Mommy Ever After » c-section

Be there and be square.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 09 Dec 2014 12:45:03 +0000

I made it no secret on here (and in my life) that I was quite nervous about expanding our family. We were a perfect triangle.

I remember taking an autumn trip to the beach house with the fairy godparents and sitting on the couch for hours, literally, listing the reasons why I was scared to have another baby. My bestie and her husband (who is also a bestie, so don’t get it twisted, babe!) do not yet have children of their own, but she is an incredible psychologist, so she was perfect for the job. She sat and talked me through it, holding my hand. And, wouldn’t you know, as I am typing this I am remembering that she did the exact same thing 10 years before, in the exact same spot of that exact same couch. Obviously the subject matter was different, but we sat on that couch for hours and hours, as she held my hand and we shared secrets and dreams.

In any case, my list of fears about having a second child was scattered. Some of the reasons included:

The repeat C-Section. I loathed my spinal the first time around, as it made me feel paralyzed and unable to breathe (and wasn’t aware that I could opt for an epidural). Selfishly, I was terrified to go through that again.

I had been warned countless times that having two children isn’t double the work, but 100 times the work. That is scary.

And then there was the anxiety; I was nearly crippled by anxiety at times during my first pregnancy, doing “kick counts” and googling things like “Does a baby get hurt by being jumped on by a 25 lb dog?” and “Do blowdryers scare babies in utero?” I also vaguely remember a brief freak out over Tonic Water and the safety of Quinine during pregnancy.

I also had a fear that I could have a crazy, wild, messy, rambunctious, high energy child. I could have a boy.

But, most of all, I feared the change in our family’s shape. We were a perfect triangle; We had our system down, we were a trio.

(*Note: In trying to come up with the equivalent word that means the same as “pair” but with three people, please be careful with the terms that you Google.)

My daughter was my everything.

(I should mention that as I typed that sentence, she just popped her head into my bedroom door, clad in pink, fuzzy footie PJs and said, “I just needed one more mommy kiss. And after you’re done writing about me, read this Ariel book I gave you. It is the best. And maybe later, I will check up on you, and sneak up on you, very quietly, and give you a new book.” and blew me a kiss.)

With my daughter, everything was magical. Her nursery was an enchanted garden. She had a tutu collection. She was dainty and delicate and darling.

I was scared to push my luck.

And so, that night, that Fall, my friend and I decided that it was clearly not the right time for me to have another baby, and that maybe, one day, I would feel ready.

And I waited. And I waited. And I waited for that day to come.

And then something happened.

We moved into a new house, in my dream neighborhood (where both my husband and I grew up) and all of a sudden, I just felt ready. It took years, but I got there.

He was conceived instantly, came out early, and I loved him instinctively and deeply.

And then all hell broke loose.

I was not able to care for my son in the way that I had for my daughter; I was a wreck, had to be medicated which forced me to wean him at 10 weeks (after having nursed my girl for 18 months) and I completely lost it for awhile.

But, to be honest, it wasn’t because it was hard. It was never really hard having two. I realize that when some people have their children very close together it can be insane. But for me, having a second child was not harder than having one. The bright spot in a bleak year.

Slowly, though, things have changed. And if you read here regularly, I think you will have noticed a perceptible shift in how I write about my son;

I recently declared him to be the best thing that has ever happened to me and I named him as my true strength symbol.

Over the past year I have woken up to many people and many things. I now look at life in a completely different way and hold those dear to me closer than ever before. I tell my friends I love them every day. I try to show my husband, in some way or another, how grateful I am for him. And I adore the hell out of my kids.

Every time I pick up my son, every single time, I kiss his face. I know that despite a rough start to things, he knows that he is loved.

And just like it went with his sister, I have become obsessed with him. Even with all of his crazy antics (and, truth be told, he is literally the personification of the fear I listed above) I gush over his toothy smile and sweet kisses and how he loves to nuzzle into my neck.

And I think I kind of took this change for granted a little, as though it was a natural shift that just happens.

But it didn’t really hit me until Sunday. It was the afternoon and the whole family was in the living room, the Eagles were on the TV, my daughter, husband and I were on the couch and my son was sitting with my brother in law on a chair eating goldfish. The three of us cuddled up and my husband remarked about how cozy and nice it felt. But I didn’t feel that; I felt incomplete. It was like our family’s hole had morphed from a triangle to a square and no other piece would fit. Without my son, we just weren’t whole.

And I didn’t have to force it. Not at all.

***

Believe it or not, despite my depression, I don’t cry a whole lot.

