It Got Better: Part 2

Welcome to Part 2 of "It Got Better." You can check out Part 1 here. 

When last we parted ways, we were discussing new motherhood and infant airplane pilots and crying and a mysterious link sent to me by my longtime friend, Gina.  But let me back up just a little. 

I've known Gina since elementary school. I don't recall what bonded us precisely, but I do have a vivid memory of first being dazzled by Gina during recess. She was ice skating. And, this being Baltimore, we had neither ice rink nor frozen pond behind our school. The Winter Olympics were in full swing, and Gina, inspired, would choreograph intricate skating routines to be performed in the alley. Because, this being Baltimore, recess was in an alley.

She would swoop about the asphalt, leaping with graceful, extended arms. She would twirl, arching her back, holding her hands prayerfully skyward. She would run in figure eights around the boys playing WWE Cage Match and around the gaggle of girls who, in utter confusion, were watching the boys. Even as a dorky kid, I found her skating routines kind of bizarre, but I was impressed. She just didn't give a damn. And her triple Lutz was stunning. Eventually, I was swooping around next to her.

And that's how our friendship has sailed along for almost 30 years so far: Gina, the intrepid adventurer, and I, her awed and slightly terrified fan girl. By the time college rolled around, Gina was stomping about the woods in Outward Bound or hiking through a canyon once she had moved away to Northern Arizona. She went rappelling and rafting and generally trekking through places that sounded beautiful and remote and full of super-big bugs.

When we were still in our early twenties, she took me on a hike through Sedona and on another through the Grand Canyon. For my benefit, both were novice-level excursions, but I was still awed by her competence. Her confidence. Years later, when Gina married and became a mom of two boys, I imagined her just as she had always been: Competent. Confident. In hiking boots. But now with a kid tethered to her backpack by a bungee cord. And thanks to Facebook, I got to see just that (almost) -- a photo of Gina in a wide-brimmed hat and hiking boots, making her way up a steep trail with her youngest strapped to her back in an Ergo.

Gina and the boys looking pretty happy about being in nature,
even though nature is where the bugs live.

My life took a decidedly more cautious turn than did Gina's. I've never once felt the urge to rappel from anything. I can barely ride in the elevator without hyperventilating. My weekends were spent doing brunch and recovering from doing brunch. Then, at 36 (weeks shy of 37), I became a first-time mom, and I suddenly felt crushing fear, despair, and vertigo. For years, I'd been hunkered down in a cubicle, correcting a comma splice here, adding a sentence there -- thinking that, somehow, I was building a desperation-proof bunker around my life. But motherhood flattened my bunker like it would, eventually, flatten my boobs.

My son had jaundice and then he wouldn't latch and then he had reflux. When he finally starting nursing with gusto, he clamped down for an hour at a clip; I would hum or flex my feet to keep my mind off of the shooting pain. To help with his reflux, my OB suggested I cut out dairy then soy then nuts then wheat. I wandered around the apartment topless, eating corn chips, while my son screamed in his sling. It was February. It was cold. It was wet. I was stuck. Forever. With a baby who hated me.

Let me tell you what I think about your problems, mom.

It's nothing that millions of moms haven't been through before. But I hadn't been through it. I didn't know. My plane was in a nose dive. So on a murky afternoon, I put Pork Chop in his crib and let him cry while I tapped out an email to Gina. "I feel so clueless that it's a wonder my kid has survived this long with me for a mother," I said.

Then Gina sent me this link: http://www.momscape.com/articles/easier.htm

More importantly, she told me that, when her second son was born, she had to read the article in the link every day (every day for many weeks) just to keep a grip on sanity. I did not understand. Gina had a grip on everything. She was, and is, one of the most sure-footed people I know. But colic, as it turns out, can make the ground beneath any mom's feet just fall away.

I read the article, and it was comforting. More than that, I felt like less of a loser for being scared and sad. Because my friend had felt the same way. But I also felt hope. Gina wasn't still reading that article on the daily. Things really had gotten better for her. If I could just hang in there long enough, I reasoned, things might get better for Pork Chop and me too. I still wanted someone to hose down the runway with flame-retardant foam, just in case, but I was starting to suspect our little plane might touchdown safely after all.

Unlike Gina, I didn't read the article ever day, but I referred to it a lot, especially in the middle of the night, when my son would wake for his regular 4 hours of inconsolable crying practice. I also started taking long walks with Pork Chop, despite the cold. I swaddled him layers of fleece and circled my block, letting the chilly air calm my nerves as it calmed my fussy boy. I finally invited friends over, praying that they could still love me even if I smelled liked B.O. and baby puke. And they did. Or were too polite to say otherwise. And their company made me feel better.

Better. Yes. It really happened. At about 3 months, Pork Chop started sleeping. More than that, I stopped feeling perpetually panicked and was able to sleep too. We finally got the hang of breastfeeding; I actually began to enjoy the time just being close to my son. (Fourteen months in, and he's still nursing.) Pork Chop started smiling and then giggling and then full-tilt belly-laughing. He finally noticed our dog and his mobile and his stuffed animals, and he found them all wildly entertaining. I could put him in his crib, turn on his mobile, and 15 minutes later, he'd still be staring at it so intently that I suspected the mobile was sending him secret messages. But as long as the messages were friendly, I didn't care; 15 minutes was long enough for me to shower or to eat a sandwich. And when you've been wandering around your apartment topless, eating nothing but Tostitos, while a screaming baby is strapped to your body, a shower and a sandwich are gifts. In fact, a shower and a sandwich were the collective sound of my landing gear being lowered as we made our final decent.

How 'bout I do the flying from now on, kid? 

As Pork Chop enters his toddlerhood, we are exploring new terrain. There are tantrums to navigate and baby gates to install and food to be scrubbed from the floor, walls, ceiling, tables, couches, toys, and dog. And, yes, when it snows until April and my family is stuck in a perpetual illness loop, motherhood doesn't feel easy. But it still feels easier than those early days. It's still better. I'm more competent, more confident, more rested. I put on sturdy shoes with ankle support. I took a shower. I ate a sandwich.

But I couldn't have gotten to this place of easier and better without the support of friends and family who sent me links, ignored my B.O., listened to me bitch, suffered through my mixed metaphors and confusing analogies, and who, it turns out, were waiting to greet me with three cheers and a stiff drink in the airport lounge.