Ode to single moms

After a week (okay a-l-m-o-s-t a week) long business trip to our fair neighbor, Canada, my husband returned to aid me in the world of toddler parenting. I had long dreaded his trip for many reasons, but most of all I wondered if I could make it as a single mom for a week.

It was a challenge. 

Outside of just missing him terribly, I had to navigate small day-to-day tasks that once seemed so effortless. I have a fairly demanding full-time job but adding motherhood to that was like a daily marathon from 5am to 11pm. I did all the classic 'gasp' bad parent things. I put Maika to bed in her clothes for the next day. I relied heavily on boxed macaroni and cheese. I let her eat cereal bars on-the-go in her stroller running to catch the bus. (And to the mean bus driver who told me I wasn't collapsing my stroller fast enough, I say BOOOO to you!) Oh, and Elmo, I used YouTube Elmo. We are TV-lite when it comes to Maika but I was ever so thankful for Sesame Street's celebrity collaborations with Jason Mraz, Feist, Katy Perry, Alicia Keys and Norah Jones. Genius! 

I brought Maika to our Grand Rounds and my amazing residents helped entertain her while I held the microphone and fielded questions. I was initially mortified and felt horribly unprofessional with a lap full of crumbs and sippy cup hanging off my chair, but came to realize that parenthood has so much to do with community. I was so lucky that my work community embraced my child. I could not have survived the week without an understanding bunch of family-friendly colleagues

My husband's return lifted an incredible weight from my shoulders. I am so fortunate to have an actual parenting partner. I know there are so many women out there who can do it all alone and I would never say anyone needs a man to do this, but I am so thankful 

I have someone to share the responsibility and to share in the delight of our daughter's wonderful personality. I am in awe of single moms out there who do this day in and day out. It is rewarding and amazing to be a mother but exhausting at the same time. It truly takes a village, and I think many moms feel very much alone in this process...maybe group parenting is the future! We need to collaborate all of our resources!

So a week after Thanksgiving, I can say I am thankful my husband is so wonderful about taking Maika into daycare every morning. I can say I did judge a little in the past and turn down my nose at "convenience" foods and mismatched, rumpled sartorial choices. Ugh....I was a judgy-ignorant fool! I was happy to give myself license to just let go for a week and forgive myself for not being a "perfect" mom for a little while. I learned a lesson from my husband's absence...it's unrealistic to believe working motherhood is compatible with organic, homemade dinners and an evening of arts & crafts. I'm very grateful for modern day conveniences and the 15-minute reprieve  a fuzzy, red-furred, high-pitched monster is able to give me. 

Xo

M 

Safe

As a current Washingtonian but forever New Yorker, I have had to reconsider lately what it means to be safe. As Wikipedia tells me, "safety" is the state of being "safe" (from French, sauf), the condition of being protected against physical, social, spiritual, financial, political, emotional, occupational, psychological, educational or other types or consequences of failure, damage, error, accidents, harm or any other event which could be considered non-desirable. That's a mouthful... I surely didn't feel safe the day of the Navy Yard shootings while CNN informed me that another shooter was possibly at large and roaming about our Nation's Capitol. My heart raced getting through to my daughter's daycare and my, "um, ah, just calling to see if Maika's alive?" (did I really just say that?) question bordered on absurd as I heard the words roll out of my mouth. But that is all I cared about in that moment and hearing that some DC schools were on lockdown in that neighborhood made my stomach turn for those parents. Yesterday's high speed car chase by the White House was also another jolting threat to my concept of "safe." I found myself worried for that young toddler, though, more than anyone else and the implications of a life lived without a mother and a legacy of being orphaned by a threat to national security.

My amazing, bright, confident medical assistant mother of two asked me yesterday, "Do you ever worry that someone could crawl into Maika's room and snatch her out of her bed in the middle of the night? I do. Is that crazy?"

No. No, that's not a crazy thought. Becoming a parent has come with a whole list of irrational fears about this little warm ball of a baby (okay, toddler) snuggled in the crook of my arm. 

