted my eyebrows impatiently.

She smiled at me kindly. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re doing an amazing job, Mom.”

I blinked. Confused. Instinctively looked behind me.

The woman nodded. Warmly. She leaned forward and said it again. I could barely hear her over the howls of my kids.

“You are doing an amazing job. You really are. Hang in there. And know that you’re a wonderful mom.”

The pit in my stomach dissolved. I began to breathe. And I looked up at her and shook my head, wondering how to convey my gratitude.

“Thank you SO much. Thank you.”

She nodded and told me to take care. Even the boys finally took notice as their cries began to peter out. The woman rolled up the window and drove past.

I stood there. Still stunned. And a weight was lifted. I was in awe of this woman, this stranger, who took a moment to change the course of my day. I felt new resolve and new strength. Forgot about the woman in the park. Straightened up. And gathered the kids to continue the walk home.

I doubt this woman even remembers me. That she even gave the encounter a second thought. But for me, it is something I will never forget. The kindness of a stranger that lifted my spirits during an ordinary moment. But a moment when I needed it most.

And for that, I thank her.

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.

My Biggest Mommy Question – Published on Mamapedia

I’m excited that one of my popular blog posts, Can Mothers Really Have it All?, is being featured on Mamapedia today!

I wrote this post long before I ever took my leap, considering differing opinions on the topic via personalities like Sheryl Sandberg and Marissa Mayer on one end of the spectrum along with Katarina Alcorn and my own experiences on the other. Even though I’ve now made a change, I still don’t feel that the question has been fully answered for me.

I doubt that it ever will.

Check out the post on Mamapedia and share your thoughts. Are you any closer to an answer than I am?

Can mothers REALLY have it all? #Motherhood #Parenting #SAHM #WOHM #WAHM Share on X