This is my story as I’m in the midst of weaning my youngest child. Please understand that is all this is—my story. If breastfeeding or conception has been a struggle for you, please know you have my sympathy and prayers for peace, and that I do not take the privileges I have lightly. My uncertainty about what’s next does not negate thankfulness for what has already come.

“The first thing is, you’re never going to feed him at night again. Ever.” I wonder if our wonderful pediatrician noticed my look of panic when he said this. I had asked him about weaning and sleeping through the night and what my first step should be. I wanted his advice. But his use of “never” and “ever” were jarring.

I have always wanted four children. The oldest of four married to the youngest of four, when Daniel and I talked about how many children we wanted to have, that’s what we (both) always said. Then we had one child, it rocked our world and tiny city rowhome, and we decided to take it one at a time.

Last year, when we welcomed our third child, our son Deacon, the physical circumstances were easier. We lived in a house with ample space, whereas before we were cramped. I stayed home with the kids, whereas before I was working at least one full time job.  We had some breathing room financially, whereas before we were pinching pennies to cover a too-high mortgage and dig out of debt.  It should have been easier, we thought. But adjusting to being a family of five, as I’ve said over and over, has been a challenge. In retrospect, as I watch this funny, affectionate, precious little boy toddle around, sometimes the past year feels like one long night.

I struggled to nurse my other two babies while I worked, making it to just shy of six months with the first, and to just shy of one year with the second, fighting and pumping and supplementing along the way. This time, with Deacon, has been a different sort of struggle. We were always together, so it wasn’t that, but I fought tongue tie and a missed diagnosis, recurring plugged ducts, dairy sensitivity (his, and then mine), and a lot of unexplained pain.

One day, around seven months in, I realized it didn’t hurt anymore. It had become easy, like it was always “supposed” to be. I congratulated myself for fighting through it, for fighting for it.

I always knew I would try to breastfeed, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have conflicted feelings about it. I wasn’t prepared for the way it seemed to bind me to the clock, the first time, or to the baby third time; I couldn’t have known how it would feel to be openly judged while nursing, even discreetly, in public. I didn’t know about the silent solidarity I’d feel with other nursing moms, but least of all, I wasn’t prepared for the emotional connection it would give me to my baby. Of course I still felt it when I stopped nursing the other two as well. Of course I’d be connected either way. {Again, this is a story of my experience with breastfeeding, not why everyone should have one. I don’t know what the right way for you to feed your baby is. It hasn’t even always been clear to me what was right for me, and that’s what we’re talking about here.}

There is something comforting about having the silver bullet of breastfeeding—it’s the power of knowing I always have a way to calm and soothe my child. There’s something about the way he looks at me, the way he casually reaches up to stroke my face. I didn’t expect to feel it, and I can’t describe it. He needs me, but it’s not only that. 

As I write this, at ten til 6:00, he complains in his crib. I am letting him fuss until 6:00, helping him adjust to a more “normal” wake up time (he had previously been programmed for about 5:00). We are finally making it (just about) 11-12 hours with only minimal fussing here and there. Our pediatrician tells me this step—night weaning—is the first step toward general weaning. And I’m ready but not ready.

Something about having a boy when you already have girls or maybe about having a third, or maybe just about living in  our culture right now seems to compel people—literal strangers—to comment on my reproductive plans. When I was pregnant and out in the world with my two little girls, it was, “ You have  your hands full. I hope that’s a boy in there,” (gesturing toward my belly). And then, “Good. Are you done?” Then he was born, and as I wore him close to my chest and held two little hands, again, “Is that a boy? Are you done?” And still, now, all the time. Always I give a forced smile and some version of, “I don’t know yet,” or “My husband says yes, I say we’ll see.”

Of course my real (if unspoken) answer is, “Have we met?” In what world is it okay to ask a stranger about her reproductive choices? I’m not sure why my having more than two children is anyone’s business. I’m not asking for help raising them.  Yet these are things people say.

So we’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk through whether this is it, and here is where we land. Daniel feels strongly that, biologically speaking, our family is complete. He feels at peace. And I don’t know whether we’re done or not done, but I know I don’t feel at peace with the idea yet. I have polled mothers whose season of babies is in the rearview. I wanted to know how they knew. Most of them, but not all, tell me the time came when they did. A few tell me, even though they have moved past that season, they still don’t have the peace I seek. 

“I like a nice patina,” Ashleigh said.  We were curled up in pajamas on Sara Beth’s couch discussing beauty and aging. I liked the way that sounded.

