Full of It

Watching Eli’s intellect develop has been a blast.  As he acquires language and begins to “reason,” I become increasingly fascinated.  Language acquisition has always been a source of marvel for me, and getting to witness it firsthand has been nothing less than thrilling.

Already he attempts to “explain” things.  So, for instance, when he throws his stuffed frog onto the kitchen counter it’s “fra cli?” (frog climb?).  Or, he throws frog onto the floor and it’s “fra fall?”  You get the idea.  I worry he’s already learned how to lie, but figure he’s really just trying to reason things out.

It reminds me of a favorite story from my childhood.  The short of it is: My brothers and I did not understand, hell, weren’t even aware of the concept of, um, elimination (and I’m talking #2’s, deuces, 10-2’s, whatever your preferred nomenclature).  Why I do not know since we partook in it on a daily basis, but that’s not the point.

We were convinced that one day, and there was no telling what day this would happen, but one day we simply wouldn’t be able to eat anymore.  We would finally and truly be full.

My most vivid memory of this belief was a rather lengthy conversation outside a store in a parking lot where we debated how “full” we were.  Imagine three small children standing around pointing at various body parts proclaiming, “I think I’m this full.”  I couldn’t have been older than five or six, and if memory serves, believe we reached a consensus that I was full up to just past my knees.

Did it occur to us that every adult (regardless of age) around us still ate every day, every meal?  No.  Did we think to ask an adult about this subject?  Not that I can remember.

But man, we had some rollicking discussion amongst ourselves and the fervor of our belief both amuses and boggles me today.

I like to think of it as “Little Kid Logic.”  I’m sure it’s the basis for our future analytic abilities, our knack (or lack thereof) of figuring things out.

The three of us dreaded the day when we’d be unable to eat another cookie, or ice cream, or spaghetti.  As I got older I dreaded the day anyone found out I believed something so ridiculous. 

As an adult I find it endearing and am thankful for such an entertaining connection back to my childhood self.  And now, I turn my attention to my kids, waiting eagerly to see what kinds of explanations they come up with.

And you?  What kind of Little Kid Logic did you come up with as a child (or have your children come up with?).  Please share, I’d love to hear your stories…

Back To Square One

I still have twenty pounds to lose. 

There it is.  I thought this process went slowly after Eli, was irritated that I had to wear maternity clothes for two months after he was born.  I would scold myself, “Woman, you need to put those maternity jeans away.”  But they were just so comfortable.  And, the only pants that fit.

Now, I can’t believe that I managed to pack away the last of my maternity clothes two months after Eli was born.  It took me four months after Sophie was born to pack away the last of my maternity clothes, and honestly, I could have kept wearing many of them except for the fact that it was beginning to give me a major complex.

When I look at it from a rational standpoint it’s simple:  I had ten pounds left of Eli baby weight to lose when I got pregnant with Sophie, and now I’m down to the last ten pounds of Sophie baby weight.  That doesn’t sound so bad.  The problem occurs when I add those two numbers and see: 20.

To me that is a lot of weight.  Two years before Eli was born I wanted to lose ten pounds.  I’ve never been one to lose weight based on my diet.  For the most part I eat healthy, and even when I make a push to eat healthy all the time I never lose more than a pound, two at most.  And it must be pointed out: I like to eat.  A lot.  Thankfully most of my indulgences don’t involve fast food, processed food, or grease.  But sometimes they do.

No, for me to lose any weight I literally have to beat it off my body.  I have to sweat buckets to lose one pound.  So after a year of trying to lose weight, of exercising on a regular basis, I managed to lose seven whole pounds.  On the one hand, this was devastating.  Really?  Seven pounds in a year?  What kind of progress is that?  From a numbers standpoint it sounds like a terrific failure.

On the other hand, from a how-do-I-feel standpoint, it was perfect.  Although I would have preferred my final weight to have been five pounds less, I had to accept the fact that when I ate reasonably and exercised this was my body’s comfortable resting weight.  I could maintain this weight without depriving myself of any food, and by exercising a reasonable amount. 

More importantly, I felt good, fit, and didn’t find myself cringing in front of the mirror, or hiding when someone got out the camera (well, yeah, I still did that, but on the inside I was protesting less).

But now?  TWENTY pounds.  I feel like I am getting ready to climb Everest.

Here’s the thing:  I like working out.  I really, really do.  I like to go jogging.  I love riding my bike.  I like to lift weights when I have access to them.  Working out feels good, and has always been a huge stress reliever for me. 

The challenge is: how do I do these things when I never sleep, when Vinny works 70-80 hours a week, and when we are displaced from our normal surroundings (and my jogging stroller)?

The easy answer is: since I’m not sleeping I can find time somewhere, when Vinny is off on weekends I can get to the gym, and I’ve found some trails to take walks on with the kids.

This is going to take longer than I would like it to.  Getting to the gym (the only perk of living in an apartment complex again) once a week isn’t going to do it. 

But it’s a start.  After I work out I feel like my old self again.  I can barely jog a mile without feeling like I am going to toss my cookies, the amount of weight I am lifting is laughable, and seeing myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors does little for my self-esteem.

I don’t care.  It feels like I am starting over in every way.  In many ways, I am.  Having a baby takes a toll.  I had two in seventeen months.  Now I wish I could go back in time and shake my two-months-postpartum-with-Eli self and say, “Hey!  You!  You’re putting your maternity clothes away after two months?  Congratulations!  That’s awesome!   No, it really is.” 

My hope is there will come a point (again) when I look back at this time and say:  “You went to the gym after being up all night, running errands, doing housework and then spending the rest of the day with your family?  You didn’t collapse into bed and say ‘I’m too tired?’  That’s awesome!  No, it really is.” 

Neither Here Nor There

I’ve realized that the older I get the more set in my ways I become.  I’d like to think there was a time when I rolled with whatever life threw at me, that I took life’s unexpected trials and tribulations with cool aplomb. 

Now?

Life changes tend to throw me into a twist.  This is not to be taken as: any change gets my blood pressure up.  No, I like change, I like variety.  I consider myself a life-long student of, well, everything.  My interests are many and if anything I struggle with being decisive. 

What I’m talking about are all the major life changes and transitions that have been occurring, and that continue to occur, with some regularity.

Just when I think things are settling down, falling into a rhythmic pattern … WHAM. 

I am a homebody at heart.  I love to get out, explore, socialize, experience, but I equally love being home, nurturing my space and psyche.

Having children throws any kind of “normalcy” out the window when it comes to a predictable life (this is a plus), so I suspect part of my craving for stability comes from the ups and downs of raising kids.

In addition, the toll that living in L.A. for nearly ten years took on me cannot be underestimated.  And now, I find myself pulled back to this place yet again.

L.A., for me, is like living in limbo.  In all my time here I never felt a connection to place, never felt a sense of home.  Were it not for our family of friends here, I may have very well gone off the deep end.  This place is sensory overload and it takes mere minutes “out there” for my blood pressure to tick steadily up.

