First Born I See You Completely Always

IMG_2940             I see my daughter entertaining herself, playing with a plastic car—up and down a toy ramp. Then she purposely knocks the ramp on the floor taking out two puzzle sets with it…BOOM. The baby startles herself out of her milk coma, eyes so wide she resembles a pop eyes out squeeze toy mid squeeze.

“Viv, please don’t throw your toys on the floor!” I sigh with frustration, looking at the mess she made on the floor.

She then hands me her sticker book and I am struggling with one hand to pull the sticker off while feeding the baby with the other–my four month olds body cradled into my chest. My toddler gets frustrated and says, “st-i-i-i-cker, st-i-i-i-cker,” not understanding I am trying my very best to get said “st-i-i-i-cker”. I finally get it off. Before I can pat myself on the back—that is, if I had hands to– she wants another. Crap.

I see my daughter trying to get my attention while I am pumping. She holds onto my back hugging it tightly and chanting, “boobies, boobies, boobies.”

I see her during music class wanting to get thrown around while we dance like we used to— she likes to rough house– but I can only pick her up and rock her back and fourth on my hip because I have the baby on my chest.

This is why when we are alone I soak up every second.

I leave my phone in the car and give her my 100 percent attention. She has rarely gotten it since the day her little sister was born. We went from a duo to a trio. She became a reluctant third musketeer—she didn’t ask for this new squad we became.

So I am the mom playing in the balls with her, her little playmate. We go down the slides together, side-by-side, holding hands into the multicolored ball pit. “Red, yellow, green-e, blue,” my daughter goes through her repertoire like it’s Joseph’s Technicolor dream coat—full of so many colors, and it is—it’s her dream coat because she has mommy’s full attention in that colorful ball pit.

I am the mom that crawls into the tunnel when my daughter bossily points to it saying “do it, do it,” because there are so many things I can’t do with her when I am taking care of her sister at the same time. I reluctantly army crawl in as my daughter laughs on–my body flat like a pancake while my arms and legs struggle to propel myself forward. When I get through I am out of breath and then I hear my daughter’s loud cackle while giving me a hug—“momm-eee hug-eee”—It was worth it.

I am the mom that chases my daughter around when she says “catch you” which sounds a lot like cashew, but that’s besides the point. I know she wants me to chase her around saying “I am going to catch you.” I do and when I catch her, I flip her upside down and tickle her little tummy, as she lets out the cutest belly laugh.

As much as I love our family of four and plan to have more, there is something sad about not having as much one-on-one time with my first-born.

So oldest daughter please know I see you and I love you. You will always be my first and for that I am grateful. You taught me how special motherhood can be, because you are so special. You taught me how much I could love another human being. You made me want to have more like you because I love you that much. And just because you think I am not paying 100 percent attention, know that I am. I see you completely–always.

 

 

Because She Will Never Be The Same…

IMG_3004This summer I will start the dreaded process that most stay at home moms who have never left their kids before don’t like to talk about—separation. My daughter is starting preschool in the fall and I signed her up for a transitional summer camp program three days a week for three hours. I am dreading it like a high school reunion I never wanted to attend. Dreading it to the point where I have been bringing the topic up to fellow moms. The conversation goes something like this:

“Ugh, I can’t stop thinking about separating. I mean, I just want to protect her forever.” I’d muse as I hold onto my four-month old for dear life in her Bjorn—she still has time.

“But it will be good for her. It will help shape her and make her stronger.” A fellow mom says as we watch our kids playing with a farm, my daughter stuffing markers through the farm doors and windows, because her farm totally would be a marker farm—girl is obsessed with her art.

“I know.” I say I know, but I am not really sure I really mean it.

I do know some things. I know my daughter will be fine physically separating. It may be rough the first couple of goodbyes and tears will be shed no doubt, but eventually she will be okay and so will I. It will become our new routine, our new normal. If anything, it will probably be me having to get pulled away, maybe a security guard or two will be called, maybe I will camp out and spy on her with binoculars. We will see, but we will both get through it one way or another.

My daughter is very social and active so she will love everything about summer days filled with sports, swimming, other kids—I can’t even make an argument to not let her go. There is one thing I worry about. When I hear it’s good for them to separate the reasons I hear are: so they can become more independent, stronger, it toughens them up. I hate all of these reasons. Why do we live in a world where kids have to be tough? Is it bad that I want my kids to keep their innocence as long as possible? Is it bad that going to school to me means it’s the start of this shedding of innocence process taking form?

