The baby and toddler years will always be amongst my most memorable memories. It wasn’t easy finding a group of women who felt the same exact way I did about mommying.

We shared insecurities, secrets, tips, and truly gave each other what was left of us that we didn’t give to our children.

Then -- something changed.

Maybe when my youngest went to kindergarten. When I began to work again. When I got diagnosed with an unexpected illness.

Suddenly, I could see clearly what I could not observe, or did not want to notice: true friendship.

And one person, who I thought was the most giving of people, upon closer inspection, really was not. Oh, there was so called generosity. Groceries in particular. She always came laden with them. And liked to present me gifts with that I neither needed, sought nor could use.

What she had trouble giving -- was herself. I noticed when I talked, she rarely listened. I babysat for her child way out of proportion to her watching mine. Then there were the unkind words that sometimes found their way out of her mouth. They were always so shocking that I was speechless in reply.

One day, after a particularly virulent spiel -- I could no longer ignore my internal voice. It yelled: MOVE ON!

The problem: her daughter and my daughter are great friends and I don’t want that ruined. We also run in similar circles.

This is where being a mother and the wisdom I’ve hopefully gained must come into play. This is not about me. This is not about her. This is about our children.

Still, there is sadness for what once and for what will no longer be.

I’ve always tried to create family from friends. My best friend at 11 is still my best friend today. I laugh as hard now with my college friends as I did with them back when we were in our 20s (a-hem, that being just a year or two ago).

I’ve been fortunate to have lived around the country and have friends in each place where I have resided. And I have incredible mommy friends who will be my sister-friends forever.

I am happy that by putting an end to something that once was beautiful but is now toxic, I am taking care of myself and I will be watchful for my daughter.

I will also be something else – mature, graceful and kind. The qualities I want my children to have.

Still, I am sad to lose a friend or the friend who I thought she was only to realize that person was an illusion.

Labels: baby, By Dawn Yun, childhood memories, Dreams, illness, illusion, kindergarten, toddler, true friendship

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The baby and toddler years will always be amongst my most memorable memories. It wasn’t easy finding a group of women who felt the same exact way I did about mommying.

We shared insecurities, secrets, tips, and truly gave each other what was left of us that we didn’t give to our children.

Then -- something changed.

Maybe when my youngest went to kindergarten. When I began to work again. When I got diagnosed with an unexpected illness.

Suddenly, I could see clearly what I could not observe, or did not want to notice:true friendship.

And one person, who I thought was the most giving of people, upon closer inspection, really was not. Oh, there was the giving. Groceries in particular. She always came laden with them. And liked to give me gifts that I neither needed, sought nor could use.

What she had trouble giving -- was herself. I noticed when I talked, she rarely listened. I babysat for her child way out of proportion to her watching mine. Then there were the unkind words that sometimes found their way out of her mouth. They were always so shocking that I pretended they were unsaid.

One day, after a particularly virulent spiel -- I could no longer ignore my internal voice. It yelled: MOVE ON!

The problem: her daughter and my daughter are great friends and I don’t want that ruined. We also run in similar circles.

This is where being a mother and the wisdom I’ve hopefully gained must come into play. This is not about me. This is not about her. This is about our children.

Still, there is sadness for what once and for what will no longer be.

I’ve always tried to create family from friends. My best friend at 11 is still my best friend today. I laugh as hard now with my college friends as I did with them back when we were in our 20s (a-hem, that being just a year or two ago).

I’ve been fortunate to have lived around the country and have friends in each place where I have resided. And I have incredible mommy friends who will be my sister-friends forever.

I am happy that by putting an end to something that once was beautiful but is now toxic, I am taking care of myself and I will be watchful for my daughter.

I will also be something else – mature, graceful and kind. The qualities I want my children to have.

There is legacy and lesson in that.

By Dawn Yun

Labels: baby, By Dawn Yun, kindergarten, toddler

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Asa is six and a half months old.  A boy in the house, amidst all of Adeline’s girliness.

