This was my first post of 2009.
A year ago, it was just the two of us.
A year ago, we were still hoping, still waiting, still trying. We were still waiting for our turn at parenthood, blissfully naive about all that really entails.
And then 2009 came, we woke up one morning, and everything changed.
What a wonderful way to experience this all: one full calendar year. In January we were in shock, elated, cheeks cramping from smiling, brains working in overdrive, dreaming of sharing our news, dreaming of doctor's appointments and sweet baby smells. Through the spring we fell in love with a heartbeat, with a picture on a screen, with a wiggly baby, with a baby girl. We named our daughter. We documented my growing belly, and TH lovingly read it to every night. We marveled at being able to actually feel her, real, physical proof of the growing life inside me. We tackled our to-do list one item at a time--nursery furnished, new car, showers. I measured the year in trimesters rather than seasons.
September came, as all Septembers do, exactly nine months later, but to TH and I, it seemed to have taken an eternity to arrive.
And then it was time. On her due date exactly. I measured the contractions through the long night. TH and I labored together through the long day, each hour slipping away in a blur of elation at the knowledge that it was time, finally time.
She came into the world scowling at the bright lights, at the cold, my sweet baby girl. As soon as she was wrapped warmly and snuggly, though, her personality already revealed itself; she quieted and looked around her, taking in her bright new world. People already marveled that she seemed older than she was.
If the first nine months of the year inched by in a dream of anticipation, the last three flew by in a blur of learning this new thing, this parenthood. It was so much harder than anyone predicts. So much harder. So much better.
I mark the last three months not in trimesters but in stages--the "getting used to breastfeeding" stage, the "my time at home with baby girl" stage, the "mom returns to work" stage.
And through each of the stages, I wonder how I got so lucky. Through the nights when I cried with frustration and pain and sleeplessness, through the days when I felt like the walls were closing in on us, through every pep talk I gave myself, I wondered even then how I got so lucky. Yes, parenthood was hard--is hard--harder than anyone could know before they are thrown into it, sputtering, flailing, gasping for breath. You could no more describe the sensation of "cold" to someone and have them understand it without ever experiencing it firsthand. But my God, her smile, her smell, the way she wraps her little fingers around our big ones, the gentle way she strokes my breast as she nurses, the delight in her eyes when she sees us, recognizes us. Every new skill, every new thing learned, every new ability is as miraculous to us as it is to her. When she cries out in the night, I run to her not filled with frustration but with an overwhelming desire to comfort her, to reassure her. This is love.
So who knew? Who knew, when 2009 dawned bright and cold a year ago, that this is what the year would hold in store for me? Who knew, as we slid toward September in a cloud of enthusiasm, that this is what parenthood was? Who knew I would learn so much about love, after 13 years of believing I knew all there was to know about it?
2009 slipped away so very differently than it arrived. We stood in the dark by her crib, watching her sleep peacefully. We touched her chest softly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. We started the year in love, the two of us, waiting, hoping for something more. We finished the year in love, the three of us, more fulfilled than we had ever imagined possible.
This new year, I look forward not into the unknown, into the hopeful, but into a year of expectations, into a year of sitting up, and crawling, and eating solids, and walking and talking and laughing and playing.
2009 was the most amazing year I have ever experienced. And hopefully I will say that about every year that follows.
Happy 2010.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
M is for Mensch
So I only got through L before you were born, baby girl. So much for two letters a week for 13 weeks. But it is fitting that Love was the last thing we talked about before you were born. You have taught me a new level of love. A new meaning.
You are now 3 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day old. I cannot believe how time has flown by!! Those three months have passed in a blur of squeals of laughter and gummy smiles, of kicking legs and sweet baby snuggles. But now I'm back to work, which means I have time on my hands again to sit and think of you, to think of all the things we want for you. Which brings me back to our alphabet. To the letter M.
M, baby girl, is for mensch. There were a lot of things I considered M standing for. Important things like money, men, motivation. But the more I thought about it, the more mensch really sums up all of my hopes and dreams for the woman you will become.
Mensch comes from the Yiddish language. It's one of those rich, amorphous words that doesn't have a single, clear-cut definition, but rather encapsulates an idea, a feeling. It comes from the German word for "human being." Often times it's used to describe a man but, like all language, has evolved to describe something more than what it was originally used for. Mensch means good. It means upstanding. Honorable. It means acting based on a sense of moral worth. Doing what is right. What is responsible. Behaving with dignity.
On one of your dad's trips abroad, he found a man's wallet at the airport that had almost $1,000 in it. It also had the man's business card. Your dad kept the wallet until he was back in the states (rather than turning it into the airport security, where he was unsure whether the money would actually make it back to the man) and sent an email to the man letting him know he found the wallet and wanted to return it. Imagine the man's surprise. A stranger found his wallet with almost $1,000 in cash in it (here's another lesson baby: don't travel with that much cash on you!!), and rather than just pocketing the money and not looking back, he was actually returning it! That, baby girl, is mensch.
