The Lamest Advice

Before Milo was born, a lot of parents offered us their advice. Some of it was helpful. Plenty of it bugged. There is one bit that is seared into my memory because it came from so many different people. Parents (generally ones who have already weathered the treachery of the first year) would smugly smile and say to us, “Sleep now while you can.”

If you ask me, this is shitty advice. Any dummy knows you can’t actually stock up on sleep. It would inspire a sense of dread in us about the impending sleep deprivation and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

They were right, of course. Sleeping more than 4-5 hours in a row is a thing of the past. We are endlessly exhausted. Even though the warnings about how hard it would be were technically correct, no one could prepare my lone heart for the fact that it was about to start beating for this little man.

Being pregnant was pretty tough. I gained 45 (okay 50) pounds. Seriously, 50 pounds. Milo weighed 8 lbs. 6 oz. when he was born. You do the math. I work downtown, so every day I hauled myself on the train to Union Station, on the Red Line to Pershing Square, and then up the hill to the NationBuilder offices at the Biltmore. Have you ever smelled downtown LA? That’s no good on a decent day. Try walking through a neighborhood that smells like a combination of urine and trash at 8 weeks pregnant. Then, a 30-hour induced labor that for all intents and purposes, sucked. All that to say – growing a human was some hard stuff.


 But those kicks. And that heartbeat. The look on my parents’ faces when we told them they were going to be grandparents. The memory of my Joey by my side for every minute of the labor and delivery. The smell of Milo’s head right after he was born.

Milo at 3 weeks, refusing to sleep.

The first 3 weeks of Milo’s life were so freaking hard. Breastfeeding was brutal. La Leche League can kiss my ass. I don’t care how good the latch is, that shit hurts. The unsolvable crying that would start up at 6pm and wrap up around midnight (if we were lucky). And nobody, I mean nobody, could have prepared us for that level of sleep deprivation. But I maintain – you know what wasn’t helpful? Smug well-rested parents having told us that we should stock up on sleep.

It was hard, for reals. No getting around that one.

But you guys, my son. My gorgeous son. He is a real live person and the most fantastic one I’ve ever met. The smile when he sees me, the rolls on those thighs, the brightness in his eyes, the way he babbles and sings himself to sleep. My heart beats for this guy.

I’m still so tired all the time. I go to work and come home tired. I play with my son and try to help him stay happy until he goes to bed. I go to sleep and wake up to feed him. Then I wake up at 5:30am to go to work and do it all again. I am exhausted. But you guys, my son.

Sometimes I want a day to myself. Sometimes I wish we had a person who lived with us who could do all the hard work of taking care of a baby while we just got to enjoy the baby smiles and coos. This season is the most relentlessly tiring of my life. I am emptied every day. But every day I find myself filled again with meaning and love.

I am so exhausted. But you guys, my son.

Kicking at Peace

There is this moment with my son – when he is in his swing and I can tell he’s tired but doesn’t want to sleep. I put the pacifier in his mouth, he fights it and moves his head around. But the moment always comes, when he starts working on that pacifier with a vengeance, his eyes roll back in his head, and sleep takes him. This is the most satisfying moment of my day, because whether or not he thinks he wants it, I’ve helped my Milo find peace and rest.

I feel a little like him in that middle moment all the time, the one where comfort and rest are offered, and I kick them off thinking I don’t want them. But I need them.

So I fill up the spaces in my life. Checking email. Looking at my phone. Reading baby forums that I kind of hate. Scrolling through social media. Checking email again. Never surrendering to the quiet places in life. And then complaining about being tired.

The state of my soul is directly linked to the space I give it.

If I had to give my faith a color, I’d say that over the course of the last few years, it’s turned to a purplish gray. More gray than purple. It used to be pretty bright, maybe even teal. I’m not even sure what it is I’m looking for anymore, and have serious doubts about my faith ever becoming that bright, untarnished teal again. But my hope and prayer is that maybe if I start giving my soul a little space again (this is directly tied to the minutes in every day that I don’t look at my cell phone), the colors can start to wake back up.

As many times as I try to kick them away, peace and rest for my tired soul call my name.