Naming Esther

My grandmother died when I was seven years old. It was a blow, to say the least.

She - my father's mother - was a second mother to me. I wasn't her first grandchild (I was her sixth, actually) but I was the first one to live nearby. We lived with my grandparents for a time after I was born, and even after we moved out, my father dropped my mom and me off at their house every day for two years on his way to work. My grandmother took care of me while my mom took care of her.

She had heart failure, so my mother cooked their meals, did the laundry and other household chores. Giving up those duties was no easy task for my grandmother. She was very proud of her housekeeping skills and kept an immaculate home. The only reason she was able to let someone else take over was because she now had me to care for. She held me, pushed me in my carriage and rocked me. I was her job, and she loved it.

When she returned to the doctor a few months later he was surprised at how well she was doing. Her heart was much better than he had expected it to be. "That baby saved my life," she told him.

I loved her as much as she loved me. We were so close that I directed my first words at her, and her name forever became Dada to me and, eventually, my younger sisters.

I was so young that my memories are hazy. There was my grandparents' enormous mansion of a house with a huge, grand staircase that may or may not actually be considerably smaller than it seemed to a then-five-year-old.

 

There were our trips to the local five-and-dime where she bought me dolls, and that one time (although I'm probably basing this memory more on stories I've heard) when she had my hair cut - cropped real short, like a boy - without my parents' permission. She had strong opinions about things, short hair being one of them. It worked well that my mother was very easy going about things like that.

I remember playing at their house, inside, outside, in the musty basement. Sitting at her vanity in her perfumed bedroom.

I can't remember a lot of things - like her voice. Or anything she said to me. What I can remember - like it was yesterday - is the day I found out that she had died. My mom picked my sisters and me up from the babysitter's and told us in the car. I remember feeling frozen, like my world had stopped, desperately trying not to cry. That feeling, of trying to hold in tears, lasted for years.

I remember the funeral, seeing my grandmother, the party after at our house where I ate white rolls with mayonnaise, eventually escaping to the next door neighbor's where their babysitter, an older woman, was sitting outside. I remember asking her why people were happy and having a party if someone had died. I don't remember what she said.

Life went on, but I never dealt with the grief in a healthy way and it began to seep out as anxiety. I was afraid of death, of nuclear war, hijacked planes, whatever dictator was in the news. As a teenager I prayed for my grandmother, and for her intercession. I begged God to give me signs from her, to the point that I might have lost faith had I not received one. Thankfully, that prayer was answered when my mom gave me my grandmother's Rosary that she had found. I remember opening the case and immediately being hit by the scent of her perfume. It - a piece of her - had been trapped in that little plastic box for a decade.

I received another piece of her when Ryan asked me to marry him. I wear her diamond every single day in my engagement ring.

Early on, I knew I would name a daughter after her. Esther. It wasn't your average baby name, but that didn't matter. It wasn't even something I needed to decide; it just was.

I don't remember telling Ryan that our daughter would be named Esther, but I know I did soon after we started dating and he was always on board. I often told others about the name as well, and even had a plan if I were to have twins.

But when we found out we would be adopting a little girl in Louisiana, I got cold feet. Esther. What would people think? It's not exactly what you think of calling a tiny baby girl. Instead of nine months, we had two days to pick a name and I talked myself out of it.

Ryan liked Clare. I loved Clara. And we couldn't use Esther for a middle because, well, you just never know. Maybe one day I'd get another chance and not lose my nerve.

I have never regretted naming Clara. She's such a Clara, and I love her name as much as the day we chose it. And, I should probably mention, my grandmother's mother was a Clara. So there's that. But I did beat myself up a bit about that whole "caring what people think" thing. That's always been a problem of mine.

A month before we found out that we'd possibly be adopting another baby girl, I was visiting my parents up north and talking baby names with my two sisters, one of whom was expecting. If I ever have another girl, I told them, I'm naming her Esther for sure. I've named two kids already and have more confidence in my naming abilities, I said. Who cares what anyone else thinks!

Little did I know I'd get that opportunity just a couple months later. Once we found out the baby was a girl, we never even discussed another option. We chose Grace for a middle name because of Our Lady of Grace's role in both of our adoptions, and because I thought it softened the first name. We also new we'd call her Essie, just like my grandmother was called (she was "Grandma Essie" to my older cousins). I always knew that. So this little one became Essie Grace in our house before she was even born. Hearing that said in the voice of a lisping two-year-old makes it difficult to go back on.

