I Once Was Lost, But Now I'm Found

I follow a lot of blogs, post on message boards, attend story times, arrange play dates, and participate in various other parenting forums in which we "compare notes." A common thread among moms is a yearning to "get away." Many, it seems, feel like during their journey through parenthood they somehow lost their identity. Over and over again I read or hear moms gush about their insatiable craving for "me time" or a "girl's night out" or a "date night." Maybe it's my controlling personality, maybe it's my scars of infertility, or maybe it's the way I was mothered, but I have zero desire to be away from Sylvie EVER-at least not yet. Mothers often urge each other to get a job so they can retain their self-worth, enroll their babies in day care so they can socialize, give them a bottle so someone else can "bond" with them, let them "cry it out" so they can't "manipulate" their parents, and countless other tidbits of unsolicited advice. But those things just don't feel right to me and I fear that so many moms go against their better judgement and instinct as a result of media, marketing, and other influences. I don't feel stripped of my independence, I feel empowered to have created, carried, and birthed (albeit traumatically and unnaturally) such an incredible tiny person.

I dread the day I have to go back to work. In fact, I'm pretty bitter that we've been forced into this fast-paced, two-income "the harder and longer you work determines how successful you are" society, which is largely responsible for our pre-packaged, convenience culture. I have some pretty radical feminist beliefs and some may think I'm less of a strong independent woman because I'm barefoot, in the kitchen, and depending on a MAN for income. Ultimately, I think the most feminist thing you can do is to be in whatever role you WANT and make the choices you WANT, not what you feel peer-pressured, mother-in-law-pressured, or pediatrician-pressured to do.

I admit, we were at first suckered into some of the mainstream parenting philosophies. We bought a crib, a swing, pacifiers, and various other "self soothing" baby paraphernalia. After we brought Sylvie home, it quickly became clear that all of those must-have gadgets were simply unnecessary barriers that separated us from our baby and our money. Humans are pack animals. Biologically, it just doesn't make sense for Ronny and I to sleep together while the smallest, most vulnerable, most defenseless member of our "pack" sleeps alone, far from us. Biologically, it just doesn't make sense for my baby to suck on an artificial nipple when mine are perfectly capable of delivering the healthiest nutrients. Biologically, it just doesn't make sense that I ignore my baby's cries when she's simply trying to communicate her needs. If it is well within my control, I refuse to sacrifice her physical, emotional, or intellectual health for convenience or image.

I find overwhelming joy in being with my baby all day, every day. I find pure bliss in wearing her close to my heart. I find great pride in sustaining her life through my milk. I find deep comfort in sharing my bed with her. I find profound fulfillment in soothing her cries immediately.

Just as much as I practice an attached-style of parenting for Sylvie's sake, I also do it for my own. She's supposed to be completely dependent on me for food and comfort, the way nature intended, and I'm thankful, lucky, honored, and gratified to oblige. I haven't lost my identify, I've found it.

Long Time, No Blog

I know, I know. I said I'd write, but the truth is I continue to struggle for the right words. I should be documenting all things Sylvie-chronicling achieved milestones, detailing new discoveries, sharing precious pictures. But with every new development, every first revelation, every adorable photograph, comes despair; A reminder that Sylvie's sweet grandpa isn't here to revel in those moments. Sometimes my conflicting emotions of elation and devastation are so overwhelming. How do I appropriately celebrate life in spite of death? I often find myself amidst an internal struggle of guilt. Guilt for feeling a new mother's joy and then guilt for feeling a grieving daughter's sorrow. Everything that I thought I knew about grief "before" has turned out to be myth. For example, the "Stages of Grief" are non-sense. I'll admit I've never read any Kubler-Ross, but from what I gather she describes grief as a process that eventually ends. I can tell you that I've been in the midst of several stages simultaneously. I've even "progressed" down the line and found myself right back at the beginning. And I doubt I'll ever recover. I am forever a different person. In my head I have divided my life into two time periods as I'm sure many people do after experiencing a major life-altering event... graduations, weddings, births, funerals. Every memory I have I file it into a category of "before daddy died" or "after daddy died." Everyone talks about how difficult the "firsts" are and, no doubt, they're absolutely right. But sometimes those firsts aren't as obvious as you might think. Of course the first Christmas without my dad was difficult, but so was the first time I passed by that tree. Or the first time I ate apple pie. Or the first time I went to Lowe's. I actually have an uncanny ability to relate EVERYTHING-even the most distant, trivial things-to my dad. I'll read an article on CNN about recalled Toyotas. My dad drove a Toyota. I'll see a commercial for Dancing With the Stars. My dad watched Dancing With the Stars (I know, right?!). I'll be slicing tomatoes for dinner and remember my dad asked me to water his tomato plants when he was in the hospital. And then he died. And so did his tomato plants.

