Sometimes I start a conversation expecting it to go one way, and it goes in a totally different direction.

There is a game I play, where I tell each of my kids “You are my favorite Keenie, my favorite Isaac, my favorite Alexander.”

After not playing that game for a while I asked my children randomly at the breakfast table one morning:”So which one of you is my favorite?” I was expecting to fall into that litte game, where I talk about the things that make each child my favorite type-of-them.

Keenie giggled.

Alexander gave me that look that he gives me when I have said something totally ridiculous.

And Isaac… Isaac raised his eyebrow. “Mommy, you can’t even pick a favorite color because they are too different and you like them all. You couldn’t pick a favorite kid. That would be IMPOSSIBLE.”

And he is right. When the issue of favorite anything pops up, I give lists of the things that I like, reasons why I like those things. I say that I am in a particular mood where I want a specific food, and I list other foods that I also like to eat.

My kids have apparently generalized this over to themselves as well. They don’t jockey for the position of favorite child. They let me know if they feel that something is unfair or uneven among them, and they trust that I will have a solution or an explanation that takes their feelings into account.

I’m asked a lot about sibling jealousy. How do I deal with it? I don’t see a lot of it. I mix things up so that different kids come first at different points. I explain when something is related to age differences, and I talk about how things were when my other kids were that age, or how things will be when they are older and the steps they can take to get to a skill or a place faster.

We do group hugs where my arms are big enough to hold them all. We devolve into wrestling tickling matches where I breathlessly proclaim love for each of the squirming kids. I proclaim each as my favorite and they chime in other names as well. Yes. Our dog is my favorite dog. And each of our cats are my favorites too.

We talk about sometimes needing one on one time. Needing for me to read a book to just Alexander, to hug just Keenie, to play a game with just Isaac. And about how we can help each other take turns with that one on one time.

Isaac will tell me when Keenie or Alexander need me, and when he can do things for himself.

Keenie will laugh when I tell her that when Wren is born, she will be my baby. “I’m not a baby!” She says. “I am a big girl!” I assure her that she is, but that I will still hold her like a baby if she wants. I chase her down and bounce her while shh-ing as she giggles and pushes me away.

And Alexander-in-the-middle, he wants mostly to catch up to the things that his big brother can do, and comes running to me for help in figuring out how.

This family of mine? This family is my favorite. Hands down.

Favorite kid, though? Can’t pick. Instead I think of each of them in turn and feel that deep infinite love.

Love multiplies. It doesn’t divide. I love each of them with all my heart, and I spend my days trying to make sure that is tangible for them.

I guess that is how I deal with jealousy. I don’t confront it head on.

My relationship is with each child, so I focus on my relationship with each child and making sure that their needs are met and that they feel loved without comparison to each other.

If one needs a hug because they got hurt, I hug them. If another needs a bug because their sibling got a hug, I hug them too and add a kiss.

A lot of approaches to jealousy seem to focus on discouraging it, or the idea that jealousy is selfish.

Nah. We all need a little reassurance every now and then.

So what am I trying to say? I guess I am saying that you shouldn’t deal with jealousy. Jealousy is the comparison of things. Focus on each individual relationship with each individual child. Strengthen those. They are all side by side.

If it means hauling an 8 year old onto your lap to bounce him while he giggles and protests, do it. Then have a talk about what he really needs right now.

If it means everyone pig-piling onto your lap for storytime, take everyone to the couch or to your bed, and let everyone pile in.

Pull everyone close. You have enough love for each of them. Let it show.

If seeing a woman in a low cut top or a bikini barely registers anymore, but seeing a mother breastfeeding her child makes you uncomfortable…

You haven’t seen it often enough.

I no longer believe that it is hypocrisy. It is the simple math of frequency. What we do not see often… stands out.

People who have strong feelings about other people covering up or finding private places are innocent of the details that go into breastfeeding an infant or a toddler. They hold simplified ideas, often ones that they have heard elsewhere that seem to make sense.

They are not aware that not every mother responds to a pump.

They are not aware that not every baby takes a bottle.

They are not aware of the devastation that isolation can create in the mind and heart of a new mother struggling to adjust after her baby has been born.

They are not aware that breastfeeding is a learned skill that both baby and mom need to work at and practice. It is natural but it does not come easily, even when a mama has been through it before.

They are not aware of how some children respond to being covered up.

They are not aware of the impact that adding another step can have on a mama who is struggling with just getting her baby to latch on.

They are unaware of the drastic changes that would take place if every mother began to breastfeed openly without covering.

It would be normal.

It would make it easier for new mothers, because they would have seen it before.

It would increase breastfeeding success rates and that would bring along all of the benefits that breastfeeding carries.

It would have an amazing impact on the postpartum mental health of new mothers.

It would also stop being noticeable. It would be no different than seeing a bathing suit on a beach.