I am afraid because I won’t be there to fiercely protect her the way I have been since she was born. The second she was put on my chest and we did skin-to-skin I knew she was the new love of my life. I would do anything for this little being and as a mother I have been. If a classmate is being mean, I won’t be there to pull her away from that little asshole and tell the kid “pushing is not nice. Be gentle.” I won’t be there to comfort my daughter when she is crying, tears racing down her cherub cheeks. I think about this constantly and all I want to do is hold on to these next couple of months, take her back into my womb, and never let her experience rejection of any kind.

Part of this thinking probably stems from my own experiences. I am five years in recovery from a long-standing battle with eating disorders. I used my eating disorder as protection—to numb out when life got hard, a coping mechanism. If I was bingeing and purging, I didn’t have to deal with mean kids or not fitting in. If I was focused on my eating disorder I wouldn’t get hurt. The reality is, I did get hurt, worse than another person could ever hurt me. I always wonder if I were in a world where you didn’t have to armor up–become stronger and tougher—and too nice wasn’t a weakness, would I even have an eating disorder? Probably not.

What if my daughters are too sensitive like me? Now, I am strong because I have been through a lot— I became strong, learned new coping mechanisms, learned how to defend myself and not people please up the wahzoo, but I don’t want my daughters to go through what I went through to deal with this world. I’d love them to be able to keep their innocence yet I know that is impossible.

I have been thinking about this a lot lately as the date approaches.

So when I drop my daughter off and she runs off playing with her soon to be new friends or holds onto me for dear life, I don’t know how I will get myself out of the classroom door. I know she is not me. She is already a way better version. She is sweet and sensitive but has an amazing sense of humor mixed with a little pizazz-girl has some spice! I know she will be okay. I will have to give her a big hug and kiss and be strong for her. I will size up her pint sized classmates and pray they are a nice bunch or call a hit out on each one of them. And I will always be there to support her and hold her hand on the sidelines, guiding her as best as I can, so she doesn’t fall victim to self-destruction in the face of adversity like I once did.

I just can’t help but be sad because I know the day I drop her off it is inevitable that my daughter will never be the same.

 

My Name Is ______ and I have Momnesia

So I have a confession to make, and no Foo Fighters it’s not that I’m your fool, because I am nobodies fool, besides my two daughters of course, but that’s not by choice. That’s called biology or chemistry— or science in general? Ah. You see what is happening? I heard that your brain actually shrinks during pregnancy and doesn’t repair immediately after baby. Some research says six months after, others say two years after—point is, Momnesia is a real thing. The theory I have about myself from having two kids within a two-year period is that my brain is now actually extra small because it never recovered the first time around. As a result, I have found myself increasingly dumber, stupider, denser- I can use all the synonyms in the world to try to soften the blow–but bottom line is I have become a complete idiot.

Take today as an example. My daughter and I do a Toddler and Me class, much like a nursery school class, but no separation—the way this mama likes it. I wear my three month old in the Bjorn to these classes. Anyway, it was a little chaotic getting out of the house per usual, loading and unloading my clan in and out of the car, and into class. Then I started to smell a familiar smell—a foul smell.

I pulled my toddler aside, stretched her hot pink leggings peaking into her diaper, and Bingo, just as I suspected, she had a poop.

“You got poopsies little one,” I said grabbing her little hand, intertwining our fingers–leading her towards my denim diaper bag.

“Poopy, poopy,poopy,” my toddler parroted while chanting in a circle.

I escorted her out of the classroom and down the hall, where we stopped to see Mocha the bunny—we both said “hop, hop” jumping up and down to greet him. We continued on, her saying “uppy” twice along the way, but really not wanting to be held after hoisting her up, my littlest still in the carrier—a lot going on. We eventually made it to the bathroom, me eyeing the changing table in solidarity—it was us against the toddler. I quickly swooped her up, checked to make sure her foot didn’t kick my three-month old in the process—and listened to her whine because nothing in this entire world is worse than a diaper change when you are 21 months old. Nothing!