I think I could live my whole life in fear of the things that might happen to Maika. Whether she will fall and get a concussion at the playground. Whether or not she needs to grow up in a green field or that maybe the bustle of urban life is better and will make her cultured and street smart. Whether growing up with a working mom will scar her sense of emotional security. Whether her elementary school has a pedophile nearby, I even think there's an app for that! I could spend my life worrying about keeping her safe and making secure measured choices that expose her to no risk but I think neither of us would enjoy that very much.

There are no guarantees in this life. 

Safety, be it physical, emotional, financial... I am not sure what that really means now.  I know that I have feared taking risks with my career and parenting choices and that has left me feeling somewhat unfulfilled and restricted, crippled by fears of failure. My husband often tells me not to make perfect the enemy of the good. I am guilty of that, of worrying too much about what I am "supposed" to do as opposed to making exciting, go with my gut choices. As a little girl I wanted to be a painter, live a gritty, rich, passionate life. I feared conventional adulthood and minivans and weeks of frozen casseroles. I am not exactly there yet but I think playing it "safe" could lead me down that path. At some point we stop believing that we can do anything, conquer any obstacle, learn new things. We have a short time on this earth...I get one chance to do this right. I want my daughter to have a bright, vibrant mother who isn't encumbered by conforming to societal norms. I don't want to be a hovering, anxious mom. I can keep her physically safe but I can't make every possible right choice for her to ensure outcome and a perfect life. There is no such thing.  Living a truly great, exciting life may mean feeling "unsafe" once in awhile. I can't live in fear of shootings, air pollution, autism, ADHD and parabens. I have to go outside. Maika needs to leap and be okay with falling once in awhile. It's the only way she'll ever get anywhere.

Xo,

M 

Year One.

Year One was a terrible movie. I do not recommend it. Year One of my daughter's life, however, was the  most delicious year yet.

Looking back at my musings about how hard this was, I realized that at some point I had stopped writing. Was it because it became easier? Well, yes! 

It has come time to write something celebratory, something to give thanks for an amazing, love-filled, albeit challenging year. 

I imagine my words echo what so many moms have already experienced, lived through and written about, but on the off chance there is a new mom out there who needs a little encouragement and peppy lift, here it goes.

She walks! The much anticipated event of ambulation. It is wonderful and scary and adorable. It will happen at some point, don't stress it or make comparisons at the playground. Rejoice when your baby figures it out. My shoe obsession has doubled, as has my capacity to love this past 12 months. I recommend the Melissa and Doug chomping alligators walking toy. We received this as a gift and it was absolutely delightful. 

She talks! We have to watch our words now and suddenly I realize how much my Maika has been absorbing from our daily musings on international news and frustrations at the office. I realize I say No too often (self reflection on life attitudes!). Maika. Index finger poised and shakes it back and forth with a declarative, "no." Simple and ridiculously cute, slightly sassy. Her personality is emerging and I am so excited.

She dances! Raising our daughter in an urban environment has come with many cons, but a definite pro is that my daughter can move! She has rhythm and great taste in music. Unfortunately, when NPR is on our car radio, she is not exactly pleased and I miss Garrison Keillor. 

She loves! As opposed to being her source of snacks, breast milk and general transportation, we are now the objects of her affection. Embracing our legs in a crowded room, fearful of local domesticated Pomeranians, confused by a stranger in a store, our little monkey turns to us for security and we are glad to provide. She will crawl up to our chests and settle in before bed, a warm snuggle that she chooses to initiate. It is so incredibly nice.

She survived! The SIDS risk drops dramatically after Year One and I release an overwhelming sigh of relief. Granted, the world ahead is filled with unknown dangers and I have slowly learned to worry less about the things that I cannot control.  Given my profession, I have seen SIDS take the most wonderful, beautiful babies. I thank the universe for my daughter's safe year and can only wish the same to other moms. On a lighter noted, she survived my mothering too and I have weaned from breastfeeding! 

She drank from a straw, she slept through the night, she has eight teeth. What more could I ask for? My life pre-baby was admittedly somewhat self-absorbed with time spent worrying about very trivial things. My life pre-baby never realized how many hours of awake time exist before 8am. It's definitely not for everyone, but I have loved becoming a mother. I hope I can keep doing it well. 

