parenting Archives – Leap of Faye

Parenting is NOT a Death Sentence for Fun (Guest Post)

Today’s guest post and pictures are from Sabrina Carlson, mama and blogger at Mama Wild and Free.

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to become a parent. I’m a fiercely independent person. I love my alone time. I love climbing mountains, riding my bicycle through the forest, traveling to new places, running wild and free. Parenthood, I was sure, would bring all of that to an abrupt halt.

But here is what I’ve learned now three years into this parenting journey. Being a parent does not mean an end to your fun or adventure. In fact, I’m finding that the constraints of motherhood are actually driving me to explore, adventure, and travel MORE. Yes…that’s right. MORE.

Let me explain. Before you have a tiny person who depends on you for their every need, you think you are busy. Like…”OMG I’m sooooo busy” kinda busy. I allowed myself to get sucked into workaholic perfectionism constantly. 60 hour weeks were the norm. I said yes to everything, whether or not it was the very best use of my time or even something I wanted to do. I participated in a million activities from gardening, to the local running club track workouts, to cooking gourmet meals nightly, cleaning my house obsessively. When I could find some spare time I rode my mountain bike, though not as often as I wished I did, ran trail races, and occasionally traveled outside the US. Then, every once in a great while, I might collapse into bed for three days with exhaustion and try to recover.

As a mom, I have zero time in my schedule for anything that doesn’t serve a high level purpose in my life, family, or community. I don’t have space in my reality for the self congratulatory habit of manufacturing panic about artificially inflated to do lists, just so that I can base my self worth on how much I checked off said list.

After a rough start in this parenting thing I figured out I have two choices. I could continue to allow everyone and everything else to dictate my schedule and priorities while I try to cram the new, rather time consumptive, responsibility of parenting on top of it all and feel overwhelmed, insufficient, and exhausted with zero time or energy left to take care of myself. OR I could get ruthless and unapologetic. I could weed out everything that isn’t 100% essential. Learn to say no (to myself sometimes more than anyone else), and not need to explain or justify it. Just…no.

Now that I have peeled back the layers of all the extra burdens I unnecessarily placed on myself I’m less stressed, less frantic, and not only have time and patience for my family, I have more time for my own hobbies and interests than ever before. I consistently ride my mountain bike at least twice a week now. I hadn’t been able to say that since the dirt bag days of my early 20’s. I plan long weekends alone, or with a friend, to do something epic at least every 3 months, and my family and I adventure together all the time. I can’t say I was really that consistent before.

Why? Why was I LESS consistent putting adventures on the calendar before the constraints of parenthood!? It seems a little nuts really. I think because I “could do that anytime” I allowed myself to get sucked into whatever story I was spinning in my head about what was more important in that moment. No more. I don’t have the luxury of “going with the flow” these days. So I plan it and I ALWAYS make it happen. If I have time carved out to pursue my passions I will never “just not feel like it today”. Ever.

The result? I play, adventure, and travel MORE now than I did before I had my son.

I’m not going to lie to you. Figuring out HOW to make this work has taken time, intense self reflection (and some therapy) and is always evolving. This doesn’t happen right away with a new baby, and it shouldn’t. That time is unique and reserved for recovery and rest. The first year, even two, are pretty tough. A mama’s body goes through a LOT to make and birth a new person. The notion that “It’s natural so it’s no big deal” is horse manure. Lions eating gazelle on the African Savannah is natural too. That doesn’t mean it was a good day for the gazelle. The sleepless nights and being needed constantly (especially if you breastfeed) are very real, and make recovery long and difficult.

But hang on, Mama. You WILL recover. You child will sleep eventually. AND..this is the best part…you WILL find your groove and a rhythm that works for you. Yes, you will need to figure your child into any plans you make for adventure, be it a run in the woods after work or a trip across the globe. But that doesn’t mean those plans have to stop. In fact, they just might get better and happen more often.

Sabrina Carlson is a mama on a mission to tell postpartum depression where to shove it while living a life of adventure, travel, joy, and meaning as a parent, and hoping to inspire other moms that they can too. She blogs at Mama Wild and Free, can be found posting pictures of her wild and wonderful life on Instagram , and is currently learning that Pinterest is a great tool for adventure planning and vision boarding, and isn’t just for overly complicated craft projects.

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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12 Ways the Transition From Two to Three Kids Rocked Me

How’s the transition from two to three kids?

I get this question a lot. From mothers gazing wistfully at my sweet baby to mothers eyeing me as if I’m insane. Maybe I am.

Because we did it. Added a third child to our brood of littles. And we now have three under the age of five.

I used to wonder about the transition myself. A lot. I could barely manage two, and was pregnant with another. I asked every mother of three I met whether the transition from one to two kids was more difficult, or the transition from two to three. I realize now that most of them skillfully evaded the question, instead smiling and saying something like “you’ll manage,” or “it’s the greatest gift.”

Doesn’t matter, because now I have the answer. IT. IS. HARD. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to any mother of two expecting a third, but going from two to three ROCKED me. Is STILL rocking me. For me, it was infinitely more difficult than going from one to two.