In my peripheral I heard loud footsteps enter the bathroom and use the facilities. Then the faucet next to me turned on trickling water, drip dropping onto the bottom of the sink. I turned to acknowledge the woman next to me. The problem was—I was pretty sure that was not a woman—but who am I to judge? Maybe she was just against waxing. I mean, you should have seen me that day. Now, a normal human with a properly functioning brain would think, “oh damn, maybe I am in the wrong bathroom.” But no, I didn’t give it a second thought. The woman gave me a bizarre look and a nod, but I chalked it up to the made up songs I was singing to distract my daughter from diaper changing hell.

Only when we exited the bathroom and I saw the sign on the door in white lettering—Men—was when I finally realized “damn I was in the wrong bathroom.” And no, the row of urinals didn’t tip me off. It’s like my brain forgot that another gender existed and they have a separate bathroom. No wonder that man gave me a “WTF are you doing in here lady and waving at me like it’s no big deal” look.

Then even better, I was talking to a mother in my class who is due in March with twins, a boy and a girl.

“How are you feeling? Last week there was a man in our class whose wife has twins due in March as well! She wasn’t feeling well so she didn’t come to class.” I mused as I guided my daughter’s hand as she was scribbling with a green marker on blue construction paper. I looked up at her and she must have been thinking, moron, he was with the same kid I have been taking here every freaking week and he is my husband. But she politely said “that is my husband.”

“Awe your husband is so nice and my brain is officially shot. That I didn’t realize he was your husband and with sweet Jack (her son) is beyond me!” Talk about stupid! The teachers, everyone in the class, roared with laughter and then were making excuses for me: You are tired, you have a three-month old and a toddler, and it’s totally understandable. How I didn’t know it was the same kid, with the same name, is a mystery beyond me. Maybe those metal alloys from the UFO’s have the answer. Maybe not.

So here I am hoping that if we share our experiences, strength and hope with each other we can get through this incredibly dumb period in our lives together. Say it with me if this behavior applies to you as well: “My name is __________ and I have Momnesia. Pray for me.”

Holy Sh!t I Am Sue Heck…And You May Be Too…

Eyes wide, lashes beating against my forehead (thanks lash extensions!), my dark baby browns stare my rejection dead in the face—head on, whatever it is. My smile becomes lopsided-a smirk—not quite a frown… at least yet. Why? Because I was expecting it anyway. I set myself up for the rejection; just praying for the 1% chance it wouldn’t be, so the blow isn’t as harsh. Newsflash: it always stings.

Ever feel like you keep putting yourself out there only to get the same bad results every time? Let’s say you are a mom trying to get your toddler to eat vegetables and you disguise them in the sauce but your toddler screams “yucky!” and spits them all over her highchair. So then what do you do? The next day, you try the same thing but a different dish, with the same “yucky” “spit” result. You will also probably try it again the day after. It could be because motherhood and insanity are by definition the same things–obviously.

Look I am a fighter, I fight for what I believe in, but when enough times you don’t get positive feedback, you may start feeling like a failure. When do you give up? Never! Then when you keep trying, doing, trying it again and again you may have what Oprah coined an “Aha!” momentI had this yesterday. This became my “Holy sh!t, I am Sue Heck” moment. Why? Well, for those who aren’t familiar with The Middle, Sue is the lovable character who puts herself out there and fails spectacularly every single time, but none the less never stops trying. That is us, mamas—we are all Sue Heck’s!

Do I want to be like that? Sometimes. Unlike Sue, I am not an eternal optimist who doesn’t get deterred in the face of adversity. Let’s be real, most of us aren’t cheerful optimists to the Sue-extreme, so the outcome isn’t so “oh well”. I mean I have never met a person so unaffected quite like Sue! While she quickly rebounds with her next grandiose idea, I unfortunately can’t. After a while, I do what my almost two year old would do—throw a tantrum of epic proportions or sulk.

But yet as moms, we keep trying and trying because we have bigger goals then just our pride: our kids. We want them to be healthy and thriving individuals so we put that beyond our sanity. And you know what? The one thing to love about Sue is that one day she will make her mark because she won’t give up and that will be us—and because we worked so hard our victory will be even sweeter.

So mama, when your toddler does one day eat your healthy cooking or actually goes to the bathroom on the potty—those are the days when you think, “it’s good to be Sue Heck.” When you’re a mom being a Sue will eventually pay off and like the Heck clan, your whole family will love you because of your dedication and heart.