Today, my son and I picked up my daughter from school in the carpool line, and when the door opened and they saw each other, they literally squealed with delight. And she insisted on sitting in the extra booster seat that is right next to his carseat, and my two children were lost in fits of giggles as I watched them through the rear view mirror. And tears streamed down my face.

This was love. Love of the purest kind. Love of the truest nature. My team.

And all I felt was gratitude.

Biologically speaking, we won’t be any new sides to our family’s shape.

But oh my word, how blessed am I that I get to spend my days with this dainty girl who never ever stops talking,

and this sweet boy, who will cause destruction at every chance he can get,

and that when they say, “Mama?” I get to answer.

I am so in love. This is what life is all about.

The post Be there and be square. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Snapshot of a Day

mommyeverafter — Wed, 05 Nov 2014 00:48:06 +0000

Tuesday, November 4th.
It is Election Day.
It is my Poppy Don’s 86th birthday.
It is the date when my son was supposed to have his bris, had he not come 4 days before his scheduled C-Section.
But this Tuesday is also an anniversary, and not a good one.
A year ago on the Tuesday of this week I received that first, fateful text from my husband that read, “Are you OK? I am getting a little worried about you. I see the light starting to go out in your eyes.”
And that was the beginning of the worst year of my life; It has been worse than all of my other years combined. And so I was dreading this week, as in some ways I am re-experiencing all of the fear and negative emotions of this day last year, like a victim of PTSD. I have nightmares. A lead weight sits in my chest.
But, it’s funny how life works.
Because it is Election Day, I had both kids home with me today, and because my daughter was a bit under the weather we had no plans. It was nice at times, and hard at others, and sometimes it got to the point where I felt like I was drowning in my anxiety. I thought back to this Tuesday last year. I can remember so many details of the things that were plaguing me then, and thinking about some of the events of that week made me feel physically ill. This is something I have never discussed on here before, but that week I was not only being hurt by the chemicals that began to swirl in scary ways in my mind, but I was being hurt by close friends. I was being made to suffer in agony at my most vulnerable of times. People abandoned me during my lowest point last winter, despite a promise to “be there forever”, and while at the time it was a crushing blow, I now look at it as my greatest blessing. I don’t have to endure the pain of that poison anymore.
I remember it being 11 o’clock in the morning on this Tuesday of last year, and looking down at my phone and seeing that text from my husband and feeling loved, but also feeling scared, because he was right. My light was dimming. The initial high of having a new baby, a baby who was healthy and cute and who nursed well and whom I loved dearly from the start (and the high from my Dilauded Rx) was fading, as I began my slow descent into the abyss.
There are certain dates I remember about the past year that are very significant to me. I remember my son’s birth, of course, and our magical hospital stay. I remember his Bris, and how my girlfriends piled into bed with me as we ate Cronuts that my sister scored from the coveted NYC bakery. I remember Thanksgiving when I sat in the corner, alone and virtually catatonic. And I remember this week.
So, today started off hard. I confided in some of my friends as we messaged throughout the morning, and unsurprisingly I was met with great encouragement and support. But as the day went on, my daughter got sicker and sicker as she appeared to be coming down with some kind of nasty bug. Mommom came over and when I told her about the significance of today, she said, “But look. Look where you are now. You are great now.” And this is something Mommom does. She says that everything is great, whether it is or not. No matter what the ailment, she says “You’ll be fine.” It is her coping mechanism, learned at an early age, and it is something that is sometimes comforting and sometimes frustrating.
I rolled my eyes at her.
“Really?” I asked, as clearly I am still struggling a great deal. Physically I am still dealing with some major issues and emotionally, each day is a new hill to climb. But she assured me by saying, “Look what you’re doing. You want to get out there. You’re doing things with friends and making new friends and making plans. That is better.”
And I didn’t think much of it. But an hour later, my daughter got even worse. She complained that she was freezing cold, refused my offer of toys and cookies and said she just wanted to sleep (she has not taken a single nap in almost 2 years). So she climbed into my bed with me, as she curled up under the covers on my side, and my son curled up on the other, and the three of us slept. Before drifting off, I got an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Being in my bed, snuggled up with my two babies felt like such a blessing. And even though it was under less than desirable circumstances, it felt like home.
When the kids woke up nearly two hours later they immediately reached over my lap for one another and held hands. I only had my iPhone to capture the moment, and the room was dark, so the photo is grainy, but my kids grasped each other, anchoring themselves to one another and to me and anchoring me to reality. Things did feel a bit better.

