First, a little background. Many summers ago (OK only 2, but 2 sounds less dramatic) I learned a profound lesson about life while inner tubing down the Yakima river with my fabulous cousins, Sarah Joy and Rachel. We began our tubing adventure somewhat spontaneously, as most adventures begin. It fell at the end of a two day girl's trip to Leavenworth, WA: a Bavarian themed tourist town surrounded by mountains and rivers, and overflowing with businesses whose names begin with "Der" or "Das". We had just checked out of "Der Ritterhoff" hotel (famous for its 50 foot plastic statue of a knight in der shining armor)
and had picked up a few food items at "der Safeway" (I am not making this up) when we decided we could not conclude der weekend without one more sporty adventure. And thus we arrived at Der Inner Tubing place (I AM lying about this title, because I can't remember der actual name).Clad in ill-fitting skorts and fresh farmer tans, we boarded a dilapidated van and traveled with our Bavarian tubes roughly .23 miles down the road to the riverside. I should have known I was in for a rough ride when the other tubers (not to be confused with flower bulb appendages) began their graceful glide down the river while I was still planted on the shore, desperately searching my inner tube for a hidden compartment in which to put my beverage (it ended up in my crotch...thank goodness for skorts).
Once I was finally IN the water, all was well...for roughly .23 centimeters. At which point I encountered some frightening rapids (OK, just 1) and began the behavior that has now come to symbolize my less impressive moments as a mother. I am not sure how to describe this behavior. If you imagine a beetle stuck on its back, flailing its numerous legs in a desperate attempt to flip over (and wearing a skort for some reason), you may get the idea. Except my flailing was part of an effort to steer away from the imminent rapids. I applied all of the skills I learned in swim team to this effort, but to no avail. Because apparently when you're in a tube, circling your arms rapidly and gyrating your torso in an upside down butterfly stroke does not give you much leverage. In fact, it just makes you swirl around in clumsy circles as the river carries you towards what you fear most.
Thankfully, at this point my cousins (who were peacefully floating about 500 feet ahead of me like water nymphs) came to my rescue by yelling this profound advice: "Just go with the flow Lana!". I said a small prayer to God to take care of my husband and family when I was gone, imagined what the reporters would say ("champion swimmer found at the bottom of the Yakima river, wearing a skort for some reason")and grudgingly ceased my frantic beetle/butterfly stroke. And you can guess what happened next, because I am here to write this very profound blog post. I passed safely over the rapid(s) and eventually joined the nymphs on the journey forward, or downward. I then spent the remainder of the journey rambling about how life is like inner tubing, and you must just let go and go with DER flow.
Although I remembered this lesson often in the following years, it appears to have been erased from my psyche by motherhood hormones. Motherhood has been amazing; all the cliches you hear, and then some. I never knew it was possible to love one little person so much, and life with a child is incredibly fulfilling. But (cue change of mood music) there have been countless moments of frantic flailing since I became a mommy six months ago. Part of it can be blamed on that good old scapegoat: hormones. Part of it is the responsibility of caring for a helpless human who is totally dependent on you. And part of it, I believe, is the monumental stack of expectations I brought to the adventure of motherhood.
When I was pregnant, I made many cocky statements such as "I think breastfeeding problems are largely psychological, so I'm just not going to worry about it" and "I'm just going to take my baby everywhere..I mean you still have to live your life right?". I envisioned myself the quintessential Seattle mom; strolling through farmer's markets, wearing my cherubic infant in a trendy wrap, gushing breast milk and a calm maternal aura. I'm not sure where I got this image- but I suspect it may have something to do with the childhood pictures of my hippie mother nursing a naked 3 year old me in various pristine natural settings.
So it came as quite a surprise when Elliot was 2 months old and I still found myself afraid to take him anywhere alone. I bravely ventured out one day to join a new mom's group in order to vent about my fear of venturing out. Five minutes into the journey, Elliot began to cry (as babies do, I'm told) and I turned my inner tube around in a tearful butterfly stroke and rushed home, singing "the Wheels on the Bus" at an increasingly frantic tempo. Thankfully I am blessed with numerous wise mother friends (including my mother and mother-in-laws) who reassured me that Elliot WOULD survive a tearful car ride, and would not be damaged for life if I took him to the grocery store.
It came as an even bigger surprise to discover that breastfeeding problems are NOT all psychological...unless you consider flat nipples, mastitis infections, and nipple blisters to be psychological challenges. I forged my tube over these rapids and continued to breastfeed, with the aid of many visits to the lactation consultant water nymph. But nothing prepared me for the biggest rapid of all. At 3 months of age, Elliot began to pull away and look at me like I'd stabbed him each time he nursed. I did everything I could think of to get him back on the breast, but most of the time we both ended up in tears. I could go on about this issue, but what it came down to was a bad case of infant acid reflux. Basically, it hurt Elliot to eat, and so he learned that nursing equaled pain. Not exactly the hippie mom nursing nirvana I had planned on.
I spent about a month (which I now refer to as "the July from HELL") flailing down the reflux river, pumping a dwindling supply of breast milk and bottle feeding a resistant baby about 14 times a day to get him to eat enough to grow. Just when it seemed that Elliot and I were going to capsize, we found a medication for his reflux that let him eat with far less discomfort. That was 3 months ago. Today, he only fights the bottle in public or when he first begins to drink, and he is grazing in the far greener pastures of solid foods. We are incredibly thankful.
I still find myself gyrating in a frantic butterfly stroke whenever Elliot's reflux flares up or he just isn't very hungry. During these times, my husband serves as the water nymph (visual of Rob in a speedo) calmly reassuring me that Elliot WILL be OK. Elliot's smiles, drooly kisses, and giggles also remind me to relax, take a breath, and go with the flow. Once I stop flailing and let go of my expectations for myself and my child, I realize that motherhood truly IS a beautiful thing- even if it's a bumpier ride than I anticipated.
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