As her birth drew near, reality set in that this was an adoption and there would be more to naming her than just writing it on a birth certificate. There was someone else involved, and even though we were the ones responsible for choosing her name, I worried that her birth mother would not approve of our choice. More than anything, I desperately did not want to disappoint her. I thought about changing it to something else, but Ryan wouldn't budge. (Have I mentioned that he's amazing?)

Admittedly, I worried about it an inordinate amount. Even at the time, I knew I was probably shifting my fear and anxiety about the adoption onto this issue of the name, but I couldn't help it. My friends and family tried to calm my nerves, but I continued to build up that moment in my mind, despite having every reason to believe that this very sweet young woman would have no problem with the name. I played it over and over in my mind - what I'd say to her, how I'd quickly tell her we'd be calling her Essie, since that seemed to fit a newborn baby a little better.

Of course, as it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. Essie's birth mom, and entire family, was so kind and welcoming that first night in her hospital room. She liked the name. All the worry left my body.

We have heard some interesting reactions to it. "Is that a family name?" is the most common (which I take to mean, "You couldn't possibly have just chosen that old lady name out of the clear blue for your daughter. Did someone hold a gun to your head?"). But, just as often, I hear from people who are pleasantly surprised by it. There's apparently a lot of us who like old-lady names.

I have always felt like my grandmother has been close to me, all these years. My mother even had a dream very early on in my infertility journey, before we really knew how serious the struggle would be, where I was holding a baby. My grandmother was there and said to her, "Don't worry. It's the Infant of Prague." (I wrote a post about it here.) It started me on a devotion to the Infant, which I have to this day. And it was also the catalyst for me to begin praying for my grandmother's intercession in growing my family. I believe that she - as well as my mom's mom, who died while we were waiting to adopt - has played a part in the blessings we have been given. If we believe in the Communion of Saints, then I would hope those who loved me most in this life are interceding for me in the next one, too.

After struggling with her death for so long, I slowly found peace with it, in that way where you look back at something, years later, and realize you haven't grieved it in as long as you can remember. I now cry happy tears when someone mentions my grandmother and how thrilled she'd be that her name lives on.

And boy, would she love our little girl. She might want to get her hair cut soon, but she would love her to pieces.

And do we ever love her, too. Ryan said today, as we sat around our kitchen table, that she couldn't be anything other than our sweet Essie Grace. It's true. I finally have my Esther. And God always knew it would be her.

Giveaway winner...and an oops

Thank you to everyone who entered my scarf giveaway, and all of you who checked out Connected in Hope. It really is a great organization that helps so many people. And on top of all that, they sell beautiful scarves. And your money is going to a great cause. Win-win.

So without further ado, the winner is.......

TheCatholicScienceGeek!

Congratulations! You will be getting an email from me shortly with information on how to receive your beautiful scarf of your choice :)

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So... I just logged on to my blog email to send TheCatholicScienceGeek an email and realized that my blog email account hadn't been pushing messages to my phone for weeks. Weeks and weeks. It hadn't even occurred to me, and I barely ever check it on an actual computer, so tons of messages have sat in my inbox, unanswered. 

If you are someone wondering why you haven't heard back from me, well, that is why! I am so sorry! I will try to start returning emails soon, but with the back-up - and with the very rare occasion of simultaneous naps for all three children to allow me computer time - it might be a few more days before you hear from me. Maybe the weekend. But I promise I will answer you. 

Speaking of emails I just found in my inbox, there were two from a producer for HuffPost Live, the Huffington Post's online news network, asking if I could do an interview for a segment they were doing for National Infertility Week (which was, what? Last week?). 

Oops. 

I sent a message tonight apologizing that I never got back to them, and was secretly relieved I didn't have to do the webcam interview. Because I would have had to. You can't pass up the opportunity to talk about your journey as a Catholic woman who struggled with infertility. That issue is never, ever, ever discussed on mainstream media. At least I have never once seen it. It's as if we don't exist. Not that they would have wanted me to talk about that, but I definitely would have. I could have mentioned Church teaching, NaPro, that we treated my disease, how it can be isolating as a Catholic dealing with infertility... all that good stuff.