And we all trekked downstairs, and my daughter needed a blanket and orange juice and the episode of Yo Gabba Gabba about the Doctor and my son needed his afternoon bottle and my dog needed to go outside and I needed to have a snack and call the pediatrician and as I juggled these things, both figuratively and actually literally (at one point I was balancing many things in one arm, including my 26 lb son) I thought, “I am doing this. I am taking care of business. I am taking care of two children and a dog and myself and I know what I am doing.
I’ve got this.”
And then Mommom’s words echoed in my ear.
As much as I feel like I am still in the depths of this thing, this awful thing that happened last year and swallowed me up and spit me out and left me weak and vulnerable and tired,
I am doing it. I am being a mom, and I think I am being a good one. And I realized that my grandmother was right.
So while today started off with a heaviness around it, it has lightened;
even though life circumstances actually got worse throughout the day, my perspective changed.
Like the grainy photograph of my kids holding hands, all of my tools are there,
it just isn’t always easy for me to see them clearly. But life isn’t made of moments captured in perfect lighting with a high resolution camera. It is spontaneous flashes of joy, snapped hastily, but still able to be savored despite their blurriness.
This Fall may be hard for me. It may be difficult me to get through each of the dates that remind me of my roughest times of the last year.
But as long as my kids keep holding hands,
and as long as I keep taking that in,
I think I am going to be OK.

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My Shop is Closed

mommyeverafter — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 14:43:16 +0000

(via Ramshackle Glam’s Pinterest Page)

ser·en·dip·i·ty

ˌserənˈdipitē

noun

noun: serendipity; plural noun: serendipities

the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

***

Yesterday, I read a post that brought me to tears. My girl Jordan over at Ramshackleglam wrote the most beautiful piece entitled, “Not So Brave“, about the impending (like, this week) birth of her second child, a daughter, “Goldie”.

In it, she wrote,
But that’s why I’ve been spending time every day looking at these photos: because seeing them reminds me that there’s something much bigger waiting for me on the other side of the pain and the exhaustion and the everything-that-might-go-wrong, and that’s that no matter what happens, I know this: I get to fall in love. Again. I almost can’t believe it. I know there’s “a baby” coming…but my daughter? That doesn’t feel possible; it feels too big and too forever to be real.

So maybe being not so brave is okay. I mean, it’s okay to be scared of falling in love. It should be scary, shouldn’t it? Because you can’t control it, and you can’t stop it, and once it’s there it changes everything.

And she wrote, so eloquently, about the exact sense of overwhelming anticipation and fear and excitement and love that I was trying to describe when I wrote the hardest words, my post about my inability to bear more children. And her post moved me, because it was addressing the exact thing that I mourn the most. The magic.

I mourn the magic.

***

This week, I had a doctor’s appointment at the hospital. It was the hospital where I gave birth to both of my children. The hospital, for me, is haunted. I drove into the garage and pictured myself, just a year ago, walking through the darkness, cradling my giant belly in my hands.

I entered the building and right past the outpatient lab. I looked inside and pictured myself 12 weeks pregnant, after having been shocked at my Sequential Screen Ultrasound when the tech told us that he saw “something between the baby’s legs”. It was in that lab that I called my dad and told him that we were having a boy.

I walked to the East medical office building and took the elevator, the elevator that I rode every month, and then every week, to check on my babies’ heartbeats while they were still inside me.

And being in the hospital…it hurt.

***

This past week, I experienced two competely different, but equally meaningful experiences:

I geared up (with true, sincere happiness, mind you) for the impending births of several babies whose gestation I have been following and celebrating.

I saw photos posted online of newborns. I saw tiny heads in those tiny striped hats. I saw people become parents.

And simultaneously, I experienced having to tell at least five different people that I would no longer be bearing any children of my own. I had to tell a doctor and a nurse. I told several people who asked me while I was pushing my son in his stroller around town. Sometimes it was met with skepticism. “Oh, well you never know.” with a sly smile.

But I know.

***

So here’s where serendipity comes into play. I read Jordan’s post with a pang. And I thought about how I could could write about my own, still sad, feelings, while still being so happy for and proud of her. But I was scared. I thought it would be therapeutic, but I was nervous about taking the first step.

And then, coincidentally, she emailed me. We exchanged notes about her daughter and mine; we talked about some milestones, about trying to get my daughter’s ears pierced (hashtag fail) and how much she has to look forward to; I told her about the black, knee high suede fringe Minnetonka Moccasins that I will be sending her little girl’s way. And that made me happy. And she wrote about feeling “Not So Brave”, and, in turn, she gave me the courage to feel OK about not holding it together. About admitting that I am still in pain.

And then she posted the Hemingway quote. Not only was it the perfect quote, but it was my guy, Hem.

