I Didn't Have a Birth Plan

In my 2nd trimester, I sat down and tried to write a birth plan. I looked up online what they usually included; I asked my mom, and my friends, and anyone else I could think of. "What even is a birth plan?" I asked Danny. He shrugged. 

It was easy to be an idealist when I was pregnant. I couldn't imagine a world where I went into labor early; I couldn't imagine a world where I didn't breastfeed; I couldn't imagine a world where I would be induced. It just wasn't a reality for me. I imagined Danny and I pulling up the hospital, me waddling inside the labor & delivery floor for the first time. 

As anyone who has read my blog before knows, that's basically the opposite of what happened. 

A lot of energy and emotion is put into birth plans. We plan our nurseries and our schedules and our maternity leaves--we assume we can plan our labor as well, or our entire pregnancies. But as good at planning as I may be, I couldn't plan preeclampsia. I had never known anyone who had developed preeclampsia during pregnancy and even though I had fears about it, I never realistically thought it would happen. 

But it did happen. In one doctor's appointment, all my plans went out the window. If I had had a birth plan at that point, it undoubtedly would have been mostly out the window. 

Since I overthink every situation, I found myself, in the weeks after Forrest's birth, wondering that, if I'd had a better plan in place, would things have been different? I found myself second guessing everything I'd wanted. Did the epidural make Forrest lazier, which made it more difficult for him to nurse? Did the inducement rush his birth? (Later, I would look back at this last question and say to myself, "That's the point.") I found myself asking over and over, did my preeclampsia cause every problem we have? 

Nothing I would go back and "do" would change my preeclampsia: preeclampsia begins at conception, even if you don't show symptoms until the end of pregnancy. Preeclampsia isn't something you make happen to yourself; it's just something that happens. There was nothing I could have done to fix my faulty placenta. 

At the same time, I realized something brilliant about my lack of a birth plan. Many moms who develop preeclampsia end up hating how they had to give birth. If you have a specific idea in mind (an unmedicated birth in a birth center, or at home, for example) and then medical necessity requires you do something you don't want to, it can be jarring, emotionally. That isn't to say you shouldn't plan for a home birth or giving birth at a birth center, but that you should be ready to have something change at the drop of the hat. 

It's very easy to let ourselves get bogged down by the things that went wrong. Even though a plan, I found myself sad about giving birth earlier than I wanted to. I wondered if I'd done everything wrong. But the truth is, pregnancy is just one big guessing game; you can try to get things perfect as much as you want, but the more you plan, the more you're likely to feel upset if things don't go "right." 

I'm not advocating for everyone to drop their birth plans--but I do think it's better to be more chill about how your labor & delivery goes than we currently are. There is no shame in a home birth or going to a birth center, but there is also no shame in going to a hospital, getting an epidural, or opting for a c-section. In the end, the baby will arrive. The most important thing is that everyone is ok at the end of it. 

Why We Decided to Sleep Train

I swore I would never sleep train. The idea of letting Forrest "cry it out" bothered me, in that it felt fundamentally wrong.

However, after 8-and-a-half months of very, very little sleep and highly interrupted sleep, I knew I needed to do something. I wasn't sleeping, I had no time to myself, and my back and hips were starting to ache from acting as a barrier from the edge of the bed. 

For about 6 weeks, I read every article I could find on sleep training; I followed sleep training blogs and joined sleep training groups; I asked all my friends about sleep training and fretted to my mom. When Forrest was 6 or 7 weeks old, I'd read an article that sleep training caused emotional trauma and I found myself unable to shake that from my mind. If we sleep trained, would it hurt him? 

Here's the conclusion I ultimately came to. (And remember, this is just my conclusion; every parent is free to make their own.) There is an appropriate emotional age to sleep train and it's different for every baby. Some babies will be fine sleep training at 4-6 months. Some babies will be fine sleep training after 6 months. Some babies are capable of sleep training from birth on. It just depends on your baby and your comfort level. 

Here's another thing: Sleep training doesn't mean letting your baby scream and cry until they puke and pass out. This horrible article went around a few months ago (it's the one I read when Forrest was tiny) about a person listening to a friend's child scream and scream and scream alone in their room and how awful and terrible it was. It's a bad article. It is. It is completely made up and not indicative of real sleep training. 

A blog I read said it best: sleep training is about communicating with your child, teaching a skill, and empowering your child to sleep better. 