So, opportunity lost. Oh well. Maybe there will be another chance at some point. 

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And because I can't post without including a photo of one of my babies, here's my little chunker. All 14-and-a-half pounds of her.

I know what you're thinking. That doesn't sound like a lot for a four-month-old to weigh. But she's by far the biggest baby I've had. She's actually approaching the 50th percentile for weight! Clara and Luke barely ever cleared the 5th. No chubby baby thighs in this house until Essie and I'm loving it. Look at that belly. And those cheeks!

Two out of three of my kids are crying, so off I go. Congrats again to the giveaway winner!

Giveaway - Win a Scarf!

Some of you may recall that a while back I did my first-ever blog giveaway. And it was a super cool giveaway, in my humble opinion, because the winner was able to choose a beautiful hand-woven scarf straight from Ethiopia.

Who doesn't love scarves? I own a couple from this wonderful organization, Connected in Hope. Here's one of them, modeled by the lovely Clara...

You should have seen this photo-shoot. Still SHOCKED I got a smile.

Not only are they great scarves, but it's also really neat because each of the scarves come with information about the woman who made it. You can even send her a message to thank her for her work. 

Well, there's a lot more to say about the absolutely inspirational work that Connected in Hope has been doing since my last giveaway back in 2011, so I'm going to turn things over to my good friend Ryane (can I mention I feel cool to have a friend that started this amazing organization??) to tell you all about it......

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Thanks for allowing me to pop in over here to update everyone on all of the incredible things happening in Ethiopia. Many of you have purchased scarves, made donations and helped us share the story and we are so grateful. So much has happened in the past year that it is hard to know where to begin!

Let me start with these ladies. Seriously amazing, I tell you.   

  

Our weavers continue to impress us every day with their strength, determination and talent.  They are so excited by the predictable, sustainable income they are earning from the sale of their scarves.  They are able to feed their families, pay school fees for their children and even in some cases begin to save.  Even more than the increased income, they are thrilled to know that people throughout the world are wearing and loving their scarves.  This gives them the dignity and validation that they so deserve.   Their faces lit up when we recently delivered the hundreds of hand written thank you notes we’ve received from buyers across the United States.

We have added 6 new weavers just in the past few months and every purchase brings us closer and closer to our goal of being able to offer sustainable income alternatives to the hundreds of women still carrying fuel wood on Mt. Entoto. 

 

Next up…  these adorable sweeties.  

For many years the women have operated a preschool within the walls of the weaving compound.  Conditions are cramped and as a result 40 children ages 2-6 are all lumped into one classroom.  There is no running water so the children must use a pit latrine which sits on a hill above the playground.   There are very few books, puzzles or other learning materials and the teachers are very kind but have little training.  Definitely far from ideal! And sadly, this is the ONLY daycare/preschool in Shiro Meda/Mt.Entoto, one of the most densely populated and poorest areas of Addis Ababa. 

We are so excited to announce that we have rented a beautiful, large compound within walking distance of the current compound and will be moving the children this summer.  There are multiple classrooms which will help us better divide the children by age and will allow us to enroll more children.  We are outfitting the rooms with books, blocks, puzzles and wonderful learning materials. The full kitchen will provide 2 hot meals and a snack each day to these precious kids.  There is even room for a children’s library which will serve the whole community. This is HUGE since many of these children don’t actually own a single book.  We are securing grants which will allow us to hire several more trained teachers, a project manager who will oversee the preschool, a full time social worker, a full time nurse.  The grant will also allow us to provide holistic services for the childrens’ families including adult education (literacy), income development programs and support groups.  Did I mention how excited we are?!
 

We really do believe that good development comes from empowerment rather than charity and that the best way to achieve sustainable change is by educating kids and empowering their mamas.  

Thanks for being a part of the incredible story unfolding in Mt. Entoto, Ethiopia!  

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Amazing, right? 

Well, if you were sad you didn't win a scarf last time (or hadn't yet stumbled upon this blog way back then) then you are in luck. It's only taken a year-and-a-half, but it's time for my second blog giveaway!

All you have to do is "like" and/or "share" the Connected in Hope Facebook page and then come back on over here and leave a comment on this post saying you did. Please leave separate comments saying that you liked and that you shared the facebook page.