In Pinocchio, Pinocchio and his new friends get lured onto Pleasure Island, a seemingly benign playground of leisure. The world is a lot like Pleasure Island, baby girl. There will be a million ways to go astray. Fun ways. Ways that seem innocent. Ways that seem easier than doing what you know deep down to be right. There will be countless times it's just easier to do the "wrong" thing. To cheat somehow. To ignore something. To get away with something.
But remember, what is easy isn't always right, and what is right isn't always easy. In fact, what is right is typically hard. Really hard. And the more right something is, the more valuable, the harder it seems to be.
That's why it's so important for you to be a mensch. You will likely grow up in a time of increasing moral turpitude. (I know every generation says that the next generation is morally degenerative, but I guess in some ways it's true.) At times it will feel like everyone around you is taking the easy way out of one thing or another. Being a mensch, doing the right thing, being upstanding, will be one of the most important ways you can set yourself apart from your peers, one of the ways you can most impressively stand out.
Even today's world needs more mensches, more people who practice random acts of kindness, who do the right thing even when no one is watching.
Who do the right thing just because it is the right thing.
Of all the things your dad and I have to teach you, of all the things talked about in this alphabet of lessons, this is the one I feel the most weight of responsibility for. I pray that we can find a way to raise a beautiful, intelligent mensch.
You are now 3 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day old. I cannot believe how time has flown by!! Those three months have passed in a blur of squeals of laughter and gummy smiles, of kicking legs and sweet baby snuggles. But now I'm back to work, which means I have time on my hands again to sit and think of you, to think of all the things we want for you. Which brings me back to our alphabet. To the letter M.
M, baby girl, is for mensch. There were a lot of things I considered M standing for. Important things like money, men, motivation. But the more I thought about it, the more mensch really sums up all of my hopes and dreams for the woman you will become.
Mensch comes from the Yiddish language. It's one of those rich, amorphous words that doesn't have a single, clear-cut definition, but rather encapsulates an idea, a feeling. It comes from the German word for "human being." Often times it's used to describe a man but, like all language, has evolved to describe something more than what it was originally used for. Mensch means good. It means upstanding. Honorable. It means acting based on a sense of moral worth. Doing what is right. What is responsible. Behaving with dignity.
On one of your dad's trips abroad, he found a man's wallet at the airport that had almost $1,000 in it. It also had the man's business card. Your dad kept the wallet until he was back in the states (rather than turning it into the airport security, where he was unsure whether the money would actually make it back to the man) and sent an email to the man letting him know he found the wallet and wanted to return it. Imagine the man's surprise. A stranger found his wallet with almost $1,000 in cash in it (here's another lesson baby: don't travel with that much cash on you!!), and rather than just pocketing the money and not looking back, he was actually returning it! That, baby girl, is mensch.
In Pinocchio, Pinocchio and his new friends get lured onto Pleasure Island, a seemingly benign playground of leisure. The world is a lot like Pleasure Island, baby girl. There will be a million ways to go astray. Fun ways. Ways that seem innocent. Ways that seem easier than doing what you know deep down to be right. There will be countless times it's just easier to do the "wrong" thing. To cheat somehow. To ignore something. To get away with something.
But remember, what is easy isn't always right, and what is right isn't always easy. In fact, what is right is typically hard. Really hard. And the more right something is, the more valuable, the harder it seems to be.
That's why it's so important for you to be a mensch. You will likely grow up in a time of increasing moral turpitude. (I know every generation says that the next generation is morally degenerative, but I guess in some ways it's true.) At times it will feel like everyone around you is taking the easy way out of one thing or another. Being a mensch, doing the right thing, being upstanding, will be one of the most important ways you can set yourself apart from your peers, one of the ways you can most impressively stand out.
Even today's world needs more mensches, more people who practice random acts of kindness, who do the right thing even when no one is watching.
Who do the right thing just because it is the right thing.
Of all the things your dad and I have to teach you, of all the things talked about in this alphabet of lessons, this is the one I feel the most weight of responsibility for. I pray that we can find a way to raise a beautiful, intelligent mensch.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
December 22
One year ago today, we were nervous
and excited
and anxious
and happy
and determined.
One year ago today, we were in love.
One year ago today, the stars finally aligned
the timing was finally right.
One year ago today, a tiny spark caught hold
and grew into the light
that we call
Ali.
I hope I always remember this day and celebrate it, even if just in my own heart. This is the day the world became one soul brighter.
and excited
and anxious
and happy
and determined.
