Mama Bean has to stop letting expectations get in the way

When Bean came along, I didn’t know what to expect. Every day was another chance for him to do whatever it was he was gonna do, and I just went with the flow. I didn’t know a thing, beyond what the internet and friends passed along, which is not the same as information you’ve experienced for yourself, so mostly I just let it happen.

And he grew. It was busy. I didn’t write much of it down, despite having a blog, despite loving to write, despite processing various moments in a bloggerly kind of way in my head but never quite managing to get it down on the “page.” Yes, he grew. I pray I keep my memories as long as possible. I know I’m already losing some. I didn’t know...

This time, the expectations are getting in the way. Because now I “know” something about babies, which is to say, I know about one baby fairly intimately, and about his various baby friends less intimately (but now I’ve been paying attention, while wishing I had been doing so while my siblings and friends were having babies before I did, so I could have learned a thing or two going in, but it’s too late now!)

So my little brain does its little science-brain thing, and makes comparisons. It tells me what I can “expect.” So my little brain says things like, “I can’t wait until she’s three months old, and we’re only doing 6 or 7 feedings a day” or “I can’t wait until she’s sitting and more interactive with Bean” or “I can’t wait until...” Wait a second, what?

I “can’t” wait?

No no, that’s not right. Wait a second, she’s already a month old? I “can’t” wait?! Just a minute, she’s already A MONTH OLD?!? I “can’t” wait?!?! No no no, I can wait. Please, wait, slow down, just for a bit, let me hold her a bit longer like this, because she’ll only be doing this 6 or 7 times a day in a couple months, because she’ll be sitting and then crawling and too busy for this four months after that, because... because she’s only going to be my little girl for such a short time. I “can’t” wait?

Damned expectations; stop telling me about some “better” tomorrow I “can’t” wait for. Let me stop and catch my breath a bit in Today.

Here’s the cruel irony. With that first baby, I had all the time in the world to revel in every tiny moment, but I didn’t. Because, I don’t know why, I don’t have good reasons, I don’t even have excuses. Because the first child is overwhelming, those Delirious Early Days, and I didn’t know what a luxury of time I truly had? Or because I fell prey to that conceit, that I would remember everything, and here I am remembering (what feels like) nothing? Or maybe because I knew I’d have another one and so I’d get a second chance to hold a two-day, and a two-week old, and a two-month old...? I don’t know.

What I’m realizing is, that first time through, that’s when I had the time to bask in every moment, that’s when life was slow(er). This time, which will be the last time, I wish for more time, I beg internally for any time to bask in any moment, any tiny moment of a day, and life is far from slow, just when I want it to be the most.

So, I’m telling the expectations to take a hike. They're getting in the way of enjoying my baby in whatever brief moments I manage to steal back from Time's slippery hands. And let's be honest, I still have no clue what to expect from Bean, every day is still a complete surprise from him (Holy crap! He can climb into the car by himself and climb over curbs and he doesn't need to hold my hand for any of it, didn't he need to hold my hand yesterday, was it only yesterday? What about today? Don't you want to hold my hand today, buddy? No? Oh /sigh. Ok, then...) There's really no need to compensate for a lack of expectations towards Bean by piling on extras towards Sprout. That's just... complicated.

No, I do believe the expectations have got to go. Quite frankly, I just don’t have the time.

Mama Bean has a(n almost) four week old daughter

Sprout is really cute. I mean, to me. Papa Bean says newborns are only cute to their parents, and maybe their grandparents. So, since I'm her parent, I can say she's really cute. I'm so absorbed in her cuteness that it's taken me four weeks to get around to blogging. Well, that and, y'know, all the other stuff I do. Plus the cuteness.


Sprout's labour was shorter; the pushing part was blessedly shorter. I know an hour still sounds like a long time, and often with second babies it's way shorter than that, but compared to two hours, an hour was lovely. wonderful. perfect. And I didn't tear this time, which, like, wow, I (clearly) have no words. It's that different. I kind of want to buy my midwife flowers for coaching me how to push so I wouldn't tear. My favourite part about the labour was when Sprout came out, and my second favourite part was when the midwife said, "Nah, I don't think I need to stitch you."

My next favourite part was how Sprout latched right away, and nursed from both sides, for about an hour, and hasn't stopped nursing like an absolute champ since. No SNS system, no setting the clock to feed, no stripping the sleepy baby and coaxing it to eat just one more millilitre, no nipple shield. No. Nipple. Shield. Just plain old breastfeeding; like riding a bicycle. Fantastic.