Moving back to Grand Rapids was a shock on many levels.  I’d acclimated to L.A. life, and not in ways I want to model for my children.  People here rarely acknowledge one another; everyone is in a my-ass-is-on-fire hurry nearly all the time.  After awhile I found myself acquiescing, accepting this as normal.  

We lived in an apartment complex for seven years and knew the names of three of our neighbors.  Most wouldn’t make eye contact, let alone return a simple “hello.”  It took me two years to figure out that a classmate I took a photography course with back in Michigan lived in our complex.  When I approached her to (re)introduce myself, she was initially standoffish and rude.  Only after I quickly launched into my explanation (“you were in my Photo 1 course with Pete Taylor, remember?”) did she let her guard down a touch, and two minutes later was offering to make lunch plans with me (she moved out of the complex shortly after; we never did have lunch). 

It’s taken me awhile to shake off this mentality, to believe that people around me can be (and are) genuine on a daily basis. 

I mean no disrespect to the wonderful people who live in L.A., to the handful of people we came to know and love during our time here (in addition to all of our friends from film school that trickled out to “live the dream”).  For me, it’s more about the cumulative energy that exists in L.A.  I feel it, and it wears on me.  It seems everyone wears a protective barrier at all times, and finding a way through that is exhausting … not to mention frustrating.

So when Vinny got the call to work out here for several months, it was with a cautious heart that I agreed to come.  It’s what we need to do for our family right now, so really, there is no question, but it was extremely difficult to leave “home,” because for the first time in a long time, a place actually feels like home to me.

Most people don’t get this.  And it’s something I’ve tried to explain numerous times, usually to no avail.  Any of my writer friends know that the concept of home continually crops up in my work; it’s one of my obsessions (this originally stems from all the moving I did as a child).

Now that I have children, I want them to have a strong sense of home.  There were so many things we were looking forward to this fall/winter: celebrating Eli’s 2^nd birthday (today!) with friends and family, hosting Thanksgiving, experiencing our first Christmas together as a family in our new home, and experiencing Michigan’s Fall and Winter among them. 

We will surely make memories out here in L.A., and I am thankful that we have such a solid foundation of friends here; they truly are part of our extended family.  But I can’t deny that this particular transition has been difficult, and that on some days I am not being my best self.  Between the travel, Eli being sick, stubborn adjustments to the time change, and just a general sense of “where the hell are we,” the kids have also been struggling.

The other day, after taking Eli to the pediatrician and getting drops for his ears, I set upon the task of administering said drops.  I was wary, unsure of how he would respond.  In true Eli fashion he took it in stride, even seemed to enjoy getting “bubbles” in his ears.  He now asks for them, points to his ears several times a day wondering if it’s time for his bubbles.

He once again reminds me to slow down, take a breath, and take it all in stride.  He reminds me that just because we’re here it doesn’t mean our life is on hold until we get back home.  We already call the apartment here home because it’s where we all are.  Together.  Even though my mind tries to make it more complicated than that, it really is that simple.   

Bink Be Gone

It was time. 

Eli is nearly two, and from my perspective, has an unhealthy addiction to his bink (aka pacifier, or as Eli calls it, his “B”).  We’ve cut back his use to nap and nighttime.  Even so, I feel like he’s at the age to give it up.

How to go about it?  And when?

I struggled with these same questions when it came to potty training.  From a practical standpoint, it makes the most sense to undertake these challenges when there aren’t any other major changes going on in our lives. 

However, the last year has seen: Vinny getting a job in Detroit (meaning a temporary move from L.A. to Detroit), me getting pregnant, buying a house (one of the most stressful experiences I’ve ever endured), going back to L.A. after Vinny’s show was done, giving birth to Sophie, moving cross-country seven weeks later (finally, to our house in Grand Rapids), and now, Vinny is back in L.A. for work with us to follow him there shortly (another temporary move).  I can’t remember another time in my life when there has been so much upheaval/transition/change in such a short span of time.

Thankfully, kids are resilient.  Eli, for the most part, has been an absolute trooper through all of these adventures, and just this last week has officially moved out of pull-ups at night and is in training pants full-time.  I’m not one to brag about my kids, but this little guy is awesome.  He surprises me in wonderful ways at every turn, always catching on and adapting to any given situation much better than I would expect.

I’d been figuring I would wait until we follow and join Vinny out in L.A. before attempting Project Bink Removal.  Eli’s been a bit clingy and moody since Vinny left (understandable), and the bink seems to be a source of familiarity and comfort for him. 

But then yesterday we got back from my parent’s place right at naptime.  Eli had fallen asleep in the car, and was groggy as I took him up to bed.  It struck me as the perfect time to simply not give him his bink.  As I laid him down he looked up and said, “B?”  I shook my head no and told him to cuddle with his frog and his night-night (what he calls his burp cloth, what he’s always clutched and kneaded instead of a regular blanket).

He didn’t have the energy to protest.  It felt like a huge victory.

Then came bedtime.  I figured this would be more challenging and it was, barely.  He didn’t get upset, or fuss, or whine.  He kept asking, “B?”  And I kept saying no, telling him he didn’t need it anymore.  Today at naptime he asked for it once and that was it.

The whole thing could have gone much worse. 

But it didn’t.  So I wonder, again, if we are the ones that make these hurdles so difficult.  Here I was, so worried that Eli was going to be upset, inconsolable, that he’d cry, throw a fit, etc.  I worried that taking away a source of comfort was going to disrupt his sleep, and he’s been such an amazing sleeper that I am afraid of messing with the equation.  To top it all off, I always worry that he won't handle one more change on top of all the other changes that are occurring.  I assume at some point he will hit his limit.

Instead, he’s fine.  Like everything else, he just rolls along with it. 

Having children teaches me profound lessons all the time, something I am very grateful for.  I’m not sure at what point in life we make the shift, and often come to expect the worst outcome in any given scenario. 

I don’t consider myself particularly negative.  But instead of thinking that the bink extraction would go without a hitch, I had built myself up to expect that any/all of these horrible outcomes may occur.  Of course I’m relieved that things have gone much smoother than expected, and I think that expecting any given situation to go without a hitch is a bit unrealistic.  However, I do feel foolish in that I allow myself to waste time and energy building something up to be bigger than it needs to be. 

Instead, I could have told myself: pick a time and let’s just see how it goes.  Ultimately, that’s exactly what I did … I just need to get better at skipping over the rather unhelpful internal conversation that takes place before arriving at that point.

Lesson in this case?  Do, don’t think. 

Sad to Know Happy

I was talking to a good friend the other day and she mentioned she was thinking about having a baby.  She had questions, and I assumed they were going to be of the “what is it like to be pregnant, give birth, etc.” variety.  But no.

She wondered how my relationship with Vinny changed once we had a baby.  If we were ever able to carve out time just for us.  And I have to say, these are excellent questions, questions that perhaps people do not ponder enough before having children.

I don’t think anyone is naïve enough to think their relationship with their partner won’t change once they have a child.  But I do think, in all the excitement that comes with potential parenthood, that this topic is often forgotten about altogether.