Xo,

M 

A good life

I worry too much about making messes. Ask my scrub techs in the OR, and they will tell you that I am constantly cleaning while operating. Folding lap sponges and suctioning everything, making sure my field is spotless. In surgery, this may be a great policy, but it adds a challenging element to raising an almost toddler. She is at this wonderful exploratory stage. Texture is a new discovery for her and she delights in squishing things between her fingers.  Avocados, honeydew, bananas are all crushed in her path! Like a mini-godzilla, blueberries pop in her fists and she displays her mighty grip at every opportunity.

I am a woman who likes to be in control. I like a clean floor, a snot-free nose, impeccable baby clothes. I became obsessed with Babyganics stain remover when a friend introduced me to it. I could spray away anything! I have tried to feed my daughter foods that leave little trace of their existence and meticulously contain the ever multiplying puddle of crumbs encircling her high chair. 

I don't think I realized how anal I was being until I noticed Maika with one of her baby wipes aggressively cleaning the bamboo floor. She then moved on to wiping the legs of a nearby stool, industriously scrubbing away. 

Is this the legacy I want to leave behind? An anxious mommy who is always cleaning and worried about being messy? No, no, that isn't right I say in the glorious words of moo, baa, la la la. I want to be fun. I am fun! 

Being a parent means letting go. Relinquishing control. Living in this moment now. All I have is today. As I write this on vacation in San Francisco, refreshed from a run on the pier, a belly full of great coffee, freshly baked croissants (yes plural!) and a sleeping baby next to me, I recognize how good this life is. I would be so foolish to squander it worried about messes, good preschools or stained onesies. 

Give in to the madness! Enjoy this moment. 

Make a big mess and laugh really hard. It's okay. You can clean up later.

Xo, 

M 

My Shoes.

I wear a size 8.
This is relatively big considering I am 5'3. Walking home from daycare last week with my BOB stroller trying to cross the street, I lost a shoe. A beautiful powder blue, patent leather Butter ballet flat. A car swept by and ran over my shoe sending it twirling into traffic. I was sad for two reasons. One that I was in a Cinderella-state on a sidewalk covered in gum stains and Two, wait that was supposed to be Maika's shoe one day!
I am constantly daydreaming of my daughter inheriting my stuff. I get excited buying my own clothing now because I imagine how cool she will think her mom is. How she will have this endless closet to choose from and we will play dress up together. In reality, as Maika is currently in the 105%tile or something ridiculous for height, I am guessing she will be about 8 years old when she surpasses me in stature.
But back to my shoe.
So, standing on one leftover shoe I made it to Nine West and purchased a terribly impractical pair of wedge sandals and continued my walk home. The 3 mile stroll was topped off by a windy moment which caught my billowy sundress and lifted it up in a senior citizen Marilyn Monroe moment. Was it sexy and funny? Um, no. No it was not. It was in the midst of Columbia Heights in front of my local free clinic with a row of construction workers on their smoke break. I mean, I can't even make this stuff up.
Humiliated and feeling badly about my now postpartum saggy behind, I scurried the last few blocks home in my new shoes. Thirty four year old Chinese lady Moons Locals! I could just imagine the headlines.
I carried my BOB up my front steps and laugh-cried for a moment.
This is urban living. Can I handle this with my babe? Is it worth it to live walking distance from my grocery store, Target and some pretty good restaurants? I am not so sure anymore. I am not quite ready for a goat farm in upstate New York, but I am starting to wonder if I need more trees in my life...
Xo,
M

Puke much?

Four years of medical school, four years of residency, hemorrhaging postpartum women, vaginal breech deliveries....nope, none of those prepared me for taking care of my own sick, puking daughter.

