I could yack about this until I’m blue in the face, and you’re probably tired of hearing me talk about it, especially if you haven’t experienced it and it’s just um… awkward! But I so feel the need to talk about the loss of a tiny child because it’s so taboo and women HURT because of that.

So this blog post is for all of those many, many, many women who contacted me after my miscarriage. You sent me emails, cards, texts, a whole host of encouragement. Your stories were so intense, so devastating, so real. Knowing that I wasn’t alone in my anger, sadness, and hope kept me going.

My heart breaks for the women who have experienced this loss over and over again. And they continue to wake up each day and try life over again. It is heart-wrenching to lose a piece of you only to look around and see women who seemingly have what you want and have it so easily. I know what it’s like to want to walk up to that woman who is grumbling at her kids in Target and say, “They are so precious. You have no idea.” You just want them to see how daggone blessed they are.

But what makes me admire you women even more than the fact that you got out of bed today, is how you reach out to other hurting women and let them cry in your arms in the middle of a church service, or send them to online support groups, or drop them that email to ask how they are doing today. You know what it was like to go it alone, and come hell or high water you are not going to let other women go it alone.

Thank you.

Thank you for being that to me and to other women who are undergoing loss. You are so unbelievably brave.

Thank you for being a friend to your friends (including me) who have been blessed with other kids. Thank you for holding those babies, for snuggling them, for babysitting them. Thank you for going outside of yourself.

I want you to know this. I cannot ever make it right. I cannot ever give you that which was taken from you… that which I understand you wanting back so badly. I am one of those crazy women who were outrageously blessed with a baby after a loss, and please know that not a day goes by that I am not eternally grateful for the gift I’ve been given. I will pour my life into her again and again, and on the days that I don’t feel I have the strength to mother her, I will take on your strength and mother her as you would. If I screw up everything else, I will raise my daughter to be like you – a brave women who is willing to talk about difficult things and reach out a hand to people who are hurting.

I promise.

And you should also know that my daughter is yours too. You are her second, and third, and fourth, and four hundreth mama. And I am very proud to share her with you.

We’re still recovering from the excitement of having family here all last week, and I just have so little to say. (As an aside, I’m considering a rather substantial blogging hiatus. Sharing has become tedious, and I’m tempted to become reclusive and make other people do the work to know me for a change.) I have a million and one things I need to do, so here is a picture of my not-so-tiny-anymore turtle playing in the exersaucer that used to be her cousins’. She totally digs it.

Life before her was totally unnecessary.

From Daily Daguerreotype

This weekend we found ourselves in New Jersey introducing Penny to Matt’s family and enjoying the fruits of Penny’s Pops’ clambake. It was outstanding.

Don’t believe me?

Visual proof:

Penny did a great job flying and being in a new place all weekend, and handled the festivities well with only minor meltdowns. I was awfully proud of her. But frankly, I was proudest of myself.

You see, on Saturday night we left her with my mother-in-law and sister-in-laws so Matt and I could go out to dinner to celebrate our six year anniversary. It was my first time leaving her with anyone other than Matt and for longer than two hours or so. Fortunately, she was in the very capable hands of an allergist’s nurse, a pediatric nurse practitioner, and a therapist for the criminally insane. Which really gave her maniacal alter ego free reign to go all Winnie the Pooh on the nearest jug of peanut butter, should it wish.

I got a little verclempt walking out the door, but as soon as we were in the car listening to some Genesis, I relaxed and proceeded to thoroughly enjoy the company of my best friend at the restaurant where we celebrated our very first wedding anniversary. I ate all of the sinfully delicious delicacies that I swore off during pregnancy including clams and oysters on the half shell and a filet mignon still mooing. Penny only came up in conversation briefly, but other than that we had a great time just being with each other alone.

I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I can be away from her for a few hours so early in her life without turning into a basketcase. I want my daughter to be independent and confident. I consider this first night out as the first step towards making sure she never moves home after college.

Letting go has hit me with full force in another way this week. My special friend has returned. I suppose it is the price to pay for a little nugget who sleeps well at night, but I was not at all ready to welcome it back into my life. And I was not at all ready for the shakeup it would cause to my milk supply. I’m desperately pushing through it to make sure I can continue breastfeeding, but since Thursday I have had to give Penny two bottles of formula.

Yes, the first bottle had me sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor crying.

I’ve already mentioned that I’m not outrageously passionate about breastfeeding, but I guess I expected to be able to wean her when I wanted and how I wanted, not to be stuck in a moment with a hungry baby and nothing to give her. I should have known better.

I could be a purist and just make Penny feed every thirty minutes or so until things kick back into place, but I hate seeing her hungry. So I have resolved to give her formula when I don’t have enough milk for her and to pump 24/7 instead. And you know what? It’s not going to kill her even though it’s killing a teeny tiny little piece of me.

Because I know this letting go is good for me, because I want to be a chill and laid-back mom, I am choosing to roll with the punches and keep smiling.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t totally reorganize my linen closet and kitchen cabinets today to have something I could control. Boo-ya!