This is something I thought about often before getting pregnant.  I treasured my pre-baby time with Vinny, the freedom we had to do what we wanted, when we wanted … or even better, to do nothing at all.  Lazy days were our favorite, as were spur-of-the-moment camping trips we took on occasion.  These things are not so easily accomplished (if at all) with a little babe (or two) in the house. 

I found out I was pregnant with Eli at my acupuncturist’s office.  I was late, she knew we weren’t being careful, and she was as giddy as I was, insisting I do a pee test in her office.  The line on the strip test I took was indiscernible to my eye, I wasn’t convinced it was positive at all, but she jumped up and down, “You’re pregnant!  Girl, you’re pregnant!” 

Then you go into shock.  On the drive home I was overwhelmed by 100 different emotions.  The one that took me by surprise was the sadness that flooded in.  Even on that first day, in all the shock and happiness and awe, I already felt sadness for my relationship with Vinny.  I knew at that moment that our lives would never be the same, and that I was going to have to let go of the way our relationship was to move into what it was about to become.

I’ve rarely shared this experience.  The few times I have I’ve been met with either a brush-off, “of course your lives are going to change, duh,” kind of response, or, even worse, a look of concern (not for me, mind you, but because I was experiencing an emotion that wasn’t pure happiness).

I’ve never regretted our decision to have children, but I also think it would be foolish to ignore the feelings I had, to not allow myself to grieve the relationship (as it was) ending to become something different. 

The relationship has become something different, something better.  Seeing my partner as a father has only reinforced all the reasons I love him in the first place.  And seeing him love our children so wholly and purely has made me fall in love with him more deeply, something I didn’t necessarily think was possible before we embarked on this adventure (and a true, unexpected bonus).

There are still moments when I feel sadness for what once was.  But we do find time together, however fleeting.  And we both look forward to taking the kids on new adventures with us, soon. 

When someone asks me a question like this, I don’t hold back.  I have no qualms about being honest.  Choosing to become a parent is one of the biggest decisions you can ever make.  Once it happens, there’s no going back. 

Did I chastise myself a little that day in the car, moments after learning I was pregnant and feeling sadness?  Yes, I did.  I had that “what is wrong with me,” moment, wondered why my brain had to go there in the midst of something so thrilling, but then let it wander there all the same.  I was pregnant, dammit.  My emotions and hormones were already making me a blubbering mess, and I have learned so many times over that when I feel something I need to let myself feel it.  Quashing my instinctual responses only serves to make me less pleasant down the road. 

When I became pregnant with Sophie, there was again shock, thrill, happiness … and sadness.  This time, it wasn’t for what I was losing with Vinny, but with Eli.  I knew the time to give him my undivided attention was drawing to an end, and he is an incredibly fun child to hang out with.  He still is, but the dynamic has certainly shifted since Sophie was born, as is to be expected.

I’ve come to learn that when my mind knows it can’t “go back” to how things were before, especially when I am happy with the way things are, there is always a bump in the road.  It’s generally a large bump, and it just takes me awhile to figure out how to get over it.  What’s on the other side is worth the journey, but I’ve realized it’s okay to take my time getting there.

You're On A What?

I really cannot put into words what it feels like when your baby rejects you.

Sophie has been going through stretches of symptoms that I have chalked up to teething.  And, finally, after nearly two months of these bouts, a tooth did begin poking through the skin about four days ago.

In addition, she is in the everything-is-more-interesting-to-me-than-eating phase.  Any sound, especially that of her brother, has her whipping her head around to investigate.  I try to feed her right after she wakes, in the relative quiet of her room, but even that has only been sporadically successful. 

So there was a trend.  But nothing prepared me for last Wednesday.  After her morning feeding she literally would not eat at the breast for the rest of the day.  Sure, she had quite a large breakfast of rice cereal, bananas, and sweet potatoes.  She does this sometimes: eats a lot of solids and then doesn’t breastfeed for anywhere from four to six hours.  It always puts me into a panic, mostly because Eli never went more than three hours between feedings. 

This was different.  Every time I thought she was hungry and attempted to feed her, she would turn her head away, arch her back, and scream bloody murder. 

It’s hard not to take this personally.

After eight hours with no feeding at the breast I had to pump.  An hour later, immediately after waking from her nap, I got her to eat for maybe three minutes.  It wasn’t much, but I felt immense relief.  Then the rest of the day: nothing.

At dinner I had Vinny give her a bottle of expressed breast milk.  She wolfed it down.  This was maybe the fifth or sixth bottle we’ve ever given her.  I was happy she still wanted my milk, but wounded that she didn’t seem to want me.

Were I not so ding-dang sleep deprived perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult.  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

That night I didn’t fare much better.  There was screaming, but I did get her to eventually eat both times she woke up.  Once morning arrived she was back on the no-eating-train.  My confidence was shot, I was so tired, and every attempt to feed her resulted in: her not eating, me in tears.

After getting everyone to bed that evening I decided it was time to put Google to use.  A simple search for “refusing the breast at 5 months” brought link upon link of people writing on this very topic.  Well.  I had a place to start. 

It only took a couple minutes of surfing before it became apparent that Sophie is on a “nursing strike.”  Excuse me?  They can do that? 

This discovery was met first with intense relief (okay, I’m not the only one this has ever happened to … why does it make me feel so good when I know someone else has shared my struggle?), and then a general sense of annoyance.

What is a nursing strike?  Exactly what it sounds like.  A babe refusing to nurse.  The reasons this may happen are numerous (teething, ear infection, cold, slow letdown, change in mom’s diet, hormones, etc.), but even more exasperating is the fact that quite often, there is no reason. 

Worst of all, though there are a couple “pointers” given (most of these are common sense type things you’re probably already trying), you’re simply supposed to ride it out in relative calm as to not upset your babe or your milk supply.  Huh.

I did take Sophie to the pediatrician to rule out an ear infection.  Eli’s never had one, and from my understanding sometimes babes don’t do anything that would indicate they even have one. 

She was quickly determined to not have an ear infection (although she had the beginnings of a small cold).  I pressed the doctor (not our regular):  How long of her not eating before I should be really concerned?  I then told him I was already really concerned. 

He dismissed my fears:  “She won’t intentionally dehydrate herself.  You know, she’s eating solids, she’s distracted, she’s just going to eat less.  Weigh her once in awhile and make sure she’s gaining.”

I stared at him, waiting.  Yes, I wanted to scream, but what can I DO in the meantime?  How can I tempt her back into eating?  How can I keep my sanity?  My confidence?  My cool?  What if I’m not pumping enough to maintain my milk supply (so easy to forget to pump with the thousand other things going on each day)?  What if…?

Sigh.  Why do our minds so quickly turn into a whirlwind of doubt, anxiety, panic?  It escalates, so quickly, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it (see: sleep deprivation).

We are now on day five of the nursing strike.  Some days are better than others.  Some days I can actually get her to nurse four or five times.  Other days it’s three times, tops.  In the meantime, I am loading up her rice cereal with as much moo as I can, and manage to squeeze an extra four to five ounces into her that way. 

And I have to say, for all the irritation and hurt feelings this is causing me, she’s her usual self (well, other than when I try to get her to eat and she doesn’t want to).  She doesn’t seem to be plotting against me, she certainly isn’t starving, she still smiles at me all the time. 