(Just to be clear, here's the facebook page you need to like and/or share: Connected in Hope Facebook page)

A winner will by chosen at random next Wednesday. So check back!

And while you're at it, check out their website. These scarves make great Mother's Day presents. And there's even a free-shipping offer going on right now through next Tuesday. Just enter the coupon code MOTHERTOMOTHER. 

So get liking and sharing! And good luck!

What I've learned

I know I've only been a mom for a little more than three years, but I've had quite a few realizations in that short time. Here are some of them, as random as they might be...

1. When you have three kids three and under, people assume you are super fertile.
Oh, the comments we get. They started back when Luke was a newborn and Clara was just one. "Better you than me!" was one of my favorites. No, seriously. I loved it. You have no idea how glad I am that it's me, I wanted to say. But I'd just smile, slightly offended that they were basically saying that they don't value my children, but whatever. It is better me than them, in that case.

Now, with three little ones, people think we're super crazy. And crazy fertile. "You know there's a way to stop that from happening," is another favorite comment we hear. It always takes me a second to realize just exactly what they are saying. Ohhhhhh, birth control. My thoughts move from yuck, to wait a second! Why would I want to prevent these beautiful babies? They are here, after all! You are talking about my living, breathing babies!

But then I just have to stop and laugh because there's something funny about a long-suffering infertile girl like me hearing those types of comments. To think that I, one day, would have attracted looks from others because of all my little ones. Their words are music to my ears.

2. When you have three kids three and under, people think they can say super personal, skeevy things to you.

This one could be included in #1, but it deserves its own number. Someone asked Ryan a couple months ago why he doesn't just dismount.

I can't believe I just typed that. I also can't believe someone actually said that to him.

3. I am an adult. 

Okay, so I should know this by the age of 36. Yes, 36. But there are just those moments when I stop and look at my two beautiful girls, and think, We adopted them. That's like.. really adult. 

 

Most people can easily wind up pregnant, but adoption is hard. You have to actually go get finger-printing done and stuff. Take yourself and everyone in your household to get physicals. Lay your entire life out in front of a stranger. Collect every piece of paperwork you have accumulated (in all different parts of the country, no less) since you were born and every address of where you have ever lived. Thank goodness Ryan has a crazy memory for that last one. That alone might have stopped me from becoming home study approved.

And I'm not patting myself on the back for this, just observing that I am, in fact, an adult. I probably should have realized that 18 years ago.

4. The time when I'm feeding or rocking the baby is my down time.

This one is really random, but it changed my whole mindset when I realized it a few weeks ago. I used to pine for time to just sit and veg. Watch TV. Do nothing. I needed it. I craved it. The day would end and I'd feel unfulfilled because I never got it. Then it dawned upon me - I'm sitting with the baby all day long. What if I just acknowledge to myself that that's when I'm officially relaxing? Instead of thinking of it as time when I could be doing something else, wanting the bottle to drain quicker so I can get to that laundry so I can eventually relax, I now just sit and breath and do nothing (except feed or rock the baby). What's more relaxing than sitting with a baby?

But it really took me telling myself that it was official relaxation time for it to become official relaxation time. I think that's an important lesson I needed to learn - look for the hidden pockets of time in my day when I can de-stress. With three little ones, I need all that I can get.

5. Kids are all different (at least when it comes to sleeping).

I'm not to blame for the child with bad sleeping habits, just as I cannot take credit for the ones who love to sleep.I have both good sleepers and bad sleepers, yet I do nothing different for any of them. In our house it's been evident right from day one (or day 37, in Clara's case) if they were going to be good sleepers. Essie is a dream. She's been sleeping through the night since seven weeks old. And I simply cannot take credit for that.

I might be inclined to take credit had I not previously had a terrible sleeper (and still do), but Luke has taught me humility. And that maybe it's our genes.

6. Formula is not the devil.

This is something that adoption has taught me because, to be completely honest, I could see myself being a breast milk snob if I only had biological babies. But that is assuming I would have no trouble nursing any of my hypothetical biological babies. And as everyone who's ever had a problem nursing knows, you learn quickly not to be a breast milk snob when stuff is going down.

Don't get me wrong, I love nursing. In fact, I'm still nursing my nearly two-and-a-half-year-old son (once a day, but it'd be more if he had his way). But I'm just thankful for this perspective that adoption has given me. No one wants to be a snob.