Such a solid little person, in every sense.  Physically, he is dense.  Fruitcake dense.  Nearly off the charts in the percentiles the pediatricians give you.  If he’s in the 98^th percentile for height and weight, what do the other two percent look like? 

When you pick him up, it’s a commitment.  Not like other kids, who you can carry and continue to buzz around, picking up toys, making lunch.  Holding Asa with one arm is sustainable for only a short period of time before your wrist begins to ache and your shoulder starts slumping forward in a way that can’t be healthy. 

He has this enormous head and cheeks so full that it’s hard to tell what shape his face really is beneath all that flesh.  I think the rule is that if you still have blue eyes by the time you’re twelve months old, they’re here to stay.  I hope Asa’s do, because they’re gorgeous.  They’re a deep blue, and I can’t stop dressing him in blue—navy, turquoise, azure… every shade of blue makes those twinkling eyes of his shine.  His eyes really do twinkle, Santa-style, when he smiles, and man can this kid smile. 

He is my cherub baby, here on earth to snuggle into me, chuckle his deep, earthy laugh, and flirt with the world.  Some babies favor mesmerizing ceiling fans, most are drawn to sparkling lights.  Mine lives for eye contact.  When we’re out and about in the world, he stares at strangers until they finally relent and look at him.  The moment they lock eyes with him, he grins crazily and jerks around in my arms in spasmodic joy.  It’s not so different from holding an excited puppy—a strong one, a lab maybe.  No poodle, this kid. 

So what will all of these qualities add up to in a few years’ time?  A jolly, people-oriented, lady-killing linebacker? 

I’m in no rush to find out—I like him just the way he is right now, though I’ll be grateful when he’s able to put his chubby legs to use and move under his own motor, saving what’s left of his mama’s back.

By Eliza Harding Turner

Labels: 98th percentile, baby, blue-eyes, cute son, Eliza Harding Turner, girliness

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In the many years I’ve been struggling to get pregnant (and I succeeded once), I’ve never taken a pregnancy test in hopes that it would be negative.

But that’s what I did last week.

A couple of months earlier I took another pregnancy test. I took that one because I was about to begin a medication for a sports injury and the pharmacist warned that you can’t take it if you’re pregnant. 

I laughed and said, “OK.”

I had been trying for a second child for two and a half years, and after expensive acupuncture treatments and one failed IVF, I gave up. I had exhausted my emotional stamina. It’s not going to happen, I told myself. I’m too old. I’ll have to find some other path to a second child.

So I took the medication.  But then I paused.  Just because I had given up didn’t mean my husband and I had stopped having sex.  And wasn’t my period due around now? 

Just to be responsible, I took the test, treating it like a routine, as  if I were about to brush my teeth.

I was SHOCKED to see the double pink lines. My hands shook when I called my husband to tell him that after all this time we were actually, really pregnant.

That was early October. On Halloween I went in for an ultrasound and it was discovered that the embryo had apparently deceased. 

“No heartbeat.  We’re sorry.”

I felt my trepid hope deflate out of me.

I went to a restaurant and had a long, slow glass of wine. I thought of all the things I did that might have caused this, but most likely nothing I did caused this.  For two days, I embraced the loss, crying and feeling numb, and then I let it go.

At ten weeks I started to miscarry. Although the bleeding has stopped, the double lines on the pregnancy test last week tell me I’m still pregnant, and so it will be a while longer before my body is clear again for another fresh start.

And I believe in a fresh start, despite my just turning 44. My doctor expressed confidence that it could happen again, and there is something to be said, too, about giving up, letting go, and releasing yourself from the pressure.

But I’m wary of hope.

So here’s what I’m thinking: I am not giving up and I am not hoping. I am just going to try to live my life as fully as I can with what I have in the moment.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: # 2, baby, Cindy Bailey, miscarriage, pregnancy, pregnancy tests

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The first time I held a baby to my breast to nurse, I felt a wet tugging at my nipple. My body was exhausted from the labor, but when collostrum flowed out into his ready little mouth, I sat there amazed.

