Writing Down My Daughter

Having a girl has always been my great dream. I always thought I would have a girl first, a firstborn daughter like I was to my mother. Instead I had a boy. For awhile he was my everything. Then when he was 1 ½ I found out I was pregnant again. My hopes for a girl returned. One of each and our family would be complete, I thought. But, as fate dictated, I had another boy. Initially I was disappointed but soon the overwhelming task of taking care of two children under the age of 2 ½ buried my desire for a girl.

Over the years I’ve always answered the question whether we were going to have another child and try for a girl with an emphatic “No!” My husband and I like the one child per adult ratio. But this year when I turned 40 something happened. My body began to fail me. I was plagued with illness, fatigue, irregular menstrual cycles, intense PMS, and depression. I realized that I was entering perimenopause, the time when the body prepares for the cessation of menses. The time when fertility slows down and then stops.

I felt out of touch with myself and my body. I knew something was amiss but just couldn’t put my finger on it. The last four years of mothering had stomped on and trampled over the spark that was me. I felt like there was a foreigner stationed in my body and somewhere inside was a vibrant, energetic being waiting to be remembered. Ever since my 40^th birthday lost dreams and desires had come knocking on my door demanding to be let out.

Meet Nicholas the 4-year-old

It was a cloudy morning on October 20, 2005, as Nicholas Jeffrey slipped into this world, loudly proclaiming himself present with cries and wails fit for a tiny warrior. Even though his labor was much shorter and less painful than his older brother's, his entrance made me pause. He seemed angry, and this reaction is not what I had been expecting from this child that I had nurtured and carried with joy inside my womb.

"This one's going to give me a run for my money," I thought to myself.

Four years later I can tell you with an emphatic "OH YEAH!" that I was right. Boy, was I ever.

Right from the get go he knew what he wanted and would only settle for that one thing: ME. Daddy wouldn't do, Grandma wouldn't do, Grandpa wouldn't do. Only mom. When Michael was an infant I could leave him with almost anyone and run to the store just to get out of the house and he would be just as happy when I returned as when I left. Not Nicholas. He would begin crying when I left and when I got back he would be screaming, his poor little face beet red and flooded with tears. Needless to say, I didn't get out much when he was little. Wait, what am I talking about? I didn't get out much for the first 3 years of his life!!

Preschool or Bust!!!

There's a sound in my house that I don't quite recognize. Or rather, I should say, a lack of sound because my house is quiet. No clomping footsteps, no yelling or screaming or arguing, no kids music emanating from the radio or tv. And it's a good quiet too, not the kind where you realize suddenly that the house is quiet and you'd better go see what your kids are up too. No, this quiet is rather nice and is due to the fact that there are no kids here for the moment.

You see, they're both in school. Michael began his second week of first grade and Nicholas started preschool this morning. He'll go every Monday/Wednesday/Friday for three hours, which means that every week I'll essentially get 9 hours of free time for the first time in 6 years! Well, almost 6 years: Nicholas did try preschool for a month last year so I did get some time but that time was spent worrying about whether or not he was crying at school or participating. This year he's in for the long haul, whether he cries or not.

Meet Michael the First Grader

Today Michael is officially a first grader! Here's a little bit about him:

Michael is 45 inches tall and weighs 45 lbs. He is missing his two bottom teeth (which are growing in fast and, alas, crooked). One of his top teeth are also loose - this he discovered after one of his friends lost both of his top teeth. I'm not sure if Michael's tooth was really loose or if he just wiggled it loose, but he was sure delighted. "Mom, I have the most exciting news to tell!" he announced to me and everyone else in the family.


As of the beginning of the summer he can ride a two-wheeler bike on his own, although he is very cautious with it and walks it up and down hills. Just today I watched him slam on the brakes in the driveway and make a foot-long skid mark. Wonderful, I thought to myself. The days of having a clean, white driveway are numbered.

Other accomplishments this summer include going across the monkey bars at the beach by himself. Not the monkey bars at school or at home though. They're too high. The beach must hold a certain amount of magic for Michael for he also WILLINGLY and ON HIS OWN put his head under the water and didn't come up crying. This is probably the biggest accomplishment of the year for he has hated getting his eyes and face wet ever since he was little.