One year ago today, we were in love.
One year ago today, the stars finally aligned
the timing was finally right.
One year ago today, a tiny spark caught hold
and grew into the light
that we call
Ali.
I hope I always remember this day and celebrate it, even if just in my own heart. This is the day the world became one soul brighter.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
3 Months!
We all know how these posts start: I cannot believe you are already three months old! I know I say that every month, but it's no less true today than it was a month ago, or two months ago. I really, truly, cannot believe it has already been three months since you made this world brighter with your smile. That's 25% of the way through your first year!!
This month, full of big events, flew by. We traveled to Dallas for a week while your dad was in Germany on business. You had your first Thanksgiving surrounded by SO many people who love you--G-Mommy and Granddad, Bubbie and Zadie, Aunt Katie, Great-Grandma Thorn, Munna, Great-Grandpa Richard, Great-Grandparents Babushka and Dedushka, and Uncle Eugene. You were once again a total rock star for not only the car trip there and back, but the entire week. You delighted everyone with your smiles, squeals, gurgles, and even the beginnings of laughter!
We had our last week of staying home together, and then I returned to work in a storm of mixed emotions. Luckily your dad stayed home with you my first week back at work, and you and he had the most wonderful time. He would tell me delightedly at the end of the day about the games you played, the books you read, and the conversations you had. I even noticed that you were much more keyed into him in the evenings--you were glad to see me when I got home, but you looked for him, too, and then gave the most delighted smiles when you saw him. The week home with you was also eye-opening for him, and I know he appreciated me even more after that. ;-) This week your G-Mommy is in town staying with you, and you should know that you are the absolute apple of her eye. Your little mannerisms that we have grown accustomed too--gnawing on your hands like they are delicious turkey legs, your temporary irritation when I stop nursing you so that you can burp, your grunts and squeals and smiles--they give her endless hours of delighted entertainment.
You continue to be an amazing baby--a great sleeper and so easy going and tolerant of me wiping your nose and giving you a bath. The night before last was a blip on your sleep radar--you woke NINE times! You weren't upset, you were just awake and unhappy with being swaddled, so you would fuss until I picked you up, and then you would promptly fall back asleep in my arms. As tired as I was, as much as I wished you would just stay asleep, the memory of that night will long be one of my favorites. I don't know how to explain why it's a favorite . . . it's just another memory, another rite of passage for moms--the sleepless nights. But believe me when I say I was delighted you slept your usual nine peaceful hours last night. :-)
Another big milestone this month: we've moved you to your crib. The last three months I've loved having you sleep right next to me, have loved being able to peek at you whenever I want, being able to lay a gentle hand on your chest and feel the rhythmic rise and fall of your peaceful breath. But I knew it couldn't last forever, and a little cold you developed this weekend and the resulting congestion necessitated you sleeping on an incline, and we can't incline your pack-and-play mattress. (And I needed a good night's sleep after the epic night you gave me two nights ago!) So last night I put you to sleep in your crib for the first time, making sure that our video monitor was trained right on you so that I could still peek in at you whenever I wanted. When we came in to get you in the morning, you had turned 90 degrees! I still have no idea how you did that considering you were tightly swaddled AND in a sleep sack. You little Houdini.
The three-month mark is a big milestone, sweet girl. In my mind, you are no longer an infant; you are a baby. Fevers are no longer as dangerous, germs are no longer as risky. You are getting to the age where you are learning routines, starting to form habits. Your dad and I now have to think about things like bedtimes. You are developing more control over your arms and legs, and in the last week have really started focusing on objects being held in front of you. I can tell you are concentrating, and slowly but surely your hand will creep toward the object until your little fist hits it (and then promptly returns to your mouth). I know you recognize me and your dad--you give us both the most delighted smiles when you see us. Those smiles are the best part of my day--they melt my heart.
You grow every day. You get bigger. You get longer. You get more alert, more intelligent, more interactive, more and more your own little person.
And every day, my love for you grows right alongside.
Happy 3-month birthday, sweet girl.
Mom
This month, full of big events, flew by. We traveled to Dallas for a week while your dad was in Germany on business. You had your first Thanksgiving surrounded by SO many people who love you--G-Mommy and Granddad, Bubbie and Zadie, Aunt Katie, Great-Grandma Thorn, Munna, Great-Grandpa Richard, Great-Grandparents Babushka and Dedushka, and Uncle Eugene. You were once again a total rock star for not only the car trip there and back, but the entire week. You delighted everyone with your smiles, squeals, gurgles, and even the beginnings of laughter!
