Oh boy!

I have three sisters and two nieces (by blood). I wasn't raised around boys, although I had several guy friends while growing up. My stepson was 13 when my husband and I got married, so given his age, the fact that I was the stepmom and not the mom, and that he was only with us on the weekends until he was 16 (when my husband got custody of his kids), I wasn't exactly an active participant in raising him. So, life hasn't exactly prepared me to be the mom of a boy.

When I first got pregnant, I was positive that I was having a girl. I referred to the baby as "she", Jack and I bought a pink PJ set as one of our first baby purchases, and I point-blank refused to acknowledge the possibility that I could be carrying a boy.

About a month before our anatomy scan, though, I started feeling like "maybe" I "might" be having a boy. As the time for our anatomy scan drew nearer, I became positive I was having a boy. My inner monologue started referring to the baby as "he". I told my mom to buy gender-neutral things because I was no longer certain I was having a girl.

And, on November 4, 2011, at our anatomy scan, when I was not quite 18 weeks pregnant, the ultrasound technician confirmed that, indeed, I was carrying Elijah and not Grace.

My mother was stunned. She thought that there surely must be some mistake. "Are they sure? I mean, really SURE that it's a boy?? That can't be right! I don't know anything about boys!" I assured her that I was there and saw exactly what the tech saw, and yes, he was indeed a boy, and I didn't know anything about boys, either, but since I was his mom, this was a bit more problematic for me than it was for her.

I was slightly disappointed for a week or two (maybe less; I really don't remember) but then I got excited and just fell in love with my Elijah. Now, I can't imagine having had a girl. I love my baby boy SO MUCH more than I ever thought it was possible to love another human being. He is so much fun, and so sweet, and so laidback, and just so all around perfect that I can't picture my life any other way.

However, I have always been prone to pre-emptive worrying, and ever since I saw that anatomy scan (and all the subsequent ones that confirmed that the original "diagnosis" of boy was correct), I have already been dreading the teenage years. You know, because boys are weird and they do strange things that make no sense to people who don't have a Y chromosome. Not to mention..... puberty. And hormones. And girls. And temptation. And who knows what technology will be around in another decade or so that will make all that temptation easily accessible. Not that technology is needed (as all the previous generations of men can attest), but it certainly makes it easier. Cell phones with cameras and texting capabilities are bad enough. The internet is even worse. And girls are just so... aggressive, it seems. I'm already burying my head in the sand.

But I know I can't do that. I have a responsibility to my son to raise him to be the kind of man that some future girl's parents won't dread meeting. I am fortunate that I am married to a wonderful man and that, barring unforeseen circumstances, I won't have to raise my son alone. But still - I can't leave the raising of our son solely to my husband, either. Nor do I want to.

But I'm dreading it. It will be hard. It might possibly be embarrassing for someone as prudish as I am. I want my son to feel comfortable talking to me, I want him to be able to ask me questions and I want to be able to answer them without blushing or without making things a bigger deal than they need to be. But I get embarrassed so easily, so that will be hard enough. But it also seems to me that our culture has such a warped view of masculinity (and femininity, too, for that matter) that stereotypically masculine traits are either idolized, or else scorned to the point that even healthy manifestations of masculinity are met with derision. In that kind of environment, how can a boy be raised to have a healthy image of who HE is, as a boy becoming a man? I don't want him to be ashamed of being male. I also don't want him to be overly proud of being male. I want him to be confident but not arrogant, strong but not dominating, masculine but soft-hearted. A "tender warrior," as I've heard it described. I want him to know how to change the oil in his car and how to fix a toilet, but also how to cook dinner and how to change a diaper. I want him to love deeply and faithfully, to have a strong work ethic, and a desire to provide. I want him to be playful and to have fun but also to have a sharp mind. I don't want him to be lazy, boastful, rude, lustful, prideful, or incompetent.

How do you do that? I know that children learn a lot by observing their world, and my son is fortunate to have an excellent role model as his daddy. His big brother Sean is also a man I am proud to know. But what can mothers do to encourage healthy masculinity in their sons? I feel like I can't wait until his "tween" years to start thinking about this. I feel like I need to figure this out now so I can start doing what needs to be done even now, because children learn so much more so much earlier than we think.

So... moms of boys... advice? What are you and your husband (or child's father) doing to ensure your son grows to have a healthy view of himself? Of women?

Snuggles

If I had to think of something that I enjoy more than holding a sleepy baby, I'm not sure I could come up with anything. Something about the weight of a contented baby in your arms, with a sweet little cheek snuggled up to your chest, and hearing sleepy baby sighs just makes everything in the world seem better.

