This morning, my husband had brunch with the members of his “eating club”, as a farewell to the current Four Seasons breakfast before the hotel changes it’s location. He, my dad, my brousins, my dad’s best friend since high school and his sons have formed “The E-Street Supper Club” and do Four Seasons brunches, a yearly trip to Peter Luger’s in New York and steak feasts at the Capital Grille. It’s a very special ritual with a group of very special men.

Well, today we are two days shy of it being exactly two years since the cold winter morning when my husband went to the Four Seasons brunch with his guys, leaving me alone to secretly take a pregnancy test.

When he walked in the door from brunch that day, my daughter handed him a gift box and inside of it was a test with two clear lines. Just like that, we were going to have another baby. I will never forget that moment or that day. My husband and I were both shocked and excited and I swear that my belly popped out by that evening.

This morning, as you can imagine, I was a bit nostalgic; wistful; as I won’t ever get a chance to live that scene, or anything like it, ever again.

But,

I had something even better.

I was sitting on the Living Room couch, snuggling with both kids, when my son spotted my husband’s face through the glass window in our front door.

“Dada!” he squealed with excitement,

and he took off running.

So yes, things have changed, and the past will not be repeated, but oh my, the present,

it is so special, and for these moments I am so blessed.

Instead of two lines, I have two amazing children.

A pee stick ain’t got nothing on this.

The post Two years after two lines. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

My daughter was pressed up against her bedroom windowpane, her brother by her side, following her motions and mimicking her enthusiasm.

I was folding laundry on her floor, my husband was out picking up Chinese Takeout and the kids were playing on the chairs by the window in her bedroom that faces the street.

She was actually shouting, almost jumping, with excitement.

In this moment, she made it easy to keep my pledge to “cherish the mundane”.

I am so infinitely  grateful for the outpouring of support after I opened up yesterday.

The public “likes” and comments were so meaningful to me, and I thank you to those who shared my words with others. I am humbled.

But I am also supremely grateful for the private messages I received, and the incredibly personal stories that people shared with me. I heard amazing tales of strength and survival from people whom I have known for years and some whom I have not (yet!) met. But, in one such email, when we were bonding over difficulties of the past, I wrote something about how it is really sucky that sometimes we have be so lost in the darkness in order to really see stars; but that when we do, it all seems worth it.

And then, a few hours later, my daughter and son stood side by side, on an ordinary Sunday night, after an ordinary Sunday (a time when, truth be told, I did not get out of my pajamas) and she reminded me of exactly of what I had been trying to convey earlier. Yesterday was hard. It had to revisit my darkest days. But tonight,

tonight, my daughter saw the brilliance of the light outside of her window,

and it was all worth it, indeed.

The post To see the stars. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

***

Part of me wishes that I could say, “I don’t know when it happened. It just crept up on me.” in talking about my depression, but that would be untrue. I know exactly when the turning point occurred, exactly where, exactly why and exactly how. It was March 17, 2013. St. Patrick’s Day. I have referenced this day before when I first opened up about my struggle with postpartum depression, but now I can tell you more, perhaps because I now know more. This may be the most vulnerable in my writing that I have ever been or will every be, but right now, at this moment, my heart is completely open, and so I am letting the feelings pour out of me, before my brain starts to compartmentalize things again, burying the painful, shielding me from the hard and forgetting the details.

On March 17, 2013 I was 6 weeks pregnant. I was at my parents’ house for Chinese food and when I went to the bathroom and saw a bit of blood. My entire body became paralyzed. I can’t remember whom I told first, my husband or my mom, but the thought of it now would bring me to my knees if I were not already seated. It is making me double over. I thought that I was losing my baby.

It was a Sunday night, so we had no option but to call the hospital’s emergency line. The doctor on call was brusque, and said to me, “Well, either you’re having a miscarriage or you are spotting so you can come in or you can just wait and see.”

I don’t understand how someone could be so callous in her line of work, but to me there was no choice. My husband and I went to the emergency room and I was more scared than I had ever been in my entire life.

From the moment that I found out that I was pregnant with my second child, I felt a tremendous sense of love and gratitude. I felt whole in a way that I had never felt before. I felt like our lives were about to change in a way so that we, as a family, would be complete.

I didn’t have to wait, that night, as I checked in to the Emergency Room. I was sent into the triage room immediately and then, we were given a bed in the hallway, as there was no room ready for us at that time. I remember some specific things about that time on the hallway hospital bed; I remember having my blood drawn there and then seeing blood on the sheet that covered the gurney; I remember talking to my husband about the thing–the possibility–that something was really wrong. How would we tell our daughter?; I remember when they wheeled me to the ultrasound room and how I had to endure an uncomfortable examination and the technician was not allowed to tell me anything. I had to sit there, as she watched my uterus, and I was not able to find out if, in fact, I had a baby with a beating heart inside.