Bean is very fond of his baby sister. He likes to point out her nose, and then her hair. He likes to touch heads with her, which is his way of kissing, and he likes to try and hold her or hug her. He likes to pat her head. And he likes to be the one showing her off when other people are paying attention to her. He thinks Sprout is the coolest thing ever. As for me, I am not so cool in his books (yet.) For about a week after her arrival, he wouldn't look me in the eye, wouldn't really let me hold him, wouldn't hug or cuddle or play with me. It pretty much broke my heart. He's warmed up since, especially now that all our houseguests are gone and it's me or nobody (is that comforting? not... really.) He seems to want to be carried or held more, and is more prone to crying/tantrums if he has to wait, but some of that may be transitioning from two naps to one, and overall he's doing really well.

I'm only taking nine weeks off from work, since I don't qualify for the year of EI benefits most (Canadian) moms can get. Five weeks of that have already flown by (ACK!) which feels so much faster than the eight weeks I took off when Bean was born. She'll be a month old soon! I have so many thoughts and blog posts rattling around, but not a tonne of time to actually type them out, but really want to write. Babies; they're so inspiring! It's crazy to think I started this blog a year ago, when Bean was three months old, and now it's 14 months later, and I have Sprout! We're feeling super blessed and full of love right now, and I'm glad I have this place to document it. Thanks for sharing with me!

Mama Bean is very possessive of her son's appearance

So, I happen to think Bean looks a lot like me. In the eyes, and the nose, and the mouth, and the hair colour, etc. I'm his mother, so I'm allowed to think this. Go ahead, take a peek at the sidebar, compare our pics, and leave a nice little comment confirming my impressions.

When I say that I'm possessive about his appearance, I mean that I balk a little, internally, when people talk about him looking more like Papa Bean. I'm not saying he has none of PB's features, 'cause of course he does. In fact, in some pictures, Bean's baby pics look exactly like PB's baby pics. And it's super cute! And I'm glad!

I just really really like that he looks like me, that it's pretty obvious.

And, thanks to the blogosphere, I think I've found out why. Did you know there are several sectors of the blogosphere dedicated to adoption? This should not surprise me, and I don't know why, in my long history with the blogosphere, I have not discovered it until now... I suppose because I'm more involved with the parenting blogosphere in general since becoming a parent myself, so perhaps it was inevitable.

Anyway, there are lots of subsectors and corners and niches of the adoption blogosphere, and I could get engrossed in any one of them, so naturally I'm just reading it all right now lol. There are three fundamental subcategories of blogs, relating to the three fundamental members of what's called the adoption triad: those by adoptive parents (usually mothers), those by first mothers (haven't seen one by a first father, yet) and those by adult adoptees.

A post by one of the latter (I wish I could remember where, to link to it...) spoke of her own experience giving birth to her son, and how she marveled in that instant that she was looking, for the first time, at someone genetically related to her. Something she had simply never done before.

And I realized, hey, me too! I'd never seen someone who shared genes with me before. Someone who shares things like appearance with me... by design.

So, I think this is why I feel maybe a little extra proud when people say how cute Bean is. And it's maybe why I get a little possessive of how much he looks like me. We belong to each other in this way that is just a given for non-adopted parents, but is unique and special to me. And my heart celebrates that.

Mama Bean has a question for the jury

So there I stood, in all my 35-weeks-pregnant glory, belly free and fabulous, and Papa Bean says, "Oh, I just saw the baby kick." Which was un-possible, because, being the vessel containing said baby, I would know in a very real and tangible way if there was a kick, and there was no kick, so I gave him a Look. Y'know, the what-are-you-talking-about-crazy-person-I-inexplicably-tethered-myself-to-for-life-Look. And he said, "I saw it kick, right here-" reaching out to touch the underside of my belly and stopping short. "Oh."

"Oh," I said, "Oh. Yeah. I'm just jiggly. There."

Now, I don't know if this happens to all pregnant women. I'm fairly certain it doesn't happen to skinny women. But for the average to fluffier-than-average women out there, maybe this is common, maybe not. For fluffy little me, this happens: my giant pregnant uterus pushes my fluff downwards. So my belly is all smooth and hard at the top and sides, and then there's this jiggly pouch-or-something underneath. I don't know how else to explain it. I'm sorry if you didn't really come here to read about my jiggly pregnant bits today. I can't even blame it on a TMI Tuesday :(

So, I remind Papa Bean that's just what happens. And he says he thinks it's a little different this time, more spread out (he gestures, so I would be clear of his precise meaning in how spread out my jiggly under-tummy is, helpful man) compared to last time, when it was more centralized (he gestures again, demonstrating a more compact arrangement.) And then he grins sort of sheepishly and says, "Last time, I called it your chubs icicle."

Chubs. Icicle. As in, a hanging pendulum of chubsness. Used to describe a part of my beautiful, glorious, wonderful, fruitful pregnant self.

So, I ask you, dear readers:

Grounds for divorce?

;)

Mama Bean doesn't always get it right

I'm usually hesitant to go into Bean's room once I've put him down for a nap, even if he is clearly making noises and not sleeping. I hesitate because, unless he's outright crying, I know he will eventually settle down and sleep, usually within half an hour.

