Imaginary conversation in my head with Bram Junior 5 years from now
Bram Junior: “Mommy, did I cry a lot when I was a baby?”
Me: “You rarely cried as a baby darling.”
Bram Junior: “Why?”
Me: “Because you had no reason to cry. You were always held.”
Bram Junior: “Really?
Me: “Yes. I stayed home so I can hold you all day long. And when your daddy came home from work, he held you too.”
I was that kind of mother-to-be. The kind who had bought and read all the top rated 20 baby and pregnancy books on Amazon. I invested more time and energy in preparing for the arrival of my baby then I did writing my master’s thesis. Okay, to be perfectly honest, I probably could have completed a PhD in the latest baby gadget trends. I literally dedicated all my time to being the absolute best mother I could be to my little prince.
image by Tanja de Maesschalk
I was convinced that all those frazzled mothers were simply unprepared for the challenges of a newborn, or utterly lazy, or perhaps just downright incompetent. I smirked at all the other seemingly naïve parents to be around me who seemed completely out of the loop about the latest baby trends, less alone the proven granted sleep techniques.
By the time I was seven months pregnant, we had already purchased most of Babble’s 100 baby essentials and had just completed our non-Ikea nursery. The ones that we didn’t purchase were simply because the products didn’t make the cut under my meticulous scrutiny. I was only going to buy the absolute best for my little man (best defined as what all the other in-the-know parents were raving about). Almost everything had to be certified organic if I could get my hands on it. No polyester clothing would ever touch my baby–he would only sleep in 100% cotton, or organic merino wool.
I had all these aspirations too, utterly convinced that since I was going to be a stay-at-home mom, I’d have plenty of time to blog. I was counting on the infamous sleepy newborn phase to do my writing. My sweet baby would be my muse and I would have all the energy in the world because I was high on life. I wasn’t going to ride the current parenting trend of dis-shelved and self-deprecating mothers parading parenting fails. Nope. I was going to be a mommy guru ready to school mommy-to-be’s and failing moms on the secret of being a perfect parent.
In hindsight, I was trying to over-compensate for what was glaringly missing in my life – an extended family living close by. I have no mother, no grandmother, no sisters, no aunts around. I thought that by being overly prepared, I would have motherhood down to perfection and I wouldn’t notice such a gaping void in my life. I may not have a mother, grandmother, sister or aunt to guide me, but I assured myself that I did have baby manuals, twenty or so odd parenting books that guaranteed parenting bliss and a happy baby. Not to forget to mention, all the fabulous baby gear that would make any other neurotic first-time pregnant mom squeal with absolute delight.
image by Tanja de Maesschalk
Armed with Gina Ford’s The Contented Little Baby Book and Dr. Harvey Karp’s The Happiest Baby on the Block, I was going to be the baby whisperer. These two books were my holy grail to parenting, a perfect hybrid of attachment/gentle/intuned parenting and babywise parenting. I even had two copies of each book, one in print and one digital. Never mind that I’ve never taken care of, or even been around a newborn before. I would be the chic baby wearing, luxury stroller pushing mommy who had an exclusively breastfed baby that slept through the night, never experienced colic, was potty-trained by nine months and who brought absolute joy to who ever would meet him. What I should have read was the CTFD Method instead.
Then came Junior. Four weeks early to be exact. I was barely done packing my hospital suitcase and definitely had not yet purchased the perfect push outfit. The saying “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans” could never have been truer at that moment. Our birth experience was a physically traumatic, yet blissful delivery (birthstory is a future post).
image by Tanja de Maesschalk
The first three months passed by like a dream. We initially had struggles with breastfeeding, but with the help of some amazing angels (our maternity nurse, two lactation consultants, and mommy friends) and sheer determination, I was able to exclusively breastfeed. So what if he needed to be breastfed for 5-6 consecutive hours a day and wasn’t really sleeping all through the night? We had a happy, healthy baby and for now, our little family was complete.
Starting at four months old, our precious baby decided that sleep was over-rated. He wasn’t the best sleeper to begin with, but this time around, his sleep pattern was erratic. For the next eight months, I was barely hanging on two to three hours of consecutive sleep. He would wake up to nurse on average 12-15 times from the moment we put him down to bed at 7:00 pm till at 7:00 am. I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t being delusional because I kept a meticulous record of all his night wakings thanks to the Total Baby iphone app.