I guess she still likes me. 

Each time I attempt to feed her, I silently wish that the strike has passed, that we can both get back to the good work of giving and receiving, nourishing, bonding without speedbumps.  So far, no go.  I try to keep a positive attitude and hold the worries at bay.  As is so often true, this is easier said than done.

Your Bits & Pieces

I’ve long known that people have all sorts of names for their private parts.  But as more and more of my friends have children, and we then commiserate on the damage done to our respective bits, it has become increasingly humorous to learn the lingo women toss around. 

Here’s the thing:  Women have a lot of nicknames for their cha cha.  Sure, there are a plethora of names floating around out there for the penis, too, but given our culture’s obsession with men’s junk (albeit their obsession, not ours), well, I’ll admit to being pleasantly surprised that females have not been left out of this cultural conversation.

You’ll notice the nicknames women use are generally much less crude than anything men toss around (I’m sure you could think of two or three crude nicknames men use.  If not, someone with too much time on their hands compiled a list here – gross!).

Why bring this up? 

Well, for one, I need to laugh.  Five months in and Sophie is still a poor nighttime sleeper.  Hence, I am sleep deprived beyond anything I have ever known.  The result?  Everything is funny.  Or makes me cry.  I aim for the former.

Second, my mind has been swirling in dark waters, contemplating serious topics, and this is a welcome respite from all of that. 

Third, I know not all women are open about these things and I am here to let you know: it’s okay, talk about your snacko, use whatever name you like, we’re all friends here. 

There are so many things women are hesitant to share with one another, and when it comes to pregnancy, labor and delivery, and motherhood, well, I’d rather know the ugly side of things than be unenlightened.  Yes, tell me what could happen to my lady bits, tell me what will happen to other areas of my body, tell me how to get through those days where I want to crawl under my bed and never come out, tell me that you have had tough days, too. 

After all that, tell me about how much you love being a mother, how it’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to you, how you wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, even if it meant having your box back to original form.

P.S. Thanks to all my friends for being so open and honest with me (and making me giggle with your lingo).  I couldn’t imagine getting through this adventure without all of you…

A Sticky Subject...

I recently came across an article entitled, “Don’t Glorify My Breast Milk,” discussing the book, “Is Breast Best?  Taking on the Breastfeeding Experts and the New High Stakes of Motherhood,” by Joan Wolf.

Wolf’s stance is: “It’s time to end the glorification of breast milk and the shaming of mothers who choose formula. For many women, nursing works; for many others, it doesn’t. But accusations of selfishness and bad mothering won’t contribute to anyone’s good health.” 

I can agree with the last sentence wholeheartedly. 

This is harder to swallow: “[N]ot all women are able to nurse, whether it’s because the baby doesn’t latch, it’s painful for the mother, she doesn’t have time, or she simply doesn’t like it. In those cases, says Wolf, the pro-breast-feeding studies, without appropriate scientific evidence, make the mother feel inadequate.”

Hmm.

At the end of the day this is a choice every mother has to make, and ultimately, she should do what is going to work best for her and her child (and I realize not all women even get to choose; for various reasons this decision is sometimes made for them).  However, I have to admit I find it unfortunate when a woman won’t even give breastfeeding a chance, when the decision is made before baby even arrives … especially when it falls under the reasons of time and/or inconvenience. 

Get 'Em Out

Did you know it was World Breastfeeding Week last week? 

A friend on Facebook posted an event, “Big Latch On,” that was being held in conjunction with the week’s festivities.  The event was held outdoors at a park downtown, where breastfeeding mommas could convene, connect, and nourish their little ones.

I had honestly never heard of World Breastfeeding Week before, and for some reason it sparked a memory of a sentence I read in some breastfeeding literature awhile back: “breastfeeding in public is legal in all 50 states.”

At the time I did a double take when I read this.  Really?  Someone had to tell me this? 

It never occurred to me that there may have been a time when it wasn’t legal, or that it even needed to be written down somewhere that breastfeeding in public isn’t considered obscene (if you’re curious about breastfeeding laws in your state, go here).

That being said, it’s taken me some time to get comfortable breastfeeding in public. 

The reasons for my discomfort initially were quite varied:  I didn’t want to “flash” myself at strangers (easily avoided with a nursing wrap), I didn’t want to attract attention to myself (I’ve always been this way), and most of all I didn’t want anyone to be offended.

It shames me to admit that I thought publicly feeding my child might offend anyone.  Or rather, that I cared if it did. 

One of the larger underlying issues was that, quite simply, I had almost never seen anyone else breastfeeding in public.

When Eli was a newborn, breastfeeding went poorly.  I didn’t have confidence feeding him in the privacy of my own home.  It was a frustrating ordeal, and the thought of feeding him in public, with a potential audience, was anxiety provoking at the highest level.

I would plan all of my errands, and essentially my entire day, around his feeding schedule.  I would feed him, Vinny and I would look at the clock and say, “let’s go to lunch now so we can get back before he needs to eat again!”  And so on…

This is no way to live, mind you, tied to a feeding schedule, feeling rushed wherever you go.  After awhile I would feed him in the car if we were on the go.  And eventually I did nurse him in public with my nursing wrap.  For all my nerves over it, I can’t even remember where/when our first public feeding was!

All the while I never felt particularly comfortable in what I was doing, but I was getting more and more determined that I shouldn’t have to hide away in our apartment or in my car to feed my child. 

At this point I have breastfed in various stores, the mall, the park, dressing rooms, restrooms, restaurants, museums, the airport, the doctor’s office, and I’m sure several other locations I cannot recall.  I still always prefer to feed at home, where we are both most comfortable, but over time I have grown more confident breastfeeding in public.

I am one of those people that tries to be very discreet when I breastfeed.  I don’t like to flop my boob out for all to see, and it’s not because it would make me uncomfortable at this point, but rather, I realize it does make others uncomfortable.  I have come to understand that many people are not necessarily offended by women feeding in public, it’s more about them being uncomfortable seeing a private body part so openly on display.

I don’t get this, exactly.  On any given warm day in most of our country, countless women wear tank tops or other such clothing that not only leaves little to the imagination, but quite often offers a peek at their girls if you’re really so inclined.  You don’t see anyone complaining about that. 

Regardless, nudity of any kind still tends to shock people, whether it’s for the greater good of feeding a child or not.

Which brings me back to the fact that I so rarely see anyone breastfeed in public (well, other than people I already know).  Since having Eli I feel like I have a keener eye for this sort of thing, and I can count on both hands how many times I’ve seen a breastfeeding momma out in public over the last two years.   

In some ways I feel it is my duty to breastfeed in public.  I’ve heard little kids whisper to their mom, “What is she doing?”  I’ve rarely heard the response given.  I imagine not all kids get the most positive reaction, but I hope the experience stays with the child.  I don’t remember seeing anyone breastfeed when I was a kid, ever.  I wish this would have been “normal” to me, to know that people breastfed, to know that it is acceptable to do in public, to know that it is encouraged.

