Ok, so this isn't actually "Episode 6" of my blog, I just really wanted to make a Return of the Jedi reference.
I haven't posted since 2014! What happened?? First, my doctoral internship. A typical day was waking up between 5 and 6 AM, a mile walk to an hour long bus ride, an 8-10 hour work day, an hour bus ride home, running/yoga, shower, making dinner with a new vegetarian diet, and bed by 9pm. Yes, I can get a little rigid... and this wasn't helped by the fact that Chris and I were living apart that year while he started his Ph.D. at Berkeley. Without him to balance me out and introduce a little spontaneity, I very contentedly settled into a routine, and then adhered to it a little dogmatically. But, in my defense, internship year is a hugely formative year for a psychologist, and I was apart from my husband, so I was coping in the best way I know how: schedules.
What else happened?? My dissertation. This meant that a significant chunk of my weekends and free time was spent working on the most important project I've ever done. No time for blog. Plus, I'm friends with my advisor on Facebook and she may have noticed if my dissertation wasn't happening but I was churning out blog posts (Hi Amy!!). She is an awesome advisor, though, and I'm not just saying that because she might be reading this (the likelihood is low, she is a full time researcher and has 2 kids and a social life, but just in case, thanks for everything).
What ELSE happened? I moved to California. WHAT? I know. But Chris got in to Berkeley (it's kind of a big deal), and for 6 years he supported me through my own Ph.D., working to pay our bills and putting his academic aspirations on the back burner so I could complete my dreams. Of course we would move so he could study in the best possible place he could be. Knowing I was moving, and per recommendation of my awesome therapist, I channeled more energy into my social life. I wanted to ensure that the friends I had in Seattle knew how important they are to me, and maximize my time with them. And after moving, I didn't want to spend months hiding at home watching Pitbulls and Parolees, nursing my social anxiety and pretending I'm cool with Domino as my only friend. So when I thought about blogging, I thought to myself "Have you made plans with anyone lately? Have you returned people's texts? Could I hide a dog in this apartment?" Not all my thoughts were totally relevant.
And THEN what happened? Postdoc. After 6 years of strategizing and scheming to stay in Washington, matching to an in-state internship, and preparing to get licensed there, I needed to rethink my career to align with California requirements. This meant finding a postdoc in a place where I had zero professional connections, that also just happens to be one of the top 3 most competitive cities for finding a postdoc, in the hardest state for getting licensed. Oh ok. So I got a postdoc. <repeat rigid schedule from internship + add a transbay commute>
AND I had to study for the EPPP (the examination for the professional practice of psychology) < repeat rigid schedule from dissertation>
I DID ALL THAT!
AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?
We had a baby!!
This is my son, Henry
I love saying that, so much, "my son."
So after all that, NOW, I am on maternity leave. Which means that, for the first time in about 2 years, I have a hot second to reflect on my life and reconnect to something that makes me feel like myself: writing. And there is a new central component of myself that I've never written about before: being a mother. It's still a little surreal, and yet, at the same time, the most real thing that I've ever experienced.
So after all that, NOW, I am on maternity leave. Which means that, for the first time in about 2 years, I have a hot second to reflect on my life and reconnect to something that makes me feel like myself: writing. And there is a new central component of myself that I've never written about before: being a mother. It's still a little surreal, and yet, at the same time, the most real thing that I've ever experienced.
The love I feel for him is beyond compare. His existence is amazing - a mixture of me and my favorite person combined into one. I created him with my body. But then he is also himself: even in his tiniest form, there was no denying that he is more than a combination of his dad and me, he is also a person comprised of his own unique magical substance - his own Henryness. And so I can spend hours (literally hours) just looking at him, amazed by this Henryness.
Any parent can attest to the fact that, as soon as he was born, everything in my heart, mind, and being shifted, and it is now my life's mission to ensure his safety and wellbeing. Later on he will have more responsibilities; working hard and being a kind person, etc. But for now, all I need from him is to eat, sleep, poop, and cuddle. And when he accomplishes any of those things, I feel immensely proud and fulfilled. It is amazing what hormones can do!