7. All children are precious gifts from God. 

(And I don't mean this in a I'm-so-deserving-of-gifts-from-Jesus-that-others-had-to-go-through-trials-in-order-for-me-to-get-my-babies sort of way. Rather, in an all-children-are-gifts-from-God-even-when-I-birthed-them sort of way. You'll see what I mean...)

Sometimes I think of Clara's and Essie's birth moms and how they entrusted us with this huge task of raising their babies (Essie's was in a real, tangible way, while Clara's was more abstract, since she didn't actually choose us, but knew someone would be raising her baby and entrusted her to those unknown individuals) and it stops me in my tracks. What a gift. What an absolutely enormous responsibility. It's like I have a higher authority to answer to, even though their birth moms won't ever have input in how we raise them. They're still in my heart and on my mind. For better or worse, I can't help but think of them when I'm contemplating doing the best I can for my girls.

And then I think... higher authority. Hmmm... that sounds familiar.

And then I think about Luke, and how I can cut corners with that kid (isn't that terrible? I'm only half kidding). But then I think about how even though he wasn't gently placed in our arms by a loving birth mom, he's still a gift. A gift from God. They all are. God has placed them in our care and asked us to do our best by them, for Him. I have to answer to God when it comes to all of our sweet babies.

Yes, this may be obvious to all of you, but it's just one of those quirky things about having both biological and adopted children. At least it is for me. It's sort of like how I forget Ryan is Luke's biological father.

8. God grows my family according to His will.

If I haven't learned this by now, then something is wrong with me. Through all those painful years of infertility, all those long, dark days of begging God for a child, I could never have predicted the way He would choose to answer that prayer. Never. And I equally could not have predicted how my heart would feel about adoption and about our unique circumstances.

I love adoption so much. I love that I get to raise these two blessings that I normally would have never even met. I'm so utterly thankful that I get to. I can't even begin to think about them not being in my life, about what if I never had endometriosis and whatever other myriad problems caused me to be infertile and which led us to adoption.

And every time I look at Clara and Luke together, at the absolutely inseparable best friends that they are, I thank God that he has placed adoption in our lives.

Because I can't even begin to imagine one of these two without the other.

I am also so, so, so thankful that I have been able to experience the actual process of adoption. To know the rush of finding out you are getting a baby, that excitement of driving to a different part of the country to pick her up, of meeting her for the first time, of bonding with this tiny creature that you did not birth. I can't imagine my life without it. I am equally thankful that I got to experience pregnancy and birth and all that comes with having a child that shares your DNA. But most people get to experience that, it's the norm. Adoption is the load less traveled. And I will forever be grateful to God that He has placed that path in my life.

I don't know how, or if, God will continue to grow my family, but I am ecstatic about how he has chosen to form it thus far. And I know He is definitely full of surprises.

9. I love all my children equally.  

Okay, so I never really had to learn this. But it's an honest worry a lot of people have about adoption. "Will I be able to love my adopted kids as if they are my own?" It's something I hear a lot. First of all, they are all my own, but I know where people are coming from with this. I know what they are trying to say - will there be some bond missing since I did not carry them in my womb? Will I be capable of loving them enough? I get it. I think most of us who have contemplated adoption have had to ask ourselves that question, even if it just crossed our minds for a millisecond before we moved on.

And now, as someone on the other side of this question, I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that I do love all my children equally. And I don't think it's necessary to say that I love them all "like I birthed them", because that is not the bar to which I'd like to hold my love. I love them as if they are all my children. Which they are. And I know one thing will always be true - no one will ever love them more than me.

10. God is good.

I'm ashamed I had to learn this. I knew it, then I forgot it, then I realized it once again. I wish I had known it all along, but I'm just grateful I know it now.

It's been a while

There's a lot I could write about, but I am bouncing a baby on my knee as I type, so I will keep this short.

We had a great vacation with my family at the beach last week, even though it was pretty chilly.
 

In the interest of full disclosure, this picture was a little staged. I just may have stripped my children's long pants and sweatshirts off of them on the freezing, windy beach for the obligatory swimsuit photo. Needless to say, Essie is missing from the shot.