Breastfeeding is difficult enough without feeling nervous about having to do it “out there.”  I’m happy to report that with Sophie I have had none of the reservations that I experienced with Eli.  If we have something to go do, we do it without thought of when she may need to eat next.  And wherever we happen to be, that’s where she’ll eat.  It’s worked out beautifully so far.

Now, getting back to the "Big Latch On.”  A fine idea, but I have to say if I had stumbled upon that park and not known what was going on only to find tons of breastfeeding mommas?  Well, it certainly would have felt like a Twilight moment, albeit a very welcome one…

Mom Radar

It’s crazy how once you have kids this weird, instinctual “Mom Radar” kicks in. 

I’ve never been a heavy sleeper, and can’t remember the last time I slept an entire night without waking up (it was well before having kids).  After Eli was born, he slept in our room.  That is, until we couldn’t take it anymore.  I swear all he would do is sigh and I would bolt upright, wide awake.  Is he okay?  Is he breathing?  Having him close meant fewer seconds of panic, and almost immediate reassurance. 

However, the slightest little fuss, coo, or kick would wake me up.  Vinny learned to sleep through it all pretty quickly, as he is a heavy sleeper, and has never woken up during the night since (either that, or he puts on a really convincing show in the name of not wanting to get up).  After a few weeks of this up-even-when-the-baby-isn’t-hungry-crying-etc. routine I was desperate for sleep, so I decided it was time to move Eli to his crib.

Well, that was harder than I anticipated, too.  Sure, he was only maybe twenty feet away in the next room, but that short space felt like miles to me.  What if I couldn’t hear him?  What if something happened and it took me longer to discover something had gone awry? 

People like to say, “Well, I don’t know if the baby is ready to move into his/her crib in his/her own room yet.”  Fess up, people.  It has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with our own comfort and need to have the baby close. 

So I was torn.  Baby close and no sleep or baby slightly further away and potential for no sleep because I’m panicked?  I decided there wasn’t much of a difference sleep-wise and gave it a try. 

The first night was rough.  I probably got up ten times just to check on him.  So I couldn’t make the call either way after that trial.

The next night I was a bit calmer (and wouldn’t you know, really, really tired … maybe from getting up so many times the night before?), and fell asleep quickly.

Here’s the amazing part, friends:  Mom Radar works even at a distance. 

I don’t know how or why, but if either of these kids wakes up and makes even the slightest fussing noise I wake up.  Sure, they may be into a full-fledged wail by the time I actually get to their bedside, but it’s never taken them getting to that point before I wake up.  And somehow, I only seem to wake up when they actually need me, and not for every little sigh, coo, or kick.  It’s a beautiful thing.  

Here’s the equally amazing part:  Mom Radar only works with kids.  Vinny can get up in the middle of the night, toss and turn, cough, elbow me in the head, etc., but if I’m already asleep this does not wake me up.

And of course, Mom Radar works during the day, too.  I suspect it’s one of those “perks” of being a mom that never goes away.  But it has saved a few spills off the couch and other such catastrophes (though by no means all). 

I’m sure there’s some kind of headache-inducing scientific explanation for all this.  Mostly I find it very cool, and know I can rely on Mom Radar on any given night, although there are moments where I wish to once again be a heavy enough sleeper that my husband was bolted awake before me.  Just for one night.

What-ifs, Worry and Windows

I’m currently reading A Map of the World, by Jane Hamilton.  I’m nearly 100 pages in and am not sure I’ll be able to continue (I’ll explain in a moment).  The premise so far is both intriguing and horrifying: A woman is watching her friend’s children and one of them (a two-year old) drowns in her pond.

The reader in me wants to continue to see what the aftershocks of such an event are and how the protagonist deals with them.  The writer in me is increasingly annoyed with the author’s writing style, in particular her use of dialogue.  At times I can barely stand it, the way the characters speak to one another, the way they always address each other by name (think about it, how often to you address the person sitting across from you by name?).  Suffice it to say, I’m hanging in for now. 

Reading frustrations aside, the mother in me is getting put through the wringer.  What a gut-wrenching ordeal this woman is going through.  When it came to the scene of the little girl’s funeral I had to put the book down.  I was in a waiting room and could barely keep myself from crying.  No one needs to see that.

Beyond its entertainment purposes, the book has led me to consider regret, guilt and worry.  I’ve realized that in many ways these are hallmark emotions when it comes to parenting.  Well, at least the dark hallmark emotions.

Growing up it exasperated me how much my mom worried.  She was, and still is, a huge worrywart.  I don’t know how many times I said to her, “Mom, I’ll be FINE.”  To me, it seemed a huge waste of time and energy to worry about things that would almost certainly never happen.  I’d come home from doing whatever it was she was worrying about and say, “See?  I’m fine.”

Could something have gone wrong?  Sure.  Did her worrying keep me safe?  No.  Had something happened is there anything she could have done about it?  No.

But, I know with certainty that if something bad had happened, she would have been racked with guilt and regret.  These emotions seem to go hand-in-hand, traveling together at all times.

Now that I’m a parent, I have a new appreciation for what my mom (and dad) were going through every time we set foot outside the house without them.  Now I think to myself, “How did they let us leave the house?”  Because when I think about either of my kids leaving and going off to do their own thing, on their own or with friends, I nearly have a panic attack.  Just thinking about it.  No one’s going anywhere yet, and already I’m freaking out. 

I also find myself freaking out over the “what-if” scenarios.  Right now my biggest worry-related obsession is our second story windows.  When we looked at the house last fall all I saw were huge windows in every room letting in all kinds of natural light.  In Michigan this is important as the winter months are dreary and gray, and, after living in California for nearly nine years I am used to sunshine nearly every day.  Yes! I thought to myself, these windows are amazing!

It’s worth noting that our house is over 100 years old and our windows have these annoying “pop in” screens.  In my nightmare the kids are a little older, playing in the room, I leave the room to grab a Kleenex (or whatever) and when I come back one of them has pushed out a screen and tumbled two stories to the ground below. 

I hate that I even think about this.  It makes me feel ill every time I do. 

So, naturally, I am paranoid about letting Eli play in his room with the windows open.  My husband is in the process of building screens for all the windows, but I’m still not satisfied that they’ll be secure enough, so now I’m on the hunt for some kind of window guard.

Regardless, I never would have thought of any of this before having kids.  I wouldn’t have imagined someone falling out a window.  I wouldn’t allow myself these kinds of panic-inducing indulgences.

But that’s what you do.  You worry about things that may or (more likely) may not be a true hazard.

As for regret, I have always stood by the belief that there are no regrets, only mistakes you learn from.  In theory this makes sense, but in practice it’s a whole other story. 

So the book is a challenge to me.  Of course what happens is a mistake, the woman would never intentionally let a small child wander out of her house and down to the pond.  But how could you not be consumed by guilt and regret?  I wonder how, if something so disastrous happened to me, would I even be able to forgive myself? 

Thankfully my challenges as a parent are less harrowing, but I am thankful for the food for thought, the what-if-something-like-this-happened-to-me opportunity that reading provides.  At the end of the night I can close the book and go to sleep, distracted from my window obsession.   

I can worry about it tomorrow. 