We had our last week of staying home together, and then I returned to work in a storm of mixed emotions. Luckily your dad stayed home with you my first week back at work, and you and he had the most wonderful time. He would tell me delightedly at the end of the day about the games you played, the books you read, and the conversations you had. I even noticed that you were much more keyed into him in the evenings--you were glad to see me when I got home, but you looked for him, too, and then gave the most delighted smiles when you saw him. The week home with you was also eye-opening for him, and I know he appreciated me even more after that. ;-) This week your G-Mommy is in town staying with you, and you should know that you are the absolute apple of her eye. Your little mannerisms that we have grown accustomed too--gnawing on your hands like they are delicious turkey legs, your temporary irritation when I stop nursing you so that you can burp, your grunts and squeals and smiles--they give her endless hours of delighted entertainment.
You continue to be an amazing baby--a great sleeper and so easy going and tolerant of me wiping your nose and giving you a bath. The night before last was a blip on your sleep radar--you woke NINE times! You weren't upset, you were just awake and unhappy with being swaddled, so you would fuss until I picked you up, and then you would promptly fall back asleep in my arms. As tired as I was, as much as I wished you would just stay asleep, the memory of that night will long be one of my favorites. I don't know how to explain why it's a favorite . . . it's just another memory, another rite of passage for moms--the sleepless nights. But believe me when I say I was delighted you slept your usual nine peaceful hours last night. :-)
Another big milestone this month: we've moved you to your crib. The last three months I've loved having you sleep right next to me, have loved being able to peek at you whenever I want, being able to lay a gentle hand on your chest and feel the rhythmic rise and fall of your peaceful breath. But I knew it couldn't last forever, and a little cold you developed this weekend and the resulting congestion necessitated you sleeping on an incline, and we can't incline your pack-and-play mattress. (And I needed a good night's sleep after the epic night you gave me two nights ago!) So last night I put you to sleep in your crib for the first time, making sure that our video monitor was trained right on you so that I could still peek in at you whenever I wanted. When we came in to get you in the morning, you had turned 90 degrees! I still have no idea how you did that considering you were tightly swaddled AND in a sleep sack. You little Houdini.
The three-month mark is a big milestone, sweet girl. In my mind, you are no longer an infant; you are a baby. Fevers are no longer as dangerous, germs are no longer as risky. You are getting to the age where you are learning routines, starting to form habits. Your dad and I now have to think about things like bedtimes. You are developing more control over your arms and legs, and in the last week have really started focusing on objects being held in front of you. I can tell you are concentrating, and slowly but surely your hand will creep toward the object until your little fist hits it (and then promptly returns to your mouth). I know you recognize me and your dad--you give us both the most delighted smiles when you see us. Those smiles are the best part of my day--they melt my heart.
You grow every day. You get bigger. You get longer. You get more alert, more intelligent, more interactive, more and more your own little person.
And every day, my love for you grows right alongside.
Happy 3-month birthday, sweet girl.
Mom
Monday, December 7, 2009
All Good Things
Baby Girl,
Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new phase of our lives: my return to work. Right now you are asleep in your dad's arms, the way you slept in my arms this afternoon, the way you slept in my arms so many afternoons in the last 12 weeks. But today's nap was different. Today, rather than using the time to catch up on my TV shows, I sat and watched you sleep instead. You already look like such a big girl compared to the first naps you took in my arms. You have already grown so much, changed so much. And I was there to witness every moment of it.
Staying home with you these last 12 weeks has been the most challenging, wonderful thing I have ever experienced. In the beginning, there were days I thought I would lose my mind. I didn't know what to do with you. I felt like the walls of our house were closing in on me. Your dad would come home to both of us crying. But as you got older and as I got used to being a mom, our time together started smoothing out. I learned how to structure our day so that neither of us went crazy with boredom. We got into a routine, a steady waltz of nursing, play mats, swings, books, walks, songs, tummy time, bicycle legs, and, of course, napping. The first naps in my arms drove me crazy, contributed to my feelings of being unable to do anything at all. But then as you started to nap more and more on your own, I began to relish the one or two naps a day when I held you. By the end of our 12 weeks, by today, it has become my favorite part of the day. It is a frozen moment, a moment when the world stops, when you aren't aging, when time isn't moving forward, a moment, a snapshot, of your perfect little baby form held in my loving, protective arms.
But now everything is, once again, going to change. I am going back to work. You are staying home for a few more weeks with your dad and your grandparents, but then you will start going to day care. It is so hard for me to think of you in a room with other babies, other kids who will be loud and need attention, others who will prevent you from getting the 100% constant attention you will have gotten to that point. They won't know how to bounce you at the right tempo when you cry, they won't know the songs I sing you, they won't know the precise way I sing to you, then hum, then shush, as we walk around the house, you tightly wrapped in your warm fuzzy blanket, drifting off to sleep as I pat your cute little bottom in time with my bouncy steps in order to help you nap. I know they will have their own magical ways of soothing you--they wouldn't be in that profession if they didn't--but you and I have grown into quite the pair, and we know each other and respond to each other in a way that others just can't match. A way that we've honed these last 12 weeks. A way that both serves and comforts us both.
