Real Mothers Use Formula

It's 5:34 in the morning. I've been up thinking since 3:55, when Claira let out her third bout of cries for the night. It's only been since her 6 month appointment a month and a half ago that I have gotten a straight 7 hours of sleep on a regular basis. Thank goodness for teething to remind me that I have many sleepless nights in my future.

Like I said, I've been thinking. Thinking about my life post Claira's birth. I haven't blogged nearly as often now that I take care of an infant. But today I blog about motherhood, motherhood post-Claira's birth. It actually isn't any different of a feeling than pre-Claira's birth.

I remember an afternoon several years ago when my friend came to visit with her three year old son. I was trying to thank my friend for including me in all her social gatherings, where everyone present had children of their own. As I spoke, my emotions got in the way and I could barely make out the words, "I feel like a mother...."Cooper, the three year old, who had been playing with cars on the floor, looked up at me and with piercing eyes and an empowered tone exclaimed, "You ARE a mother!"

Cooper knew what Sherri Dew knows: "Our motherhood began before we were born." I can honestly say that I feel no different in terms of my worth as a mother after having Claira than before I had her. I simply have always been a mother. I believe that every woman is a mother. Thus, the loss of children, born or unborn, is a great and heart-wrenching burden.

The night before leaving the hospital with Claira, I was informed that she was losing weight too quickly and my milk supply was not giving her the nutrition she needed. I was told I would need to supplement her diet. It took several moments for my mind to register what the nurse was saying. My heart seemed to know immediately, though. I would be introducing my baby girl to formula. I burst into tears. I had been to the OB for three different pregnancies where I was always asked, "Will you be breastfeeding your baby?" When I applied in the affirmative, I always received the response, "That's wonderful! Breastfeeding is the best thing for your baby."

It was somewhere in the middle of that long night that I recognized my motherhood again, as Claira cried in hunger, and I relented to giving her some donor breast milk. She needed nutrition, and even if that meant not receiving it from my body, she would receive in any way I could find. I left the hospital with my bloodshot eyes from my body laboring her here and my heart laboring over the uncertainty of her future. It felt like a matter of life and death to me. We left with 16 ounces of donor milk in hopes that my milk would come in soon. Donor milk was $3.50 an ounce. I knew we couldn't keep up this habit.

It turns out that many women who experience infertility issues also experience low milk supply. This surprised me, as I remember my milk coming in with Truman. During the first 2 weeks with Claira, I was a hormonal disaster and realized that I would never, ever, be able to give all that she needed. I remember driving to my neighbors to pick up some extra formula, feeling like I had let down my daughter and all of the medical community who had helped me try to get more milk. Herbal supplements, around the clock pumping, constant feedings. My milk never "came in" as I hoped, but I was able to combination feed her for her first 4 months. I see small time period as a gift.

Grief makes joy brighter.  My life with Claira now? Joy that leaves me in tears. When her hand reaches out to touch my face. When she leans over to catch my eyes and smile from across the room. When she surrenders to sleep in my arms. When she jumps in her jumper like she'd determined to hit the ceiling. When she kisses her reflection in the mirror. It is in these moments that I remember that I am a real mother, I always have been, and real mothers sacrifice whatever it may be--their dream of nursing their babies, the incredulous looks of other mothers when they see her bottle and wonder if it is truly possible that it might be f.o.r.m.u.l.a.--to keep their children healthy and growing strong.

Real mothers exist without having to prove themselves with natural births (which I just so happened to do, and I don't think I love Claira any more than I would have otherwise), without having extensive training in child development (which I also happen to have, and still don't have a clue what I'm doing most of the time), with or without fancy baby clothes and gadgets (let's face it, we are broke).

Yes, real mothers feed their babies formula.

Joy

I've been awful at posting about Claira. I've been too busy enjoying her. 

She is goodness and light. She is divine. She is a miracle. 

I am not a morning person, but my heart wakes right up when she calls out to come and get her to start a glorious new day.

4.5 months old. Fleeting moments carved into my heart forever. 

When a Mom Met Her Daughter

When a mom meets her daughter for the first time in the flesh, it doesn't feel like it's the first time they've met. The day Claira was born, I could not believe that the time had already come. Was I really ready for this? When contractions started and got more and more painful so quickly, you'd think we'd just have gone straight to the hospital, but there was no way I was going to be sent home without a baby. 

When a mom meets her daughter, she wants to be looking her best. I happened to decide not to wash my hair for church that day. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. By the time we got to the hospital, I was sweating from contractions. Triage felt like a lifetime, not being able to find a good vein for the IV felt like eternity, each contraction rose in me like waves of shredded glass that I could manage only with the thought "I'll get an epidural and it will be all right." Famous last words.