I am 33. I recently discovered my first grey hair—not highlighted, not blonde, unable to be plausibly denied— it was wiry and blatantly grey. It is no longer with us. So, before you get distracted, hear me: I am not old, but I feel a lifetime away from when I was a pretty young thing. I feel in between. And lately I’ve been thinking about aging. I like the idea of doing so gracefully, whatever that means.  But are crow’s feet graceful? Laugh lines? A turkey neck? Age spots? It’s easy to call it graceful when it’s on someone else, isn’t it (and honestly, who comes up with those terms anyway)?

Much like I didn’t worry about my size when I was a never-borne-a-child size zero or two, I didn’t  worry about aging when my face was completely unlined. Now it bears lines, marks and scars—souvenirs from another trip around the sun, from hilarious late nights or sunny beach days or pregnancy or fatigue. I don’t look like I remember looking. Some of that is related to my season of sleeplessness, but not all.

I remember the first time I noticed wrinkles on a peer. We were 27; she was an acquaintance from college. In a dim restaurant as she spoke animatedly, I noticed her creased forehead. She had always been fresh faced and adorable. But the wrinkles gave her a complexity she didn’t have before.  She was radiant. It was the first time I had that feeling—of visible aging increasing one’s beauty— but I’ve had it oftener since. Daniel says it’s probably because the wrinkles I see in others make me feel better about my own insecurities. Maybe that’s true, a little bit. But I don’t think that’s all.

“What if we all just gave up?” Sara Beth said, bringing out leftover birthday cake for us to eat on the couch. “Then we wouldn’t feel like we had to compete.” That’s part of the problem, for sure. The women who discreetly Botox and fill and peel and boost might be making the others look bad by comparison, though not intentionally. I used to say I would never “enhance” myself the way I had seen others do. I still may not, but I’ve lost the judgmental tone. 

Elizabeth Gilbert (remember her? The one whose book/movie I criticized then came around on in my last post?) recently made an impassioned cry for women to be kinder to each other regarding their decisions about beauty and aging:

“No decision that any of us makes about our appearance makes us morally better or morally worse than any other woman…To judge a fellow woman for her choices about her own appearance is not only cruel, it also speaks to a fundamental insecurity that says, 'I am so uncomfortable with myself that I have now become deeply uncomfortable with YOU, lady — and I don't even know you.'"

This resonates with me, as I have often deemed a woman’s choices about her appearance “sad” or “ridiculous,” when what I probably meant was, “I’m anxious about aging and not sure how I will handle it.” I used to be quick to call this anxiety selfish or shallow or unimportant. I still hear well-intended women do that. But now I find their tone dismissive and oversimplified.

Physical aging is hard. Reconciling the concept of beauty is hard, especially as I’m acutely aware that my young daughters are watching me to see how to respond.

Often strangers compliment us on our “beautiful little family.” “What beautiful children,” they might tell me, or “Aren’t you pretty?” they might say to my daughters.  I even say it to them. And though I appreciate the sentiment, it also makes me uneasy.

Beauty is complicated, isn’t it? It’s pushy and invasive, everywhere we turn—on billboards, the sides of trucks, all over the internet, selling everything. If this was all we had to go on, we might believe beauty is a thin, supple woman aged 16-22 with impossible curves and not a line or shadow on her face. We might start to believe that beauty is something that can be outgrown, then.

When we stop conflating beauty with age, things change. Then, we would never say someone had “aged gracefully,” because it implies there was something wrong with aging in the first place. It’s coming for all of us, people. If you’re still here, and you’re older than you used to be, and you’re not mad about it, congratulations, you’re aging gracefully.

When beauty and age are separate, we would never say someone looks good “for her age.” When beauty is holistic—the way a person looks, talks, treats others, is at peace with herself—then it is attainable for everyone. When it stops being influenced by what we’re told is beautiful— by Victoria’s Secret ads, airbrushed magazine covers, women on TV— it becomes real. That’s the kind of beauty I want my girls to know and to strive for. It’s the beauty I strive for still. It’s why I can look at pictures of my 23-year-old self and smile but never for a second wish to go back. At 33, I am more at peace and surer of myself than I could have been then, wrinkles and spots and extra inches and all. I am hopeful it’s a trend I will continue as I age.

“Even though we’ve all had babies and been so many different sizes, when I think of each of you, you always look the same,” Sara Beth said the other night.

I’m so grateful for my friends. For the ones who have known me forever and the ones on that couch, who are starting to love me, with or without makeup, even if one day I choose Botox, regardless of my age or weight. We are learning together what it is to “age gracefully.” I spend more time than I’d like to admit looking quizzically into the mirror, wondering what happened and what’s to come. And as with so many other things, I am less certain as I’ve aged. Softer. More forgiving.

