You know that moment when you meet your baby for the first time and you've been waiting to meet them your entire life so you're surprised you don't recognize them right away and you try to take it all in so that you never forget this perfect little bundle and memorize everything? The way they smell, the way their body feels warm against yours, their little nose and eyes and fingers and toes and spiky little fine hair. Baby, sweet baby. They grow and there are so many firsts you can't get back and so many lasts you can't even count or keep track when the last 'last thing' was or the next first thing is coming and so every fiber of your being screams at you to keep holding them close and keep taking it all in forever and never let them go. So you do that, but also at the same time your heart screams let them go! Let them fly and soar and accomplish more than you ever dreamed of. So you do that, too.
And one day that little baby becomes this brilliant, inventive, curious, strong, brave and fierce little girl who is actually five years old and some sort of shining beacon of everything that is wonderful and beautiful in the entire world.
That moment. This kid. Happy new years. Happy birthday!
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
I snapped this picture in the early hours one morning, before the sun was all the way up. Before you were really awake. You held your arctic fox and we were entangled, sharing milk for the last time. We had talked about weaning and you decided you weren't quite ready, but I knew you would be soon so I wanted to take a picture every time you nursed in case it was the last.
This particular time was unusual. It was so early in the morning that we'd typically just sleep through. It reminded me very much of when you were a newborn. You'd wake up at night and all you needed was me, and everything was quiet in the whole house. Just us, together, nursing, peaceful. It seemed like we could be the only people up in the entire world, just you and I in that silence.
You were born and you were nursing every hour. Then you became a toddler and you were nursing several times a day and all throughout the night. You grew into a big kid and you nursed before every nap, and before bedtime. When you were hurt, or sad, or lonely. Sharing milk was your home base. 4 years, 3 months, 15 days.
One morning you woke up and proudly declared, "I'm weaned!" And just like that, you decided you were ready to become a child all your own.
We had talked about weaning before this day, and I explained this to you. That when you were growing into a baby in my womb we shared one body. You could feel my heartbeat and I could feel your movement and we were very much a part of each other. Then, when you were born, we were still very much a part of each other, totally entangled. I held you close, slept with you, nursed you day and night. We could not be without the other. As you grew and became independent, we still shared this link between us. An invisible string that kept us together in this world as an inseparable part of each other. We talked about how weaning is a very special occasion, and one day, when you are ready we'll be able to celebrate you going into the world apart from me, as a child all your own.
That day came and you were so proud of yourself, so confident and ready. It was a very special day, so we went to a very special place. We walked up still as one unit, holding hands. And then you crossed by yourself. Out into the world. Weaned. A child all your own! A very special thing to celebrate.
My darling, sweet girl. Four. How did we get here? So many things happened this year. We ended last year with a new family member, Wallace the dog. He grew with you. You're still sometimes adjusting and learning to appreciate his big, goofy, particularly rambunctious brand of affection but you really love him. So does Violet, your favored choice in dogs, but she's been yours since you were born. You started swimming lessons. Your teacher immediately took to you and called you her rockstar swimmer. We went on rock hunts, leaf hunts, all the hunts. You climbed and ran and swung as high as swings can swing. You got your first real skateboard, a Blind deck, just like I had when I was a kid. You started gymnastics, and classes at a local co op. We went on a vacation as a family to St. Pete Beach and watched dolphins in the water. You danced, jumped, played. Navigated your way through the corn maze. Picked the very best pumpkin in the patch. Rode roller coasters at the fair. Completely fearless into everyday.
So many brilliant, bright days this year. Yet, it was a rough one. Maybe the worst one in some ways, but it can't be because there you are - happy and healthy and unreasonably beautiful. This is the year we decided, through trial, grief, and heartache, that our family is complete. We will grow with each other and learn everything we can and appreciate the good things, all together, the three of us forever. As you grow and get older I have a sinking worry that one day, when you're much, much older, you'll feel alone. I want you to know that you were never alone in your childhood. Never lonely, and that is my goal. That at the end of each day you feel loved, completely adored, that you're something amazing and so meaningful and that our family is enough. Never alone.