And so I am letting go.

And so I am writing hard. I am writing about what hurts.

I am definitely still wading through the mire of grief stages. I am still bargaining, thinking of ways for me to add to my family.

Sometimes I have dreams that the doctor was wrong. That I can, actually, decide to “try” again. I can wait, with a quickened heartbeat, for two lines to appear on a stick. I can see a little teddy bear flickering on an ultrasound. I can find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. I can feel kicks and feel nauseated and feel the baby being pulled from inside of me as I hear the doctor say “I see a hand! I see a foot!”

But that is not my story.

My story may, someday, include more children. Probably not, but maybe. But they won’t be coming from my womb.

Write hard and clear

The shop is closed.

So for now I will enjoy my babies and appreciate them more than they will ever know. I will celebrate the births of my friends’ children. And I will try to bust the ghosts when I walk through the hospital halls.

My shop is closed. But there is great joy ahead. There are memories to be made. Milestones to face. Dance parties to have, hands to hold and heartbeats to listen to, as I rest my head on my babies’ chests at night. There are lullabies to sing and lives to live.

My shop is closed,

but so, so many doors have yet to be opened.

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The Magnificent Seven, The Son Edition.

mommyeverafter — Sat, 24 May 2014 16:42:37 +0000

Looking back, I found the note I wrote to my daughter when she turned seven months, a love letter detailing milestones in her life and expressing my profound love. Today is my son’s seventh month birthday, and so, for him I shall do the same.

Dearest baby,
My sweetness; My light.
Today you are seven months old.
A magnificent seven.
When I was seven days pregnant with you, you were just a wish.
When I was seven weeks pregnant with you I saw your picture for the very first time; the ultrasound tech described you as a little cheerio. They also saw your heartbeat, a perfect rhythm. I knew you were OK.
When I was seven months pregnant with you we danced at Twin and Go-Go’s wedding in Boston. We walked down the aisle together, we held her flower bouquet as they said their vows, we made a speech at the reception, and you were right there with me, never quieting, just kicking along. You were lying transverse, right across my belly. I loved feeling the parts of your body and I could identify each one.
When you were seven minutes old, the nurses said “He has long fingernails!” and I had just found out that you were 7 lbs 12 oz, the exact same birth weight as your sister. I also found out that you were born at 4:11, which is my birthday. When you were 7 minutes old, as they were working to sew up my body and make me whole again, your daddy brought you over to me, and I swear, you smiled. We sang to you in the OR, “Mommy loves the baby, daddy loves the baby, everybody loves the little boy.”
When you were seven weeks old we were going through a bit of a bump, but we still found so much joy in you; in your sweetness, in your strawberry hair, in the coziness of the holidays around us. We marveled in how you would sleep seven hour stretches overnight and we loved feeling like a real family of four.
And now, my dear, you are 7 months. We love you more with each breath. You have grown into a magical little boy. You radiate goodness,
how you bat at my skin with your big mitts, and kiss my mouth with big, slobbery smooches when I hold you close; how you smile every time I kiss your face; how you reach out for me when I’m not with you, calling for “Mama” and grabbing me, with such love. You are the sweetest thing I have ever known.
You are magnificent.
Love,
Mommy

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Threadbare

mommyeverafter — Fri, 09 May 2014 23:35:21 +0000

Tonight, as I toweled myself off after my shower,
this old post popped into my head.
As I looked in the mirror I saw tired eyes,
hair that has not been washed since Monday morning (which is a new record, even for me. And no, Twin, it doesn’t even look dirty)
and I thought to myself, threadbare.
The real definition of the word is “becoming thin and tattered with age.”
I think that this past week did a number on me,
as I was already fragile from these past few months.
This week, over and over again, I thanked my lucky stars for my carbon monoxide detector,
and that something pulled me out of bed at 5am to hear it’s far away beeps.
So many people reached out to me this week. They asked if I was OK, asked to help, and told me that my story has haunted them, or motivated them to make changes in their home.
My husband and I are so glad to raise awareness on something so important, but, as he said, we’re ready to stop being the poster children for these hard things.
So I looked myself in the mirror,
and I smoothed on my eye creams and oils and moisturizers (I may never wash my hair but I am crazy for my skincare regimen)
and put on a t-shirt from one of my sister’s old Phish shows and a pair of her silk shorts,
and I realized that, as I wrote in that post so long ago,
I may be threadbare
and a bit of an eyesore
but I am still standing.
Through terrifying surgeries, heartbreaking complications,
losing too much blood and the devastating loss of good friends in my time of need,
through floods and hospital stays and times that were sad and scary and surreal
I am here. I am strong. I may look thin, I may look weak, I may have dirty hair, but I have survived.
I didn’t know that I would.
I am so grateful that I have.
And, just like my daughter’s hospital hat years ago,
I am now the best.
I am the best me I have ever been.
Here’s to the future,
and here’s to the past.

