A Psychoanalytic Essay Centered Around Weaning

I realized last Saturday that I need to quit nursing my babies. I have noticed a decline in my milk the past month or so, and I have tried everything I can think of to increase my supply. However, I am not succeeding. Neither one of them seems interested in baby food (they'll eat it if it isn't pureed but still get the "Are you kidding me?" look on their faces whenever something is in their mouths); I think I might be starving them. This is about the same time that I lost my milk with my other babies. I knew it was coming.

I sobbed until my pillow was soaked.

I've been trying to psychoanalyze myself. Why in the world am I having such a difficult time accepting that this chapter of my life is over (the bearing children chapter)??? I know that I cannot have any more children (we've been over this), so why is it so hard for me to be happy about the next chapter? Good grief - we have five...5...FIVE kids, and there was a time when we seriously wondered if we would even have two. Why can't I just count my blessings? In trying to get completely honest with myself, I realized that I am good at babies, but I am not good at older children. I don't know what to do with them. I don't know how to nurture them and show them affection. I'm truly horrible at it.

I am terrified.

I wish I had those first few years of Austin's life on video (not creepy, reality show video, but just something that I have to myself to capture all those feelings that I had for him). I was a fabulous mother. Even though he was a fussy baby, I absolutely adored him. I worked part time after I had him. My manager had a baby six months before Austin, and we created an in-office day care for the two of them. It was perfect. When he was a newborn, I nursed him while at work, and when he got a little older, I would visit him several times a day. We ate lunch together, and I even potty trained him while at work because he was a few feet away from me the entire time. If he ever got hurt or was just too tired, I could console him or rock him to sleep. I just took my breaks with him. He was the highlight(s) of my day.

I remember being at my in-laws house when Austin was about the age of Spencer and Kade (maybe eight or nine months) and my niece (who is possibly the most observant child I have ever met) asked me why I kiss him so much. Without missing a beat, I told her that is how babies grow. Her mom laughed and agreed with me. I had never noticed how much time I spent munching his cheeks, tickling his chest with my chin, or pretending to eat his legs to get a laugh. I had never noticed how much I actually looked forward to changing his diaper because it meant that I got to play with him for a few minutes.

At Austin's baby shower, I remember playing an advice game (where everybody gives you the best parenting advice they have). I remember someone saying that a mother should always light up when her child enters the room. I did this with him. I remember crawling into his room to get him up for his nap and peeking over the side. He knew this game well and would be so quiet and excited with the anticipation, then he would squeal with delight when I peeked into the crib. Sometimes, I would twiddle my thumbs waiting for him to wake up because I missed him (sounds pretty cheesy huh).

As a toddler, Austin was obsessed with anything "Construction." He had construction Tonka trucks, giant replica's to play with in the dirt, and documentaries on how to build a road or how to build a skyscraper. When we went to the library (which I did dutifully every three weeks), he came home with stacks of books about backhoes and dump trucks. I used to pack lunches for the two of us and drive to a construction site. We would watch them work while we ate lunch. He LOVED it!

When I lost baby after baby, I had Austin to console me. I wanted a baby so badly that my arms ached - literally. There were days when I felt like I had been lifting weights all day because my arms throbbed to be cuddling a baby. There were several nights when I would go into Austin's room, scoop up his too-big body, and attempt to rock him. I was so grateful I had him. He saved me. He gave me a purpose (a darling, energetic, toe-headed reason) to get out of bed in the morning, put on a happy face, and enjoy him to the fullest. He also gave me a purpose to keep fighting. I just felt so compelled to do anything in my power to get him a sibling. When I wanted to give up, I thought of him, and I knew I needed to keep searching for an answer and just keep trying.

Then Macy was born and Austin was three. He did not adjust well. He had been the center of my universe, his Daddy's universe, and my parent's universe for three years. Sharing the spotlight did not come easily. I had quit work completely at this point, but I thought that perhaps he needed something that was entirely his to help him with his behavior. I signed him up for a little preschool program. He was only gone a few hours a week, but I hoped it would help him feel special and like a very "Big Boy."