Sweet Bee, you are strong and fierce. A warrior, courageous, an explorer, a lover with a full heart. Full everything, filled to the brim and boiling over into the world everywhere you go. An adventurer with a boundless spirit. A dancer, conducting your own orchestras and performing on stage. Fearless. Giving. Inspiring. Perfect. Smart. Inquisitive. You have so much to give with the energy to follow through. I know that you will find your place and make your mark and I'm so glad to have you. Paws in, my love.
“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” --Albert Camus
All photos in this post were taken by the amazing and talented Victoria M., at Lazy M. Photography. Be sure to stop by her facebook page and check out more of her work through her website.
I have a big kid. It's no secret - everybody knows. She knows. In fact, she'll tell you, but you won't need her to when you meet her. She'll most likely be talking to you about space - which planets are her favorites, about why plants can be poisonous but snakes can be venomous, showing you a new dance, or telling you about her dogs. You'll know she's a big kid like I know she's a big kid. Even when I bring her to my heart when she's hurt or tired and I see the baby I've always seen, I know she's a big kid. I hold her tiny hand in my hand and if we're very still I can feel it happening in that moment. Her growth is my growth, and I can feel it. She raises her hands up, up, up. As high as she can. She proclaims, "I'm growing so tall. I'm almost so tall as my dad!" She is proud. Growing and growing.
When she was a toddler we were grabbing lunch at a restaurant after a long morning, she was hungry, tired, and getting upset. I offered to nurse her and we did. In the restaurant booth, the same as I have in many places and so many times throughout her life. Her sneakers were hanging out of the booth and I can remember thinking to myself that she looked like such a big kid that day. Maybe I second guessed myself in that moment, but she was comforted. Her comfort is my comfort and I can feel it. A table nearby asked to move, they were very offended. "She's too old for that." They must have thought that sneakers made a big kid, too, and that was years ago. If she was a big kid then, she's certainly a big kid now. She can't even fit into those sneakers these days! Growing and growing. Far past the stage when many seem to think she shouldn't be nursing anymore. And yes, I am still nursing her. I have to say that phrase a lot, ad nauseam. Over and over. It has become a programmed response that blends in with all of the other practiced responses that field off judgments made by well meaning acquaintances, strangers, or even family members. I've heard it all. From the don't-you-think-she's-too-old-for-that's to the don't-you-want-your-body-back's to the aren't-you-worried-she'll-never-quit's and even worse. Today, in honor of World Breastfeeding Week, I want to open this discussion that I am usually too quick to shy away from with an awkward smile and a mumbled "this is what works for our family." Moving forward, I'd like to change the dynamic from snap judgments on your part and hurt feelings on mine. I encourage you to ask me the questions you have and to start a conversation. You may just change your mind!
Since 1979, The World Health Organizationhas recommended that all children
throughout the world be breastfed for a
minimum of 2 years of age, with no defined
upper limit on duration of breastfeeding. This recommendation is further supported by many reputable health organizations around the world. The American Academy of Family Physicians has said, "Breastfeeding beyond the first year offers considerable benefits to both mother and child, and should continue as long as mutually desired." The American Academy of Pediatricshas said that "Increased duration of breastfeeding confers significant health and developmental benefits for the child and the mother", and further stated that "there is no upper limit to the duration of breastfeeding." The Academy of Breastfeeding Medicine states that "Children have the right to the 'highest attainable
standard of health,' which entails the right to be breastfed." But, it doesn't stop there. From the Centers for Disease Control, to the American College
of Obstetrics and Gynecology, to the European Union Blueprint on
Breastfeeding, to the International Federation of Gynecology
and Obstetrics, to the International Pediatric Association, and beyond!
Then there's the fascinating work from Anthropologist Katherine Dettwyler, whose research has shown that human children are biologically
programmed to be breastfed for a minimum
of 2.5 years, and up to a maximum of
about 7 years. Her peer reviewed 2004 publication: When to Wean:
Biological Versus
Cultural Perspectives states that "Extended breastfeeding, from a minimum of
2.5 years to a maximum of about 7 years, is
healthy, physiologically normal, and evolutionarily
adaptive. It optimally meets the
needs of children for nutritional, immunologic,
and emotional sustenance until they
are ready and able to meet those needs on
their own. Duration of breastfeeding is the
only life history variable that is subject to
direct and substantial cultural intervention
and the only one for which routine shortening
or complete elimination has become accepted
as the cultural norm in some populations."