Five Lessons from Five Years in Eating Disorder Recovery

December third is a big day for me. It marks my five-year anniversary of being in recovery from ED. What that means is that five years ago to the day, December 3, 2012, at five in the morning I texted my mom, “I need help.” A couple of hours later I had the seizure that brought me to my rock bottom. I’d thought I could feel my body breaking down, and I was right. I had known something bad was going to happen, and it did. Like I had a crystal ball, I’d predicted it and I was lucky I’d asked for help and wasn’t alone. Ever since that day I have committed to recovery because maybe I wouldn’t be so lucky if there was a next time. Here are five lessons I have learned along the way.

1). Recovery doesn’t mean life is going to get easier it just means that you now handle it differently and you have more reasons to believe it is worth it. Oh and you actually enjoy it! I went from a life of being sick filled with only work and obsessing about food and weight (working out/ binging and purging/starving) to having a family of my own–a husband and two daughters–friends, and a closer relationship with my family. These connections that I avoided while sick, out of fear of being discovered combined with my innate feeling that I didn’t belong, now make me feel whole. Now, that little voice of anorexia is so easily knocked out by anything positive in my life—my husband’s lips against mine, by making a difference, by my ability to think clearly, by my two baby girls. Too many things are more important than ED. ED was my world before recovery-the only all-important thing in my life. Now, on a scale of importance ED is like a distant cousin five times removed—you get the point—not even a thought.

2). Time really does make it better. Recovery seems to be a waiting game with time being key—for someone with no patience like me that proved to be hard at times. I remember hearing this and thinking no way I’ll always struggle, but it really has dissipated more and more with each passing year.

A large part of this reason is because I am constantly learning new things and evolving as a human being. With ED you are so set in your eating rituals and routines that everything stays the same—you as a person can’t change. When you aren’t focused so much on ED you can live and experience which helps hush the ED voice. Through these experiences I realized how amazing my body could be and that made me reevaluate my recovery up till that point making it even stronger. My pregnancies and breast-feeding are an example of this. My babies needed nutrients for them to thrive in and out of utero, which made me look at what I was eating and strive for more variety—thus making my recovery even stronger.

Basically ED will go from center stage to a backup singer to a small part of the technical crew and then to the back row in the audience. This combination of time and non-ED experiences makes me believe one day ED will be completely eliminated—I can tell I am getting there.

3). There is a gray area and it’s a much better place than black and white. I have a personality where I am either all or nothing. I was the girl that had to get straight A’s in school, nothing in-between, or I’d be an automatic failure in my mind. I was the girl that had to be the first one at work and the last one to leave and never took a vacation. I was the girl either binging (then purging) on every food possible or starving myself. I had an all or nothing mentality and if I was going to do something–it had to be the best or to the extreme.

Since finding recovery I have found this gray area called moderation and it’s actually pretty great. I find myself sometimes just doing things because I enjoy them (can you believe it?) not to be the best or with a purpose. I now don’t have to earn my leisure. I can watch a movie because I feel like it and deserve to relax not as a reward system. I don’t have rules that I need to follow, for instance, I don’t feel guilty if I don’t workout every day. I also don’t have fear foods, and allow myself to have anything I am in the mood for but not in excess. Moderation is a good and healthy place to be.

4). Everyone isn’t going to like you, but that’s okay. Trying to get everyone to like you is an arduous task—and you will never succeed because newsflash: not everyone is going to! You can also lose yourself trying to please those around you. For a still recovering people pleaser/perfectionist this was a tough pill to swallow. But what I have come to realize is that “haters gonna hate” and it’s not a reflection on you. Bottom line: People have their own issues that make them hate people for different reasons whether they are big green eyed monsters, need attention, or simply put they can—there are so many reasons why people hate, the list can go on and on. It’s not even worth thinking about!

Be kind to everyone and if people don’t accept you still then it is their loss. I struggle with this because I am very sensitive by nature. There are people in this world who are energy vampires and I have learned through recovery that you are most definitely better off without them sucking your blood like the leaches they are anyway.

5). It’s okay to not be okay. In fact, it’s more than okay to say, “I am not okay today. I am not perfect and there is no point pretending to be. The smile on my face is as fake as Kylie Jenner’s admittedly-injection-filled-pout.” Sadness is not a weakness, admitting you are feeling down and trying to make it better is actually brave. Hiding it is actually the cowardly and easy thing to do. If you hold in all your sadness and emotion that’s when we turn to destructive ways of coping and numbing like ED. It’s okay too, to not have an exact reason for why you are feeling off. With mental illness you don’t need a reason.