When what definitely felt like a head pushing down started and the nurse was calling to me "don't push" and doctors were coming with their masks and gloves and no epidural was in sight, I didn't feel like I was ready to meet my daughter.

But when a dad calmly and firmly counts in bouts of 10, encouraging and strengthening, this mother pushed and pushed with all she has ever known of pain and grief and a desire to know this precious little one; it wouldn't matter that when this mother met her daughter, she would have bloodshot eyes for weeks from laboring, that they would cry together over the pain of mortality even with all the joy that entwines them as kin. 

When a mom meets her daughter, she holds her tight and says over and over "You're here!" She carries her proudly as the nurse wheels them to the mother-daughter unit. This mother remembers well the two other times being wheeled through the hospital with babies that would not be coming home. It's unreal and so real that it hurts.

When a mom and dad meet their daughter, the daughter learns quickly that parents make mistakes. Sorry, sweety, for the dumped ice water just moments after your fresh bath and measurements, just when you thought you were safe and cozy :(

When a mom and dad meet their daughter, they endure three days of hospital stresses, 

dad studying and holding and running to and fro 

in order to go home to the nursery that Dad and Mom have been preparing for months.

After a mom meets her daughter, there is sleeping time and feeding time and tummy time, and that's the best thing about having her daughter--time.

"I'll take the time to love the best I can

and hold this little life with tender hands." 

-Nancy Peterson, aka, Mom/Grandma Nancy

Amazing Grace

My dear friend Chelsey just had this darling little baby girl, Grace. I love that I got to hold her just days after her birth and sense the grandness of life. It's remarkable. When I think about it for long enough, I just have to cry, the fact that life can beget life.

I will miss being pregnant, but it's definitely getting uncomfortable.  The stitches came out yesterday! I was hoping I would be one of those woman that spontaneously goes into labor, but alas, almost 24 hours later, and nothing. Here is a picture of a picture of the 3-D ultra sound the perinatologist tried to take for us, but as you can see, at this point, there is no room in the inn for a camera to snap a picture. He tried hard to get her to move her hand and arm away from the side of her face, but she wasn't having it. She looks pretty squashed--especially her nose :).

SO. We will keep waiting. The ultrasound measures her at 7 lbs 2 oz, plus or minus 15 oz. So much for accuracy. Still, when everyone says they think I'll have a big baby, they are probably right. Should you see me and I have not had this baby yet, please do NOT say:

1) When are you gonna have that baby already?
2) You look like you're going to pop!
or
3) You looked like you were due 2 months ago!

Yes, these are the common greetings I receive. If I knew when I was having this baby, my life would be a lot less exciting. I don't know of any pregnant woman whose belly has ever really popped open like a balloon. AND, I'm grateful I didn't have her two months ago, though she would have shared my cousin Crystal's birthday, and that would have been tender.

Amazing grace. How sweet the sound. I've no less ways to sing His praise than when I first began. This is truly an incredible experience that I give thanks to God for multiple times daily. I do not doubt that HE has preserved this child. Let her take her time in coming--she is long awaited.

Ty + S

I love this man, in all seasons.

 (Christmas time, Benjamin Utah, Dec 2012)

He is my best friend.

(Portland Rose Gardens, Spring 2012)

This month marks the 5 year anniversary of Tyler noticing me from across the hall before the first class of our last semester at BYU. 6 months later, married. What a choice blessing. I can't imagine me without T.

Happy 1st Birthday, Truman

Like several families I know, we have a couple of angels waiting for us in heaven. Today marks the 1 year anniversary of Truman's delivery to this world. He was, as you know, born deceased. His gestation period was a mere 135 days. He weighed just under a pound and was 9 inches long. He had his dad's eyebrows and long, muscular legs (Ty and I both have a 30 inch inseam, so it wasn't a generational thing). I sang to him, I talked to him, and heaven was very near.

While many dreams were broken on November 13, 2011, the dream I had of holding an infant in my arms came true:

Tears still freely fall when I think about the joys and sorrows of this day and the days that have followed.  I know I posted this song in my last post, but it bears repeating--I held Truman, and God has held me up through the support and love of so many angels, both here on earth and above.

Truman, I love you. Forever. Thank you for coming to our family. Your dad and I have learned more about the purpose of life and our desire to be a forever family because of you. Your spirit lingers, and we are so grateful.

To be Held

I'm having an emotional morning. In a good way. I was asked to teach a lesson to the women at church about the Resurrection. I was taken back immediately to my experiences with losing Truman and Sterling. It made me remember that a lady from church had wanted me to listen to this song about bad things happening but surviving. I looked it up onYoutube, and after some cathartic tears, I share the words here:

"Held" by Natalie Grant


Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

I have been held. Even when my literally aching arms have sought desperately to hold a child of my own to no avail--I have been held.