Michael can whistle but can't blow bubbles with his gum yet. His favorite colors are red, yellow, gold, and blue. His favorite tv shows are Clone Wars, Sponge Bob Squarepants, Dragon Tales, and Word Girl. His favorite anything is anything that has to do with Star Wars or Clone Wars, especially Star Wars Lego and lightsabers. He has 3 lightsabers but that doesn't seem to be enough as he has already put another two on his Christmas list. He sings loudly the Star Wars theme song as he plays.

Michael has now added garbage to his list of things he collects. Well, he doesn't call it garbage, he calls it treasure. Gum wrappers, popsicle sticks, old fuses, string, plastic forks from samples at Costco, and BOTTLE CAPS. He jumps at the chance to take back returnables because he can look for the bottle caps on the floor. This does not please me as I understand how many germs are on the floor and on the bottle caps. However, most often they don't make it out of his pocket and I find them in the washing machine clean and shiny, so no harm no foul, I guess.

Other "treasures" of Michael include 66 pencils collected from every party or free event (yes I counted them!), 10 hacky sacks, a toteful of stickers, 30 plastic mardi gras beaded necklaces, 60 buttons collected from FIRST robotics events, various business cards that look pretty or interesting, and a whole bunch of trinkets and toys that he's collected from the pinata break at birthday parties. I've even been known to stuff his pinata with his "excess" treasures, but don't tell him - he hasn't missed them yet!

Like his mother used to, Michael hoards candy. He's got a small bin full of candy whose origins I'm sure date back to last Halloween. In fact, just today, he found some from Easter that he'd forgotten about.

Michael's a pretty good eater. His favorite breakfast is apple and blueberry pancakes with syrup; lunch is a toasted ham and provolone cheese sandwich; and dinner is pizza. Tonight he asked for tacos, though, which apparently is a new favorite. He likes carrots and bananas and broccoli and salmon, the latter he always gives me grief for serving and then promptly gobbles it up. Dessert is, of course, his favorite part of the meal. Chocolate chip cookies and Oreos (double stuffed) are his very favorites, along with any kind of ice cream.

He's really imaginative and likes to be alone to create new lego ships or play with his Star Wars figures (figgers is how he pronounces them). I often catch him in his room just staring off into space, thinking about or dreaming of something only a six-year old can.

Michael is usually pretty sweet and easy going, but lately he's been a bear: whiny and cranky and cantankerous. The type of behavior that comes at the end of the summer and makes moms everywhere dream of the beginning of school. Last night as I was lying in bed with him I learned that he's not very excited about going to first grade because "I'll be away from you, Mama."

Melt my heart. Even with all of this growing and independence, Michael still loves to hug and cuddle and confide in me. I hope he always will.

The End of the Innocence Revisited

The end of the school year is here. I can hardly believe it. Tomorrow is Michael's last day of kindergarten. Big sigh.

This has truly been Michael's year to blossom and grow. At the beginning of the year I wrote that I was afraid Michael would lose his innocence upon going to school and being around older kids. I needn't have worried for my son has retained his essence. He may know a lot more now about Star Wars and Bakugan characters than he did but he still daydreams a lot and picks his nose.

I look back to the fall and am amazed at how much Michael has learned this year. He learned how to write the alphabet and about the sound each letter makes, he can write his numbers up to 50 and beyond, he can now read simple books, he has taken spelling tests, and he has learned how to add and subtract (which he loves more than anything else).

He also learned some core life skills too: how to follow rules, about taking turns and sharing, being part of a group, how to be responsible for his library book each week, and how to be a good friend.

I honestly don't know if this would have been possible had Michael not had such a great teacher, Mrs. N. That he had a positive kindergarten experience filled with kindness and love made a world of difference. I know he will be sad to leave her classroom. I am sad also as I had the chance to volunteer in the classroom on a regular basis and really like her too. But, it's on to first grade he goes. I just hope he gets a teacher as nice and kind and knowledgeable as Mrs. N.

Labor of Love

This is how I envision the birth of my first child. I will start having labor pains at home, preferably after a good night’s sleep. I will labor at home for as long as possible, taking deep, cleansing breaths as I focus inward. At the hospital I will labor in the birthing center, using the shower and a large Jacuzzi tub to counteract the pain. I will have the lights dimmed, soft music playing in the background, candles burning, and the scents of lavender and lemon wafting through the air to help me relax. I won’t need any drugs because I will remember all the techniques I learned in my Bradley Childbirth class. Eight hours later I will be holding my baby.