You may also have heard of the immunological benefits of breastfeeding. Breastfed children have fewer illnesses, illnesses of shorter duration, and lower mortality rates around the world because human milk is an important and invaluable source of antibodies which play an essential role in the prevention and treatment of childhood illness. Further, just as the nutritive properties of breastmilk aren't lost at an arbitrary age, neither are these important immune factors. As it turns out, they actually increase in concentration to meet the needs of an older child who is nursing less. Finally, despite the cultural narrative that extended breastfeeding will inhibit a child's independence, we know that extended nursing can actually promote social development. In her paper Extended Breastfeeding and the Law, Elizabeth Baldwin, Esq., states that "There is no evidence that breastfeeding a child beyond infancy is harmful. Quite the opposite is true: breastfeeding benefits toddlers and young children, both nutritionally and psychologically. (...) Breastfeeding is a warm and loving way to meet the needs of toddlers and young children. It not only perks them up and energizes them; it also soothes the frustrations, bumps and bruises, and daily stresses of early childhood. In addition, nursing past infancy helps little ones make a gradual transition to childhood. In fact, prolonged nursing is associated with better social adjustment. (...) Meeting a child's dependency needs is the key to helping that child achieve independence. And children outgrow these needs according to their own unique timetable."
Aside from the overwhelming benefits and all of the reasons there are to continue nursing, the most convincing is that I can see my child, in all of her big kid glory, is thriving. Just growing and growing. I can see it in her resilience, her independence, her fearlessness, her leadership, her bravery. She's not ready to wean, and that's okay. It's normal! It's appropriate. It's practical. It's amusing. It's loving. It's beautiful. She's loved, healthy, and happy. And her happiness is my happiness - what could be wrong about that?
Sweet Bee. One foggy morning, just as the sun was coming up, your father held my hand and I roared you into the world with everything I had in me - just like that. So simple and intricate at the same time, and I heard you cry and held you close. I nourished you with love and milk and kisses and songs and everything I had in me - just like that, and we were more like one person than two. I brought you home and showed you the world and rocked you and sat with you and woke up with you and nursed you and struggled and loved you with everything I had in me - and just like that, it was three years ago.
Three years old and you still like to cuddle through naps. All sprawled out. Somehow you are this tiny person who is wearing real jeans, with real belt loops, and real boots, with real soles, and your own personality and aspirations and somehow you fit neatly into my womb and then neatly into my arms and neatly at my breasts. You are over three feet tall. No more inches, real feet. You can ride roller coasters and run through the grass and jump off of tree stumps and paint beautiful masterpieces and carry a puppy that weighs more than twice what you used to weigh. I have no idea how many weeks old you are, or when we stopped counting in weeks. This crazy, spirited, full of life and imagination tiny little person you have become is three years old. Real years.
You are the best person I know, my three year old Bee. Just hands down. You can run faster, jump higher, sing louder, dance better, laugh most, climb more, and love deeper than anyone I know! You are an adventurer with a brave heart and bold spirit. You are curious and strong. You are a thrill seeker and a true explorer with a thirst for knowledge and an inquisitive nature. You are fierce, my fighter who can't be tamed. You are gentle, my caring soul with a love that can't be worn.
We've had three years now. Full of wonder, growth, accomplishments, milestones, challenges. It is incredible - this life with you that I never expected and wouldn't trade for anything. I know that I've borrowed you from the bigger world you'll go into and I know that these days are so, heartwrenchingly, enchantingly fleeting and I will never forget to enjoy the little things.
So, we swing in the backyard. We dance together in the grocery store. We nurse in our cozy chair. We play in the woods. We go on leaf hunts. We count stones. We feed ducks. We walk on the beach. We collect sea shells. We roam. We pick flowers. We sing on the trolley. We swim in the sea. We lay in the grass. We dig in the mud. We stomp in the rain. We twirl through the hallway. We climb up trees. We read books. We tell stories. We make memories.