I notice that your face is cloudy when you come off the bus. You snap at your little brother when he runs up to you to play. You go to your room. The door slams. I knock. You don’t answer. I pause and knock again. Not the “you need to open the door now” knock. A slow knock. Two knocks. Nothing more. Then I sit by the door and I wait.

A few minutes later the door opens. You sit down next to me. “Rough day?” I ask.

The floodgates open.

“I’m there for you” means just that.

I’m there.
For you.
When you are ready.

I’m thirty five years old. I have a history of thirty five years of experiences, thirty five years of mistakes, thirty five years of learning.

You are five. You have a history of five years, much of which you might not remember. You haven’t grown to the place that I was at when I made the mistakes that I made at ten. You haven’t grown into the types of mistakes that I made at thirteen. Or seventeen. You are no where near the mistakes that I made at twenty five. You are not yet at the mistakes that I will make at 37 or 40. I’m not yet in that place, myself.

I watch you make the mistakes that you will make. Sometimes I ask you to think about what a consequence might be if you continue to do something. But then when you come to me hurting when that thing happens, I hug you near and whisper “I know. It hurts. It hurts a lot. I’m here for you.”

Never “I told you so. “

Keenie is putting sand on her legs. It’s time to go. I ask her to come with me. She piles more sand on her legs. I ask her again. She doesn’t acknowledge what I am saying.

I stay squatting next to her. I go silent. I wait. She starts to talk about the sand on her legs. About the thing that she sees in the eye of her imagination. I listen for a few short moments. I ask questions.

It’s not time to go, it’s time to slowly hatch from the chrysalis that she has made for herself. To fly like a butterfly to showers where we wash off the sand and the salt from the ocean.

It’s time to just slow down. Because this is my child’s childhood. It’s important lovely stuff.

I forget this often when I am in a rush. I should remember it more.

Clinging joyfully to her dad, giggling in the waves. I see a little watermelon swimsuit and a tangle of wavy-curls held up in the air by the arms that held me while I birthed her, while I birthed her brother, while I mourned the passing of my grandmother, while I shook in grief over the passing of several dear friends. The arms that cradled her and her bothers as they have fallen asleep over the years. The arms that pull me close when I cannot sleep. Her legs kick up and down as the waves crash into them. I cannot see her face but recognize excitement. Comfort. Glee.

Trust is a lovely thing.

I often snug her close to me when she is afraid or hesitant. I often whisper “cling close, Keenie-bee. Together we’ll be big.”

They are big together in those waves. She is borrowing from his size and the safety that he offers to squeal with laughter in a place where she might otherwise feel fear.

Friends, family and loved ones are like that. Each of us is tiny on the face of this spinning world. But together? Together we are big. Together this world is less a place of fear and more one that offers opportunity for profound joy.

Two pink lines.
My hands start to shake.
I show Alex.
He’s the one that suggested that it might be time to test.
He always seems to know.

Right now I’m about four weeks along. Those two lines mean that there is a small life growing inside of me. A life that is currently the size of a poppy seed. This morning Alex got me another test. Some fancy schmancy one that estimates the date of ovulation based on HCG levels. So 2-3 weeks since ovulation puts me right at 4-5 weeks pregnant using the LMP/40 weeks approach.

It is early.

I’m not supposed to tell anyone. I’m supposed to tell only Alex, and then spend the next eleven weeks keeping my joys, hopes, fears, and thoughts to myself. Just in case. Because it’s not a guarantee yet. Because grief may follow instead of a baby. Because we’re only supposed to celebrate when things are a bit more of a “guarantee”.

I’ve turned that idea over and over in my head, time and time again.

For me, the act of not sharing would not decrease any future sadness.
For me, the act of not sharing would not save me from grief.
I’d probably still tell everyone if this pregnancy ends in a miscarriage, if it’s chemical, if it’s ectopic. If any of those many things that can go wrong… goes wrong. Because I’ve seen women suffer in silence. And because when I had a loss before, I shared and ended up having so many conversations with women who had kept so  much inside. Because they “had” to. Because not listening and putting on a happy face is some sort of social grace.

I’m telling you. Because I believe that women deserve to yell it out from the treetops if they want to. Because I believe that miscarriage is such a social taboo that people feel they have to keep pregnancies secret. Just in case. And because I don’t believe that is a healthy habit.

I am pregnant. I am expecting a baby next year at the end of March or the beginning of April sometime. This is a happy thing.

It is also a complicated thing. This was not planned. We were talking about starting to try for a baby in January if things lined up. Needless to say, a lot of things are not lined up.

I’m also grieving heavily over some recent things that have shaken how I view friendship and family and myself. So this post is not as joyful as the first moments when I found out that I was pregnant.

That is okay, too. Life is complicated.

There is joy. A small poppy-seed sized joy that is going to slowly grow until it is overwhelming and beautiful.

Growth takes time.

I am okay with that.