Except when he doesn't.

Sometimes he'll jabber and flop and twiddle twaddle in his crib for an hour, and I'll listen patiently on the monitor. And call it "quiet time." And tell myself I am not a lazy mother.

Sometimes his jabbers will turn into chirpy little shrieks, which I take to mean, "Where are you? I'm bored. Come get me." And sometimes I do. Or, I call it "quiet time." And tell myself I'm not a lazy mother.

And sometimes, I just go up after an hour, and smell his poopy diaper from the hallway, and I know I've got it all wrong. And then I change his poopy diaper, and trundle him back into his trundler. And he falls asleep in five minutes.

And I tell myself I am not a lazy mother who left her son in a poopy diaper for an hour, while he made jabbery little non-sleep noises, but was obviously tired, because without his poopy diaper, he fell asleep as he normally does. Because. I'm. Not.

Mama Bean thinks about Advent differently now

Now that I'm a mom, I mean.

It's only been a few years that I've even paid attention to Advent as a season, versus solely focusing on Christmas day. As a kid, the only connection I made between the little waxy chocolates I got to eat one at a measly, waxy time and the magic number of 24 was that, if I started eating on December 1st, I got one per waxy waxy day until Christmas day, when there were much better things to eat. (Srsly, those supermarket Advent calendars have the worstest chocolate ever. I know, what a "first world" thing to complain about, but like, save your $3 or whatever and give it to the third world rather than subject people you care about to eating those things.)

My awareness of Advent coincides with my awareness of Lent and all things having to do with the Liturgical Year of Awesomeness. I love that every Sunday can be included in a broader celebration, instead of coasting with boredom from Big Holiday to Big Holiday. I love expanding the joy of Christmas from one day to several weeks, each with their own particular spiritual focus on what Christmas means, the people involved, its place in history, etc.

Plus, there are candles!

Last year, I was just barely coming out of the Delirious Early Days and juggling the new demands of Major-Family-Holiday-with-a-Sought-After-and-Coveted-Grandbaby, so I wasn't thinking much about anything, let alone Advent. I'm surprised people got gifts last year. But this year I'm much more able to engage and celebrate properly. And I found my Advent thoughts this week centering on Mary, because I feel like I can look through her eyes with a little more understanding, now that I've welcomed a baby the way she welcomed a baby. (Well, not exactly the way she did - no angels, no manger, etc. But you get my drift...)

The whole thing about Advent is anticipation, right, this growing expectation of this really Universe-changing event that's about to take place. And the first week is traditionally focused on Hope, the hope for a saviour that permeated culture back then in this very intense, taste-it-on-your-tongue kind of way. But Mary wasn't just pregnant for the four weeks of Advent; she'd been pregnant since early Spring. She'd been anticipating and expecting and hoping while simultaneously knowing that this child, her child is the very Messiah everyone's so desperate for, for almost ten months. She just hoped and hoped and hoped all the way to Bethlehem.

I have anticipated and expected and hoped things for my child through forty weeks. I am doing it all over again for the little Sprout in my tummy now. I can imagine, in a small way, the internal light of hope Mary carried in her mind, and heart, and soul, and tummy. It's just this totally different, totally unearthly, yet fully earthly and normal and natural kind of love. That's the love of Christmas! I mean, times a million, considering the end result of Easter. But the love of Christmas starts with the love of a mother. And I get that now, because I am a mother. And it really changes the way I approach Advent, and the way I'll consider the next twenty-some days. I cannot imagine carrying a child knowing he's destined to die. Where is the hope in that? And yet. Carrying a child knowing he's destined to save the world...

The somewhat abstract concept of Jesus arriving in the world as a baby now has very concrete, very real memories and touchstones for me to hold in my hands, and my thoughts, and my heart. I know how small he was, how light and fragile. I know what it was like to nurse him (albeit, aided by a glider, nursing pillow, pump, nipple shield, fridges and freezers and bottles - but she probably had receiving blankets, right? So it was totally the same thing...) I know that his poop smelled just like everyone else's! And I will add to this knowing, in the coming years, imagining Jesus learning to walk, saying his first words, tying his own shoes (sandals,whatever!) Learning to read. Discovering the world. Discovering God.

Ultimately, I think I simply feel closer to the story, I feel like I've moved up from the back seats into the real deal, with dust on my feet from the straw in the manger. I know what a baby is, now. And so I can know what Jesus was, and what that means, in the Big Picture, about what he did for me. From where I sit now, that Advent candle looks a little brighter, a little warmer; it looks and feels like Love.

Merry Advent, everyone...

Mama Bean remembers with gratitude

“For it has been said so truthfully that it is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the agitator, who has given us the freedom to protest. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag, who gives that protester the freedom to abuse and burn that flag.”