Pictures

My awesome brother, Ryan, bought us a flickr photo account. Think he's trying to tell us something? It's kind of a hodge-podge of pictures for now, but we'll eventually get around to organizing it. In the meantime, enjoy!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thecresswellchronicles

~Mommy

P.S. Can you tell who dressed Sylvie the day she was sportin' her green Daniel Johnston "Hi, how are you?" onsie, black leggings, goofy pink hat, and purple socks? I'll give you a hint... it wasn't me.

Letters Unread

As I try to make sense of my daddy's untimely death, I've been having this internal struggle with spirituality. I'm not a religious person, by any stretch of the imagination, and that's no secret. In fact, anyone who knows me well is probably laughing by now. I hesitate to label myself, but if I had to I probably most closely identify with agnosticism. How can I possibly confirm or deny the unknown? I do, however, have a better understanding and appreciation of people who turn to faith in times of despair. I've been surprised, shocked even, by some of my recent thoughts. I find myself constantly questioning. Where is he? Does he see Sylvie's infectious smile? Can he hear me weeping? Or did he just cease to exist? Either way, I'm finding comfort in the most unsuspecting ways, even if they are fictional... Along with my dad, a piece of me died that day in July. I don't mean that in a melancholy, bemoaning kinda way. You see, my dad didn't ever like to be alone. He was a people-person. If you knew my dad, you knew him as a social butterfly. I often dreaded going anywhere with him as he would inevitably run into someone he knew, turning our quick trip to the hardware store into a lengthy reunion. Moreover, he could walk into a room full of strangers and come out with life-long friends. My dad was never alone and he's not now either. If part of me is gone, then it must be with him, keeping him company. Where ever he is. Likewise, that missing piece of me is not empty. Rather, it is full of memories and my daddy's love.

~Daddy's Little Princess

P.S. In a desperate attempt to stay connected to my the man I so dearly adored, I began writing to him. You can find a collection of letters unread here... Dear Daddy

Circle Of Life

Early Wednesday, July 22, 2009 my sweet daddy laid to rest. A few days prior, we brought him home from the hospital when it became clear that there was nothing more the doctors could do for him. Rather than continue invasive treatments, my daddy decided that he wanted to begin hospice care in the comfort of his own home, surrounded by family. That Monday he called Ryan, Uncle Matt, and Aunt Lisa to ask that they fly in. He also called other family members and friends to say goodbye. It was so surreal at the time and it continues to be. That night we gathered around him and stood vigil as he quickly deteriorated. We held hands, stroked his head, cuddled, shared memories, laughed, and cried. Unfortunately, the pain became unbearable and he asked that we call 911 for an ambulance transport to the hospital with the hopes of getting some relief. We were only at Metroplex for about 10 minutes before he took his final breaths. I wish that I could say he went peacefully in his sleep. The days following are all a blur. Then, on Monday, July 27 family and friends from near and far gathered for the most impressive service. Chris delivered a phenomenal eulogy, Ryan told silly stories, I read my Father's Day poem, Ronny sang two beautiful songs, friends shared special memories, and Scott escorted daddy to his final destination. If it had to be, his memorial far surpassed anything he could have imagined. The words people used to describe my dad are not common of many. My dad was inspiring. Truly inspiring.

Since that day, nearly two months ago, I have sat down to write this "first" entry countless times. I'm able to detail events that took place, but I can't yet articulate my emotions. Mere words can't seem to do my intense feelings justice. Because of that, I've been avoiding. Yes, this blog is primarily about my precious baby girl, but Sylvie is not independent of the rest of my life. Her birth is not mutually exclusive of my dad's death. My mom always told me that dying was a part of living. She's right. Sylvie's existence is symbolic of the proverbial "circle of life." His life ended just as hers begun. With that said, I felt like I couldn't move forward with this blog unless I addressed one of the most significant (THE most traumatic) events of my life. I've since decided that I don't have to, nor can I, sum it up in a single post. Why did I ever think that was necessary? I'm still feeling. I'm still hurting. And that pain will continue. I will never get over losing my dad and I will always miss him. But it's time for me to start therapy. My therapy. I will begin writing again.

~Daddy's Little Princess

Happy Due Date!

Today is Sylvie's original due date. She's now a whopping 7lbs 2.5 oz! I guess Sylvie knew today was the day she was supposed to be born because the girl has kicked it into high gear and started nutritively nursing! Today was the first time ever I actually heard, without a doubt, distinctive swallows. Her latch is more precise and her suck is stronger. I offered her the bottle afterwards and she only took half. She has never not finished a bottle before so I'm feeling confident that she got a good amount of milk straight from the tap. I think this is the turning point I've been waiting for! I'm so proud of my baby girl. And myself.

~Mommy

Memories

Today is my birthday. I am 31. You can't wrap memories up in a box, but that's the only gift I want. More memories. More memories with him. Just the firsts. That's all. Please. Just give me the firsts.

Sylvie's first tooth.
Sylvie's first word.
Sylvie's first step.
Sylvie's first birthday.