But now you will have to be taken care of by others. And it breaks my heart. It's not that I don't think they can--it's that you take care of me just as much as I take care of you. Your smiles, your squeals, your bubbles, your kicks, your brilliant, bright, inquisitive, expressive eyes . . . they are the manna that my soul subsists on day in and day out. Going back to a day filled with other adults, and computers, and meetings, and real, actual, not-baby-related work will be like going from the sweetest feast of fruits to a diet of cardboard. How am I going to make it through the day without talking to you, without laughing with you . . . without you sleeping in my arms?
So today, while you slept, I watched you. I watched you dream. I watched your sleep smiles. I watched you and thought of our 12 weeks together. I relived each week, remembering the hard times, remembering the adjustments, remembering each new discovery I witnessed you make, remembering how wildly happy you have made me, how wildly happy you continue to make me, how much vibrancy and warmth and fulfillment you have brought to my life. I took our 12 weeks and wrapped them around us like a blanket, breathing them in, tasting them, feeling each thread against my skin.
Even though today marked the end, and tomorrow marks a new beginning, even though life moves on, inexorably . . . I can say that I LIVED our 12 weeks, that I appreciated every second of our time together. I will never look back and think about how fast it flew by, how it was gone before I even had a chance to enjoy it.
I lived it. Each and every moment. I appreciated it. Each and every moment. I didn't take one second for granted.
Thank you for the gift of these last 12 weeks.
And here's to us finding our new rhythm, our new dance. I know the song will change, but thankfully our partner will not.
With everlasting love,
Mom
Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new phase of our lives: my return to work. Right now you are asleep in your dad's arms, the way you slept in my arms this afternoon, the way you slept in my arms so many afternoons in the last 12 weeks. But today's nap was different. Today, rather than using the time to catch up on my TV shows, I sat and watched you sleep instead. You already look like such a big girl compared to the first naps you took in my arms. You have already grown so much, changed so much. And I was there to witness every moment of it.
Staying home with you these last 12 weeks has been the most challenging, wonderful thing I have ever experienced. In the beginning, there were days I thought I would lose my mind. I didn't know what to do with you. I felt like the walls of our house were closing in on me. Your dad would come home to both of us crying. But as you got older and as I got used to being a mom, our time together started smoothing out. I learned how to structure our day so that neither of us went crazy with boredom. We got into a routine, a steady waltz of nursing, play mats, swings, books, walks, songs, tummy time, bicycle legs, and, of course, napping. The first naps in my arms drove me crazy, contributed to my feelings of being unable to do anything at all. But then as you started to nap more and more on your own, I began to relish the one or two naps a day when I held you. By the end of our 12 weeks, by today, it has become my favorite part of the day. It is a frozen moment, a moment when the world stops, when you aren't aging, when time isn't moving forward, a moment, a snapshot, of your perfect little baby form held in my loving, protective arms.
But now everything is, once again, going to change. I am going back to work. You are staying home for a few more weeks with your dad and your grandparents, but then you will start going to day care. It is so hard for me to think of you in a room with other babies, other kids who will be loud and need attention, others who will prevent you from getting the 100% constant attention you will have gotten to that point. They won't know how to bounce you at the right tempo when you cry, they won't know the songs I sing you, they won't know the precise way I sing to you, then hum, then shush, as we walk around the house, you tightly wrapped in your warm fuzzy blanket, drifting off to sleep as I pat your cute little bottom in time with my bouncy steps in order to help you nap. I know they will have their own magical ways of soothing you--they wouldn't be in that profession if they didn't--but you and I have grown into quite the pair, and we know each other and respond to each other in a way that others just can't match. A way that we've honed these last 12 weeks. A way that both serves and comforts us both.
But now you will have to be taken care of by others. And it breaks my heart. It's not that I don't think they can--it's that you take care of me just as much as I take care of you. Your smiles, your squeals, your bubbles, your kicks, your brilliant, bright, inquisitive, expressive eyes . . . they are the manna that my soul subsists on day in and day out. Going back to a day filled with other adults, and computers, and meetings, and real, actual, not-baby-related work will be like going from the sweetest feast of fruits to a diet of cardboard. How am I going to make it through the day without talking to you, without laughing with you . . . without you sleeping in my arms?
So today, while you slept, I watched you. I watched you dream. I watched your sleep smiles. I watched you and thought of our 12 weeks together. I relived each week, remembering the hard times, remembering the adjustments, remembering each new discovery I witnessed you make, remembering how wildly happy you have made me, how wildly happy you continue to make me, how much vibrancy and warmth and fulfillment you have brought to my life. I took our 12 weeks and wrapped them around us like a blanket, breathing them in, tasting them, feeling each thread against my skin.