We were moved into a room after an hour or so and our doctor was a young, tall, dark haired man who was more of a busy ER doctor than a hand-holder, if that makes sense. He told me that my blood levels looked good, that there were two definite structures in my uterus, the yolk sac and the embryo; and the embryo was my baby, with a strong beating heart. I am writing this with tears streaming down my face, for all that was, all that could have been, all that is and all that will never be.

I asked the doctor for an ultrasound photo, but apparently they don’t do that in the ER like at the OBGYN’s office, but he allowed us to look at the images on his computer and pointed out what he referred to as “a little cheerio”. That was our baby.

And then, my life changed.

There are details about this part of the story that are both too painful and too personal to share, but that was the night that I turned down the road from being the person I had always been towards the depressed person that I would become. As I have written before, I went completely numb to the baby growing inside of me. It sounds horrible and ungrateful, but really, it was my defense mechanism. I had been so scared that I couldn’t let myself feel. And I think that this also caused a rift in my marriage. While he was relieved and unfazed, I was everything and nothing.

I think of that night, often. I have shared details of it with my friends, some more than others, and it has haunted me for 22 months. This was when I started to feel that lonely feeling. I was not alone, not ever really, but I was lonely nonetheless.

I am mad at so many things about that night. That night was when I went from “A Happy Story” to “A Hard Story”.

And you know the rest.

The rest until yesterday.

***

My kids have been sick for over a week now. Fevers, ear infections, snot, coughing…the works.

We started Saturday morning on the later side, which was nice, and I spent most of the early hours on the computer trying to order things like new bedding for my daughter, birthday gifts for her friends and a present for my husband’s birthday next week. At 9:30 my husband brought our congested baby up into my bed with me and he napped next to me for two hours. My husband went climbing at the rock gym and my daughter played in her room and I can’t remember what I did. Truly. I don’t know if I slept or wrote on the computer. I feel you Adnan.

When my son stirred, I texted my husband to come up to our room, I wasn’t feeling quite right. My left arm was hurting and I was having some chest pain. We thought that maybe I was hungry and dehydrated so I sat with a bag of cinnamon raisin bread and just kept eating slice after slice and I drank a smoothie. But I did not feel any better. I started to feel lightheaded and so we took my blood pressure which was 90/58. My pulse, to me, felt unusually weak. My lips turned blue. We called my mom and she came to watch the kids while we went to the ER. On the way there my husband joked that we should have a punch card like they give out at the frozen yogurt store or the nail salon, as we seem to be incredibly frequent visitors. But the on the ride there I was also shaking uncontrollably and even though I wore a tank top, a cashmere turtleneck, a big cardigan and my winter coat, my husband covered me in his heavy Canada Goose jacket because I was so cold. When we got to the hospital I couldn’t even think straight to sign the forms, so my husband did it for me. They put on my wrist band and when I looked at it, I thought something looked odd, but I was feeling so lightheaded. “My name is not Tasha Williams*” I told the lady and she cut off the mislabeled bracelet and gave me a new one with my correct information. I was taken to triage immediately where they made me change into a gown, despite my uncontrollable trembling and gave me an EKG. Apparently the spasms made the reading look crazy. The nurse asked me for a list of medications that I take and also medicines that I am allergic to. I was still somewhat disoriented, but I heard my husband give her the list. I felt such warmth towards him at that moment. That feeling only grew when he wheeled me into the bathroom where he helped me to pee into a cup. I can’t even begin to imagine what search engine terms will now lead people to this site, but I am telling the full story, because I am trying to emphasize to you how lucky I feel to have a husband as wonderful as mine. And it was in the bathroom that I started to cry.

Earlier this week I wrote about having an emotional day, but those were spells of tears or wet-eyed smiles. The deluge I had been waiting for finally came. I sat in the wheelchair as my husband pushed me back into the waiting room and I sobbed and sobbed.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

“Do you know why I am crying?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“There are two reasons,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“What are they?” I asked, not meaning to quiz him, but just curious if he really understood.

“You’re sad because this is where you gave birth and you’re sad because this reminds you of being in the ER on St. Patrick’s day when we thought we were losing the baby.”

He knew exactly why I was in such pain at that moment and let me sob into his shoulder.

When the woman from radiology took me back for an x-ray I cried to her. “My babies were born here. And now I can’t have any more,” I cried.

“Aww honey,” she said. “Did they just tell you this today?”