The truth is, disrupted, poor sleep is bad for both Forrest and me. Both of us were suffering from sleep deprivation. He was cranky all the time, sleeping barely 10 hours a day (at 9 months, most babies still need 13-14 hours of sleep total). I needed to sleep and Forrest needed to sleep. 

So we decided to sleep train. 

We did a few things first. I ordered a sound machine because Forrest sleeps best with white noise (river and water sounds, typically). I ordered the myBaby SoundSpa Lullaby Sound Machine and Projector on a recommendation from my due date group on Facebook. I put Danny in charge of finding a baby monitor and he picked this one: the Hello Baby Wireless Monitor with Night Vision. We needed a monitor that didn't use WiFi and this one works perfectly for our needs. 

We had experimented with a few different sleep training methods before. Here are a few common methods (although this blog doesn't use the appropriate names for them). We noticed something specific with Forrest: if we checked on him or went in to reposition him, it would start his crying all over again. He would return to the intense, angry cry. So we decided to use the extinction method. 

Extinction is what people mean with they say "cry it out"; however, "cry it out" isn't the name of any actual method. It also doesn't mean we don't tend to him or ignore him. The first night, Forrest cried for over 90 minutes, which was rough; Danny went in to lie him back down three times (just to avoid him falling over from being so tired). Once he went to sleep, though, he slept for 7 solid hours. 

Seven hours!! Forrest has never slept 7 hours straight in his life before that. Before sleep training, he was waking up every 2 hours to eat. 

It was revolutionary. We have been sleep training for 10 days now and each day, he gets a little better. He goes to bed at 6pm and usually wakes up to fuss at 10pm. Then he fusses himself back to sleep within 10 minutes. He wakes up at 4:55am for a bottle, then sleeps until 7am most days. 

7am. This is the baby that has been getting me up at 4:30am or 5:00am for months. Now he sleeps until 7am! He only eats 1 bottle at night! He falls asleep after 15 minutes of crying! 

The best part? He's happier during the day. He naps less frequently, plays more, and has started making more developmental steps. He eats better during the day. He's more fun to play with. Everything is better now that he's sleep. 

The best part? After 6pm, I have time to myself. I can vacuum, clean the kitchen, organize my desk area, clean the bedroom, and more. I can write in my journal. I can scrapbook or write! I have time to myself. My house is getting cleaned up. I can watch TV shows at 6pm. Danny and I can watch movies together. 

Sleep training isn't for everyone. It's absolutely true. Some parents just can't stand to hear their babies cry for 90 minutes. But now that we've worked through the hardest parts, it's hard to imagine never having done it. I don't regret it one bit. We are a happier family now thanks to sleep training and that's what matters. 

Adopting a "Me First" Attitude

"Moms put themselves last" is a phrase I hear probably at least 2-3 times a weeks--and it's a good one to hear. It's easy to allow myself to slip to the bottom of the pile, to be the last one who gets a shower or to eat. It's easy to think that, as a mom, I should come last. The tides are changing though and as much as some still cling to the notion that moms should, no matter what, be at the beck and call of their children 100% of the time, people are waking up the idea that, surprisingly, the minute you become a mother you don't lose your identity as a person. 

Before Forrest was born, I remember being so sure that I would never lose myself to motherhood: I would never be one of those women who finds themselves unshowered, in PJs, feeling stressed and unloved. I would also never, I assumed, co-sleep or bottle feed or any other those other things, right? It's crazy how my thoughts and mantras and plans come back to bite me in the ass. 

A few weeks ago, something clicked inside my brain: for probably 6 or 7 months, I didn't spend any time during the day not thinking about Forrest. Shout out to Forrest, he's great and interesting and very funny, but conversations are a little one-sided at this point. During my maternity leave, it was even worse; I had nothing to talk about with anyone. All I had to talk about was, in this order: Forrest, pumping, Forrest's poop, my diaper preferences, how many wipes, on average, I used during the day, grocery shopping and how stressful I found it, and random daytime TV. I didn't go anywhere, I didn't do anything. I stayed home with Forrest; I fed him, he napped, we played. That's it. 

Last week, I decided to start doing a few things to help myself, I don't know, get away from being just a mom sometimes. It's true that I go to work and during my work hours, I'm in work mode--but that's still not being me. That's not taking care of me or participating in something that makes me feel revived. 

For the sake of holding myself accountable, here are just a few of the things I've been doing: 

• More writing about things other than being a mom. If you saw me in person as I typed that, you'd see my shifty eyes, as I'm still, technically, writing about being a mom. But I'll have you know I have written almost an entire short story in a week. If I even produce one piece of non-mom, non-work writing a month, that's a plus. 
   