When Elijah was a few weeks old, I started to try to get him used to going to sleep at around the same time each night, which originally was around 9, right after he ate for the last time. I'd put him in his jammies, swaddle him, give him his paci, turn on Jewel's "Lullaby" CD, turn out the lights, and we'd rock. At first we'd rock and rock and rock, sometimes for an hour or two, before he'd finally nod off. I'd catch myself nearly dozing off and would jerk my head up, certain that I'd dropped him or something equally catastrophic, to find his sweet face staring up at me, eyes wide open, pacifier moving up and down (much like Maggie Simpson's), with no sign that he would fall asleep any time soon. Sometimes I'd be so exhausted that Jack would have to take over. Eventually, though, he caught on and got used to sleeping at night and started taking less and less time to fall asleep. I would hold him and rock him even after he slept, just listening to his breathing, watching his facial expressions change in his sleep, smelling his sweet baby smell, kissing his perfect little forehead, until finally I would lay him down in his crib and watch him snuggle up to his lovey (or, as Jack insists on calling it, his "blanky bear").

Then, of course, I read all the books about sleep that say not to rock your baby to sleep, that they need to fall asleep where they will wake up so that when they cycle into lighter sleep states and briefly awaken, they won't freak out but will instead drift peacefully back to sleep (assuming they're not uncomfortable from teething, don't have a dirty diaper, are not hungry, and are not working on crawling, pulling up, etc.). I was not very happy when I read that. Who were these "sleep experts" to tell me that I can't rock my baby?!

So I did what any overly analytical, stubborn redhead would do. I obeyed the letter of the law. I didn't rock him to sleep. I started rocking him until he was just barely still awake and then would lay him down in his crib so he could fall asleep in his crib. Since he was falling asleep much more quickly, this often meant that I was only rocking him for about 5 minutes, but still, it was better than nothing. I got to rock my baby and help him learn to fall asleep in his crib. And so far, it's worked.

I can't honestly say that I miss our hours-long marathon rocking sessions, especially since those occurred when he was still waking up every 2-3 hours to eat at night, but I do wish some nights that he would take a bit longer to get drowsy. He knows the routine now and doesn't fight sleep. We say prayers and read a story, then turn off the light and turn on the music and rock. Some nights he'll look around until he's sleepy, then he'll sigh and tuck his head against my chest and close his eyes. After that, we'll rock for another minute or two then he'll lay down. My baby won't be a baby forever and the time will come that he won't want to rock. I'm not going to rush that. Rocking my son at bedtime is my favorite time of day because it's when he wants to be close to his mommy. He'll gaze up at me and smile around his paci, sometimes pat my face or touch my hair, look at the shadows on the walls, then snuggle up against me. Seeing how much my son trusts me, how secure he feels when I rock him, makes me feel like maybe I'm not totally screwing up this whole "mom" thing. Plus, as he's gotten more interested in exploring and getting into everything he can, he's less interested in being held during the day. So, I'll rock my son for as long as he'll let me, and treasure up our snuggly times, because I know that all too soon, he'll be too cool to hug me in front of his friends and too grown to need mama snuggles. For now, he wants his mommy at night, and I'm perfectly okay with that.

Winding Down

My husband and I were blessed with the wonderful gift of our son in April, and when we found out last July that I was pregnant, it was after we'd been married 5-1/2 years and about 2 years after we'd more or less lost hope that we'd ever have a child together. Until I was holding my newborn son, the thought of being a stay-at-home mom had never crossed my mind. I had nothing against the idea of women staying home; I just never thought it would be something I'd choose. After all, I'd worked all through college to put myself through school, and then put myself through graduate school as well. I'd worked hard to be in the position I was in, I liked my job, I was working in the place I wanted to work, I liked my co-workers, and I liked earning my own money and contributing financially to our household. But returning to work at the end of June was the hardest thing I've ever done. It wasn't too bad for the summer, as my mother was coming up and taking care of him at our house, but after he started day care in September, and was competing with 7 other babies for the attention of two teachers, I couldn't handle it any more. I couldn't stop thinking, "There are only two teachers - what happens when he's the third loudest? What if they miss his cues that he's hungry or tired? What if he starts thinking of one of them as his mommy?" I couldn't handle only seeing him for about half an hour in the mornings, a half hour at lunch, and then maybe an hour or two in the evenings. What happens at potty training? I don't want someone else to potty train my son. I don't want someone else to see his firsts! Bedtime on Sunday nights became the saddest part of the week for me.

So I started thinking... what if I stayed home? Could I do it? Can we afford it?

I mentioned it to my husband and he was very supportive of the idea. We both thought it would be best for our son to be home, so we took a very close look at our finances. We realized that if we paid off some things earlier than planned, I could quit my job at the end of December. I was thrilled! I couldn't wait!!!

And now the end of December is here, and I must admit, it's actually more bittersweet at the moment than thrilling. Elijah is at his last day of day care, a place he has fun and is loved and has other kids to play with. I like his teachers. They have helped him learn to fall asleep for naps on his own. They have cheered him as he's learned to crawl. They know his cues and his personality. They have taken very good care of him. So of course now I worry that he will miss his teachers, his friends, and will be bored at home. His teachers have been telling me all week how much they will miss him, but they are supportive of my decision to stay home and tell me how much he will love being home with his mommy.