Beyond the immense love for him, I'm also so proud and happy about my new identity as a mother. Hearing my husband refer to me as "mommy" when he talks to Henry fills me with warmth and excitement. I've been amazed at how right and natural this feels, like this identity is not actually new at all, but has been quietly inside of me my entire life. Henry arrived and illuminated this quiet part of me, and now it's glowing happily inside my heart.
Not that every part of this has been easy. In fact, except for loving him, no part has been easy. I've taken care of many babies throughout my life, so I came into this with some basic knowledge: diapering, dressing, soothing, getting a baby to sleep, what different types of crying might mean. And then I also have pretty in-depth developmental knowledge of babies from my work and academics: what developmental milestones happen when, what's neurologically going on with a newborn, the theoretical components of forming a strong and positive attachment. My baby knowledge even extended to knowing that none of this knowledge was going to make any difference when my baby arrived, and so I stood on the brink of this vast ocean of not-knowing with open arms of acceptance!
What I did not know was that, right beside that ocean, was an entirely different ocean of things I didn't know, and didn't know that I didn't know. Like the fact that labor would last 3 days. Or that taking care of a newborn, trying to learn how to breastfeed, and recovering from labor simultaneously would be the hardest thing I've ever done (seriously, the hardest thing I've ever done). I also did not know that the tidal wave of postpartum hormones would augment my already strained emotions, meaning that I basically cried every time Henry cried for, like, 2 weeks. In case you don't have all that "super valuable" baby knowledge I alluded to earlier, babies cry a lot. So do moms.
The first week is now a complete blur in my memory. Particular things stand out: the immense gratitude for my parents and in-laws, who cleaned our whole apartment and then stocked it with food. Tearfully watching YouTube videos of breastfeeding mothers trying to figure out how to get a screaming, hungry baby to "latch." Intense admiration for and devotion to my husband while I watched him expertly swaddle his newborn son (Chris is seriously the best baby swaddler I've ever seen, and if I was not in love with him before, his swaddling would have gotten me there). That feeling that Chris and I were surviving something very intense and mildly traumatic together, so I should never get snappy about who is sleeping more (plus, I need him to swaddle) (plus plus, I need him). And the love. The intense love for Henry.
That love is peaceful and radiant now, but that first week, "love" felt more like panic. I'll never forget the first time we laid him down to sleep in the bedside crib:
The answer to that question is "never again." Tangent alert: I just want to take this moment to debunk this whole "sleep when your baby sleeps" thing. It is not a thing. Newborn babies sleep for, max, an hour or 2 at a time before they need their parent to feed or tend to them in some way. Mama can't spend the entire day on the couch, leisurely napping every time baby sleeps, or even every other time. Because mama needs to pee (a process that first week postpartum, I'll spare the details), find food to eat so she can take medication, wash the pile of soiled clothes and blankets so baby can be dressed, research breastfeeding so when baby wakes up and cries maybe feeding will go better this time, return the concerned texts from grandparents who want to know the baby is still alive (oh my god, how are we going to keep him alive?), etc. Probably a total of 2 times I laid down to sleep when Henry was napping, and the 20 scant minutes of sleep I got were not that helpful. So people stop telling me to sleep when he sleeps, mmkay?
Not that every part of this has been easy. In fact, except for loving him, no part has been easy. I've taken care of many babies throughout my life, so I came into this with some basic knowledge: diapering, dressing, soothing, getting a baby to sleep, what different types of crying might mean. And then I also have pretty in-depth developmental knowledge of babies from my work and academics: what developmental milestones happen when, what's neurologically going on with a newborn, the theoretical components of forming a strong and positive attachment. My baby knowledge even extended to knowing that none of this knowledge was going to make any difference when my baby arrived, and so I stood on the brink of this vast ocean of not-knowing with open arms of acceptance!
What I did not know was that, right beside that ocean, was an entirely different ocean of things I didn't know, and didn't know that I didn't know. Like the fact that labor would last 3 days. Or that taking care of a newborn, trying to learn how to breastfeed, and recovering from labor simultaneously would be the hardest thing I've ever done (seriously, the hardest thing I've ever done). I also did not know that the tidal wave of postpartum hormones would augment my already strained emotions, meaning that I basically cried every time Henry cried for, like, 2 weeks. In case you don't have all that "super valuable" baby knowledge I alluded to earlier, babies cry a lot. So do moms.