Even though today marked the end, and tomorrow marks a new beginning, even though life moves on, inexorably . . . I can say that I LIVED our 12 weeks, that I appreciated every second of our time together. I will never look back and think about how fast it flew by, how it was gone before I even had a chance to enjoy it.
I lived it. Each and every moment. I appreciated it. Each and every moment. I didn't take one second for granted.
Thank you for the gift of these last 12 weeks.
And here's to us finding our new rhythm, our new dance. I know the song will change, but thankfully our partner will not.
With everlasting love,
Mom
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A Perfect Day
It rained today.
Pretty much all day.
And it was cold.
Like 40 degrees.
We didn't leave the house once.
It was a nasty, gloomy day.
But inside, your gummy smiles lit my world.
And your squeals and babbles and gurgles warmed my soul.
Inside, we stayed dry and warm, smitten with each other's eyes.
We snuggled.
Pretty much all day.
We didn't leave the house once.
It was a perfect day.
Pretty much all day.
And it was cold.
Like 40 degrees.
We didn't leave the house once.
It was a nasty, gloomy day.
But inside, your gummy smiles lit my world.
And your squeals and babbles and gurgles warmed my soul.
Inside, we stayed dry and warm, smitten with each other's eyes.
We snuggled.
Pretty much all day.
We didn't leave the house once.
It was a perfect day.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Daddy's Version
I always want to remember the first time I heard TH do "This Little Piggy" with Ali. Having grown up in Russia, he doesn't know the staple nursery rhymes as well as, well, anyone who grew up with them. But Lord he tries.
This is what I overheard:
"This little piggy went to market. This little piggy went to . . . the grocery store. Wait, that's the same this as the market. Well, this little piggy went to the car dealership. And THIS little piggy got a PUPPY!!"
This is what I overheard:
"This little piggy went to market. This little piggy went to . . . the grocery store. Wait, that's the same this as the market. Well, this little piggy went to the car dealership. And THIS little piggy got a PUPPY!!"
Sunday, November 15, 2009
2 Months
Baby girl,
Today you are two months old! I cannot believe it has already been two whole months since the moment we first met face to face. It has been a whirlwind couple of months . . . a rollercoaster ride that has left us breathless with worry and at the same time more joy than we could have imagined. You are the first thing I think of when I awake in the morning, and the last thing on my mind as I drift off to sleep. I spend my days with you, and they pass, one after the other, in a beautiful blur of your smiles, your squeals of delight, your kicking legs, your big blue eyes, your peaceful face as you sleep wrapped up in my arms. I was realizing the other day that these 12 weeks that you and I have together are likely the only 12 weeks ever that we are going to get to hang out together all day every day. I'm not likely to have summers off of work, so this time we have now, this is our summer, our time to hang out, get to know each other, just us girls. And I am making sure to savor every moment.
You have already grown and changed to much! Closing in on 11 pounds, you have outgrown so many of your outfits. Sometimes your dad and I hold them up and shake out heads in amazement that you were ever small enough to fit in them. You are long, and you often outgrow clothes in length before you get too big for them in width. You have started to pudge up; your cheeks, your thighs, even your little feet are all perfectly pinchable and squishy.
You have started to carefully watch things now, from toys to the flashing lights on your jungle play mat to your dad's and my faces as we talk to you, sing to you, and laugh with you when we are changing your diaper. You are a delightfully happy baby. You love to spend time on your play mat, kicking your legs energetically and waving your little arms. You recently discovered that if you kick hard enough while sitting in your bouncy seat, the seat moves! You were absolutely delighted with that discovery and spent several minutes squealing and kicking and bouncing and grinning. You and your dad have the most wonderful conversations, with you cooing or squealing a special message to him, and him parroting it back. You think he is the most wonderful conversationalist ever, and your talks delight you to no end. Your head control is developing rapidly, and you can now hold your head steady and move it from side to side. When we lay you on your stomach, you are starting to realize that you can lift it up and still look around and see the room. And possibly the most amazing development: teeth buds! I was shocked to look into your sweet gummy smile last week and see two white spots, belying the teeth that lie just beneath the surface and that will surely break through sometime before the end of the year. I can't believe it! G-Mommy told me today that your Aunt Katie got teeth at 3 months, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised . . . apparently it runs in our family!
In the last month, you have gotten to meet all of your surviving great-grandparents except one, your great-grandpa who lives in Israel. They are all absolutely in love with you. They can't believe how young you actually are; your alert eyes and expressive face lead people to believe you are older than your two months. You also got to meet your Uncle Brian and Aunt Ragan. You and Uncle Brian had a great time hanging out, farting, and watching Longhorn football. You two are going to be fast friends.