They did play on the beach every day, though, and we discovered Clara loves sand. 'Love' actually doesn't even begin to explain it. You know how you think sand is gross when it gets in your mouth? Ya, Clara doesn't feel that way.

I wish I had taken a photo of her slithering along the beach on her stomach. She had us in hysterics.
 
We were there for Easter Sunday, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to photograph my kids in their Easter clothes, although not everyone was as excited about it as I was.

You may notice I got my hair cut. I actually chopped ten inches off! In a rush to get out the door to Mass on Easter Sunday, I didn't do my hair in the above photo, so here's a little better shot of it (and yes, I forced the kids to take more than one family pic!)...

A highlight of the vacation was getting to meet my new nephew, sweet baby Joey. He is such a handsome little guy and happens to turn two months old today. 

The kids had an absolute blast playing with their cousins. And, like I always say, I really wish we lived closer to them.

As soon as we got to the beach, we thought Essie had bronchitis or RSV or some other terrible illness because she kept having coughing fits. I even took her to an urgent care while there. Turns out it was reflux, most likely caused by my switching to cheap bottles that weren't getting ridding of air bubbles. Bad mommy. But all is good now. At least we're hoping.

She's still loving to nurse a couple times a day for comfort, especially when she is tired and wants help getting to sleep. It's perfect. I'm so content with our nursing situation and I love that she needs it/me.

Luke is very into baseball lately, which Ryan and I are more than happy about. He fell in love with it while playing wiffle ball with the big boys on the beach, and now he loves to practice hitting in our backyard (sans tee.. we're big time).

He's okay and has made contact a bunch of times, but his sister is a natural. Oh my goodness, Clara is something else. And she's so good that she can't be bothered by it. We might convince her every couple of days to take a turn, she hits every pitch and then just stops, completely unfazed. We're starting to think she might be an athlete.

And then there's this girl.

She's getting SO chunky, in a perfect way. Her big blue eyes sparkle more every day. She is smiling and laughing and interacting and we fall more in love with her every second. She is just precious. A precious, precious little soul.

And have I mentioned she's been sleeping through the night since she was seven weeks old??

This girl is a dream. A beautiful, doll-like little dream. (And I've decided, as an adoptive mom, I am allowed to brag about things that I can not take credit for, like her good looks, and her sleeping prowess). 

Well, I didn't really keep this too short. And, it turns out, Essie is currently fast asleep in her bed while #2 is now awake and on my knee as I type (case in point, that kid's poor sleeping I can take credit for). Hopefully another three weeks won't fly by before I'm back here again!

An update on nursing Essie

So breastfeeding isn't going too well.

I wasn't sure how to begin this post so I figured that's as good a start as any.

I have been meaning to come here and work through this for weeks, yet I just can't find the time. But lately I've been wondering if I have actually been avoiding it. So many emotions are wrapped up in nursing. 

And things seem to be changing so quickly. Three weeks ago, I wrote posts in my ahead about how Essie's tongue tie was fixed and how I was hoping it was the answer to all our problems and how my supply would really kick in now and how I wanted to see a lactation consultant... but I never got a chance to type it up. Two weeks ago, I had every intention of sharing how I rented a hospital-grade pump, how excited the woman at the lactation place was for me, how excited people always are. And how just days later, I was getting nearly no milk, how frustrating it was, how I was still looking forward to my appointment with the lactation consultant, how the appointment came and went and I was told to pump eight to 10 times a day. How I actually only found time to pump one to four times a day, when I was lucky. And what a huge pain it was to pump with three kids, made even worse by pumping imaginary milk.

I wanted to come here and lament how I was getting nearly no milk at all. What it felt like to see a drop each time, so little that it wouldn't even trickle down into the collection bottle. How I'd get basically nothing from pumping, but how excited I was when I'd get a milliliter - a MILLILITER - from hand expressing immediately afterward.

But before I could write any of that, I was stopping. I was done with the pump. With my one milliliter and the bottle's stupid, teeny, tiny, little lines that mocked me. 

Unfortunately, all of this lead to me nursing Essie less and less. There was just something about knowing that I had no milk that made it all seem so silly and so easy to cut corners. I'd need to run errands and Ryan would just give her a bottle. What did it matter? I had no milk anyway. 