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A Birth Story-My Sequel: Part 2

mommyeverafter — Fri, 31 Jan 2014 22:45:47 +0000

Perhaps I should back up a bit. As I mentioned, the doctor told me that because of the nature of my contractions,
the difference I was feeling (despite having already been through FOUR false alarms),
I should come in to Labor and Delivery to be checked out. You should know this about me: I am a positive person, I am constantly accusing my husband of being a big ol’ naysayer. But in this case, I was miss “this is ridiculous, why am I going in again, I am going to be pissed to be sent home again, blah da de bla bla”. And remember. I had “Hot Cocoa” on my nails and they were 2/3 chipped off. And, while typically I don’t care about dirty hair, I did a hasty wash, threw on some eyeliner and blush, and called my mom, while in a towel.
“The doctor wants me to come in.” I said sheepishly.
And for the first time, her voice was different. “I think this is it.” She said.
We didn’t tell my husband.
We called my mama bestie to have her “On call” in case we needed her to pick up my daughter from school, and off we went.
Just in case, I wore my lucky underwear and purple socks, but I was still skeptic city.
Upon our arrival at the hospital I was greeted as an old friend; everyone there knew me. The residents and I were on a first name basis. It was embarrassing. But I had to admit, the pain I was feeling was different. And the monitor showed the same. I was having strong contractions every three minutes, regularly.
But, alas, as it has always happened when it comes to me and my labors, my cervix was not opening. Not at all. Not even one centimeter.
So I waited in the bed, for hours, contracting to the point of agony, when I started to cry.
I cried from the pain.
I cried from the uncertainty.
And, most of all, I cried because I hadn’t said a proper goodbye to my daughter.
I had had fantasies of how we’d spend our last night together as a tripod; A special dinner, and then maybe I’d sleep with her that night, since it would be our last time being just us.
As a side note, late in my pregnancy my kid discovered a PBS kids show called Peg and Cat. The theme goes like this:

It is a show that encourages counting and early math. But the lyrics go
“We are two, na na na na na, Me Plus You, na na na na na…”
and every time I would hear this I would think,
“It’s me plus you, girl. It’s us. What the hell are we going to do with a fourth? And a BOY!?” I still get a lump in my throat when I hear that song.
Anyway, back to the hospital.
I was contracting and thinking and perseverating and all of a sudden, I started to cry.
I cried to my mom, really from the pain. “I can’t go another weekend like this.” I said. And I consider myself to be strong. Emotionally, I may be a basketcase, but pain-wise, I am pretty darn tough. But I just knew, much like the first time around, that it was time for this baby to come out.
At about this time my OBGYN showed up. He confirmed what the residents had said, that my cervix was still closed, but added that it had softened a lot, and said that my contractions were really strong and regular on the monitor, inevitably putting stress on my uterus.
“We’re having a birthday party today.” he said.
And then I cried some more.
Out of relief, out of fear, and out of, pardon my french again, the “What the fuck?!” feeling of having planned everything, every last detail, and having it all turned upside down by a sideways (literally) baby.
And I still hadn’t called my husband!
At that point the doctor offered me an epidural for the pain, but I declined. If i couldn’t experience a natural birth, my dream, I’d at least experience natural labor. And that I did. I am no masochist, but it made me feel like I could, at least, have some control over my body.
And so we called my mama friend. She would watch my daughter, and host a playdate with her son, whom my girl refers to as her “prince charming”. And then we called my husband. He was in a big meeting. He was told to rush out. He asked for permission to go home and change out of his suit. He was told no, there was no time.
I was forced to take off my all of my clothes, including my lucky socks. And so when my husband arrived, handsome and dapper in his suit, I had him put on my lucky socks, in their neon purple glory, under his gray slacks and ultimately under his full scrub attire.
The next bit was a blur; I met with anesthesiologists, got an IV, met my labor nurse…it was really happening. And my nurse, Katherine, held my hand and told me I’d be OK, as I told her how scared I was to go into surgery. How unprepared I felt. How my three and a half year old needed me. I am very superstitious and her name starting with a K, the same as my Nanny, comforted me. It was a sign, like the signs I had experienced during my first birth. My angels were there. And there were more of them to come.
But then Katherine told me it was time. So my hair was placed in a net and I was placed in a wheelchair and I hugged my mom and husband tightly. It was time. I couldn’t stop shaking. It was time.
Time to meet my son…
(Stay tuned for more…and it involves some more signs from angels and maybe even a little spontaneous singing in the OR)