All throughout my pregnancy I like to think this is possible. My friends tell me I’m living in a fantasy, that no one has births like that. I realize that the birth process is nothing that one can control but I can dream, can’t I?

My due date is May 26, 2003. So to prepare for the baby and have some last-minute time to myself, I stop working two weeks beforehand. I figure I’ll be able to tackle projects that I haven’t been able to get to because I was tired from the pregnancy. After all, being home will give me more energy, right? Wrong. I spend the whole two weeks sleeping. Where’s this burst of energy that I’m supposed to get right before the baby is born, the one my friends have told me will cause me to clean my house from top to bottom?

My due date comes and goes…and no baby. One week past my due date and still there is no baby or any indication that the baby is coming out EVER. No contractions, no water leaking, nothing. Nothing, that is, except for tons of phone calls from well-meaning friends and family asking, “Where’s that baby?” or “When are they going to induce you?” or “Have you tried jumping jacks/spicy food/walking/nipple stimulation/sex?”

I have tried all the methods that are supposed to jump-start my body into labor, but my baby isn’t budging from his cozy home inside my womb. Amazingly enough, despite the fact that I am huge and bloated and my feet and ankles are swollen, I am ok with letting the baby come on his own time. I’m not in any major discomfort and our tri-weekly non-stress tests show that both the baby and I are fine, so why rush things?

On Friday, June 6, I go to see my midwife for yet another non-stress test. She is excited to hear that earlier that morning I lost my mucous plug, a sign that means my body is in some sort of preparation for birth. Yet, when she checks to see how far I am dilated it is only 1 cm, which is practically nothing, especially for a woman who is 10 days overdue. And then she breaks my “happy labor” bubble.

“If you don’t go into labor by Sunday, we’re going to have to get things moving or you’re not going to be allowed into the birthing center. You’ll have to go to Labor and Delivery in the hospital,” she says.

What – no queen sized bed, no Jacuzzi tub, no freedom to move about as I please? “What do I need to do?” I ask.

“If you haven’t gone into labor by tomorrow morning I want you to take four ounces of castor oil.” Castor oil? She continues, “Castor oil will clean you out and all that movement will hopefully prod your uterus into contracting. Just don’t stray too far from the bathroom.”

Sounds unpleasant, I think.

“And if that doesn’t work, then on Sunday you’ll have to come in and we’ll break your water and get things rolling.” So now we have a plan and I have something to report back to friends and family. Later that afternoon the contractions start. They are just minor, but they give me hope. They continue through dinner and into the evening, but shortly after midnight they stop.

Saturday morning I send my husband, Jeff, out to get the castor oil. My midwife had said that I could take it with juice but I think it would be easier to swallow it down tablespoon by tablespoon. Do you know how many tablespoons are in four ounces? Neither do I because by the second or third one I am clamoring for the juice. Castor oil is vile with a capital V! It’s thick and oily (of course) and swallowing it causes me to gag. The juice doesn’t help much because then it just tastes like thick, oily juice. However, 30 minutes later I finish it and begin waiting for it to work. Soon enough, the castor oil does its work, but I don’t experience any contractions. So unless something happens in the next 12 hours it looks like we will have to go into the hospital to get my water broken.

Sunday morning I awake at 7:30 am. The sky is gray and threatening rain. Today I am 13 days overdue.

“Hopefully today’s your birthday!” I say to my belly. We are expected at the hospital at 12:30 p.m. so have time for one last breakfast and one last walk as a couple. Then I double-check the bags to make sure we have everything: relaxation CDs, two pairs of pajamas for me, one change of clothes for Jeff, a robe and slippers for me, the take-home outfit for the baby, extra diapers, washcloths for labor, our Bradley Childbirth book, digital camera, video camera, juice boxes and suckers for me, other snacks for Jeff, and pillows wrapped in plastic garbage bags. It looks like we are going on vacation for a week instead of going to the hospital to have a baby.

As we drive to the hospital, I feel sad and excited – sad that our couplehood is coming to an end. Life as we know it will be very different from now on. Mostly I am excited though, because I am ready to meet this being that has been growing inside me for almost 10 months.

After we check in at the hospital, we take the elevator up to the Birthing Center. As we unpack our luggage, the nurse on duty gives me a gown to change into. The nurse midwife soon comes into the room to break my water.