Get Out While You Can

*  *  *  *  * 

Update – Several of you have inquired about the outcome of my OB visit.  First off, thank you for your concern.  A few of you had ideas, suggestions, etc. as to what may be causing my problem.  I appreciate the support, and am once again reminded that yes, I should be as open and honest as possible in my little corner here. 

The good news is that my ultrasound came back normal.  If “things” don’t completely stop soon (I’m attempting not to gross anyone out this post), then I will be put on the pill for a couple months to force my body into a cycle.  It was a huge relief to know there is no need for some kind of procedure, which would only further prolong my already slow recovery.

Enough about that…

*  *  *  *  * 

So in the last two weeks I have been able to go out with my husband not once, but twice for dinner.  No, don’t rush over that sentence.  Okay, in case you missed it, I have spent time alone with my husband outside of our home TWO times in the last TWO weeks.  Prior to this, the last time we’d spent any time together sans child was way back in November 2010. 

There are several reasons for this, the main one being we were living on location while Vinny worked, away from family and friends, and I am paranoid beyond belief about having someone I do not personally know well watch our child (now children).

And now, as I continue to breastfeed our second child and avoid my breast pump as much as possible (I can’t help it, I know it “buys” me freedom, but I hate pumping), we are once again reduced to life revolving around my boobs and Sophie’s feeding schedule.  Mind you, I say this with no irritation or ill-will.  It’s my choice to do this, my preference, and in the grand scheme of things, committing a year of my life to feeding her is a blip on the radar.  It flies by. 

All this being said, would I like to “get away?”  Would I like to spend time just with Vinny on occasion?  Hell yes.

Thankfully, this is starting to happen (a rather huge perk to our cross-country move).  We enjoyed an evening out courtesy of my parents, and then a little more than a week later (and 200+ miles away) an evening out with Vinny’s sisters and their husbands, courtesy of his parents.

You’d think I would be totally and completely thrilled to have this time away.  And mostly, I am.  But I do find myself lingering between wanting the time away and then feeling like I am going to miss something while I’m gone.  Evenings are toughest.  Although it is the most draining part of the day, it is also my favorite time of day with the kids.  I love the last bit of cuddling in the evenings: rocking Sophie to sleep, reading Eli a couple bedtime stories. 

Knowing that Sophie is our last, there is part of me that doesn’t want to miss a moment.  She is growing and changing so quickly.  Then there is Eli.  He is so much fun each and every day.  I love this age with him, and know that I will look back on this period with longing when he is older.

Of course we all need a break from the wee ones now and again.  But I never anticipated leaving them with so much reluctance, even for a short two-hour break. 

In the end, the time away always does me good.  I feel recharged, refreshed, and thankful for adult conversation.  The car ride to and from is always quiet, and man, does it ever feel peaceful.  It reminds me of how much I love (and miss) spending time just with Vinny. 

Now that we know we have occasional babysitters, we are plotting for the days when Sophie is off the boob and we could escape, er, leave for an entire day (or more? Dare we wish for such a thing?). 

As good as it feels to get away and spend some quality time together, there is always such a rush of happiness when I see the kids upon our return.  Cliches tend to originate in some grain of truth, and as much as they tend to annoy me I have to admit some of them have taken on more depth for me as time passes.  What is that saying?  Absence make the heart…?  Just kidding, I know how it goes, and so do you.

Until There Are Answers…

Milk Machine Mom, where have you been?

Well, readers, let me just say this: Don’t move across the country seven-ish weeks postpartum.  Not that any of you would.  But me?  Well, I may just be certifiable…

As you might imagine, packing, moving, unpacking, all the while caring for two small children, has eaten up more minutes than there are in a day.  Sleep?  It teases me occasionally, although Sophie is starting to put together some longer stretches at night.  Now if I could only get my butt in bed earlier…

On top of all this fun (and it is fun moving into our first home, despite the overwhelming nature of moving itself), my body is struggling to heal.

WARNING: If reading about blood and/or my lady bits is going to traumatize/offend/sicken you, I suggest you stop reading.  Now.

Okay, for those hanging in, here it is:  I haven’t stopped bleeding since Sophie was born.  The “norm” for this lovely after effect of pregnancy is a few days to eight weeks.  Sophie will be ten weeks old on Wednesday.  So yes, it’s like I’ve had my period for nearly TEN weeks.  Please, weep with me now. 

I’m reminded again that when it comes to anything pregnancy related there truly is no “normal.”  With Eli, this particular fun lasted four weeks.  At my six-week check-up, my OB in L.A. reminded me that this labor and delivery was especially long and taxing, and healing will be slow.  He told me that if I was still bleeding after eight weeks I should come in and have an ultrasound.

I laughed and said, “Yes, but I’ll be moving across the country at that point.”  This was if-I-don’t-laugh-I’ll-cry laughter, mind you.

When you are occupied with something as all-encompassing as moving, it’s easy to push something worrisome to the back of your mind.  Okay, maybe not easy, but at least you don’t have the time to sit and dwell over it.  There are boxes to pack (and unpack), dammit!

But now, as all the essentials have been located and unpacked (though we still sit in a maze of disarray), my mind has had more opportunity to linger over the “what-ifs.”  This is always dangerous territory and a source of so much unnecessary worry.

The pattern goes like this:  What if something is really wrong?  What if I have to have some kind of “procedure” done?  What if I have to have surgery?  Will I be able to pump enough breastmilk for Sophie beforehand?  Will it affect my breastfeeding long-term?  What if…?  Will I…?  Can I…?

The questions pile up, with no answers.

I go in tomorrow to see my new OB here in Michigan.  She comes highly recommended from a friend, and if nothing else, I am looking for some peace of mind, however that is delivered.

Sometimes the answers, whether they are what we want to hear or not, at least give us a point from which to move forward. 

Most days I tell myself, “You’re still healing, it’s just taking a really, really long time.”  Or, “You packed and moved and are now unpacking … you need to REST, lady.”  Or, “If there is something wrong, it will be fixed.”

The body is an amazing apparatus.  Despite whatever is going on (or not), my body has continued to allow me to function every day, do what absolutely must be done, and most importantly, has continued to allow me to feed Sophie.  That baby fat is piling up as the days pass, so clearly she is not suffering any ill-effects of whatever my body is continuing to do.  And when I see her smiling at me, it’s easy to push the worries to the back of my mind, for a few more minutes.     

And Then...?

Sleep deprivation.

Yup, I’m in the thick of it now.  With Eli, weeks 5-8 postpartum were the worst, and I find myself in repeat mode with Sophie.  The first few weeks after you bring the baby home you seem to coast along on some kind of magical fuel.  You’re tired, sure, but manage to keep going and going and going…

Until you don’t. 

I knew it would be different in some ways this time around.  And it is.  Breastfeeding is going better, Sophie goes back to sleep easier than Eli did after night feedings, and these two things alone have saved me so much grief and frustration.

However, Eli is up and at ‘em most of the day and that makes any kind of daytime rest difficult.  Plus, Sophie’s been on a feeding rampage and one day will be full of feedings every one-to-two hours and then the next she’ll nap like a champ (but I won’t).