I have always considered myself pretty damn cool under pressure. In my personal life I am not exactly a hard, tough tiger lady. In my professional world, though, I can tell you there is little that can make my heart race, my palms sweat, raise my eyebrow even. I have two personalities, formerly Dr. Tham and Mrs. Metz. Unlike Mr. Hyde, Mrs. Metz is not a murderous villain or maniac, but she is emotional, often driven by deep-seeded mommy issues and has a tempestuous attitude at times. Dr. Tham is cool as a cucumber.
Where was Dr. Tham last night when a vomit-soaked Maika Tham Metz appeared on our video baby monitor at 915 PM, her hair drenched and face dripping? Dr. Tham was not on call.
My heart raced, my stomach dropped, and I leapt off the couch. A third character appeared, Mom. Mama. Mee-maw. Seeing your nine-month old daughter sick, covered in banana chunks and old Pedialyte is an easy reminder of your own mortality, vitality, capacity. It is also such an unbelievable bonding moment between parents. I saw my husband as a hero in some Harlequin romance novel, tearing up the stairs with me to rescue our little nugget.
So, Bath #4 of the day commenced. I found my soothing singing voice and made up words to the popular nursery rhymes we didn't sing in my Chinese American home. And I thought.
I thought long and hard about when I would come home from college and have a slight cough in the middle of the night, I would wake up with my mother standing over me in my bedroom. I remember how that used to irritate me to no end. How I thought my mom was a weird, crazy overprotective lady.
Last night, we slept in my daughter's room and I think I hovered over her bed so much that my back aches a bit this morning.
I will be a weird, overprotective lady. I will wear mom jeans one day so I don't embarrass my daughter with my clothes that are Too Young, Mom! I will do it, I will share these frightening, tachycardia-inducing moments with my husband and I will be strong. Dr. Tham and Mrs. Metz, you are not needed here.
Momma's here. I just didn't know we were the same person.
Xo
M

Wheeeee!

Maika's first time on the swings. Was it glorious? Was it magical squealing delight? Was it bubbling laughter and little plump legs kicking away?
Sadly, no. Mostly confusion and what on earth are you doing to me, mother?
In the midst of the swing experiment falling flat, the NRA also managed to ruin my day.
Parenting seems to have a lot of these moments. Little day to day events feel monumental and we somehow have to temper those feelings with emotions over major political upheaval, social injustice and newsworthy violence. I think even her birth was this way. I put too much unnecessary pressure and expectation on every moment, wanting it to be amazing with sparkles, rainbows and cherubs. Meanwhile, I knew all to well that there were other women in labor all around the world just hoping to survive their delivery.
Sometimes what I envision in my idealistic mind falls a little flat and I can't beat myself up over wanting so much for my daughter and losing sight of the big picture...that just bringing her up in a stable two parent home is enough.

There are going to be so many things my daughter will love that I will not, things that I would want so badly for her to appreciate that she might find ridiculous. Maybe she will be a six-foot awkward girl who hates sports or a gangly teen with a love for Dungeons and Dragons. The point is, I have no control.
I can't live in a world of expectations. I can't micromanage Maika. I can't hope for her to be anyway other than the way she wants to be. It is very hard to allow your child grow into their own personality with the appropriate amount of guidance. I don't want to burden her with any of my own emotional baggage. Hopes and dreams of mine be damned, she is going to be a child who lives an loves in her own way.
Today, all I can write is that I am disappointed in our Senate for not working towards minimizing gun violence and my daughter is not in love with the swings.
Next time, swings, we will meet again.

In the other half of my brain worrying about the sorry-ass state of our country, President Obama, thanks for caring so much about keeping my daughter safe. I heard it in your voice and it made me a little weepy. It made my mundane worries feel small. It reminded me to remember what really matters.