I then explained that I had learned about this fourteen months ago, but I still whimpered my way through my x-ray nonetheless.

Now before we all let things get too heavy here, let me add some levity by painting the picture for you:

My husband and I both wore masks for the entire 5 hours that we spent in the ER, completely paranoid about (specifically flu) germs. But not only did we wear masks, we used hand sanitizer at least 20 times (my husband even rubbed it on the handrails of the chairs on which we were sitting) and every time someone would come within six feet of me I would hold my breath and turn away. (I read that the flu particles can travel as far as six feet.)

Because of the face masks, we could not whisper to each other, so we had to text when we wanted to speak privately.

For instance, a lady stood up near me and I was aghast, turning my head as far away as I could and breathing in as little air as possible.

And so, because I had undergone a series of tests (bloodwork, the EKG, a chest x-ray, etc) we had to wait to be seen by a doctor. But the hospital was so inundated that we could not wait in a room, as we usually would. We had to wait in the waiting room. For three hours.

These masks are the absolute PERFECT way for me to honor my rule of not showing the full faces of my family members; I should have thought to bring a stash home.

As time went on, I grew more and more impatient. My phone had died, my chest was hurting and I was simultaneously and equally scared of the germs that were clearly infiltrating my mask/the Carbon Dioxide poisoning I was likely getting by breathing solely through a mask for 5 hours.

There were a few bright spots during the endless wait.

At one point “Take the Money and Run” played in the waiting room, and my husband and I talked about the time about nine years ago when we went up to his dad’s farm house on a vineyard. We walked home about a mile from a wine tasting and sang all of The Steve Miller Band songs we knew, a little tipsy and a lot in love.

A miserable hour after that, one of us pointed out the fact that at least we were sitting, doing nothing, and not having to chase after kids. #thingsonlyparentswouldthink

Finally, appearing like a mirage in the desert, a nurse came out from behind the double doors and called my name.

So from the waiting room I was moved into a hospital bed in the hallway. No room. No privacy. Just a stretcher in the hallway.

It was just like where we sat on St. Patrick’s day, almost two years ago.

“How eerie is this?” I asked. “It is exactly the same.”

“This is incredibly weird.” he concurred.

I shuddered.

But, this time, things were different. They really were. We still had anxieties and concerns about my health and the unknown but somehow, we were in it together in a way that we had not been that night in March. We have grown so much as a couple in the past two years; We are so bonded and such a tight team.

Still, it was hard to be there.

And so I continued to wait, very impatiently, while a doctor gave me a Neurological exam, took more blood and I hounded the nurse for my test results. At one point I pulled her over (after the fifth time I asked her for a print out of my labs) and told her that I am on an anxiety medicine that I take four times a day. During my time at the hospital I had missed two doses.

“You really are anxious,” she said. “Why do you even have anxiety?”

Oh no she di’int.

“The reason why I am asking you for the anxiety medicine that is prescribed to me is because I suffered from severe postpartum depression after giving birth to my son in October of 2013. It was so severe that I ended up being hospitalized. I am still dealing with the after effects, both physical and emotional.”

“Oh,” she said. “And you have another kid too? That explains it.”

“I did not have postpartum depression because it was hard for me to handle having two children,” I began, but my husband looked at me and said, with his only his eyes, as the mask still covered his face, “calm down or they are going to throw us out of here!” and so I just looked up at her, still in my mask, and asked, “Were you my nurse before?” as she looked familiar. She couldn’t remember, but I knew that I had seen her before. When she told me that I needed a bag of IV fluids I told her that I would not be happy to get one (model patient, I know) because I have had more bags IV fluids in the past year than I can count (this is not a figure of speech).

Again, she asked, inappropriately, “Why have you needed so many IVs?”

And I rattled off my list of ER visits and then she stopped me when I mentioned the carbon monoxide poisoning. That jogged her memory; she had treated me and the kids back in May.

And then we waited, and waited, and waited some more, and I started to feel really defeated, like I had wasted our time. I felt guilty and confused.

And then something occurred to me.
“Maybe we were supposed to be here. Maybe we were supposed to come back to this place and make peace with it; this place that has haunted me for almost two years.” I have admitted before that I suffer from PTSD. That night, two years ago, is part of that diagnosis.

The tears started to flow, again.

“I think of this hospital as both the magical haven where our children were born and also the place where my life changed for the awful. This place holds my Happy Story and my Hard Story,”

I told my husband.

“Well,” he said, so wisely that it takes my breath away. “That’s what most hospitals do.”

And I realized that he was right.

Minutes later my doctor returned to tell me to rest, to take a medicine that I am allergic to and to follow up with my PCP on Monday. All in all it was an awesome visit.

