Everyday Susa

(And pregnancy thoughts, too!) Bonus giant toddler head and spilled milk I grew up listening to birth stories. My mom would recount the labor and delivery of each child, and my dad would follow with the cost and payment of each birth. This typically happened on birthdays--and there were many in our household--but these discussions could pop up at any time.  I remember listening intently to clusters of women chatting about the labors and surgeries that had brought them their children. These stories, often retold, never grew old. They were the tales of life breaking into the world, of pain, suffering, but ultimately joy.  As a 20 year old, I discovered an entire realm of birth stories just under my fingertips, care of the world wide web. I read them voraciously, over and over again. In my world of great literary works, peer reviewed articles, and countless essays, these women's labor stories stood out as inspiring and beautiful.  I wrote out Landon's birth sto

One of the axioms of good writing is writing what you know. Know thy strengths and write about them. When I was pregnant with Landon, I was excited to write about motherhood. I LOVED writing my bumpdates . Chronicling Landon's gestation and birth remains one of the best decisions of my life, and I hope to do that again if I have another child. I wrote authentically (as best a first time mom can) about pregnancy and birth, and I wanted to write authentically about life as a mother.  But what I didn't know, what I couldn't have known, was that I wouldn't be able to be authentic. Know thyself? I couldn't. I didn't know who I was or what I was feeling. For the first time in my life, I didn't have the words to express what was going on in my head.  What was wrong with my brain? "A depression suffered by a mother following childbirth, typically arising from the combination of hormonal changes, psychological adjustment to motherhood, and fatigue." (

(source) Lando is almost two years old. TWO! It makes the most  nauseating  of maternal  figures to repeat that as oft as I do, but two  years! How!  Does this make me a real mom now? I'm still sort through all of that--this real mom  gig. But suffice it to say, I've loved year two so much more than the first year. Infants are...terrifying, exhausting, and needy.  Oh so needy.  They can't walk, talk, or grab snacks out of the fridge. (They also can't raid your wallet for dollar bills. Thanks, child.) Happening live!  I've come to grips with mama anxiety, that gripping worry that reminds a mother that the world is the most dangerous oyster ever. Properly installed carseats, an eagle eye, and accepting that billions of children have survived toddlerhood  keeps the worry at a relatively sane level. But it's still there, and always will be. There are many poignant tomes written about a mother's love and dedication, so I won't wax poetic about