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A Birth Story–My Sequel: Part 1

mommyeverafter — Fri, 31 Jan 2014 21:05:24 +0000

Hello, there. Or, to many, I should say Hello, Again. Welcome. Or Welcome Back. Right now, you can find me mostly over at 511 Ever After, but I’ve decided to return for a post that could only be written here; here where my mommy roots are anchored in deep, in stories of joy, enchantment, confusion, pain….my stories from the trenches. So much is different now. First off, I now have two kids. It’s funny; I wrote this post literally a day shy of two years ago. I was grappling with the idea of a second child. And now, spoiler alert!, he’s here. And he’s just as magical as my first baby was, but the experience has been totally different, starting with the birth. If you want to start from the beginning with many of my past stories, including my birth stories, in all 5 parts, you may. Or you can just start here, at the sequel. So, like any good story, let’s start at the beginning. It was a cold morning in March and my husband was out to brunch with my dad and some of their friends. And I was a week late. So I took an old HPT that I had in my linen closet, peed on it, and two lines appeared in 20 seconds. And my daughter was in the bathroom with me. And I said, “Holy shit, I’m pregnant.” And she said “I’m Cinderella.”I was stunned. When trying for our first, we tried. This pregnancy happened immediately. I hadn’t expected it to happen so fast, as we had barely unpacked the boxes in our new house. But I was excited. Thrilled. And I was even more enthused when I had my daughter hand my husband the positive pee stick upon his return home from brunch. Our little family was growing and my heart was bursting. And a lot happened in the 9 months following, and perhaps I’ll go into them some day on here, and perhaps I will not, but for now, I shall cut to the chase. The birth story. In parts. For the last two months of my pregnancy, I was experiencing painful Braxton Hicks contractions; so strong that these moments of uncomfortable tightness would show up strongly on the monitor. I went into labor and delivery 4 times for “false alarms”, as the contractions were present, but not doing anything to induce real labor. I should mention that because of my previous C-Section with my daughter, I was scheduled for a repeat surgery on October 28, 2013. Not only was this a routine repeat, but my little boy, in all his enormous glory, was lying in the transverse position, which means instead of being head down (or, in breach cases, head up) he was lying smack across my stomach. I looked like I was smuggling a watermelon under my shirt. It was ridiculous looking. I was all belly and my belly had a belly. I had mixed feelings leading up to my c-section. I was relieved, in some ways, to have the luxury of planning my second child’s birth; to schedule a day, to make sure that I gave the proper preparations and goodbye to my daughter, to make sure that my nails and toes were perfect….but I was also scared. And pardon my French, but I was scared shitless. I remembered the scary parts of my first C-Section: The Spinal and the feeling of not being able to breathe; the kind anesthesiologist who put a wet sponge to my parched lips; and then the whole BABY thing. The idea of another baby terrified me. And I teach babies. I love babies. I am kind of a baby expert. But I was so scared about how to expand our little tribe. We had things down over here, and I worried, every minute, about going through surgery, surviving surgery, and then surviving parenthood. I grew increasingly nervous as the date approached, talking to my husband, parents, friends and OB. He would refer to the scheduled C date as a “birthday party” and I looked at it as a day of dread. It is hard for me to admit this (especially in hindsight) but I was just terrified. And all of my trips to labor and delivery did nothing to assuage my fears. Four times I said “Bye Bye” to my little girl, saying “We may be going to meet your brother!” and then having to waddle on out hours later with a closed cervix and tons of embarrassment. And pain. And contractions. And, in one case, sleepy baby. And then, at 4 am on the morning of October 24, I awoke out of a dead sleep in pain. Real, can’t really breathe, stomach-tightening pressure and pain. It was so painful that I woke up my husband. I was 38.5 weeks pregnant. My C-Section was scheduled for the following Monday. And so, I said to myself, “Self. You are NOT going in again for a false alarm. You are not. If this means that you are having this giant transverse baby at home in your bathtub so be it.” I even went as far as to pack my daughter’s lunch note reading “Four days until you meet your baby brother!” I gave her a regular kiss goodbye. “See you after school!” I said. But by 10 am when the contractions were becoming more painful and regular, I called my OB. And he asked me if these contractions felt different. And they did. And he told me I had to come in. “It may be party time!” He said. My nails were chipped, my hair was dirty and I had not said goodbye to my daughter. It could not be time. But the contractions were hurting so badly that I was almost in tears. So off to the hospital I went…To be continued…(and trust me, it gets a lot better…)