I am so proud of you. So in love with you.
So very thankful that you are a part of my every waking, and dreaming, moment.
Happy two months, my sweet Ali-bear, Ali-oop, Ali-babba, Ali-Ali-oxen-free, Ali-gator, and of course, forever my little Ali-cat.
Love,
Momma
Today you are two months old! I cannot believe it has already been two whole months since the moment we first met face to face. It has been a whirlwind couple of months . . . a rollercoaster ride that has left us breathless with worry and at the same time more joy than we could have imagined. You are the first thing I think of when I awake in the morning, and the last thing on my mind as I drift off to sleep. I spend my days with you, and they pass, one after the other, in a beautiful blur of your smiles, your squeals of delight, your kicking legs, your big blue eyes, your peaceful face as you sleep wrapped up in my arms. I was realizing the other day that these 12 weeks that you and I have together are likely the only 12 weeks ever that we are going to get to hang out together all day every day. I'm not likely to have summers off of work, so this time we have now, this is our summer, our time to hang out, get to know each other, just us girls. And I am making sure to savor every moment.
You have already grown and changed to much! Closing in on 11 pounds, you have outgrown so many of your outfits. Sometimes your dad and I hold them up and shake out heads in amazement that you were ever small enough to fit in them. You are long, and you often outgrow clothes in length before you get too big for them in width. You have started to pudge up; your cheeks, your thighs, even your little feet are all perfectly pinchable and squishy.
You have started to carefully watch things now, from toys to the flashing lights on your jungle play mat to your dad's and my faces as we talk to you, sing to you, and laugh with you when we are changing your diaper. You are a delightfully happy baby. You love to spend time on your play mat, kicking your legs energetically and waving your little arms. You recently discovered that if you kick hard enough while sitting in your bouncy seat, the seat moves! You were absolutely delighted with that discovery and spent several minutes squealing and kicking and bouncing and grinning. You and your dad have the most wonderful conversations, with you cooing or squealing a special message to him, and him parroting it back. You think he is the most wonderful conversationalist ever, and your talks delight you to no end. Your head control is developing rapidly, and you can now hold your head steady and move it from side to side. When we lay you on your stomach, you are starting to realize that you can lift it up and still look around and see the room. And possibly the most amazing development: teeth buds! I was shocked to look into your sweet gummy smile last week and see two white spots, belying the teeth that lie just beneath the surface and that will surely break through sometime before the end of the year. I can't believe it! G-Mommy told me today that your Aunt Katie got teeth at 3 months, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised . . . apparently it runs in our family!
In the last month, you have gotten to meet all of your surviving great-grandparents except one, your great-grandpa who lives in Israel. They are all absolutely in love with you. They can't believe how young you actually are; your alert eyes and expressive face lead people to believe you are older than your two months. You also got to meet your Uncle Brian and Aunt Ragan. You and Uncle Brian had a great time hanging out, farting, and watching Longhorn football. You two are going to be fast friends.
I am so proud of you. So in love with you.
So very thankful that you are a part of my every waking, and dreaming, moment.
Happy two months, my sweet Ali-bear, Ali-oop, Ali-babba, Ali-Ali-oxen-free, Ali-gator, and of course, forever my little Ali-cat.
Love,
Momma
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Beautiful
I whispered to you
as you lay sleeping in my arms
that you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I didn't want you to go your whole life
without hearing that
from me.
as you lay sleeping in my arms
that you were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I didn't want you to go your whole life
without hearing that
from me.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
One Month Old!
Dear Ali,
Today you are one month old. I cannot believe it.
This month has absolutely flown by in a blur of laughter, tears, worry, and the most amazing, all-consuming love. My days come and go, and I can't really even tell you how I spend them other than taking care of you . . . watching you sleep, yawn, sigh, coo, smile, squeal, cry, stretch, squirm, snuggle, stare . . . you are an amazing little creature, already growing so much, already learning, already changing.
We had your one-month check-up today and you are healthy all around. You are finally settling into a steady weight-gain (8 lbs, 12 ounces today--yay!!), you are growing longer (today you measured 22 inches!), your head is getting bigger (15 cm today!), making room for your ever-growing, ever-absorbing brain.
You are a beautiful baby. Everyone says so. Our friends and family. The nurses at the doctor's office. Strangers. You have big, blue, expressive eyes (we're not sure if they will stay blue or not, but they are gorgeous!) and rich, dark hair that swirls into a tiny little curl on your forehead. You have the most perfect little mouth, and you spend a great deal of your time making different expressions . . . you have discovered your tongue and like to stick it out at us; you frown; you smile; you look concerned; you go cross-eyed; you pucker up your lips like you are saying, "ooooh, look at that!" When we turn the lights down, you open your eyes as wide as possible to try and take in as much as you can.