Marathons and Bombs

It's funny how quickly the angst I remember from training for the DC marathon falls away like a frivolous, self-absorbed memory of a former self. How foreign it seems to have cared so much about running some arbitrary distance. As a new mom, in the time that I was pregnant with Maika and brought her into this tough world, there has been much violence.
The shootings in Connecticut, the two sweet children murdered at bath time by their nanny, an eight-year old spectator at the Boston Marathon dead today. It isn't that I didn't feel sadness or pain over the loss of innocent lives before, but the pang in my chest in the sick fear that that someone could be My daughter, My Maika, leaves me breathless, I'll. These were innocent, warm children. Babies with their lives ahead of them. Pure, trusting, ruddy-faced little ones who did not deserve to be the casualties in our adult wars.
It makes me all too aware of the daily realities that other mothers in war torn countries face everyday. It moves me to tears to feel this collective holding of breath, hoping to our babies get home safe. I feel selfish at times, for bringing Maika into a not so great time in world history. She did not ask to be here or be exposed to bombs and assault rifles.
Becoming a mother... It is an unbelievable responsibility and my daughter is a constant reminder that I must remember to do good in this life. That I cannot spend my walk home with her worried about steaming her dinner or her blueberry stained new onesie. She is palpable, golden and here in the present.
I worry too much about insignificant, mundane daily tasks.
I only have right now to love her and this moment to enjoy her.
My heart breaks for the mothers in Boston tonight.
Xo
M

New York, New York

I used to be a New York City girl. Manhattan was the center of my universe and I could have never imagined a future anywhere else. The energy of that city is incomparable.
Now a Washingtonian, with DC in big letters on my daughter's birth certificate, my mortgage and driver's license... I still manage to fit in my New York roots into every conversation. Is this a longing for the past, an inability to move forward from memories of close girlfriends and the best restaurants? Or is it something more? Does my current city just lack that fundamental pulse of life?
I have more "things" here. A bigger home. A car. Three strollers. I am not sure that any of those things matter. When I think about where I want home to be, where I want Maika to run and laugh and become who she is, I have a hard time muddling through what is truly important to me. I dream of Mill Valley with a beach 7 miles away where flaxen-haired, sturdy girls befriend my daughter and they all climb trees together in some sort of treehouse paradise. I dream of Austin, Texas where I can have land for days, exposure to music, food, art, weirdness and good manners. I dream of a return to Brooklyn one day, where my husband and I are reunited with our oldest and dearest friends and we browse the Brooklyn Flea with Maika, roam through Prospect Park, show her where we were married.
We have made excel spreadsheets, bookmarked Trulia, RedFin, Houzz... It is an endless quest for answers and possibilities for an ideal life for our daughter, our family. I don't know where we will land or if we will ever take flight. There is good stuff here too and I find in my adult life it takes a little longer to make connections and find kindred spirits. I am just starting to feel more at home here.

So what do I really care about?

Safety first! I want Maika to walk home from school and not have a drunk, wrinkled man asking her for cash. I want her to love birds and grass and not be scared of nature (admittedly I squealed like an eight year old at the DC arboretum this weekend after being stung by a wasp).
I want her to be confident and healthy, surrounded by a strong community of like minded kids. Where is this place? Is it just where my husband and I make it? Does geography matter?
We are still figuring it out. For now, I am thankful for our local Taqueria where the waitresses fill my daughter with avocados and kisses. I am weirdly obsessed with the Zoo and live within walking distance of elephants, flamingos and orangutans. I need to live a little more in the present.
Right now matters most.

Breastfeeding until the cows come home

In a quiet act of rebellion I wore a drop waist, boat necked dress to work today. Not a V-neck. Not a pull to the side tank. Not a button down.
Like Tosh.0, I am currently immersed in my third much anticipated wardrobe, "Breast-Friendly Tops". This season was immediately preceded by "Maternity Michelle" and "Normal Clothes I Thought I'd Wear Forever". Breastfeeding, while one of my happiest and rewarding activities, has led to an overflowing closet and a collection of slightly misshapen shirts.
In a rookie mistake, I wore a pre-baby black dress to Maika's first pediatrician appointment. This resulted in a Macho Man, Randy Savage-esq seam-shredding scene when she cried out in hunger. Who knew I was so strong?
Every morning is now a creative effort to dress well and have quick access to breast milk. I initially made my husband go to Target and purchase every click and snap, one handed miracle shirt they had. I quickly realized that for a short-waisted Chinese girl, nursing tops are a recipe for disaster. Since then, I have struck a pretty good balance between functional and fashionable.
I have breastfed everywhere, in an Ikea furniture display, balancing on one leg over Maika's car seat on I-495, in front of the Great Apes at the zoo. I never imagined it would mean this much to me or that I would be one of those crazy women with her boob out in public places.
Motherhood is that way, though, it's transformative and unpredictable. It's hard to know who you'll be after you open that door.
As I sit here behind my closed office door, my dress bunched in a crumpled bundle under my neck as I pump, I feel pretty silly, though.
V neck Tee tomorrow. Breast Friendly Tops it is, at least until the cows come home. Three months to go.
Xo,
M

Fried chicken, anyone?