The first week is now a complete blur in my memory. Particular things stand out: the immense gratitude for my parents and in-laws, who cleaned our whole apartment and then stocked it with food. Tearfully watching YouTube videos of breastfeeding mothers trying to figure out how to get a screaming, hungry baby to "latch." Intense admiration for and devotion to my husband while I watched him expertly swaddle his newborn son (Chris is seriously the best baby swaddler I've ever seen, and if I was not in love with him before, his swaddling would have gotten me there). That feeling that Chris and I were surviving something very intense and mildly traumatic together, so I should never get snappy about who is sleeping more (plus, I need him to swaddle) (plus plus, I need him). And the love. The intense love for Henry.
That love is peaceful and radiant now, but that first week, "love" felt more like panic. I'll never forget the first time we laid him down to sleep in the bedside crib:
First of all, look at that swaddle. Second of all, how do you not panic when you see your tiny baby helpless and exposed in a now giant-looking crib when 48 hours ago he was inside of you? You think to yourself: that is literally my heart, now outside of my body, and he is so profoundly fragile and probably should not be outside of my body because everything here is dangerous and he can't do anything to protect himself. To quote Sookie, he doesn't know his butt from a hole in the ground. And then you're supposed to leave him there? And go to sleep? Every sound he made we pounced up to look at him. Why is he breathing so hard? What is the meaning of that noise, is he struggling? It sounds like he's struggling. Of course he's struggling, he was floating around in fluid yesterday. Wait, but is he actually struggling? Oh my god, how are we going to keep him alive? We should be sleeping. Ok, he's actually crying now. When do people sleep, like for real?
Life shifted in such a radical way that it's hard to approximate with "salt of the earth" examples, but, you guys, I didn't wash my face for a week. Since pre-puberty, I have washed my face and brushed my teeth twice a day every day like it was necessary to sustain life. No matter how sick, grief-stricken, drunk, or inconvenienced, I wash my face before bed. In college, I was hospitalized with pneumonia and was on strict bedrest, but I dragged my IV cart to the sink and washed my face twice a day at the hospital. At my bachelorette party I drank my weight in champagne and required ridiculous assistance to do so, but (with my bridesmaids' help), I washed my face. Camping, roadtripping, Vegas.. no matter what, I washed my face twice a day for 20 years. We got home from the hospital with Henry, and I did not wash my face for a week. A WEEK. It was 3 days before I showered, and even then I'm pretty sure I just stood in the water and cried. All sorts of "rules" have been broken. I haven't worn a bra in a month. I wore plaid pajama pants to Target. It was 3 weeks before I even was able to leave our neighborhood to go on said trip to Target, and when I was there I felt like a delirious visitor from another dimension, staring curiously at the other shoppers like "what year be this, human?" The house is a mess. I haven't responded promptly or appropriately to a phone call, email, or text message in a month. When our amazing friends in Seattle banded together to buy us month long subscription to Blue Apron, I realized I hadn't turned on the stove in a month either.
But in the most poignant and unexpected way possible, this is all so right. Henry arriving in my life is the single most important, most life-altering event I could experience, so it makes sense that it should be a bra-less, text-less, stove-less month. A month of tears, pain, terror, sleeplessness, and pure, soul-altering love.
I want to try and present a more "honest" picture of motherhood than what social media usually shows. Of course, we only want to photographically document the fun and beautiful parts because those are the parts that are fun and beautiful to remember. When Henry throws up on me and then spends 20 minutes screaming because he's hungry and he just spit up all the milk, I'm not thinking "I really need to put this on Instagram." But I think that also contributes to the isolation and inadequacy that so many new mothers feel. I have to write about the love, and of course I have to show the cute picutres (c'mon, he's so cute), but I'm also hoping to share more about my struggles and the parts of postpartum recovery and motherhood that I didn't know - the 2nd ocean of things I didn't know, and didn't know I didn't know.
I'm so glad to be posting again, and hope to write again soon. Just one more cute picture for now:
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With love from, Katey
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