• Less photos of Forrest on Instagram. My Instagram went from a fun, 20-something feed full of pictures of coffee, notebooks, outfits, and food to a feed entirely dominated by pictures of a small baby person. It's probably not interesting to 65% of the people who follow me and it doesn't really serve to promote my blog either. So, sorry Forrest, less you, more me. 
   
• Demand time to myself. Sometimes, this thing happens where I cook dinner, Danny gets home from work, we eat, and then... Danny says something like, "I want to go finish this article." Then he's reading for 20, 30, 40 minutes. After dinner, it's a countdown to Forrest's bedtime of 6-6:30pm, so if we finish eating at 5:00 or even 5:30, that means I only get 30 minutes to an hour to myself, since I rock Forrest to sleep and lie with him in bed once he's asleep. The past few days, I've been handing Danny the baby and saying, "I'm going to do this, this, and then this." Those things might be "wash bottles, pay bills, and wash my face" or they might be "take a bath, write, and fold laundry." I deserve those minutes and I will take them.

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There it is. It's all out on the table now. As much as I love taking care of Forrest first, it's getting to be personally draining, that's for sure. I don't ever want to be annoyed at taking care of Forrest, so if that means sometimes he plays while I read or take a shower or eat lunch... then so be it. 

The Truth About Losing a Passion

"I used to be really into photography," I say. I'm talking to a relatively new coworker and, even though the conversation continues without a hitch, I find myself drifting back to this. I say it a lot; I used to be really into fashion; I used to run a fashion blog; I used to be very into makeup; i used to be, I used to be, I used to be. 

It's been 7 months since I really had time for hobbies. I haven't been to the gym, gone running, scrapbooked, or written in my journal in 7 months. I just have more important things to do. Make up is a necessity now (and I praise whoever invented concealer, the beauty blender, and contour palettes) and so is clothing (one that I hate with a passion). I take pictures of Forrest and that's about it.

It's not that I don't enjoy these things anymore; I just don't feel passionate about them like I used to. I can still peruse the make up aisles forever, but I know I won't be posting reviews or anything else. I still use my camera, but it's less about getting better at photography and more about just taking some quick photos.  

There are no more pictures of stealing cups of coffee for me, or journals beautifully laid out on my desk. I drink my coffee cold more mornings and my journal sits on my desk expectantly. Right now, I'm wearing Forrest in the Ergo while I write this and I have about 20 minutes to write before it's time to play and roll and read books (all of which are super fun, admittedly). 

I miss being passionate about things, though.  

There is part of me that realizes I'm never going to be super into photography or make up or anything ever again. I'll probably find new hobbies, I'm sure, but I've moved on from the old me. I'll probably never run a fashion blog again. And that's ok, I don't need to. 

Sometimes, I feel embarrassed about how different I am from the person I used to be: I used to be thin and put together; I had hobbies and passions; my house was relatively clean and nice. But I have to remind myself that people change--I've changed. I'm just not the person I used to be anymore, and that's ok. I have other things to do now, things that are just as fulfilling and fun as photography, fashion, and make up ever were. 

Stop Telling Me to "Cherish Every Moment": It's Not Your Job to Police My Feelings

Having a baby made me lonely. I don't think I'm alone in this, although it's a fact that very few moms talk about. It is a very lonely and isolating experience. In the early weeks, I spent hours by myself: during the day while Danny was at work, Forrest too fragile and sick (and my pumping schedule too messed up already) to leave the house; during the night when Forrest wouldn't sleep or when he ate every 2 hours. I was desperately, painfully lonely, sad, and sleep deprived. 

Thankfully, technology has blessed us (and potentially cursed us) with the invention of mommy groups on Facebook. I joined all kinds when I was pregnant: due date groups, breastfeeding groups. After Forrest was born, exclusive pumping groups, lactation cookie manufacturer groups. Recently, formula feeding support groups. If nothing else, I had someone to ask questions (when I felt bad texting my mom for the 100th time that day) and people to talk to. It got less lonely. 

However, I've began to notice this tendency, especially in these groups, but occasionally on Facebook as a whole, for people to correct others on both their opinions and feelings. It's not just Sanctimommies telling you how wrong you are about your parenting choices anymore: it's emotion policing. It's complaining about your child waking up every 2 hours during the night and having someone reply, "But it could be so much worse! You are so lucky to have a baby!"