But then I noticed she seemed unsettled at times, and it hit me - My lack of milk wasn't news to her. She has known all along that she wasn't getting much, yet she still loved it. And here I was cutting her off, simply because I felt stupid about it. How selfish of me. Maybe she needed it. The cuddling. Me. 

So that sounds like I'm leading up to revealing that I'm back to nursing, and things are going great, even if there is barely any milk, right? Not exactly. The truth is, it's hard to nurse when you know you don't have anything to give. She's getting older and bigger and isn't okay with getting nothing while she's starving. 

I have to admit, a small part of me is relieved (which is SO weird because a much bigger part of me is sad and disappointed and grieving the loss of nursing forever, since I probably won't ever be pregnant again and if I can't handle this, then I definitely can't start from scratch to nurse another child we may adopt). It's just that bottle-feeding is so much easier than nursing when nursing is a struggle. Nursing Luke was cake, I loved it. He never took a bottle until his sippy cup. But man, this is hard. Not initially, but ever since finding out the truth about my supply.

Another part of me is humiliated. One of those versions of posts I wrote in my head was entitled, "I'm a nursing fraud" (yes, I think up titles to my imaginary posts). Everyone thought it was so neat (or weird, but they didn't admit that to me) that I was nursing. Our pediatrician in Arizona was jumping out of her skin she was so thrilled about it. The leader of a support group was teary-eyed as she talked about me to the group. The woman at the lactation center was going to ask my consultant for updates on how it was going because she just thought it was the coolest thing. I have to admit I liked hearing that, just as many stay-at-home moms who get zero feedback on their work performance would probably like to. I was nursing my baby who I did not give birth to. That was my story. Only probably was it turned out I wasn't really nursing her. So ya, I felt like a fraud. I eventually convinced myself that I wasn't one since I wasn't actually aware that I didn't have any milk. Fraud? On second thought, no. But humiliated? Sure. 

It was just so easy the first time around. I was one of those mothers who had no problems, except for Luke's dairy allergy, but that was it. No issues with supply. I empathized with moms who couldn't keep breastfeeding, but I really couldn't relate. Now I can. No amount of mother's milk tea or lactation cookies are going to mimic what a pregnancy did for my breast milk. 

I decided early on that I didn't want to take drugs. They're just not for me. This is just going to happen and I'm going to have to deal with it. I may already have nothing left, but Luke still swears there's something there. He's probably just being kind.

I haven't even touched on the guilt. Oh, the guilt. It's there when glancing at the warning on the formula package and when winding up on an anti-formula rant on a friend-of-a-friend's facebook page. Did I try hard enough? Am I giving up too soon? Should I have just tried the meds out of love for Essie? Should I have kept pumping? Should I have prayed harder?

Clara was formula-fed and I was fine with it. Maybe with her it didn't feel like a failure because I didn't try. And I hadn't yet experienced nursing at that point. I should just be thankful I was able to do it at all, instead of mourning that it was only for one baby. 

Or two, if I count Essie. And I probably should. I'm just in that phase where I'm still being hard on myself, kind of like after my c-section with Luke (I'm resisting the urge to put the word nurse in quotations, just as I wanted to do with the word birth after he was born). But, as I did after Luke, I need to pick myself up and move on with what I've been given. Which is a beautiful baby who I love with all my heart, who sometimes loves to nurse no matter how many millimeters she's getting, and at other times is hungry and wants her bottle. A baby who is growing like crazy and is healthy and happy. 

A little blue-eyed gift from God that I am humbled and overjoyed to be given the responsibility of raising. I will always do what's best for her, but sometimes you hit a wall with what you had hoped was possible and we might be there when it comes to nursing. So you back away from that wall and take a different path. I've calmed her by nursing several times in the last couple of days and there is a lot to be said for that.

It's so easy to judge our worth as a mother by those little lines on the bottle when pumping. It's easy to think about what she's not getting from me, how more breast milk could possibly make her healthier or smarter or more whatever. But I'm learning it's not just about how much I produce. That's only part of the story.

It's also about what nursing is doing for her. What it's done for me. It's about the soothing, the snuggling, the warmth, the bonding. I will never forget bringing this tiny baby back to our hotel after she was discharged from the hospital, putting her to my breast, and her latching and staying there for an hour. She has always loved nursing, no matter what she was getting. And when I stop to think about it, I realize what an enormous blessing that is.