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On this Saturday night last year,

mommyeverafter — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 00:48:54 +0000

this was happening.
My water broke,
my contractions were three minutes apart,
my mom and dad and husband and I were crowded in a small, somewhat scary delivery room,
as we braced ourselves to meet our girl.
Tonight,
I split a piece of pizza with my daughter,
and made two dozen cupcakes,
and constructed my girl’s favorite character out of fondant,
and my mom and dad and husband and I crowded around the CD player, as we danced to Stevie Wonder and Madcon,
passing our daughter around as she kicked her legs and shimmied her shoulders and boogied on down with us to the music.
Last year was contractions and a c-section,
this year was coziness and some ‘honey suckle chocolate dripping kisses full of love for you’.
So,
what I’m trying to say is,
this year, for the win!

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Materniversary

mommyeverafter — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 01:48:55 +0000

This week marked the one year anniversary of my Maternity Leave.
Or, as I should more appropriately call it, “The day I went to work, had to leave, and never came back.”
You see, like everything else in the Land of Mom, my maternity leave did not go as planned.
I had intended to teach right up until D-Day.
I had grand visions of my water breaking in the middle of circle time,
and my adopted-Jewish-mother of a partner hightailing me to the hospital.
I believed that I’d be spry until the end and go when I was ready.
I was wrong. Oh how wrong I was.
And so, on a normal Wednesday morning when I was 34 and a half weeks pregnant, I got dressed, went to school, sat in my high-backed classroom chair and was drawing crayon pictures with my students who had arrived early when I was hit with a dizzy spell to end all dizzy spells. I literally couldn’t move. I was scared. I was the only adult in the room, so faced with the choice between seeking help in whatever way possible or passing out in front of my four year olds, I chose to ask one of my little girls to go grab the teacher from the room next door. I remained calm on the outside, as my brained raced towards fear.
When I was finally able to stand up, my mom picked me up and we went to the hospital, where I was checked into Labor and Delivery.
Visiting L&D before DDay is a very strange thing.
On one hand, you’re in the place where you know you will be when it is time to meet your baby.
You see the incubator in the corner of the room.
You feel the rough hospital gown with the crazy, confusing buttons against your belly.
It all feels real.
Except, it isn’t. It’s a dress rehearsal.
Which is disconcerting.
I was treated as if I was in labor; hooked up to the fetal heart monitor, an IV and an anaconda of a BP cuff, and was introduced to a woman who would later become instrumental in the birth of my daughter: The infamous MJ. MJ is the nurse to end all nurses. She is tough as nails. She is strong as an ox. And, if I had delivered my daughter the good old fashioned way, there is no one who would have made a better cheerleader and hand holder than my MJ. But, as you know, I did not have a normal birth, nor was MJ in the room with me during my C-Section as she was not on duty during those wee mornings hours, but you better believe that she came to visit me the very next day in my post partum room. That’s just the kind of woman she is. But, she’s just one of the many warrior women I had as nurses when I was at the luxury hotel that some may refer to as the hospital.
Seriously.
I know I’ve said this before, but when I look back on my hospital stay, it is like reminiscing about my honeymoon. Maybe even better. It was one of the best times of my life; blood, guts, gore and all. And those nurses, those devoted, amazing nurses, whom I will never forget: MJ, my captain and champion; Gina, who taught me to breastfeed; Tana, who scratched my back for me, at 5am, when I was able to stand for the very first time since my surgery; Joy, who smacked some sense into me when I refused to let her take out my IV and stop my pain medicine drip; Lisa, my Labor nurse, who, when I told the doctor I needed a C-Section in the 11th hour, told me how smart I was for a first time mom, and that she would hold my hand the entire time. And she did. I will never forget looking into her big brown eyes as the doctors worked on my body in the OR; Ginny who made me smile and pretended to not see my sister as she snuggled up next to me in my hospital bed, long after visiting hours had ended. I’m telling you, I had the dream team.