"Don't you know it could be worse?" they chirp, from their pedestals carved of gold, cherishing every moment.

The posts about "your child only has 900 Saturdays before COLLEGE!" and appreciating every ding-dong little detail abound.

The lines have been drawn: if you complain, someone will tell you to "cheer up!" or "it could be worse!" 

And you know what? That's no one's job and it's completely unnecessary

It's not anyone's job to police my feelings. When I vent about my son not sleeping or my husband forgetting to let me sleep in or my dog puking, I don't need to be told it could be worse. I know. I know it could be worse. But that doesn't stop my feeling right now in this moment and it does not mean that my feelings are not valid.

There will always be things I want to change about my pregnancy: I wish I hadn't gotten preeclampsia; I wish I hadn't had Forrest so early; I wish he had been admitted to the NICU so we could have better cared for him in those early days; I wish I had better educated myself about breastfeeding; I wish, I wish, I wish. Saying these things--and feeling these feelings--does not mean I don't appreciate how healthy Forrest is now. I do. And honestly, the reason he is so healthy now is on me: I did that, no one else did, I sweated and bled and pumped and washed and rocked. I did that; I told myself I would make him better and I did. He is my child and my feelings about his care and life are mine. 

No one has the right to tell me I can or cannot feel a certain way. It's no one's job to follow me around and say, "Cherish this moment!" when I'm mad or angry or frustrated. It's no one's job to say, "But aren't you sooooo glad he needs you?" when I complain that we are still co-sleeping. It's no one's job; it's honestly no one's business why I feel the way I do or how I raise my child. If anyone thinks differently about the way I feel about something related to my child, they have two options: they can scroll past and say nothing (ideal!) or they can say something like "it could be worse, you know! You should cherish every moment!" and have me reply with, "My feelings are valid and they are none of your business." And if the latter makes them mad, that's not really a me problem. 

That's a them problem. 

I don't need to "cherish these moments"; I already do. And it's okay for me to also say, "Man, today is shitty. I can't wait for my kid to sleep." And it's entirely possible for me to complain about the little things (co-sleeping, diapers, blow outs, laundry, whatever) and still cherish and appreciate them. It's funny how humanity has an array of emotions and I can feel multiple things at once. 

I don't need anyone to butt in and say otherwise.  It's no one's job to tell anyone how to feel, to repeatedly remind them to see the bright side or be more positive. That's not a personality trait; that's not seeing the bright side; that's being annoying, dismissive, and rude. I have the right to be able to express my feelings somewhere. I have to be able to say how I feel. 

No one is perfect. Everyone deserves to have their feelings validated and heard and appreciated. Everyone experiences motherhood differently and invalidating the emotions of other mothers is potentially the lowest form of being a Sanctimommy. 

The "cherish every moment!" slogan of apparently perfect moms everywhere is grating for one reason: it makes mothers feel as if their feelings are bad or as though once you become a mother you are not allowed to feel negative or complain ever (because someone somewhere has it worse than you, apparently). As if feeling guilty or sad or angry or upset or just plain tired are feelings that mothers should never have.

And if there is one thing I know for certain, mothers are too often told how to feel or what not to feel; we're told how to feed our babies and how not too; we are lectured on car seats and cribs and SIDS and hundreds of other things; we are sent home from hospitals blubbering piles of sadness and leakiness and pain and rawness and expected to just morph into happy little Stepford wives overnight. Our opinions and decisions are judged and second-guessed at every turn. Mothers--and women, as an entire group--do not need to be guilted or invalidated for having real human feelings as well. 

I Promise Not to Wish It Away Anymore

I told myself I would take tons of great pictures of Forrest. As soon as he is sitting up, I thought, I'll be able to take him outside for photo shoots all the time. Well, the sitting up came later than I expected. The first three months of his life passed both agonizingly slowly and insanely fast. I blinked and suddenly he can ride in the seat of the shopping cart and he can hold and feed himself teething biscuits. 

He went from being a barely sentient lump to having likes and dislikes, favorite toys and songs and sounds. This is exactly the stage I hoped for when he was first born. 

And yet (of course there's a "and yet" here), I find myself wishing I hadn't spent those first few months wishing, wishing, wishing for the time to go faster, for him to grow up. I still find myself having those wishes: I wish he could sit up; I wish he could talk and tell me what's wrong; I wish his stomach could hold more milk at once; I wish he napped better; I wish he slept through the night. 

