This is an old diary comic from February. Every hour from 6am to 7pm.
A glimpse into a day in the life of a stay-at-home mom. Even though it’s months later, our routine is fairly similar. Galactus even still gets stuck in trees. I’m just more pregnant while doing all of these things. I wonder how it’s all going to change once the new baby comes?
Why would Giles think his name is Archie? I have been a fan of Archie Comics since I was seven-years-old and happen to have an Archie bobblehead doll that Giles loves to play with. He runs around the house carrying it, shouting, “Ah-chee, Ah-chee!”
One of my nicknames for Giles is “chonchy.” This is something our mom called my sister and I, one of her little pet names for us. I probably call Giles “chonchy” more often than I call him “Giles.” It’s possible that “Ah-chee” is his attempt at “chonchy.”
I wonder what his friends will call him. What all the nicknames of his life will be.
Thanks to mom friends Lizzie (panel #5) and Frances (end image) for their words which I used in this comic along with my own.
People mean well when they say “enjoy every moment” and “it goes so fast” (even I do it sometimes). Maybe the next time you feel like you are going to say one of these things, just say something else instead.
“You look great!”
“Your baby is awesome.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
“Can I buy you a coffee?”
Weaning was hard. We started when Giles was nine months old. It was slow, and difficult, and most of all, emotionally exhausting. The guilt, the ups and downs of my moods, the crying and feeling all the things. It took us so long just to choose which formula to get. I held Giles in my arms, giving him a bottle of formula for the first time, tears pouring out of my eyes and a beer in my hand.
The hardest part was one week after I nursed for the last time. Suddenly my emotions hit me. Hard. Every half hour or so I sobbed uncontrollably. Nothing specific would set off the crying jags, and I couldn’t stop them. It was almost like I was immediately postpartum again, with roller coaster emotions and hormones.
Apparently there is a thing called “Post Weaning Depression.” Once I figured this out (through a mixture of online research, texts with Berkshire Nursing Families, and a friend), I felt a lot better, just knowing it was normal. After a couple weeks my hormones leveled out.
But there was a period of time when I felt so awful and didn’t understand it.
It takes our bodies and minds a very long time to balance out after giving birth. I don’t know how long because after a year things are still changing. Maybe I will be living in a transitional state for the rest of my life. Maybe we are always in a transitional state.
And we never get out bodies “back.” That is not a thing. We only move forward.
My scanner is currently out of order, so here is a photo of this comic I made recently about Giles getting sick a couple weeks ago:
I know it’s my choice. To start weaning now and get the mammo and MRI as soon as possible (which will be about a year or so from now) or nurse Giles as long as he needs/wants and delay the screenings? I hadn’t realized how long it takes to wean a baby. It’s a slow, gradual process. If I start now it may take months until he is completely weaned. And it’s at that point that the nine month clock starts. So much waiting.
There’s emotions. And hormones. Breastfeeding is such a hormonal thing. At the very thought of stopping I start to cry, and I run over to Greg and Giles on the couch, where Giles is happily taking a bottle. I cuddle against them, my eyes big puddles of tears, Giles looks up at me.
And then there are moments when I feel ready, and know that everything will be fine.
Except everything isn’t fine. I’m afraid of what will happen to healthcare, to women’s healthcare specifically, to the idea of pre-existing conditions. I’m worried for my body, for my mind, for my future second pregnancy that will happen sometime during the Trump administration.
So many things to worry about– both big picture and very personal. I don’t really know what I’m going to do. But I am going to do things, one tiny thing at a time. Ask for help, seek out other moms who can reassure me or give me mother-led-weaning tips. Get back into some kind of therapy. Talk to my husband a LOT. Walk. Do yoga. Snuggle my baby. Cook something new. Buy local produce/meat/cheese. Get my son his first library card. Read to him. Dance with him. Sing. Draw. Write. Take a hot shower. Say “I love you” a lot. Keep my own medical records. Slowly shorten nursing sessions. Check my breasts for lumps. Call my doctors and ask questions. Pay attention to my body.
And after a lot of months, after a year, after an undetermined amount of time, get a mammogram and a breast MRI and get prescribed Lorazapam for these procedures to help calm me down.
I expected to test positive, but the news still felt emotional. Knowing for sure that my mom had the gene mutation, wishing we could have found out sooner, not knowing if it would have made any difference. The idea that I may have passed this on to Giles. My future babies.
Now I can get early screenings and do all the things I need to do. If I ever get cancer it will be diagnosed as early as possible, and that’s what saves lives (not any kind of “cure”). But I will always be waiting. I’ll get tested and tested and hopefully I will always be fine. But. But. But.
Next come the appointments. A High Risk Breast Clinic and the Dana Farber Li Fraumeni Clinic. Attempting breast self-exams while full of milk and tender. Mammograms. Breast MRIs. Other screenings. I’ve filled out my family history so many times already, can’t they just send it to each other? Faxing, scanning, calling. Holding a baby and talking on the phone: his gurgles and “ba ba ba” sounds in one ear, the nurses and receptionists in the other.
I’ll probably be fine. I am fine.
LFS mutant ninja turtles.