Junior was, in hindsight, actually quite difficult from the very beginning. The kind that was remarkably alert from the moment he was born. The kind that slept for a five hour stretch ONCE every three months. The kind that had this incessant need to breastfeed for hours on end. The kind that refused to be put down in his crib, bassinet or stroller. The kind that needed to be constantly held regardless of whether he was awake or sleeping. The kind that couldn’t be alone even for just a mere second. The kind that would scream his head off when anyone but me or my husband held him. The kind that needed to be danced to sleep for hours until he would finally fall asleep…only to wake up twenty minutes later. The kind that needed to be held. Always. The kind that demanded every single piece of you and so much more when you think you have nothing left.
image by Tanja de Maesschalk
Well intentioned relatives, friends, acquaintances, and strangers would suggest: Swaddle. Unswaddle. Use white noise. Put him in the most quiet, serene spot in your home. Stop breastfeeding. Start formula. Introduce solids. Hang up black out curtains. Put him down. Pick him up and baby carry. Let him cry it out. Remember that he mirrors how you feel. Take him outside every single day. Co-sleep. Don’t co-sleep. Put him down earlier. Put him down later. Establish a consistent schedule.
I appreciated each and every single one of their advice and I tried my best to listen very carefully. I tried some of their suggestions and others I simply nodded my head to be polite, or when I wasn’t particularly at my very best that day, directly told them that what they were suggesting went against my primal instincts as a mother. I brought him to various general practitioners, pediatricians, and even had his head examined by a radiologist (there was another potential medical reason for it), dabbled into a bit of holistic medicine (cranial-sacral therapy), requested personal prayers from a Catholic priest and asked my devote Muslim friend to say a prayer for our family Insha’Allah. My husband and I only had each other and we knew in our heart of hearts that we couldn’t continue going on like this.
Eventually he did fall asleep for an hour or so during the day. I was quick to rejoice “Halleluiah, Praise the Lord! We finally did something right.” It didn’t take me long though to discover that he also developed a 6th sense- the type that knew exactly whether, or not I was by his side regardless of whether or not he was in REM or non-REM sleep. Getting him back to sleep was nearly impossible as he was almost always rejuvenated from his cat-nap and more than eager to explore the world around him. Hence began another not-so-glamorous mothering duty, a prisoner in my own bed, co-existing of sorts while he naps or goes down to bed for the day and me, resigned to find solace on the world wide web (phone-calls would wake him up of course).
The fabulous “aha” parenting moment came soon enough. My google ninja skills brought me straight to Dr. Sear’s 12 Features of a High Needs Baby : intense, hyperactive, draining, feeds frequently, demanding, awakens frequently, unsatisfied, unpredictable, super-sensitive, can’t put baby down, not a self-soother, and separation sensitive. Junior was the poster-child for a high needs baby. When I finished reading his article, a flood of relief overwhelmed me. So we weren’t the only parents to experience this after all. His behavior wasn’t a reflection of my failure as a first-time mother, or more accurately, lack of parenting skills. We weren’t alone.
image by Tanja de Maesschalk
I looked down at my sleeping son, took a deep breath, and cried until my tears washed my soul clean again. I then started to learn how to cope with my high needs baby. All I needed to do was love him, love him the way he needed to be loved. I was quickly baptized into another world of parenting, the gentler kind that encourages nurturing his sprit, of molding parenting approaches and family life based on the child’s needs and wants, and of simply slowing down and enjoying the gift of an ordinary day with my son.
The turning-point came eight months into our ordeal, right around his first birthday and when we moved into our new home in the middle of no where. He started sleeping continuously through the night, from 7:00 pm (ideally) till 6:30 am without waking up in the middle of the night. We are currently in the midst of self-weaning, only having to comfort nurse once or twice during his afternoon naps and when he goes to bed.
I am slowly, but surely waking up from this experience and emboldened with a new set of mommy skills. I found an overflowing amount of patience I never imagined I had. I am more compassionate. I am less quick to judge perceived parental failures. I am more inclined to be kind rather than be right. I am less inclined to boast about my parental successes or attribute any of my son’s accomplishments and milestones as a reflection of my parenting. I am in the process of healing. I am, overall, happier. And perhaps the greatest blessing of all with having a high needs-baby was that my little prince gave me the gift of grace in return.