“What I’m going to do,” she says as she holds up a utensil that looks like a long crochet hook, “is insert this into the uterus and use it to break your bag of waters. Just lie back and relax.”

I figure that this will be an easy, quick process. For some reason or another, my midwife is having a hard time breaking the waters. On her last try, though, she does and I feel a gush of water. So this is what it feels like, I think.

It is 1:30 p.m. We call our parents and let them know that my “labor” has begun.

For the next two hours nothing happens. When the midwife comes back in and is informed of my progression or lack thereof, she says that it is time to try something else to get things moving. She wants to give me castor oil, but I vehemently protest based on my experience the previous day. So she has the nurse bring in a breast pump, which is supposed to cause contractions.

And it does. At 3:15 p.m. my contractions begin, slowly at first and sporadic, then more regular. I sit on the birthing ball to relieve some of the pain, which isn’t too bad yet. My mom, dad, and sister-in-law come in to visit and I can still talk to them, which means that I’m not too far along in my labor. One hour of contractions turn into two, then three. Jeff and I take walks up and down the hallway and when I feel a contraction I hold onto either Jeff or the railing in the hall. At 8:00 p.m. they are getting stronger and more painful, about 3-4 minutes apart. The nurse asks me if I want her to put some music on, perhaps one of the relaxation CDs that I brought with me. Surprisingly I feel that music would distract me – I only want quiet – so I decline.

I feel for sure that this is it, that the baby will be coming soon, but an hour later the contractions slow down and we have to use the pump to get them going again. At 10:00 p.m. the midwife suggests that we get some rest, so we get ready for bed. We are so tired.

I guess sleep is not meant to be, for about 10 minutes after we get into bed the contractions start up again. So we get out of bed and labor all through the night. The contractions are especially hard from 4:00 – 6:00 a.m. but then slow down soon after. We are served breakfast but I can’t eat much. At 10:30 a.m., 21 hours after she broke my water, the midwife comes in to evaluate my progress.

“You’re only 2-3 centimeters dilated and your water’s been broken for almost 24 hours,” she proclaims. “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to move you into the Labor and Delivery part of the hospital so we can give you Pitocin to speed up your contractions.”

I’m not too pleased with the turn of events, but don’t have much of a choice. Jeff and I gather up our stuff, say goodbye to the labor nurse on duty, and go to Labor and Delivery, which is just down a hallway adjacent to the birthing center. The room is half as large as the one we were just in, as is the bed. A baby monitor is placed around my large abdomen. Now I can hear the strong heartbeat of the baby inside. At 11:30 a.m. I am given an IV – the Pitocin drip. For the next couple of hours we wait for the Pitocin to start working.

The contractions start slowly at first. With each one I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as the contraction subsides. As a contraction peaks Jeff pushes on my feet or knees to counteract the pain that comes along with it. Because of the IV, my movement is limited – no more walks in the hall – but I can sit on the birthing ball or in a chair.

At 3:00 p.m. the contractions are getting stronger and I am feeling it mostly in my back. The Pitocin is causing the contractions to come on very quick and strong. By 4:30 p.m. the contractions are about 2 minutes apart and very intense. I am in an enormous amount of pain and nothing seems to help. At 5:30 p.m. my midwife checks my progress and says that I am dilated to 6 cm and that the baby is in position. She thinks, though, that he’s facing up, which is why I’m in so much pain. She has me kneel on the bed so I’m facing the wall. Perhaps laboring in this position will make him turn.

I’m naked, sweaty, and totally not in control of my body. It’s as if another entity has taken hold of me. I scream out in fierce, primal cries that I did not know I was capable of. I think I’m scaring Jeff. Part of me feels ashamed that I am not able to endure the pain better and that I’m not using any of the techniques that we learned in class. This is so not what I had imagined, even though it’s what my friends with children had told me about. I call on the spirit of all women who have gone through childbirth to help me be strong.

No one mentions an epidural but I keep asking for one, or a c-section, anything to get this baby out. At one point I cry out “I quit, just shoot me!” It is at this point that I have been in labor for 29 hours. I’m really tired and ready to give up. Luckily my support team – my midwife and my husband – know that I really don’t want an epidural, that a natural childbirth is the goal.

At 6:45 p.m. I feel like pushing. The pressure is bearing down and the contractions are coming one after another. My midwife examines me and says it’s not time to push yet. My mom is giving Jeff a break and I rest my head on her shoulder and let her stroke my cheek and wipe the sweat off of my brow.