Were we not gearing up to move across the country in just over a week, I would be viewing this stage of exhaustion with more amusement.  Normally, I like an occasional bout of sleep deprivation.  No joke. 

There’s something about entering this phase of mental meltdown that I find fascinating.  In the past I’ve had this experience while working extremely long hours on film shoots.  At some point you cross the threshold into this altered state where you are still mostly functional, with now-and-again brain hiccups.  In college one of my friends referred to this state as “film trippin’.”

One of my favorite sleep deprived moments came while working on Jarhead.  I was working on location and we were putting in 16-17 hour days, and had been for a couple weeks.  We were filming at an empty military base and as I walked across the base to our office I randomly stopped and picked up a stick with a leaf on it and said, “Jeanine would like this” (Jeanine being one of my co-workers and very good friends). 

Of course I frightened Jeanine with my “gift,” and under normal circumstances I would not be inclined to pick up stray objects off the ground.  But in the moment it felt like the most natural thing in the world, and this is the part of sleep deprivation that I find fascinating.  Why wouldn’t I normally pick up sticks off the ground?  What made this action so normal (and pleasant) in this instance?  My intentions were good, even if the action was a little strange.  And so part of me wonders if in my “normal” state I am too rushed, too oblivious to the small details around me, blind to the small bits of beauty that sometimes lay at my feet. 

Regardless, this memory has become precious to me and always generates a good laugh when it is recalled.

When it comes to being sleep deprived with small children I have to admit there is much less to giggle over.  At least, not in the moment.  Later on you’ll find amusement at your mindless mishaps.

The other day as I was feeding Eli oatmeal I held the spoon up to him and asked, “Would you like more email?”  Thankfully he isn’t old enough to mock me.

I’m not sure what happens in your brain, what synapse misfires as you search for a word and then replace it with a completely unrelated one.  That, or at times your brain shuts down altogether.

“Hey, I’m going to…”

Hmm, going to what?  It’s amazing that you can launch into a sentence and completely forget what you were going to say four words into it.  I can’t tell you how many times this has happened: I start a sentence only to drift off and stare into space.

Where did the thought go?  It’s not like a bowl of ice-cream just floated in front of my face, or I noticed that our apartment is suddenly clean.  No, nothing like that.  But sleep deprivation is distraction at the highest level. 

My inability to pay attention to anything or anyone for more than four seconds (if it requires any type of thought or concentration) is embarrassing.  I forget what people say to me as they’re saying it.  I can’t recall details that should be difficult to forget.  I have newfound sympathy for anyone that struggles with an attention disorder, as it is ultimately very frustrating when you are trying to be “on it.”

I only wish I didn’t have to be.  “On it,” that is.  I wish I could sit here and simply enjoy my children without our daunting “to-do” list staring at me, our rooms full of belongings still waiting to be packed, my up-and-down ride of emotions as I flip from excited to devastated when it comes to our move.  In the throes of this sleep deprivation every emotion is amplified, every brain fart is annoying rather than amusing, and I sit here wishing for more sleep.

That time will come.  Part of me feels guilty for wishing my days away, wanting to be in that “land of more sleep” since I know this is our last baby.  I should savor every second.  Part of me feels wistful, wishing I could be infinitely amused during this latest bout of sleep deprivation.  Part of me feels…

Shit, I forgot.

Milk Machine, Again

Checking in from somewhere deep in the Land of Sleep Deprivation…

And the real question is: How is breastfeeding going with child #2?

The answer: Better, worse, the same.

I will say this: we got off to a much, much better start with Sophie.  This, in large part, is due to my doula, Gracie.

I had been in recovery only a couple minutes when she said, “I think we should try breastfeeding now.”  This was after the forty hours of labor and a rather hellish c-section.  I was relieved to finally be lying down in peace, as close to resting as I had been in two days.  The idea of breastfeeding at that moment, honestly, did not thrill me. 

My husband expressed doubts, too.  “But she’s still hooked up to so many things (me, not Sophie), and there are all these tubes.  I don’t know if she’s in any shape…”

Gracie would not be deterred and pressed in her oh-so-gentle way.  “Sophie’s about an hour old and now is the perfect time.  We’ll help place her and get her comfortable.” 

With some rearranging and maneuvering of tubes and gown, Sophie was placed on my chest, where she quickly latched on and began to eat.  I could barely move to hold her, but Gracie helped to keep her in place.  I was amazed and thrilled, moved to tears that this was happening and so very grateful that I had someone there helping to make it happen.

Compared to our early days with Eli this was a fairy tale beginning.

Sophie continued to and has been exclusively breastfed so far.  This makes me very, very happy.

This is not to say all has gone without a hitch. 

I am, again, a constant food trough.  My nipples have taken a beating.  There have been blisters, there has been cracking, there has been blood. 

Our last day at the hospital Sophie spit up blood.  I was in an immediate panic: why was blood coming out of our baby?  To see it spattered on her shirt made my blood pressure spike and I felt lightheaded.  Vinny was off doing release paperwork and I could barely make the flustered phone call to get him back to the room.  

After much hoopla by the nurses and attending pediatricians, not to mention a half-day delay in our release, it was decided, “Oh, your nipple was bleeding when she ate and she spit it up.  Totally normal.” 

Good times, friends.

All the old ailments and challenges returned: engorgement, spontaneous leaking (and no, not just when my milk lets down, just whenever … it soaks through my nursing pads and my shirt), her pulling back while latched on, clicking, total agony when water and/or a towel brushed anywhere in the vicinity of my nipple.

It’s hard in these early weeks, as we are adjusting to each other, to truly enjoy the process.  I am thankful to know this time around that we will arrive at the day where we are both comfortable, where things will proceed without a hitch, where the process will feel natural. 

We’re not there, yet.  And it gets frustrating.  One feeding goes well.  The next does not.  One feeding she eats calmly, the next is a frantic feeding frenzy that ends in me near tears and her with a gassy belly, screaming in pain. 

We are still in the “learning” period. 

You’d think there would be more patience this time around.  But the combination of sleep deprivation and knowing things should and will be better in the future sometimes sends me into a tailspin of frustration.  Did I mention we are also moving across the country in just over three weeks?

Add to that our 18-month old who is also adjusting to all this change, vying for my attention, wanting to be picked up by me (this breaks my heart, and was one of the reasons I so adamantly did not want a c-section), etc., and I often feel myself being pulled in too many different directions.

Thankfully, my husband has been home with me since the day we brought Sophie home.  He keeps me centered when everything feels overwhelming, keeps Eli happy when I cannot give him attention, and is my true partner in keeping our household functioning.

And so the days unfold, often in a haze, often spent entirely in my pajamas.  I know one of these days soon I will realize with a start that breastfeeding is going smoothly… that the haze is lifting and there is once again some semblance of a “normal” life.

Until then, it’s one feeding at a time.

 Sophie and I with my doula, Gracie, at our post-partum visit, 

where we talked at length about breastfeeding.

And She's Here...

I wish I could say otherwise, but I had another c-section. 