I am incredibly empathetic to the mom who confides in me that she isn’t sleeping much and I well up with tears too, still fresh from the battle wounds of severe sleep deprivation. Now that my own fog is lifting (sleep deprivation does that to you), I aspire to write more about my experiences. I hope too that my blog can serve as a useful resource for struggling mamas, the kind that’s awake at 3am in the morning in need of some serious uplifting, a gentle reminder that she is not alone, that this too shall pass.
What better way to spend the last weekend of an unbelievable gorgeous Dutch summer then to head over to the Uitmarkt in Amsterdam. The Uitmarkt is the national opening of the cultural season and the largest cultural festival in the Netherlands. Best of all it’s free (for now).
This year, the Uitmarkt took place at Museumplein and Leidseplein.
With it being a wonderful sunny day, albeit the occasional yet brief summer downpours here and there, we headed off to Museumplein. After all, what better way to embrace art than at the heart of it all? Museumplein is the square surrounded by Amsterdam’s three major museums-the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum and the Stedelijk Museum-as well as the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam’s premier concert hall. It’s also where the touristy, but classic IAmsterdam sign stands.
There was also an Uitmarkt Junior taking place at De Krakeling Youth Theatre. With summer basically being over and the impending gloomy Dutch fall and winter right around the corner, I opted for the fresh green and open air of Museumplein. Being a seasoned expat in the Netherlands, I’ve learned to never take a day with sunshine for granted. It’s part of my survival strategy for making it this long in the Low Countries and a positive sign that I’ve been ingeburgered (assimilated) into Dutch culture.
I also reasoned that my almost 17 month old toddler wouldn’t really know the difference anyway. I reckoned that there would be enough interesting things around to keep him in awe.
Attending the Uitmarkt was possibly one of the best things my son and I did together. We got out of our comfort zone, straying away from the standard go to places (Amersfoort zoo, Ballorig, local playground, local petting zoo) and actually started to explore more of what this country has to offer. I was actually quite impressed. I may no longer be in San Francisco, but I am living in the Netherlands, a vibrant Northern European country that has so much to offer and a short flight or train ride away to the rest of the Old World.
Being at the Uitmarkt reminded me of how much I loved Amsterdam. There’s a special energy that I get when ever I wander around. I may not be a singer, dancer, musician or performer, but I am an aspiring writer. Writing, after all, is an art. And what better way to start my blogging journey than to attend the Uitmarkt, an event that marks the beginning of another season of art appreciation, celebrating art in all forms, even from wannabe like me.
Not to forget to mention that the Uitmarkt was a great opportunity to do some people watching. There were some very stylish parents and their equally chic offspring!
How adorable was this father and son pair?
Or this chic mother-daughter duo?
I wasn’t the only one feeling alive and mesmerized from all the art around me. I loved seeing the wonder in my son’s eyes, the look of pure amusement as his eyes wandered around the organized chaos happening around him.
Not everything amused him though. Like his mother, he wears his heart on his sleeves.
Look at that expression on his face! I don’t think he’s quite fond of Dummies.
Than it hit me. My almost 17 month old was strutting around, exploring, investigating and examining all the organized chaos around him. He wasn’t really a baby anymore, at least not when he chooses not to be. He was surely, but steadily growing into a little boy.
As the day was drawing to a close, we headed over to the Rijksmuseum garden with a walkable fountain. Initially, I had planned on gently guiding Junior around the fountain, carefully keeping him entertained but securely dry. Obviously, I’m at novice at this mothering gig because in a couple of second my toddler got soaking wet. Grateful that it was one of those lucky days that I did manage to pack an extra set of clothes, I just let him be. There were also tons of laughter from bystanders as he definitely gave them a good show.
” This world is but a canvas to our imagination.” Henry David Thoreau
Inspired by the richness of art and culture all around me, I am going to start a personal quest. Once a month for the next 12 months, Junior and I will try to visit child-friendly museum/exhibition around the Netherlands. I hope you join us!
(We had an extra romper, shirt, pair of pants, jacket….but no extra pair of socks or shoes. Definite learning lesson for the future)
One of the most unpleasant adjustments I had to make in the Netherlands was becoming accustomed to the dreaded Water Closet, more commonly referred to by Americans as the restroom.