Most of all, we plant your roots, and we grow your wings. I love you, my sweet, three year old, Bee.
This summer we loaded up the tent to go camping! It was Bee's first camping trip, and she was very excited because she had heard so much about camping from the tv show Bubble Guppies. In fact, I was surprised to know that she knew so much about it! She was unexpectedly skilled on things like the ingredients to make s'mores, campfires, sleeping under the sky, and most of all: telling spooky stories about BIG FOOT.
There is something very special about being unreachable, even just for one night. It reminded me of the newborn period, when Bee would wake in the night and we'd go into the living room to nurse. Everything was dark and quiet and it just seemed like such a special time for the two of us to be together uninterupted. This was very similar. Just us and her dad. Some time to simply be alone as a family, uninterupted.
Bee took it all in. She inspected the sky, filled her hands with sand, crunched old leaves, collected rocks, and used a broken branch as a magic wand.
One day, somewhere in between the hustle and bustle of the holidays, visiting relatives, a failed house purchase, moving, and the world's worst and most persistent case of strep throat, I woke up with a two year old. You're two. You proudly exclaim, "I'm a big kid." I feel proud, too.
I have a lot to be proud of, Sweet Bee. First and foremost, we met our nursing goal. When you were born I had a severe hemorrhage and I didn't get to hold you right away. You were in the same room, and I heard you and spoke to you, but your first moments weren't spent on my chest, skin to skin. They were spent in a warmer with strangers. I never felt that immediate sense of giving birth, the 'I did it' moment.
The first time I held you, you were 30 minutes old, and clean. And it wasn't the way I'd pictured our first meeting. But the experience that didn't happen after your birth happened the first time you latched onto my breast. The connection. The powerful feeling of knowing, 'I did it.' My 'I did it.'
You are becoming more and more independent with each day, with each year! I know that soon you aren't going to seek out this comfort anymore. There are times that you fall and would rather have a kiss. Times you'd rather listen to a story than fall asleep with a cuddle. Times when you're simply too busy exploring the world. I know this is coming to an end, and I'll always treasure this closeness we've shared.
I'm proud of your curiosity. Your brave, inquisitive nature. Your capacity to explore, fully, and without fear. Your careful examination of objects you find.
I'm proud of your empathy. One day this year, while nursing you to sleep, I was watching a documentary about hunger and poverty in America. I wasn't aware that you were awake or alert enough to take any of it in, but to my surprise, when you heard a young boy say he was hungry, you looked up at me and said, "we have to take him something to eat." These moments are the foundation, the building blocks of an empathetic and caring nature.
I'm proud, perhaps most of all, of your warmth. The way you approach every day with such an innocent longing and eagerness. The way you brighten people's day, anyone you come into contact with. You are something very important, and I know your warmth will continue to impact everyone around you as you grow.
You love to read, you love to sing, you love to pretend. You love animals. You love people. You love music. You love your dog. You love to dance. You love to play. You love, fully, and without question or judgement. You really love.
For Christmas this year you received a bright, red tricycle and a small piano to play. You went to sleep on Christmas Eve in pink pajamas, full of excitement. You woke up in the morning wiping your sleepy eyes and couldn't wait to try out your new gifts. It was still early and dark outside, and we went for a ride to look at Christmas lights. It was magical.
On New Years Eve I took you to see fireworks. You fell asleep on the way and I took you out when we arrived at the river overlooking downtown. You said, "Mom, you hear that?" I said yes. You said, "Mom, you see that?" I said yes. You said, "It's beautiful." I said, "Happy birthday, sweet girl."
It's amazing how much you've grown this year, and how far we've come. As mothers, I think we expect to teach you so much about the world, and of course we do. The most humbling part, though, is how much we learn.
You are two now, sweet bee. And you are incredible.
Well, it happened. Bee is officially a big kid who got her first haircut at a made-for-kids salon, where the staff worked hard to keep her interested and excited! It was a terrific day and honestly, I'll let the photos speak for themselves!