My co-workers also surprised me with a goodbye party this morning, in lieu of our regular Friday morning staff meeting. I received a very nice card with very thoughtful notes (rather than the generic "Happy birthday!" messages you tend to receive for birthdays) and there was LOTS of food. Given that the institution doesn't allow institutional money to be spent on food any more, I know that they paid out of pocket, and that touches my heart. My boss gave me a heartfelt goodbye and thank you at our one-on-one yesterday, and my co-workers have been telling me for two weeks that I still have time to change my mind.

I won't, of course. I want to give my all to my son and spend as much time with him as I can in the few, precious years we will have until he starts school. My husband and I worked hard and planned hard to make things happen for me to stay home, and I feel very blessed that I was able to make that choice. But I will miss my co-workers, I will miss the work I do, I will miss having a reason to take a shower and get dressed and look presentable every day. I will miss having a reason to get out of the house and interact with other people. I will miss having my own space that is quiet, where I can be alone with my thoughts. In a house of 4 adults, 2 babies, 3 dogs, and 2 cats, my own quiet space is quite difficult to come by.

I don't regret my decision to stay home, by any means. But, it is still a big change for me, and I am aware of what I am giving up in order to have something I think is better. I am ready for what lies ahead, but for now, I think it is appropriate to acknowledge that my son had the opportunity to attend a good day care with attentive teachers and that I was fortunate to work in a place I liked with people I liked doing work I felt was meaningful. All blessings, even those coming to an end, should be counted. So, today, on this day of winding down, I am thankful.

Spurts

I was reflecting recently that babies tends to do things in "spurts". They go through growth spurts at fairly predictable times. They go through cognitive growth spurts, too, which are the ever-dreaded "wonder weeks". Heck, my son even got his four top teeth all in one spurt (in the space of 10 days, to be exact).

I guess I was more or less prepared for these when my son was born. I mean, really, I don't think there's any way to prepare to be a parent. You can read all the books but at the end of the day, you're just sort of thrown into the mix with this helpless, needy little thing and you just sort of feel your way along by instinct and hope that insurance will still exist in another 20 years so you can pay your child's therapy bills from your inevitable screw-ups. At any rate, although the growth spurts, developmental milestones, and cognitive leaps were something I was (mostly) expecting, I was absolutely blown away by the depth of the emotional reactions I've had toward my son for the eight short months of his life.

To be fair, I'm not exactly a very emotional person. ("Ice princess" might be a better description.) So all the touchy-feely, lovey-dovey stuff in the world doesn't tend to make a whole lot of sense to me. For the first three weeks or so of my son's life, I remember feeling very overwhelmed. He cried a lot, he slept at all the wrong times and woke up at even worse ones, I felt so very strange not being pregnant any more, I didn't understand what his various cries meant, he peed all over the wall every time I tried to change his diaper, occasionally he shot projectile poo all over me, I was constantly covered in spit up (and who doesn't love being covered in her own partially digested breastmilk??) and I remember thinking, "Why in the world did I think having a baby was a good idea?!"

And then one day, my heart experienced a seismic shift. He was about 3 weeks old, and I was holding him after he'd finished eating. He was just staring up at me with his deep blue eyes, and suddenly, out of nowhere, my world was rocked. I felt an actual, deep pang in my chest. I gasped, because I felt like I couldn't breathe. My eyes teared up. My chest tightened and all I could choke out was a whispered, "I love you."

How simple. How profound. I love my son. As I stared back down at him and he cooed his happy little coo at me, my mind remembered the image from the old "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" cartoon, where they hold up the X-ray over the Grinch's chest and show that his heart, which had originally been two sizes too small, "grew three sizes that day." It pretty accurately described how I felt. I realized that I loved my son in a way that was profoundly different from how I have ever loved another human being in my life. It was a deeper, stronger, and more primal love than I had ever felt. It hurt. It stole my breath. It was amazing. I remember thinking, "How do people possibly survive if they feel emotions this intense every single day??"

So imagine my surprise a few weeks later, the first time my son smiled at me, when it happened again. My heart grew three sizes again. How? How is that possible??

And yet it keeps happening. The first time my son laughed. The first time he said "mama". The first time he hugged me. The first time he kissed me. The first time he reached for me. When he stops crying because he sees me. When he crawls with all his might to reach me. When he pats my face. When he snuggles against my chest at bedtime. When he looks for me when he hears my voice.  Every.single.time. Heart expansion. Stilled breath. Stronger bond. Ow.

I realized that it's probably a good thing that my love for him has grown in spurts as well. If it happened all at once, I'm pretty sure my chest would explode. As it is, I'm not quite sure how it all fits inside of my rather small body, or where it's all supposed to go for the next 50 or so years that I will probably live. All I know is, my son has a mommy who loves him with every single ounce of life she has. He is my heartbeat and my sunshine, and I am humbled that God chose to bless me with this amazing little boy, and I pray every day that I will be a mother worthy of being called "Mommy."

And I'm also learning to stop being amazed at how much of a sap he makes me. It's a good thing I was never cool to start with, because I am definitely far from cool now. But I'm okay with that, because I'm Elijah's Mommy, and that's really, totally cool.