See? Aging can be beautiful.

So I can love my family and our life together-- fiercely-- and still be lonely, in this house with my kids yelling at each other every day. I can do this while still wondering if I’ll ever have friends like the ones I made in college, like the ones I see others have. Will friendships ever be at once deep and meaningful and fun and easy again? Or is that asking too much, at least for this season? I can be grateful for my ability to be home with my children while still wondering if this is all there is for me right now.

A year ago from this moment, I wasn’t thinking of resolutions. I was meeting my son for the first time.

As I write this, at just shy of 5:30, I’m exhausted. Though I had a couple months of what you could call “sleeping through the night,” our version of it left more to be desired, and anyway it’s not happening anymore. A month-long string of teething and sickness and travel has left my now one-year-old boy having seemingly forgotten how to sleep through the night. So it’s back to the drawing board, and I’m tired, but not just because I’m not sleeping.

I’m tired of not sleeping. I’m tired of that being the dominant storyline in my life. I’m tired of using it as an excuse for why I can’t seem to make forward progress in my writing or fitness goals. So this year, much as it pains me, I’m thinking about resolutions.

So many things have changed since Deacon arrived. That boy is an utter delight; he seems lit from within. But I can’t say that adjusting to being a family of five has been easy. With this child, more than any other, the dynamics have shifted. We’ve all struggled to find our place. I have trouble like I haven’t before to determine the best use of my time at any moment. In each small pocket of time I find, I dither between: shower or laundry, clean something or cook something, rest or work out, sit with my child or busy myself, run an errand or savor the quiet at home. Often I find myself at 6:00 PM, somewhat miraculously, with dinner ready, homework done and, if I’m lucky, the living room floor picked up but feeling like that’s it.

When this happens, I remind myself that I fed five people three meals that day, wholesome meals, likely cooked from scratch, and I might have packed up some food  for someone  else while I was at it. As a result, by that time, I’ve usually swept the kitchen floor twice already. I’ve probably read stories and sung songs and folded tiny clothing and signed reading logs and gotten two children where they need to be while toting a third along for the ride, and wiped counters and spoken to friends. I’ve probably done many small, good things. This is fine, because that’s what my life is right now—a collection of small, good things. I don’t necessarily yearn for bigger things most days. I just want to know at any moment that I’m choosing the best of the choices I’m given so I might be at peace when I see all the other things that didn’t get done.

So this year I’m starting before I feel ready, before I’m rested. Before I have a measurable goal in mind. Before I know the greater purpose. I’m taking ownership of my wellness and happiness, and part of that, for me, has always hinged on writing. Whether it gets read is of less importance. Whether it makes money is not really of concern. Right now, resting in the fact that I am being responsible with the gifts I’ve been given feels like enough.

It’s why I can get up today, after a night of interrupted sleep, and brew coffee and sit in my living room where piles of clothing litter the floor in front of me, waiting to be donated.  I will get to them. Straggling Christmas decorations and gifts sit stacked on the dining table behind me and in the loft, waiting to find their homes. They will find their place. I resolve not to let the undone define or undo me.

This year I’m working on choosing the important over the urgent. Tonight, if I’m doing it right, this will look like going to the rec center to swim laps once I get the baby down, even though it’s cold out and the couch calls to me. It might look like building Legos with my daughter amid a playroom upended. It might mean abandoning the vegetables I’m chopping to kiss my husband when he walks in the door. It might look like leaving a sink full of dirty dishes to go have coffee with a struggling friend (or it might look like letting a friend in for coffee when I have a sink full of dirty dishes and I am the one who is struggling). In the next few months, as I face weaning the first baby I have successfully nursed to his first birthday, it might mean sitting in his room with him at my breast longer than I really need to, even as other tasks go unfinished.

I don’t say all of this to brag. Hardly. I’ve managed to get up early to write exactly once, and you’re looking at the result. It’s January 6th and there have already been days I just couldn’t. There will often be days I do and feel like I have nothing to show for it. There will always be something else I could be doing that might be more “productive.” 

I guess I share this here to put a stake in the ground. To say out loud, I’m making a change, even though I don’t know whether it will matter. Even though I’m not sure whether I’ll stick to it. Even though I’m not sure if anything will come of it. This feels important to me, and I’m doing it anyway.

I hope my doing it encourages you to try that thing you’ve been meaning to, to make that change you’ve been putting off. Even if it feels too big or too small. Even if you’ve already failed a hundred times. Even if you’re afraid you’ll fail again. Even if no one will ever notice. Especially if countless other tasks call to you instead. I’m choosing not to let the undone undo me, and so should you.