Taking the term “Water Closet” literally, the standard Dutch restroom has been reduced to nothing more than a “standing-room only” space outfitted with a toilet. A claustrophobic’s real world nightmare, one has to cleverly maneuver themselves inside, close the door, adjust their clothing, and appropriately decide the most comfortable position for their limbs.
With my comparatively miniature 5″1 frame, I cannot help but wonder at times how adult-size Dutch people (many towering well above 6″ feet) manage to get themselves inside the cupboard-like room. With such long legs, I can only guess that the most comfortable position for these giants is having their knees strategically pressed against the door. Granted, the Dutch have only been recently declared as the tallest people in the world and thus such inconveniences may not have been realized until now.
Arguably the most alarming feature of a Water Closet is the infamous Dutch toilet bowl. Dutch engineers have designed the bowl itself to contain a plateau set well above the normal water level. To say the least, one must be very comfortable with themselves and all their excrements on the display shelf. Why the Dutch would have such a perverse desire to examine or witness their waste remains a mystery. Perhaps it is the lingering Dutch sentiment of having reclaimed the land from the sea that extends towards this toilet philosophy. By having a plateau set above the water level and having the option of controlling the amount of water to be flushed, the environment might provide temporary comfort in assuring the Dutch that they are still masters of the sea.
Once a person has completed his/her business, he/she is confronted with the new challenge of cleaning up one’s own mess. Having just described the Dutch toilet with its unashamed plateau showcasing one’s most recent accomplishment, one can only imagine the new task that must, with all politeness, be dealt with. Never fear! The Dutch have ingeniously provided a compulsory toilet brush and chemical laden toilet cleaner appropriately within reach.
Newcomers may benefit from such an embarrassment with this Insider’s tip:
First line the plateau with toilet paper and tactically aim one’s most recent stomach contents onto it. A single flush will hopefully leave no shameful streaks and unnecessary expenditure of one’s energy and the costs of the toiler cleaner.
Never loosing the opportunity to exercise Dutch thrift, most would also have the opportunity of witnessing Dutch hydraulic ingenuity first hand. They can either choose a smaller button to flush tiny amount of water, or a larger button promising a more robust flush to rid unwanted waste. Water of course isn’t free so one is cautioned to use water as sparingly as possible and only when absolutely necessary.
Last but not least, being in such a confined space, a display shelf, and lack of an electronic ventilation switch, one may also have to endure a robust, unpleasant aromatic setting. For those who do not enjoy the pervasive odor, they may be fortunate enough to find an air purifier. I highly recommend AmbiPur Puresse, an air fresher that provides relief and is also hypo allergenic.
After having mastered the Dutch Water Closet and all its glory, one can then truly leave with a sense of being productive for the day.
“I remember you! You’re that brain that studied nuclear science at MIT right?” said an over enthusiastic, slightly inebriated acquaintance at a mutual friend’s wedding.
“I studied Molecular Biology at Berkeley,” I replied.
“What are you doing now?” he inquired.
“I’m a stay-at-home mom, ” I said as a knot started forming in the pit of my stomach.
“Are you kidding me?” he quipped back with a mixture of pure amusement and shock on his face.
I shook my head no and to add fuel to the fire of his amusement, I also blurted out, “And I have a master’s degree in Health Economics with distinction that I’ve never had to use.”
When in the midst of polite conversation at any social function, sooner or later the infamous “What are you doing with your life” question arises. Eventually, out of concern (whether genuine, feigned and/or condescending), someone feels compelled to inform me of what could be the biggest mistake of my life and that I really should be working for my own personal development.
I graciously smile and give them my standard response, “I’m perfectly fine thank-you very much. I’m beyond the point of tired, but I am grateful to have the opportunity to simply take care of my son all day long and try my best to enjoy all the fleeting moments of his young life. He’s only a baby once after all.”
Later that night, still on that special high that one gets when watching two beautiful souls professing everlasting marital love, I serendipitously stumble upon 27 year old Ellen Huerta’s Why I Left Google.
Though I’m obviously not as successful as she is, her story nonetheless deeply resonated inside of me. As the first-born child of immigrant Filipino parents, my self-worth was inextricably tied to my visible accomplishments, the kind that merited parental bragging rights and parties to celebrate just how oh-so-wonderful I was.