It was a possibility, of course.  One I had hoped wouldn’t come to fruition.  However, at the end of the ordeal we met our daughter, Sophie.  And she’s beautiful and healthy, and I’m doing pretty well, too.

So what happened?

On Monday, April 4^th, I had contractions off and on all day.  Nothing steady, but I knew we were getting close.  Then on Tuesday I was woken at 4am by a contraction.  I fell back to sleep and eight minutes later was woken up by another contraction.  This continued until 7am.  I had hoped for more sleep, but part of me was already giddy with excitement.  I was sure this was the day we were going to meet our daughter.

We attacked the day, rushing around the apartment doing last minute tasks, all the while my contractions were getting closer and closer together.  At 10am I spoke with our doula, Gracie Davis, and it was decided the time had come for her to join us.  We made the arrangements to have Eli picked up, and I was happy for the distraction of the contractions; it kept me from thinking about the fact that Eli would be leaving soon, the first time I would be separated from him overnight.

Gracie joined us, Eli left, and the day rolled on.  Gracie did a lot with acupressure to ease me through contractions as I was having a lot of back pain.  We also took a couple walks around the neighborhood, probably frightening our neighbors with my contractions on the sidewalk.  Regardless, it felt nice to be at home, relaxed, not panicked about whether or not we should be leaving for the hospital yet.  Gracie kept careful track of the contractions and would let us know when we should leave.

Around 3:30 that afternoon we decided to head to the hospital.  My contractions were 3-4 minutes apart, lasting 60-80 seconds, and the intensity had been building all afternoon.  L.A. traffic any afternoon is not my idea of a good time and I started to worry that we’d be stuck somewhere, hence the decision to make the move.

After getting settled into my triage room, taking some time to get back into a steady rhythm of contractions, I let the nurse check me.  I was dilated to a one.  Let me say that again:  a one.  After thirteen hours of steady contractions I felt like I had been slapped in the face.  Really, no progress?  I was frustrated and could feel my confidence buckling.

Gracie stepped in and reiterated the positive:  I was 70% effaced.  That was progress.  The work was not for nothing.

I cannot adequately express my gratitude for what Gracie did during my 40 hours of labor.  This scenario was repeated over and over.  I would get checked, things would be progressing slowly or not at all, and Gracie would be at my side, reassuring me, pointing out the good things that were happening, the important work that was being done.

I’m not going to lie: had she not been there I would have caved early on and said “screw this, give me the c-section.”  Of course, had I done that I would be sitting here full of guilt, wondering if I had sold myself short, not having done all I could to bring Sophie into the world without surgery.

After twenty hours I decided I needed an epidural.  This was a critical moment for me.  I was convinced having the epidural would slow down progress and this was something I absolutely did not want.  Yet, I was in so much pain and things were progressing so slowly that I wasn’t sure I had another twenty hours in me without caving to surgery.  I decided the epidural was the way to go, and had much reassurance from my OB and the nursing staff that epidurals do not slow labor when you are in the active stage. 

They were right.  After the epidural things continued to crank along, albeit at my regular slow pace.  I rested a bit here and there and was thankful for the reprieve from pain. 

Now I was trying to grapple with the increasing pressure I felt in my stomach.  I inquired about having my water broken.  The concern was that Sophie was still so high that breaking my water could result in the cord coming down, or her hand flying out, or some other sort of nightmare situation that would necessitate an emergency c-section.  So at this point my OB told us, “it’s not safe to do that.”

Four hours later he came into the room, checked me and said, “Okay, let’s break your water.”  I was nervous but excited.  I was convinced this was the step needed to get things moving along to the pushing stage. 

Well, let me just say all my various healthcare providers had been right about the “large quantity of amniotic fluid.”  It sounded like a waterfall coming out of my body.  The way I was sitting I couldn’t see what was happening, I could only hear and feel it, but to me it was sweet relief.  I immediately felt less pressure and pain in my stomach.  Unfortunately, I soaked my OB and traumatized my husband. 

More importantly, I felt a renewed sense of energy and optimism.  It was time to do this!  Two hours later my OB came back to check me and I was dilated to a ten.  Mind you, at this point we were nearing 35 hours of labor and I was antsy to get this over with.  Although I was dilated to a ten he wanted to wait two more hours before I started pushing to see if the baby would drop further, meaning less pushing for me.  This sounded reasonable, so I agreed.

Two hours later it was time to push.  I was already beyond exhausted, but the thought of meeting our daughter propelled me forward.  If they wanted me to push, then dammit, that’s what I’d do. 

And I did.  I pushed and pushed and pushed.  She would drop down, progress would be made, the contraction would end and then whoosh!  She would get sucked back up the birth canal.  The frustration on my OB’s face couldn’t be hidden and at first I thought he was annoyed with me, that somehow I wasn’t pushing enough or the right way or…  So I asked him and he said, “No, I just really want this to happen for you.”

Part of me knew right then that it wasn’t going to happen.  And so I asked him to be straight with me.  He told me that if there wasn’t progress after three hours we’d need to talk.  So I pushed awhile longer, hoping I could get her out, thinking that after all of this how could I not get her out?  Was I really going to get this close, feel her trying to descend out of my body and then not get the satisfaction of giving birth to her?  I could feel my grip slipping away, knew I was inching closer to having a meltdown.  Gracie kept encouraging me, Vinny tried to crack jokes, get me to smile or laugh in an attempt to distract me.  I appreciated everyone’s efforts, but the look on my OB’s face said it all.

After three hours of pushing he told me we should “go in and get her.”  He didn’t want me to continue straining my body or get to the point where the baby was in distress.  I agreed, it was logical, but my heart broke.  I couldn’t hold it together and didn’t try to.  I was a mess and told him to give me five minutes to be devastated and that then I would pull it together.  And I mostly did.  I knew I had given it my best shot.  I wanted to meet our daughter.  Now.

I won’t go into detail about how awful the c-section surgery was after that much labor.  I’ll say this much:  uncontrollable shaking, radiating pain into my neck/shoulders, and vomiting.  Still, when I felt them pull her out of my stomach I experienced a relief I had been waiting over forty hours for.  When I heard her cry, I cried too.

It’s been a little over a week and I feel okay both mentally and physically.  And let me say, I am more than happy with okay.  I expected the experience to follow me home the way it did with Eli, to feel the depression descend in on me.  But it hasn’t.  It helps immensely that breastfeeding is off to a fairly good start.  And it helps that I knew a c-section was a possibility this time around, despite my best efforts or intentions. 

My constant goal throughout this experience was to know that I had done everything in my ability to get her here without surgery.  And I feel I did that.  So there is no reason to sit here and mentally beat myself up, or wonder what it is about my body that is so inadequate when it comes to birthing my children.  I’m not playing that game this time, and for that I am grateful. 

No, what I’ve been thinking about instead is the fact that I almost did give birth to my daughter.  I could feel her, so close, and yes, I am disappointed things didn’t work out.  But somehow I take joy in the fact that I went through most of the process anyways, that I let my body try to do what it was made to do.  I could sit here and say my body failed me.  But all I have to do is look at Sophie and I couldn’t imagine saying such a thing.  My body made another beautiful baby.