When I got married, the first thing that struck me like a bolt of lightning was the fact that marriage is like constantly looking in a mirror through a microscope. All of my horrible attributes were clearly visible to me like never before, and I suddenly had someone to hold me accountable for my wretchedness. Likewise, Matt finally had someone who made him get off his butt, and also forced him to stop wearing polo shirts to evening weddings.

Having a child is similar to that, except I’d say it’s more like watching old home videos of you from years past. I don’t really know what this is like since my parents were both too cheap to purchase video equipment and also too technologically inept. But I have seen many home videos of Matt as a kid because his parents recognized the importance of having his future wife see him playing the trumpet and looking like a total nerd in junior high. They knew that he would one day grow up to be too hot to handle, and that when he brought home his girlfriend, who felt far too dorky to be dating such a stud, she would be encouraged to know that at heart, he was just as dorky as she was.

That is all neither here nor there. What I am saying is that Penelope is just like me. And she is just like Matt. And of course, she’s got her own smattering of plain old wonderful Penelope. But I have recently been smacked in the face by how similar she is to me, and how I need to compensate for that.

The kid doesn’t like to nap. She just doesn’t. She loves sleeping at night, and does it beautifully. But she is so absorbed with the busy life around her that she doesn’t want to take the time to sleep. She wants to keep on taking it all in.

At first I tried to find her internal schedule which barely exists. Because she’s like me. She’d rather fly by the seat of her pants and roll with the punches than have any sort of schedule. So I just ran with that. And I’d drag her shopping and to coffee with friends and she would enjoy it all, but be a basketcase for a few hours afterwards. Because at two months old, she’d be awake for three, four, sometimes five hours with just a fifteen minute snooze nestled somewhere in there.

I thought this was great! And she was oh, so flexible! And don’t I want my kid to be flexible!? Except, I never knew what to expect from her, and she never knew what to expect from me. There was absolutely no structure except at going-to-bed time. And then I realized I am raising a kid who has all my tendencies to live a completely un-structured life, and that will lead to her dating men with chemical dependencies.

So today I instituted a nap training routine. All in the name of saving Penny from men with chemical dependencies.

What I have learned from Matt is that structure isn’t all bad. Routine can be good. Especially for kids. Matt is a person who really enjoys routine and predictability. Keeping his word means everything to him. And I absolutely love that about him.

As I’m home all day with Penny, I have realized I need to be for her what Matt is for me. I have to be predictable. And when she knows what to expect from me she will trust me. And that can only be good.

Sure, I want my kid to be as flexible and happy as any other well-rounded kid out there. But she isn’t gonna be able to enjoy flexibility if she never ever naps.

I am four hours into this day of nap training, and I have had two wins and one loss. Which means it’s time for more coffee. And no, Penny, your mama isn’t chemically dependent on coffee. I mean…

Just moments before she spit up all over her outfit and my shoulder.

From Daily Daguerreotype

Penny was a rockstar all weekend with lots of time spent in the car and staying up past her bedtime a few days in a row. Her newest thing is screaming at the top of her lungs… just to hear her own voice.

No, I have no clue where she got that.

The weather here is still in the 90s, although the past few days have had cooler afternoons with a slight breeze. When I take Penny and Berlin outside for Berlin’s afternoon playtime, it’s actually been enjoyable, almost feeling like Fall.

Yesterday Matt got home from work early, so we took the girls to the park for a walk. After getting some exercise, we found a shady spot and pulled Penny out of her stroller to lounge in the grass for a while. I don’t know who loved it more, Penny, or Berlin who couldn’t stop licking and snuggling up to the newest member of our family.

My mind has made the shift to Fall even if it hasn’t actually hit the calendar yet, mainly because of the arrival of butternut squash in our CSA box. In the past, butternut squash in the grocery store always triggers Fall in my mind, so I guess it’s happening a little early this year. Because of it, I am spending significant portions of the day dreaming of cooler weather, long hikes outside, trips to local farms to pick apples and pumpkins, Trick or Treaters, and Thanksgiving feasts.

With Autumn on the brain, I decided to welcome it in a bit early by putting Penny in her very first hoodie.

From Daily Daguerreotype

Never look back, kiddo. You will know your mama by the hoodies she wears.

Penny’s also really starting to love bath time. I’d imagine every mom’s favorite part of bath time is when they get out of the water and need to be snuggled dry in a big fluffy baby towel.

From Daily Daguerreotype

I can’t wait for the weather to cool off so I can take her out of the bath, snuggle her into her towel, and sit in front of the fire to read her bedtime story and sing her bedtime songs.

When Matt and I were dating, I made a CD for him called “The Autumnal Mix” filled with songs that made me think of this, the greatest season. I think I’ll put it on today because it’s about that time in my daughter’s life when she should be introduced to Elvis Costello.

Maybe after bath time.

And maybe I’ll even risk it and let her go without a diaper for a whole fifteen minutes – the best way to enjoy Elvis Costello’s music, methinks.