Adele Barlow basically sums up my childhood experience when she eloquently writes in a follow up commentary to Huerta’s article:
“The status-conscious parent who has worked their whole life to send their kids to the ‘right’ schools will be the toughest on their offspring when said offspring decides to leave the ‘right’ job for a future much harder for said parent to position to judgmental, equally status-conscious friends.”
Starting at the age of ten, a light bulb turned on and I discovered the secret to excelling in school. I became obsessed with getting straight A’s. What I was really searching for was the external validation from my parents, in particular that of my mother who would, hands down, put any self-proclaimed tiger mommy to shame. Out of respect for her, I will refrain from going into further detail, but I can assure you that I could potentially make any psychologist earn a decent upper middle-class income just to sort me out.
About six years ago, I decided to follow my now Dutch husband back to his home country the Netherlands. Taking a leap of faith, I somehow mustered the courage to follow my bliss rather than the pre-constructed future my parents concocted. I was going through a quarter-life crisis, unsure, insecure and quite regretful about all the choices I made up to that point. What life was I really living? Why was it so important what other people thought of me?
There in front of me was this amazingly gorgeous kind-hearted, goofy Dutch foreign exchange student completely smitten with me. It would be an understatement to say that the feelings were mutual. I was one of the lucky few who literally had my future husband dropped on my doorstep. I decided to take a leap of faith and live in a country I never had any interest in visiting, less alone reside in because I wanted to give the love-of-my-life a solid chance. I also knew that I would have been deeply unhappy if I hadn’t chosen love.
The answer to the original question from the well-meaning acquaintance should have been a resounding, “Yes, I’m currently a stay-at-home mom to my 16 month old bundle of joy. I’m also his teacher, cook, domestic help, nurse, psychologist, therapist, personal assistant and best of all, partner in crime in this crazy adventure called life. ”
I’m all too familiar with the bitter sweet passage of time. As my first born baby rushes through milestones, I want to be able to be able to record each and every single one and store each fleeing moment safely in my heart.
I’m also working on better understanding and practicing the third metric of success that emphasizes a life well lived was rather more important than having the life others expect me to live. I’m also embracing gentle parenting, grasping the bittersweet reality that my son’s childhood only happens once and I shouldn’t rush him.
Through all of my life’s ups and downs, there’s this one constant that has always stayed with me–my writing. I have so much I want to write about, to share with the world about what I’ve learned, what I’m still struggling with and just how fabulous my 16 month old really is. Thus starts my official other status as a mommy blogger. Please bear with me though as I do the majority of my writing when my baby’s asleep and quite a bit rusty just having woken up from a blogging hiatus of more than two years. I hope you enjoy what you read here!
The original version of this post was actually a Facebook update on my personal account. Happy Reading!
My beautiful, sweet boy,
Thank-you for all the fleeting moments that fill up my heart every single day. Some parents (understandably so) are proud of certain accomplishments such as sleeping through the night, early talking, walking, counting, singing, etc. You, our dear boy, can EAT and it fills our hearts with so much joy.
You especially LOVE fish (impressively eating a Dutch haring sandwich and finishing off an entire grilled sea bass by 10 months old), corn on the cob, fresh pastas, various cheeses, peas, all kinds of yoghurt, string beans, rice, squash, cherry tomatoes, avocado, broccoli, cauliflower, brussels sprouts, red bell peppers, and zucchini. You’ll also happily eat pinakbet (Filipino vegetable stew), bulalo (Filipino beef marrow stew) and chicken/pork adobo (Filipino national dish) with a healthy portion, or two of rice. You’re always open to having some strawberry or butternut squash risotto, an extra helping of ragu spaghetti and of course, lasagne.
Best of all, you’re willing to try anything new. Your adventurous and healthy eating could be attributed to baby led weaning, or not. It could simply be because your part Filipino that your love for eating is a genetic predisposition. Thank-you for giving us (and others around) the simple pleasure of watching you eat to your heart’s delight.
Almost 17 months, weighing 30lbs and growing out of size 24 month clothing. And if you happen to change and no longer our precocious gourmand who love’s to ea, or want to eat as much as you do now, that’s okay too. We’ll roll with the punches because we’re your parents. We will always love you!
Love,
Mommy