Someone is always waiting

With two, I could tend to one child and then promptly tend to the next. So Child A could be helped on the potty, and then Child B could be fed. With the addition of another child, someone is always third in line. And, unfortunately for my eldest, it’s usually him. So I can help Child A on the potty, nurse Child B, and only then feed Child C. I simply can’t do it all at once, so my life has become a never-ending to-do list of tasks: dress A, feed B, nurse C, brush A’s teeth, help B on the potty, change C’s diaper, etc. And although my children are adjusting, there is often someone who is none too happy about having to wait his turn.

Triple the laundry, triple the mess

Because I allow our laundry to accumulate, I now do a mountain of it every other day (I should probably be doing it daily). Three kids means three sets of clothes, blankets, sheets, washable toys, and everything else. Considering an average of one child will have some sort of mess or accident daily, there are even more outfits added to the mix. And speaking of mess, I’ve given up. Our home consistently looks like a tornado hit it. And someone is always spilling milk, dropping food, or leaking a diaper. So I pretty much spend my days cleaning up after everyone.

I clean up poop constantly

Change diaper, pick up after the dog, change pull-up, clean up poop that didn’t quite make it into the potty, and repeat. This is my day.

Our grocery bill has skyrocketed

And our youngest has only just started eating solids! Three kids eat A LOT, and I can hardly keep the house stocked. Our extra-large capacity fridge can barely hold everything we need to store, and we’re already looking into an extra freezer to keep in the garage. Our pantry overfloweth to the point where some food items permanently reside on the counter. I am in fear of what my kitchen will look like come the teenage years.

It takes strategy to get everyone successfully buckled into the car

I’m not joking when I say that it often takes more time getting everyone into the minivan and safely buckled into car seats than it does driving to our destination. I suppose on the plus side I’ve become super flexible what with having to climb in and out and contorting my body into awkward positions to reach and buckle all three into second rows, third rows, and both rear and forward facing.

Nobody wants to babysit. Or, if they do, I probably can't afford them. #MomOfThree #Motherhood Share on X

They refuse to all nap at the same time

With two, I worked hard to get them both to nap at the same time. And they finally did! It was pure bliss. Two to three hours of quiet. With three, this has proven impossible. Someone is ALWAYS awake. So sure, I may have just gotten the two older boys down for a rest – but then the baby starts wailing. I have constant company.

Nobody wants to babysit

Or if they do, I probably can’t afford them. One kid is easy-peasy; everyone’s got a sitter recommendation. Two kids aren’t much harder – maybe it costs a few bucks more an hour, but everyone is still willing to do it. Three kids are a game changer. Very few people will even agree to it and, if so, you better believe there is a pretty significant upcharge. Even if the stars aligned and I found someone, I’d probably be a nervous wreck my entire time away seeing as I can barely manage them as their mother!

Nobody is quite old enough to help

I keep reading articles purporting that going from three to four kids is actually easier than two to three. It seems counter-intuitive because four is obviously more than three. But if you think about it, by the time the fourth baby comes along there is at least one child old enough to help. With three, on the other hand, you’re not quite there unless there is a more significant age gap. The eldest still requires a lot of hands-on attention and is hardly ready to help with a newborn. So now you’re spread three ways.

We bring the party wherever we go

And this isn’t always a good thing. Let’s say a friendly neighborhood mom wants to schedule a playdate with my toddler. Since we’re a packaged deal (see: Nobody wants to babysit), we show up like party crashers with not only the invited toddler, but a rambunctious preschooler and crying baby to boot. Over time, the friendly neighborhood moms may find it’s simply not worth the trouble.

Double the preschool fun – I mean, fees

We will be paying two preschool tuitions for the next 300 years. Or close to it. And this is only a glimmer of the expense we will be faced with when all three are in college at the same time.

Apparently hotel rooms limit occupancy to four people

Who knew?? I mean, we all crammed into rooms like sardines when partying in our youth, right? I don’t know if it’s become more strict since then, or if a crying baby and fighting preschooler and toddler ruin the charade, but it seems that hotels are hip to the game. Which means no more hotel rooms for the foreseeable future.

There is no ideal airplane seating configuration

Seriously. What is the best way to corral three hooligans? A parent by the window and one across the aisle? Two rows, one behind the other? Or simply stick all three kids in the back by themselves and pretend you don’t know them? The sad thing is, it doesn’t really matter. Someone will have a meltdown no matter what you do, and you will always end up being “those people” you once despised pre-kids.

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I could go on. But I think you catch my drift. It’s HARD. The world that seemed to perfectly cater to our family of four now seems lopsided with the addition of a fifth member.

That said, the fifth member who seems to have thrown everything else off has made us complete. He was our family’s missing piece. He filled the gap and answered a question. And let’s face it – triple the kids means triple the cuddles, triple the hugs, triple the love.

So now when mothers ask me about the transition from two to three kids, I don’t hold any punches. I tell them it rocked my world. I tell them it’s been one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done. I warn them to think through all the implications.

And then I tell them I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. That, despite the difficulty, it’s been one of the greatest experiences of my life. And when they look at me, questioning and wondering out loud if they should do it themselves, I give them my vote: a resounding YES.

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.