But I only say that with partial sarcasm; because I do believe in things happening for a reason. I think I needed to sit in that hallway with my husband, again, and leave with him, hand in hand.

***

I couldn’t see his lips moving as we spoke in unison,

Baruch atah adonai

eloheinu melech ha’olam

shecheyanu

v’kiy’manu

v’higyanu

lazman hazeh.

A new beginning. A new year. A new version of us, one so much stronger than ever before.

Two years ago on March 17th I thought that I was losing so much; I was uncertain about the future health of our growing embryo, and the state of my marriage, and, really, I lost myself for awhile. And truly, when I think about it, the girl who walked into that hospital on that evening, is gone.

Since then, so much has changed. And for that, I feel so glad.

So I signed my discharge papers, these ones with the diagnosis of “Chest Pain” as opposed to “Possible Miscarriage” and my husband wrapped me in his warm coat and strong arms and we walked out together.

Into the future.

And I held my breath through my entire walk back out through the waiting room.

Amen.

*Name changed to protect the innocent. And to protect Mommy, Ever After from violating HIPAA.

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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.

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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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Not yet.

Fooled ya, didn’t I?!
But, it’s a valid questions. My baby is almost 2, which, apparently, is when people start to grow siblings. In fact, most of the women who were pregnant with me are now pregnant again. Some of them have even given birth again. For a second time! Two kids!
I can’t fathom it.
Which is why, my answer remains
Not yet. Not just yet, I say.
I’m just not ready.
I love babies and I especially love my baby
(really? you say. I’d never have guessed.)
And being pregnant with and giving birth to my daughter was the single most magical, defining moment of my life.
And I’m not ready to do it again.
And, if we’re really being honest
 as I have been known to be,
it’s because I am scared.
I’m scared of all of the things that terrified me the first time around; I’m scared for all I’ve learned. And I’m simply not ready for the first trimester worries, the nausea, the green complexion, the exhaustion and the aversions. Nor am I prepared for the last trimester back pain, bed rest, bladder dysfunction. How do you cope when you have another child to care for? When I was pregnant, I could not enter my kitchen, let alone cook a meal, for 2 months. How will I feed my daughter?
And those are just the practical fears.
What about the emotions?
In my mind, every moment of my first pregnancy, the birth, my hospital stay…they were pure magic.
Pure. And magic.
So what would I be ready for ? I’d totally be ready to go through all that all over again. Literally. I’d love to be pregnant with my daughter again. To go through it all again. To relive those moments, those best moments; sitting in the hospital birthing course, sucking on the crumbly, delicious ice chips; driving to Labor and Delivery, contracting, for the very first time, with my heart in my throat;  seeing my daughter, swaddled in her tiny hospital bassinet, her almond eyes looking at me, opening her lips like a little bird; holding her for the first time, the only ones awake in the dark room at dawn, as I held her, our skin touching, knowing that she was showing me who I was meant to be, and that she was making me hers, just as much as I was making her mine. Those things? I would do those things again.
I’d do them again a second.
 I don’t know how anything else will ever compare.
A second child?
How will another baby change us? We are so in love with the little tripod we’ve created. We’re in a groove. It tooks us so long to get here.
I just don’t know.
I just don’t feel ready.
I don’t know how to perform the juggling act. I don’t know how to continue to give my daughter my all, while also taking care of a newborn baby. How does one do it? I just can’t imagine.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some things I am excited for.
I am ready to start brainstorming baby names with my sister again….even though she rejects approximately 98 percent the names I propose (including, might I add, the name I ultimately chose for my daughter. It’s grown on her, thank goodness.)
I am ready to be second-trimester-pregnant. You know, filled with energy and insatiable hunger, sporting long nails, thick hair and a little, round baby bump (one that does not resemble a burrito-filled pooch). Second trimester pregnancy is fun. I think I could warm to that idea.
I am ready to design and craft another nursery. That I could do. That I could love.
And I am most definitely ready for another Anatomy Scan. The very best.
But everything else? Not so much.
So, in case I have been unclear, this is not a post announcing an impending pregnancy.
Nor am I denouncing siblings, or denying that I will ever wish to have one for my daughter.
However, at the moment, I am saying that no, I am not ready.
So go ahead. Ask me. Stare at my belly. Watch me drink my wine.
I am not pregnant now and I don’t plan to be soon,
because as of now, I am counting my blessings and loving every moment I have with my daughter
and I don’t know when I will be ready to turn our party of 3 into a party of more.
But, there is one thing I can promise.
When I figure this all out,
when I decide I’m ready,
I promise to let you know
the very
second
I do.
 

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