I find on down days I talk to those closest to me instead of pushing them away. I tell them I am feeling off. Sometimes saying these feelings out loud is a way to admit to yourself what is going on and is also a reminder that you are not alone and people care about you. I then give myself time to write or sweat instead of avoiding those feelings and holding onto them. Bottom line: no one is perfect and life gets better once you embrace that.

So here I am, five years later typing away while my three-month-old daughter is smiling, sleeping soundly in her sleep-sack-burrito contraption in her bassinet. My almost two year old is in view through her monitor, little tushie up in the air, a sea of Wubbanub’s surrounding her. My husband is to my other side watching Stranger Things on his ipad and I am writing while simultaneously breathing in a sigh of relief. With ED, I was so alone, so sad, so defeated, deeply hurting– now I have so much love in my life I feel relief. I am so happy where I am right now—they are my strength and I am a big part of their strength. This life is where I always want to remain and I can only have it in recovery. Five years recovery strong, here is to never looking back…

 

This Is Two Kids Under Two

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“Mommy peas upy” says my twenty-month-old, Vivienne, stretching what is left of her Michelin-arms up high–she has four rolls remaining which for her age is quite impressive (thank goodness! I pray for those rolls each night like Judy Blume character, Magaret Simon, prays to increase her bust size!). The problem: my two-month-old is peacefully sleeping on my chest, fastened tightly into her Bjorn. I try to avoid picking Vivienne up, taking her hand and walking with her, but she quickly retorts. “Peas! Upy upy” and I find myself lifting her up–both girls on me-sweat dripping from my forehead.

I check to make sure the littlest of my brood is okay. Little limber hand of infant, I feel for it. Not squished. Phew. Little sweet legs of infant, not squished either. I am good.

I know one day I will be destined to be a hunchback. Quasimodo you will meet your match—but hell it will be worth it. I hope. I have found myself in this situation more than not since my littlest was born.

If this is you, welcome to the club. And here are five ways you know you have two babies under two:

1). A Carrier is a must:

My girls are eighteen months apart and yes I actually am one of those masochists that tried for the second one. In fact, it took me six months to get pregnant—meaning I got the baby bug even earlier. Crazy? Perhaps. But I love babies and missed the sweet infant smell, skin-to-skin, need I go on…

My twenty-month-old is in a lot of classes and in order for us to resume our schedule and not throw her off even more I bring my littlest to her classes attached to my chest. This would be a no no for baby number one especially without proper vaccinations. Now, this is what I call survival.

I have been in the Bjorn chasing my now twenty-month-old through jungle gyms. I am following her up to the top and watching every maneuver to make sure the baby on my chest is okay. I slither through, slowly down slides shoes bracing my landing, and crawl through tunnels. I have actually become a ninja master of this craft. Call it insanity. Hell I do too.

If this is you, this is a common skill for having two kids under two.

2). Your older child has mastered the death stare:

Jealousy doesn’t look good on anyone, even an adorable eighteen-month-old. I find that my daughter, who is so sweet natured and loves sharing with other kids, has not been as welcoming to her baby sister as I’d expect. She gives the baby death stares that I wish I could plagiarize and use on my worst enemies.

Every time I change the baby, feed the baby, burp the baby, (see a trend…) she wants to be picked up too. Now, if I were an octopus this could work. Sadly, I am not.

On days where the baby is up more and I have to give her more attention my twenty-month-old wakes up crying in the middle of the night, probably because she had a nightmare that this damn baby keeps following her everywhere. Then she wakes up and– Not. That. Baby. Again. Death stare.

If this is your eldest, this is unfortunately common for two kids under two.

3). Someone is usually up, needs a diaper change or SOMETHING, or is crying:

One wants this, the other needs something else. Both need you. Both can’t be trusted alone. Crying. Chaos. Ah.

That about sums it up for two kids under two.

4). You have totally let yourself go, because gosh who has time to care:

Gosh not me. I have managed the eyebrow wax, but besides that, self-care would be taking a shower and brushing my teeth—the musts! To be honest, I am not one to be bothered with makeup, never was, but finding “me time” is hard, especially because I am working from home too—which eats up any spare moment. Who has time for naps these days? Not I. I am rocking the permanent puffiness under the eye look. This is actually the first article I have written and it’s an ode to having no time at this juncture for anything or anyone but my kids.