I've told many white(grayish) lies in my lifetime. As a child I was afraid of bringing home A minuses and in the days of carbon paper report cards, I became quite adept at creating plus signs.
This was bad behavior and I am embarrassed by it, but I don't know that I necessarily caused any permanent damage. As an adult, as a mom, the white lie I am currently telling myself is that I have just had a baby and I can continue to eat fried chicken, French fries and everything bagels with whitefish salad.

These are by no means daily offenses, but yeah, my caloric intake is naughty.

I am breastfeeding so I lean heavily on those extra 500 calories I burn daily and make an endless amount of excuses. I used to have a great metabolism. I used to run 4 or 5 miles daily. I am a mom now, and you know, I get a free pass.

I don't get a free pass on my health, though. I have a daughter and while I cringe to think that I will be pushing seventy on her wedding day, I want to be a damn good looking senior citizen.

How does one get exercise and eat clean while working occasional 60 hour work weeks and delivering babies at 3am?

I think the answer lies in transportation, late evenings, early mornings and lunchtime. I have, of late, become an expert in all things game of thrones, walking dead and justified. In the wake of a tough 24 hours at the hospital I believe I deserve couch potato time, endless handfuls of my daughter's cheddar bunnies and a dusty set of Insanity workout DVDs. Woe is me that I have a stable income, loving husband, healthy daughter and an overflowing shoe collection.
I don't "deserve" fried chicken for all of my troubles. I deserve healthy arteries, a strong right hip flexor and bright skin.
I am done making excuses... Next step, a plan!
Xo
M

Leaving perfect behind

Today I woke up at 315, 415, 515 and 615. I was supposed to stopping going back to sleep that third time so here I am praying to get to the hospital by 715.
I shouldn't complain. I am a doctor. I have a beautiful home. I am married to a Man who is okay with bearing the brunt of daycare morning dropoffs. I have a healthy, bouncing, squealing little baby girl who is plump with breast milk and avocados. I just wish I didn't feel like a top spinning so close to the table edge all the time. I wish some days were just a smidge easier. That I could be spectacular at loving my family and not feel like I will snap in half if I am 15 minutes behind seeing my patients during the day. I have to give myself license to not strive for perfection. There is nothing perfect about being a working mom.
Gone are the days of a flat tummy (okay i never really had a flat tummy), marathons and being a great best friend. It will take me 10 days to call you back, on occasion I fall asleep with a fleck of whitefish salad in my hair and I might pop on the subway after only running halfway to work.
It's all okay.

I wanted to run 6 miles today. I ran one.
I felt guilt on the treadmill. Awful, terrible, complex guilt at 1015am. I'd been awake since five AM. In that time, I pumped and produced about 12 ounces of milk, performed a surgery and I guess, run one mile.
My daughter, Maika, had been at daycare for about 2 1/2 hours and I didn't believe I deserved another half hour at the gym.

I know it's irrational, I know that in order to give and be a good wife, mother and doctor, I should feed myself first. Today, I can't do it. I pop off the treadmill, tell myself a few quick lies about how I will not eat carbs at dinner and run over to the daycare center a few blocks away. I take my daughter home.
I am not a bad person. I know this, in my core I know I am a good mother, an above average doctor and a warm, loving human. 
Being a working mom is impossibly hard. I want so desperately to be great at this. I want to be thin, fit, nurturing and incredibly quick-witted. Most days, I find myself with a muffin top, taking the elevator and falling asleep on the couch next to my husband. 
How does this work? Can I make organic baby food weekly for my daughter and still be a great surgeon, dutiful wife and skilled obstetrician...or does it all fall apart? Is it all or none...or just one of the above?