Let Go: My First Lesson in Parenthood (and an old one in life)

A few nights ago, when Catherine had finally fallen asleep, Ben and I watched an episode of Rick Steves Europe (a favorite of ours) on PBS. It was January 10^th, we were having dinner on the couch – something we usually only do when the Dodgers play, but that has happened a few times since Catherine has joined us. The episode was about Naples and Pompeii.

I have never been to Pompeii, but the city has a special place in my heart; it is, in fact, one of my earliest memories of Ben and I dating. In the month of July of 2014, I went to see Pompeii: The Exhibition, at the California Science Center with my friend George, and when I returned home I sent Ben a few pictures from the museum.

Every time I think about that day I smile; I feel butterflies in my stomach just like I did then.

But I love Pompeii also because of its history, or its fate, I rather say. For nothing like the sudden disappearance of an entire civilization is exemplary of the ephemeral nature of life and – as a direct consequence – of the importance of letting go of old ideas that don’t serve us any more, or of new obsessions that never will. The people of Pompeii had no idea that, from one day to the other, they would be buried in ash, and forgotten for more than 1600 years. This history test never fails to find me unprepared.

I mention ancient Roman history because I had to let go of a lot in the past six weeks, from the very birth of Catherine, on December 16^th, 2017.

After 3 weeks, she had not returned to her birth weight. I would nurse her for hours, all day long, at times, with short breaks to keep intact what remained of my sanity – and yet she would only gain a few ounces.

“She eats all day long and she doesn’t gain weight; I wish I had that problem.”

I’d laugh at times. But deep inside, I was worried and frustrated; Catherine was too. I felt guilty and powerless.

“Why can’t I give her what she needs?”

I kept asking.

“Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine; and there’s nothing wrong with giving her the bottle, by the way,”

some friends said.

“It’s all normal, welcome to parenthood!”

others joked.

But I knew something wasn’t right. I kept breastfeeding, but also added some organic formula, that we bought from Europe, to see if – once gained the proper amount of weight – she would sleep better, be more relaxed, and less frantic at the breast. But nothing changed; she continued to cry uncontrollably, she was always hungry, and we were at a loss as to how to help her. We all fell into a dark place. Ben worried that the first difficult weeks of Catherine’s life could leave trace of such darkness, and that they’d aggravate my anxiety. I was terrified that stress and lack of sleep would get him sick and depressed.

By week four, we had seen three lactation consultants, and by week five, after seeing the fourth, and after much discussing with our doula, we finally understood that Catherine had a mild case of tongue-tie that didn’t allow her to properly latch, and therefore get what she needed from my breast. So while taking all the necessary steps to solve the problem, from CranioSacral Therapy to possible frenectomy (to loosen the fold of skin beneath her tongue), I had to let go of what I had envisioned for us, solely breastfeeding, and accept that Catherine would need some help until nursing would get better. In essence, I had to let go of my old ideas, just like I had done when, 9 weeks pregnant, my weight had increased more than I had wanted and expected, or when, 36 weeks pregnant, the doctor told me that if my placenta wouldn’t go up by week 38, I’d need a C-section. Thankfully, it didn’t happen – I actually ended up having a beautiful labor and delivery journey – but letting go had been necessary, difficult yet incredibly freeing.

“Parenthood is the perfect example of powerlessness, of how you do your best, and leave the rest up to your higher power,”

a friend had said to me when I couldn’t get pregnant.

She was right; mother for only six weeks, I had to be open to changing, to the unforeseen, the sudden hunger, crying, and diaper changes. As a woman, I had to become patient and kinder to myself; I had to take care of my wounded body undergoing yet another transformation, and I had to allow the healing to guide my new rhythm. As a writer, I had to accept that it would take me weeks to sit down and turn my notes into the column you are reading, and that it would take me even longer to finish the query to the agents I want to send my book to. As a wife, I had to accept Ben’s help and love more than I ever did, I had to rediscover us as a couple, intimacy and all. As a cook, I had to let go of what I wanted in the kitchen, and accept that making supper like I used to, had to wait. I don’t like to order in, and yet we have been relying on Postmates quite often lately. I had groceries delivered from the local Whole Foods, and diapers sent to my doorstep by Amazon, both something I had promised I’d never do. I had to acknowledge that there was nothing wrong with adventuring outside the definite lines of my uncompromising manual for living.

A few days ago, Karla, our amazing doula, came over and spent the day with us. After putting Catherine to sleep, we stood in the hallway as she asked:

“What can I do to take some weight off your shoulders?”

She smiled, genuinely and lovingly, infusing the house with a peaceful sense of lightness.

“Anything you want me to cook while you take a nap?”

For dinner, I had planned on making butternut squash soup, and without much thinking I said: “Maybe you can chop butternut squash and leeks for tonight’s soup?” But I began to panic before the sentence was over. For the idea of someone doing something for me was heavily filled with guilt and obsessive control.

I ignored the urge to rethink the plan and I walked to the bedroom; I pulled the curtains and lowered the blackout shades. After taking off my jeans I lay down under a warm blanket; I was exhausted but I couldn’t fall asleep. All I could think about was the butternut squash.

Letting go, at times, can easily be mistaken for defeat. But when I do let go, because I do know that life can’t be controlled, all I feel is relief, lightness, and an empowering sense of courage.

I consider myself extremely lucky to have people who help me in my daily life, especially during this postpartum journey. My parents were here for three weeks after Catherine was born, Karla spends several days and nights with us, and Reyna helps keeping the house clean. My upbringing however, didn’t resemble the life I have today: my family couldn’t afford help, so we never had a doula, a nanny or a housekeeper – both my parents worked hard, and my mom was a champion at cooking after she returned from school (she was an elementary school teacher), at cleaning, and sawing us beautiful clothes.

I began this essay with Pompeii, and I want to close it with it.

The people of Pompeii had no idea that, from one day to the other, they would be buried in ash, and that they would be forgotten for centuries.

So I must think twice before wasting my time holding onto the unimportant. Maybe, the vegetables will be cut differently, even better, and the living room table not as organized as I wish; maybe, Ben will be more tired than I want him to be, and the kitchen sink will not always be clear of all the dishes, but life is too short to be ruled by the old standards of what I think makes me worthy, deserving, a good wife, a good daughter, a good friend, a good writer, a good mother. I want to learn how to be ‘just’ Alice, so that I can teach my daughter how to be “just” Catherine”.  And I want to go to Pompeii one day, to be reminded yet again of how fragile life is, and that to let go is the key not to waste it.

Thank you all for following me and my journey.

Love,

Alice