After just a few days at school, the teacher walked him out to the car with "The Look." I had never seen "The Look" before. It was the look of complete and utter exhaustion and frustration and it said, "I don't get paid enough to put up with this kid." (Unfortunately, I know "The Look" all too well by now. I can spot it a mile away. It's okay for me to have "The Look," but it sends me spinning when I see it on other people.) She explained how he was hitting and that hitting is not allowed in school and maybe he just isn't old enough yet and maybe I should reconsider and maybe take a few months and teach him how not to hit. Fabulous!

I have thought long and hard about my reaction to other's peoples reactions to my children. I really believe that it isn't that I want my kids to fit into the box that other people create for them, and it really isn't that I care what other people think (mostly). I think my answer is two-fold. First, I do not like to cause problems. I've always tried to "play by the rules" even though I rarely agree with the rules. (See how complicated it gets when you try to be honest with yourself.) I don't like to get in trouble. I don't like to be called out. When I see "The Look," I feel so desperately that I've done something wrong, and I'm embarrassed that we've caused trouble. Secondly, I've realized that it breaks my heart because I'm intentionally sending my children to be instructed by someone that can't stand them. I don't want my children feeling so unloved and like a "bad" kid. Unfortunately, my reaction is anger. I'm angry that my kids aren't acting the way that they've been taught so they don't cause problems so people don't have to dislike them and treat them like they dislike them. I'm angry that I can't always protect them. I'm angry that I don't know how to react.

The dichotomy of this is that I know my children need to make mistakes. I am so extremely grateful for the mistakes I've made in my life. My parents were amazing to let me make my own choices, even when they knew that it was going to be disastrous and that I'd have some pretty big consequences to deal with. I know there are certain lessons that I would not have learned without going through those experiences. I have a much greater understanding of the Savior because of those experiences.

My parents are amazing.

Getting back to my main problem: I don't know how to parent when the struggles change from one million diapers and the price of formula and not sleeping through the night in nearly 9 years to succeeding in school, gaining a testimony, teaching responsibility and work ethic, successful relationships with other people, selflessness, charity, etc., etc., etc. I don't know how to show affection when I can no longer rock a baby to sleep or pull a toddler on my lap to cuddle up with a book or give chubby little tummy zerbets or play peek-a-boo with the blankets when I am tucking my 4-year-old in bed.

I am terrified.

I have more doubts than I've ever had about this next phase of my life. I feel like a failure before I've even started. Greg is so much better at nurturing Austin and Macy. When Macy gets hurt or scared, the only person she wants is her dad (and she's pretty honest in letting me know that I am NOT her first choice-and rarely her second). Greg is amazing with Austin. A couple of weeks ago, I asked Greg to teach me how to sit and build a lego ship. I don't know how. I asked him how he can lie on the lower bunk while Austin is in the top bunk and just chat for a half an hour. Or how he can drive up to Lava Hot Springs with Austin and talk and play the entire time. What do they talk about? How does he get Austin to open up? Why, oh why, can't I do it?

I simply don't know how to be a loving, supportive mother to an older child. I remember rocking and loving Austin as a baby and looking into those inquisitive, blue eyes and saying, "I love you so much! I promise I will never yell at you! I never want to hurt you! I promise that I will only be uplifting and 100% supportive! You will always know how much I love you!" Now I hold Spencer and Kade with the same inquisitive, blue eyes and say, "I love you so much! I wish I could promise you that I'll never yell at you or lose my temper, but I will. There will probably be days when I'll want to leave you on the curb with a sign that says 'Free.' I hope that you will forgive me and still be able to feel my love for you."

Five kids is A LOT more than three. Most of the time, I don't feel the affects too badly. I simply "do" because I have to (one foot in front of the other right?!?). But there are definitely times when it overwhelms me. (How in the world do you women do it who have 7 or 8 kids. You are amazing!!!) My wish...my hope...my desire is for my children to know that I love them - through their mistakes and their successes. Now if I can just figure out how to do that after they turn four.