But. I’ve digressed. Let’s rewind 6 weeks, back to 34, when I was being treated at the hospital for extreme dizziness. Dizziness is not something good for a hugely pregnant woman. Or so they told me. Not only can it be an indicator of some serious health issues, but it is also quite precarious for a small person carrying an unwieldy bowling ball on her midsection.
During my examination, the doctors saw that I was contracting regularly every 5 minutes. However, these contractions were not causing me to dilate, a fact that ultimately came into play, as you may recall, quite seriously during my birth story. So, after hours and tests out the wazoo (pun intended) I was sent home…
on bedrest.
No warning.
No goodbyes.
Just me,
my fetus
and the couch
for six weeks.
And, would you like to know a fact that I now find completely amazing?
I was bored.
Bored.
BORED, I say!
I no longer speak that language.
I actually found it difficult to sit on my be-hind,
watching movies with Zach Effron and eating Drumstick ice cream cones.
What a big, fat difference a year makes.
(Pun far less intended.)
So, yes, last year, this week, I was sitting around all day, in my jammies, watching Daytime TV, eating my body weight in Mommom-delivered-goodies, and anxiously awaiting my little girl. So, yeah. Almost exactly what my life is like today.
Except not.
Not even close.
Hmmmmm….
now that I think about it, I am feeling a tad dizzy. Maybe I need some more of that bedrest…
Maybe I’ll give my old friend MJ a ring.
Because, there’s totally a Chocolate Drumstick calling my name.
Oh well. A girl can dream.
So, Happy Materniversary, all!
Drumsticks for everyone!

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“hope is the thing with feathers…”

mommyeverafter — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 19:43:05 +0000

I believe in angels.
I don’t mean that I believe in the winged icons that hang with halos as holiday ornaments.
I believe in benevolent forces, the spirits of those we’ve loved and lost, that watch over us, protect us and guide us through our days.

When I’ve needed help, or dug down deep for strength, I’ve been given a sign that a loved one was with me.

My grandmother passed away when I was thirteen.
That year I became a Jewish adult, as I became a Bat-Mitzvah.
A new woman was added to our family.
And, sadly, a woman was lost.
We said goodbye to our matriarch,
As Life took away the centerpiece of our own dining room table.

Before she passed away, when she knew that she would be leaving us,
We asked her how she was feeling.
She said that she knew she would be back.
She knew she would be around,
Able to look after us.
She told us that she would come back as a bird.
We asked her how we would know she was there, since birds are all around us.
She told us to look for feathers.

Since that time, I’ve been blanketed by feathers when I’ve needed the warmth.
Feathers have reminded me to have strength.
Feathers have given me faith.

In the two weeks before I found out I was pregnant,
A wish that I hoped with every ounce of being would come true,
I saw at least 20 feathers.
They were on my front porch.
They were on the sidewalk, as I walked the dogs down the street.
They were poking out of my shirt
(and this was August, mind you….it was not as if I was wearing a down coat).
So before I officially knew that I was pregnant,
I just knew.

As I’ve said, even though I knew, in my head and in my heart, I didn’t believe that my wish had actually come true until the nurse called me on that late August day and said nothing besides, “Congratulations, dear.”

I called my husband at work.
He answered, nervously.
He knew that I would be receiving my test results in that hour.
I asked him if he was ready to be a daddy.
He didn’t say a word, just sobbed softly.
“I knew it,” he told me. “There’s a giant, brown feather lying across my desk.”

That feather told us more than those HCG blood test results ever could.
I was pregnant.
Our dream was coming true.
Our loved ones were watching, celebrating from above.

I saw many birds and many feathers throughout my pregnancy.
They always just appeared,
just when I needed them.

The night that I had my daughter, I didn’t see any feathers. I could barely see anything. It was my fourth trip into labor and delivery. Nothing was going as planned.
When they wheeled me into the OR in the middle of the night, I was lying on the operating table, and I felt scared.
I didn’t feel particularly strong.
I couldn’t find my faith.
When my husband was allowed to come back in the room he held my hand and didn’t let go.
The anesthesiologist, peering over the tall blue draping that separated my head from my abdomen, told me that it was time.
The baby would be coming now.
I still felt scared.
Then, my husband squeezed my hand and told me to listen to the radio. I hadn’t noticed that the radio had been playing the entire time that I was in the OR.
My ears perked up.
It was “Desperado”, by The Eagles.
It was my grandmother’s favorite song.
At that moment, I knew that we would be ok.
The chorus of our own angels were with us, serenading my daughter as she entered into the world.
Don Henley sang,
It may be rainin’
But there’s a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you
Before it’s too late.

And the next sound we heard was the tiny wail of my daughter’s first cry.
I have never heard a more perfect sound.
And I know, with all of my heart,
That my angels were listening with us,
Smiling from above,
The rainbow that would forever shine on our precious baby girl.

So, the next time you see a feather,
Lying in a place that it really shouldn’t be lying,
I hope you that it makes you smile.
And I hope that it gives you faith.
Because no matter what you believe,
Or don’t believe,
Your loved ones are all around you.
It just depends on how hard you look.

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