I wanted him to grow up... and he did. And (here's another), I wish I hadn't rushed it. 

As difficult as they were, I miss the days I spent on the couch with him, holding him as he slept, feeding him bottle after bottle, two hours on the dot without fail. I miss his sleepy faces and accidental smiles. I miss being able to swaddle him and lie with him in bed. I wish I'd taken advantage of that--to watch movies, to read, to whatever--instead of wishing he would get bigger, faster. 

On Saturday, I struggled to get a 9 month size onesie over his head. He ate pumpkin, banana, and oatmeal for breakfast. We played and read a book and sang a song. We went to Eugene and he rode in a shopping cart. I took his picture and I thought, I can't believe he's so big. 

Suddenly, I realized that time was drifting past me, whether I felt like it or not: time had gone by and I'd wished it. I don't have any professional photos of Forrest as a baby--only ones taken on my iPhone and a few vague attempts of my own. I dragged Danny outside to take pictures I'd been imagining in my head for months. 

"He's only little for so long," I said, very early in Forrest's life. While I believed it, I also, in the back of my mind, couldn't wait for him to just get bigger. 

I look at him now and all I can think is, just a few more days of this. A few more days before you crawl, before you stand up, before you walk over to me, before you talk. I can't wait to experience every day with Forrest; I can't wait to hear everything he has to say. But I also want just a few more nights cuddling, a few more long naps on the couch, a few more days where he refuses to hold his own bottle as he eats. 

Just a few more days with my squishy baby before he becomes a rambunctious little boy. 

Moving On from Pumping

Feeding Forrest ended up being more complicated than I ever thought it would be. In the past 6 months, Forrest has eaten over 5,000 ounces of milk. I have pumped approximately 3,100 ounces. I have pumped for a total of at least 400 hours.

I have washed bottles until the backs of hands are so dry I can't use hand sanitizer or scented lotions, until my knuckles crack and my nails split.

I have sanitized bottles two or three times a day for 6 months. I have gone through 4 bottles of dish soap.

I have read hundreds of articles on how the movement to normalize breastfeeding is both a positive and a negative. I have used the hashtag #fedisbest and been told, repeatedly, that fed is not best by the worst of the breastfeeding advocates.

I have cried more times than I care to admit. I've given up on dreams of nursing, on dreams of exclusively feeding breast milk. I have given up a lot of my expectations and accepted the reality of the baby I have. 

I have pumped until one of my nipples was bruised and the other was bleeding. I have pumped through thrust, mastitis, clogs. I have pumped through an infected Montgomery gland. I have worn terrible, ill-fitting nursing bras for 6 months--even though I don't even nurse. 

I have toted a heavy, stupid pump back and forth to work for three months. 

I have taken supplements that upset my stomach, that taste like actual vomit. I have tried every trick in the book, from massage to cheesecake and everything in between. I have spent an embarrassing amount of money on different shields and supplements and tools. 

I have gone without sleep to pump. I have mentally calculated, over and over, the amount of milk I have in my fridge and freezer. I have stressed over how much to feed Forrest. I have woken at 3am to pump; I've interrupted meetings and doctors appointments and oil changes. I have pumped in my car, in offices, on the floor, in the bathroom. I have pumped in a weigh station on the side of US 20 headed into Ontario. 

I have pumped and pumped and pumped. 

And it's over. It's done. (Well, not totally.) 

The truth is, the Montgomery gland is part of what did me in. I can handle a lot of things--but I can't handle an infected Montgomery gland. (Did you know there was such a thing? I didn't--until one got infected. It's worse than a clogged duct or a dreaded milk bleb, at least in my opinion.) The infected Montgomery gland, the repeated dips in my supply every time my body was under any stress, the constant worrying, the constant need to pump... it was too much. 

I decided to wean one day and I just started--before I could talk myself out of it. Not that I'm really weaning anything. "Weaning," typically, suggests transitioning a baby away from nursing, but that's not the case. Forrest will just, one day, get all formula, instead of half. One day, it will just be gone. No more breast milk! Just typing it makes me sad. 

But the sadness I feel doesn't really overwhelm the feeling of being completely and totally done. The hardest part is knowing that, if things had been different, if Forrest has nursed from the start (if I hadn't gotten preeclampsia, if my milk had come in on time instead of days later, if he hadn't have had jaundice...), this wouldn't be happening. Looking at the "what ifs" and moving on from them is still something I struggle with. 