I'm so grateful for these months and for however much I am able to breastfeed her in the future. The amount of milk may be small, but the benefits have been enormous. And for that I am forever grateful.

One problem down

So we figured out how to get Clara to sleep with her light off - a nightlight that projects fish onto her ceiling. I want to kiss the person who came up with it.

It was just luck that I even found it. We were buying a microwave online and needed to add a couple small purchases to reach a certain limit in order to get a certain deal. It was right around the time I posted about her fear-of-the-dark-or-whatever-it-is problem (thank you for all your amazingly awesome advice, by the way!) and so I decided to get Clara a nightlight. And there it was. Completely cheesy and tacky and perfect. Or so I hoped.

Her first night with her fishies (and according to her, one of them is "Home Nemo") was her first night without her light on. And it's been that way ever since.

If you come to our home, you will inevitably be dragged into her room to see her fish. She's fascinated that they are only visible when the light is off. Ahh.. the beauty of the fishy nightlight! The lights must be off!

Tonight we did have a small crisis when the fishy nightlight went missing, and I wondered if she'd need her light on again or if, perhaps, she could now handle the dark. But I found it so we didn't have to find out. And there's really no need to. I'm good with her having her fishies on the ceiling all the way through college, if that's what she wants.

My other problem - the one concerning disciplining the two crazy toddler twins while I'm nursing - hasn't gone as well. We have lots of good days, but today was a reminder that when things get bad, they get real bad.

The thing is, there is no solution that works. LeapPads? They fight over them (even though they each have their own) and Luke wound up clunking Clara's head with his today. Coloring? Again, fighting over paper, stickers, crayons, you name it, and eventually hitting and/or biting ensues. TV? Well it turns them into crazed lunatics for the remainder of the day and is just not worth them being comatose while I'm nursing Essie. And they still find a way to fight while it's on.

They fight over special toys brought out only for nursing. They fight over new toys bought just for nursing. Reading is tough because they both want to sit on Essie and me. And Essie - who happens to be a perfect baby in every way, shape and form - has one thing she doesn't like, and that's being sat on or pushed while she's eating. I can't really say I blame her.

Today was a naughty spot (i.e. time out) day. You know those days. In our house, at least, it's usually all or nothing. And today it was all. Luke was in naughty spot continuously from the time he woke up from his nap until he went to bed. He got out of naughty spot over and over, he eventually was put in his room, he stripped naked in his room, I resorted to naughty spot being on my lap and he proceeded to head-bang my chest. Oh, man. I think I will hear, "Lukie's hitting me, Mama!" in my sleep.

So how do you put and keep a child in naughty spot while you're feeding a baby? I'm beginning to think Luke likes seeing me play this game of nursing and disclipining. I wouldn't put it past him.

And that leads me to another question that I pondered throughout the day: How on Earth does anyone play the naughty-spot game all day long AND clean their house? And by "clean their house" I don't mean actually clean their house. I mean the basics, like empty the dishwasher, sweep the floor, clear the kitchen table from lunch, pick up the couch cushions off the floor, fold clothes.

Okay, I shouldn't pretend that I would have actually folded clothes today if not for my poorly behaved children.

But seriously, I'm beginning to think I just don't get it. So please, let me know your tips. And please tell me it's hard to have two toddlers and a new baby (and ignore the fact that the baby is perfect... let's pretend she's a handful just for this) and keep up around your home.

And just because I feel bad I was a little down on my older two in this post, I'll leave you with this exchange...

Clara (after I briefly explained marriage to her, while watching the Bachelor [don't ask] [and, no, I didn't tell her that marriage is something that comes after you date thirty women and pick from the final two] [and, no, I don't actually let my kids watch that garbage]): I'm going to get married.

Me: You are? What boy are you going to marry?

Clara: Lukie.

Me: You want to be married to Lukie? Even though he bites you all the time? (It had been a biting sorta day)

Clara: He doesn't bite me all the time.

Me: I know. That's sweet, honey. But you can't marry your brother.

Clara: But I can marry him because he's a good brother.

My sweet babies. They really are great kids. And best friends. And partners in crime. Their relationship is like no other I've ever seen. They love each other with all their little hearts and forgive at the drop of a hat.

Now if I could just get them to sit quietly with their hands folded in their laps while I'm feeding their baby sister, we'll be all set.