If this is you, this is unfortunately common for two kids under two.

5). So much love, laughter and cuteness. Double the babies, double the love.

I still love it. I love motherhood. My girls are hands down the best things that ever happened to me. Whether it is my infant making t-rex noises or my eldest running in circles screaming “circle, circle, circle,” I really enjoy these little people I get to help mold. When my eldest gives me a kiss or my littlest lays peacefully on my chest making me feel their love, it just makes all in the world seem right. I am where I want to be: motherhood.

If this is you, this is why two kids under two is completely worth it.

So give me spit up, poop blowouts, heavy lifting, and no me time—twice the baby love makes two kids under two a pretty special club to be apart of.

 

Why It Is Hard For Me To Accept Help Even While Being In Third Trimester Of Pregnancy

“Let me give you a hand with Vivienne (my 18-month old) so you can go get something to eat or sit down?”

“It’s okay, I got it.” I politely smile back.

“Want some water, I will go get you a glass?”

“I am fine, but thanks.”

“Let me hold your diaper bag at least.”

“I. Got. It.” Words tersely spewing out of my mouth through gritted teeth.

When you are thirty-five weeks pregnant like me, and with a toddler in tow, people tend to want to help you out—especially the nicer ones (I mean, I would do the same thing!). It’s a very kind gesture and a lot of people love the help, but news flash: I absolutely loathe it. My immediate reaction is a deep want to Kung Fu the person (sometimes with nunchucks depending how persistent said person is) trying to assist me. Normal? Not really, but I can’t help this visceral reaction.

In fact, when my gynecologist said that I may have to start taking it easier in the third trimester and lift my daughter less, my first reactionary thought was lo siento, no Ingles (meaning, I don’t want to comprehend what you are saying, so I am going to pretend I can’t…). But I nodded, Uh huh, as that suggestion went chugga chugga into one eardrum and choo choo out the other like a runaway train.

So why this sour attitude toward kind Samaritans?

Well for most of my life I associated any form of help with me being incapable. This may be partly because when I was in third grade, I was diagnosed with a processing problem, meaning it takes me a little longer to take in information than most students. My mom made me get a tutor to “help” me, which I translated as, “Dani, you are a idiot.” My being a failure became an internal mantra.

Summer of third grade is also when I was introduced to my close companion, ED (Eating Disorder). The typical internal monologue of someone who takes on ED as a best friend is “I am not enough” “I am a failure” “I don’t deserve pleasure” “I have no worth.” These thoughts only exacerbated and confirmed my internal mantra making it a constant theme song in my life: The Dani Sucks At Everything Show. This could be why, it took me until I was twenty-six and had health complications to finally ask for the help I needed to be-rid myself of ED—the frequent guest host in my life.

I also grew up in an upper middle class town surrounded by a lot of people that were fortunate. Some seemed to take their fortune for granted, which made me as an observer, go the completely other direction—not wanting any handouts. My parents are very successful so it was always assumed everything was taken care of for me and that assumption angered me. At the height of my ED, I became all about being completely independent and taking care of everything myself, not caring if it was hurting me—black and white thinking till the very end.

So Please Have Patience with Me

 “Dani, I wish I could do more to help you out,” my husband says as he lathers Benadryl Itch Stopping Gel on my back, to alleviate my third trimester night itching I have developed.

“I am fine and you are helping me by doing this,” I answer as the cool lotion takes over my itchy skin, calming it down.

“No, you never let anyone do anything. It’s frustrating,” he laments.

This is our nightly routine.

Look, I have come a long way. I am almost five years into recovery (December 3, 2017 is the big day); feel the best I ever have, but go go go is just a huge part of my personality and take it easy is not in my vocabulary. I will at least now accept help at times when I am exhausted or overwhelmed, but I am a work in progress in regards to wanting help at all times or just because. I have found my gray area, but my gray area is still a type-A-personality-who-likes-to-achieve-on-her-own. So as long as the doctor says my baby is doing well, I plan to keep up my current pace. This self-reflection has left me wondering if it’s a me thing or an ED thingDoes any one else who has struggled with ED have this distaste or struggle with help as well?