My midwife does another exam at 7:30 and I’m 8-9 cm dilated. I’m almost ready to push. Another half an hour and it’s time. I sit up in bed and pull my legs up around me. With each contraction I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while I push with all my strength, the amount of which surprises me since I’ve been laboring for 30 hours. With each push my midwife and Jeff tell me what a good job I’m doing. They are my cheerleaders. Without them I would not have gotten this far. I see the sun setting outside my window – it splashes deep reds and yellows on the walls of my room.

I continue pushing for another hour. Now the midwife can see the baby’s head. I am told that it won’t be long now. They set up a mirror so I can see the head as it crowns. As I do I get a surge of energy – I’m almost done, just a little more. At 9:20 p.m. I give a long hard push. I feel a lot of pressure and a burning sensation and I see in the mirror the baby’s head emerge. Seconds later the midwife is handing me my baby. My husband cuts the cord and then puts his face next to mine so we can watch our baby together.

His eyes are open and he is looking intently at his parents, as if to memorize this moment. I try on his new name for him, Michael Thomas, saying it softly to him. He raises his head slightly in concurrence, and then instinctively searches for the breast.

I no longer feel any pain. I feel wonderful, radiant, beaming. He is beautiful, my baby, the most perfect anesthesia.

This "baby" turns 6 on Tuesday. It's hard to believe that six years have passed since he was born, but I've enjoyed every minute of it (well, almost every minute!). Happy Birthday Michael!

I Never Knew My Mom Was a Trapeeze Artist

When exactly does a woman become a mother? A) The minute her first child is born? B) When she takes him home from the hospital? C) When she experiences the sleep-deprived reality that comes from nursing every 2 hours?

If you would have asked me this question 8 years ago I would have gone with answer A. However, 8 years and two children later I realize that becoming a mother takes more than just birthing a child between your legs and calling yourself a mom.

Mothers are not born with our children, they are made. There is no instruction booklet on how to be a mom. We learn through experience, trial by fire, and sometimes with disastrous results. We learn that when you change your infant son's diaper you'd better cover him up quickly or you WILL get peed on. We learn that when your child is not feeling good and says that he thinks he has to throw up, you have a 5-second window to get him to the toilet before he does so.

Even so, I think it takes more than just experience to be successful at this mothering thing. It takes passion and energy and commitment. And balance.

My mom is someone whose experience and opinion I trust and value. She has shown me how to be a good mother through her mothering of me and my brother. She wasn't a helicopter mom or a soccer mom or a stay-at-home mom like June Cleaver. She was a do-it-all mom who worked part-time but was always home when we came home from school. She was a mom who earned her Master's Degree while working and taking care of us. She was a mom who had interests and hobbies outside of her kids. I know now how important that is: it's a key component to keeping your sanity as a mom. It showed me that while I was an important part of her life I was not the only part. My mom showed me that to be a mom you need to have balance.

This balance is something I am currently searching to attain and maintain on my mothering journey. In between making meals, doing dishes and laundry, taking the kids to school, trips to the library, and all the other routine stuff that my life is currently made up of, I realize that there is not much in life right now that is just mine.

This mothering thing we do is a tightrope act that involves balancing our needs with our children's needs. To be really successful at it we need to be sure of our footing and who we are or we risk falling and losing ourselves in the daily barrage of tasks.

To all you moms out there who have found your balance, I salute you. To all you moms out there like me who haven't found it yet, I say keep searching. Start small. Pledge with me to do at least one thing for yourself every day that will bring you into balance at that moment: take a walk after dinner, read a magazine, take a bath, eat a whole cookie (not one that you have to share with the kids), breathe deeply for 5 minutes. Then, as you get braver, take more time for yourself: go for long walks in the woods, read a book, get a massage, go see a movie with friends or by yourself, go out to dinner with friends. You see where I'm going here.

I understand that trying to incorporate a little time for ourselves may at first prompt some strange reactions from our spouses and children ("Mom wants to do what and without us? Boo hoo!!") And we may feel that we're abandoning them. However, my belief is that the more we do for ourselves the easier it will be to work "Mom's Time" into our lives and pretty soon our balancing act will be a normal part of our routine.

Have a happy Mother's Day! Be good to yourselves!!!

If you like this blog or blog about mothering yourself, check out the About.com's Mother's Day Blog Carnival!