Watching the amount I pump each day (even though I'm doing it on purpose) is a struggle too: I inherently begin to panic when I think, I won't have enough milk... But that's the point. I won't have enough milk for Forrest--and it's okay. But I have to remind myself that it's okay, or else I'll panic. 

When I look at Forrest, I want to apologize to him: I'm sorry I couldn't give you more of this. I'm sorry we didn't get those quiet, special moments to bond. I'm sorry I'll never know what that's like. I'm sorry I couldn't keep going. I'm sorry. I will always try to give you everything in the world, anything and everything you want--because I couldn't give you this. 

There is a tendency, I think, for mothers to feel they have to martyr themselves. Most mothers (and maybe this is a generalization on my part) would lie down their lives for their children. In many ways, for the last 6 months, I have attempted to martyr myself: I keep pumping, through pain and unhappiness and anxiety and depression, for the simple fact that I felt guilty about it. I felt like I was a bad mother for all the things I couldn't change (the preeclampsia, the jaundice, the rough start)--so I would do the absolute best at the one thing I could do, breast milk. But my body fought me every step of the way. 

At a certain point, I had to accept the truth: I couldn't fight my body, and punish myself, anymore. It was time to move on from being mommy martyr and just be a mom. 

Packing up the little bottles, the tiny colostrum bottles I first pumped into, the SNS I dutifully taped to my boob every night in the hospital, the little Similac bottles we gave Forrest his first 20 ml bottles with, was one of the hardest parts. But I did it: I bagged them up and put them in a box. In a week, I'll probably pack my pump back into the box and store it in the garage.  I will defrost all of the milk I have in my freezer. 

One day, very soon, Forrest will get his last bottle containing any breast milk. There is a part of me that thinks, we can reverse this! We can pump frantically again! But I know it's not worth it, emotionally, for me anymore, as much as it hurts to think of Forrest not getting anymore milk from me. One day, it will just be gone, over, done. And we'll just have to keep going, like we have the last six months.

And the best part is, one day, this won't even matter. One day it won't hurt to think of the "what ifs", the "I could have..." One day, this will just be a memory and I won't have to feel guilt over it anymore. 

All The Things I Wish I'd Known

I wish I'd known how tiring it would be to have a child. Not how hard--I knew raising a child, and taking care of a baby, would be hard work. I knew I would dedicate hours every day to doing things I didn't necessarily want to do. But I wish I'd known how absolutely overwhelmingly exhausted I would become: the kind of exhausted that a good nap or a good nights sleep won't cure. I wish I'd known that my days would start at roughly 4:30am and I would not stop, with a break for myself, until I fell asleep at 9pm that night. 

I wish I'd known that my hobbies would cease to be hobbies, but rather activities that I fondly remembered. I wish I'd known I would have to ask for help, for time for myself. I wish I knew how to ask for it without getting angry. 

I wish I'd known the right things to research. While I scrutinized mattresses and the amount of diapers I would need, I should have read about breast pumps, breastfeeding holds, and nursing pillows. I should have understood how to breastfeed better and maybe I would have been more successful. I wish I'd known that it's not as easy as it seems: there is more than just putting the baby to your chest. I wish I'd known it was ok to not succeed that this particular endeavor, that there are other (just as good) ways to feed a baby. I wish I'd known how to stand up for myself in the hospital better. 

I wish I'd known how all-encompassing a tiny person would be. In my long days of pregnancy, I imagined nap times and nights in the crib. I imagined a world that was completely different from how things ended up. I wish I'd known to stop planning, to stop having expectations for what would happen, what would come next. I wish I'd known that, regardless of where the baby sleeps, my work would never really stop. 

I wish I'd known, earlier rather than later, that no matter what happens, no matter what amount of planning goes in to having a baby, things will always change. The baby will or won't sleep; the baby will or won't eat the way you want them to; the baby will or won't follow the "guidelines" for development. I wish I'd known that babies change their schedules as rapidly and suddenly as everyone else on the planet: they are criminals of spontaneity, making you think one thing and then doing another. I wish I'd known to throw the plans, everything I ever thought about having a baby, out the window. 

Mostly, I wish I'd known to savor more: to stop crying about breastfeeding in those early weeks and, instead, cuddle with my little baby who is now not nearly as little; to let myself co-sleep from the beginning without worrying; and to stop worrying about every little possibility and just allow myself to enjoy the time I had. 

I wish I'd known that being Forrest's mom would be the most challenging, rewarding, demanding, and exhausting thing I've ever experienced--but I wouldn't change it for the world.