Perhaps because I’d just endured a day and a half of labor, and perhaps because I was still reeling with thoughts of I have a baby boy—sweet mother of God! I have a baby boy! I looked down on his pink face too stunned to cry.

Looking down into his moist eyes as they took all of this new world in -- the lights, the shapes, the sounds no longer filtered through what I imagined to be the red canopy of his life for nine and a half months.

I cradled his hot body against mine, and skin-to-skin, thought nothing could be as simultaneously bizarre and natural as this.

When I nursed my babies during their first year, although it often occurred as a responsibility -- something to do in the middle of errands, dinner, phone calls -- I have to admit it was also a break. In fact, if I could arrange it, I usually took my baby, first, my boy, and a year later, my newborn girl, to my room, shut the door, dimmed the lights, and leaned back, cradling them against my bare skin.

Sometimes their hands were chilly, gripping my warm skin a few inches below my armpits, sending tingles into that hollow area; sometimes their nails were too long, scratching the ridged texture of my hardened areola; sometimes their hands were searching, finding my necklace, my chin, my lips, and resting on my cheek; but mostly I heard their sighs and their gulps and closed my eyes with the strange realization that I wasn’t exactly sure just who was nursing who.

By Anjie Reynolds

Labels: Angie Reynolds, baby, Weaning

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It’s 7 a.m. Saturday morning and the alarm is going off.

“Mama!” Hug mama! Huggaaa mamaaa! Come get me mama, come get meeeeee!”

Alas, there is no snooze button. I roll over and nudge my husband, who is pretending to still be asleep. I nudge (i.e., push) him a second time. And so begins our weekly weekend battle for the bed… as in, “who gets to stay in it for another blessed half hour or maybe even 45 minutes?”

I fire the first shot. “I got up last Saturday.”

“I put her to bed AND gave her a bath last night” he mumbles, pulling the pillow over his head.

“I got up with her at 3 a.m. to go potty AND I’m letting you golf tomorrow.”

There’s a pause.

“OK, I’m getting up, just give me two minutes.”

Golf. It’s a very powerful motivator where my husband is concerned. Meanwhile, the alarm continues, only louder and more insistent.

“Mama! Mama, Mamaaaa!!! I WANT TO GET OUT!!!!”

Note that she does not call for daddy. And daddy is still lying there, still with the pillow over his head, still trying to get another couple minutes of shut-eye through all the noise, which virtually guarantees that neither one of us is going to get any more sleep. This really drives me crazy, so that I fling the covers off the bed, and stomp down the hall to my daughter’s room, hoping that my martyrdom routine will at least score me some points for next week.

Emi is naked when I arrive, having peeled off her pajamas and Pull-Up while her parents were jockeying for sleep-in time.

“Hi Momma!” she pops up, all energy, all ready-to-get-the-day-started. “I need to get dressed!” She’s definitely a morning person. By now, my husband has shown up, clearly concerned that by claiming sleep privileges, he will be sacrificing his golf privileges. “I got her… to go back to bed.”

I give her a kiss, head back down the hall, shut the bedroom door, and dive under the covers. Five minutes later, I feel a cold wet nose nudging (i.e., pushing) my cheek. Our dog is also a morning dog. I get up, go to the kitchen, feed the dog, and as I pass the open door to my daughter’s room, I spot my husband curled up in a pile of animal throw pillows, his arm wrapped around Emi’s giant IKEA elephant, totally asleep. He looks like he’s 5-years old. I walk into the room and snuggle up next to him on the pillows and soon enough Emi dives on top of us. “Group HUG!!!!” she screams.

It’s 7:30 a.m. on Saturday and we are all awake and group hugging. For the moment, I’ve decided that it’s nice to be a morning person, too.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: baby, dog, golf, group hug, IKEA, mornings, sleep

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