That One Time I Forgot About Stages

What happened to my baby? My happy, giggling boy hit the 12 month mark and with it came anxiety. Excessive nursing. And crying. So. Much. Crying.

I would like to point out that this is my third child. And while having done this twice before doesn’t make me an expert, it does mean I’ve been through it.

I seem to suffer from acute memory where most things of importance are concerned. I mean I’ve been sitting here for a week contemplating the benefits of exorcism, and then it occurred to me to do some research. Was I the only mother whose baby had radicalized at this age?

As I scrolled through message boards reflecting stories just like mine, and as I reread developmental milestones, it dawned on me that I’d seen this before– in my two older children. Right around this age.

Somehow between raising three kids, in making meals and doing laundry, in trying to turn photography into a business– time has lost its shape. The horizontal plot that used to be my time– mapped out on dry-erase-board in a uniform line–as a mother of three, time has become the scribbles of a mad scientist. My brain is currently organized with doodles, arrows and lots of things are exed out. There ain’t no rhyme and there ain’t no reason.

I’ve been wearing my one-year-old around in the Ergo for a week straight. Maybe that has something to do with it. I feel like I’m pregnant again with a 24 pound baby, and this one doesn’t sit quietly in the womb– he screams and pulls my hair.

But finally, FINALLY, something clicked. I have been here before. I remember this feeling.

I remember the guilt of wanting a little space from my baby…how I would look down at that cherubic face with a mix of appreciation and resentment. Babies are so beautiful, so precious and yet they test the patience of even the best mothers.

They cause you lie awake in the middle of the night asking yourself questions like,

When am I going to get my body back? When can I drink and not worry about feeding the baby? When will I be able to choose clothes based on how they make me feel rather than how low I can tug the neckline down to breastfeed? When can I sleep through the night? And when will I finally have the time to tackle this spare tire that I’ve somehow managed to get firmly stuck around my mid-section?

I have been pregnant and or nursing for six years now. SIX YEARS.

I feel like a dairy cow, hooked up to the milking machine, gazing out through the bars at the world outside. And while the dairy cow will probably go on to be a hamburger, at least there’s some hope in MY future. Because like everything having to do with children, and really life, this is just a stage.

The point is, I’ve seen the light before and I know I will see it again. If you, dear friends, are struggling like me–if you’re silently crying in your coffee and giving yourself pep talks on the drive to the grocery store–remember that we will all come out of this.

This is the time in our lives where we are the ultimate givers; our bodies, our time, and maybe most of our sanity. But this is a phase. And like all phases in life, it will probably be looked back on with at least some fondness. It’s like High School– would I want to go back and live it again? Hell no. But I do miss drinking Pepsi for breakfast, Cargo pants, and the luxury of having someone else making the damn dinner for once? SO MUCH.

I know I’ll miss the blessings of this time– the sweet smell of baby hair and the comfort of a sleeping child on my chest. I will eventually miss them needing me. I know this.

The days when your kids are little are PRECIOUS but they are also exhausting. And tumultuous. Anyone who makes it out alive deserves a medal. Or at least a box of wine. (This should really be a standard gift for parents at some point. Maybe their child’s 18th birthday? “Happy birthday, Charlie. Good luck in life. Really, hope you’re happy. In the mean time I’ve got this 64 oz box of Chardonnay for your mother.”)