You are starting to spend more and more time awake, calmly looking around you, taking in the world. You are such a good baby. You don't cry unless there's something wrong. I have learned what your hungry cry sounds like (half-hearted), your impatient cry (a little more energetic), your angry cry (girl, you have got some lungs on you and aren't afraid to remind us!), and today it broke my heart to hear your pain cry for the first time. You had somehow managed to grab hold of a bunch of your hair and you were pulling it; you cried out in pain and I immediately knew something was very wrong . . . I had never heard that particular cry before. I tried gently coaxing your fingers open, but you had balled your little fist up in pain, not realizing that you were compounding the very thing that was hurting you in the first place. After I finally loosened your grip, you snuggled into me and whimpered. I hope you knew in that moment how much I loved you, how much I wanted to take your pain away, how much I wanted to take care of you.
You are starting to make adorable little baby noises, cute little coos that I love to mimic back to you. I know that soon you will start to smile in response to the faces and noises that your dad and I make to you. I cannot wait.
You are a phenomenal sleeper. So much so that we have to wake you up to eat. You are usually a pretty good sport about this very unfair arrangement, and you make the most adorable stretches as you slowly wake up. You are a phenomenal stretcher.
You were given lots of warm-weather newborn clothes, so we've had fun dressing you up, even on days when we just stay inside, just to make sure that you have a chance to wear everything. My favorite so far is a colorful striped sundress. You are wearing it today in honor of your birthday and you look positively adorable.
We have started to let you spend some time on your tummy on your play mat. Yesterday was the first time, and you loved it. You kicked your legs out again and again. It almost looked like you were thinking about crawling!! You are quite the kicker . . . we call you "frog legs" when we're changing your diaper because you kick your legs in and out so energetically. Does this mean that you are going to be an early mover? While I am so excited to see all your progress, I have to admit I love the fact that you stay right where I put you right now. It gives me less to worry about. Once you are mobile, you will start going where you want, when you want. You will start to assert your independence. And I will know that my tiny little baby will have grown up, and part of me will cry for the loss of the little snuggly lovebug you are right now.
So, happy one-month birthday to my snuggly cooer, my happy little sleeper, my observant, beautiful baby girl.
Our lives are one-month richer because you're here.
Today you are one month old. I cannot believe it.
This month has absolutely flown by in a blur of laughter, tears, worry, and the most amazing, all-consuming love. My days come and go, and I can't really even tell you how I spend them other than taking care of you . . . watching you sleep, yawn, sigh, coo, smile, squeal, cry, stretch, squirm, snuggle, stare . . . you are an amazing little creature, already growing so much, already learning, already changing.
We had your one-month check-up today and you are healthy all around. You are finally settling into a steady weight-gain (8 lbs, 12 ounces today--yay!!), you are growing longer (today you measured 22 inches!), your head is getting bigger (15 cm today!), making room for your ever-growing, ever-absorbing brain.
You are a beautiful baby. Everyone says so. Our friends and family. The nurses at the doctor's office. Strangers. You have big, blue, expressive eyes (we're not sure if they will stay blue or not, but they are gorgeous!) and rich, dark hair that swirls into a tiny little curl on your forehead. You have the most perfect little mouth, and you spend a great deal of your time making different expressions . . . you have discovered your tongue and like to stick it out at us; you frown; you smile; you look concerned; you go cross-eyed; you pucker up your lips like you are saying, "ooooh, look at that!" When we turn the lights down, you open your eyes as wide as possible to try and take in as much as you can.
You are starting to spend more and more time awake, calmly looking around you, taking in the world. You are such a good baby. You don't cry unless there's something wrong. I have learned what your hungry cry sounds like (half-hearted), your impatient cry (a little more energetic), your angry cry (girl, you have got some lungs on you and aren't afraid to remind us!), and today it broke my heart to hear your pain cry for the first time. You had somehow managed to grab hold of a bunch of your hair and you were pulling it; you cried out in pain and I immediately knew something was very wrong . . . I had never heard that particular cry before. I tried gently coaxing your fingers open, but you had balled your little fist up in pain, not realizing that you were compounding the very thing that was hurting you in the first place. After I finally loosened your grip, you snuggled into me and whimpered. I hope you knew in that moment how much I loved you, how much I wanted to take your pain away, how much I wanted to take care of you.
You are starting to make adorable little baby noises, cute little coos that I love to mimic back to you. I know that soon you will start to smile in response to the faces and noises that your dad and I make to you. I cannot wait.
You are a phenomenal sleeper. So much so that we have to wake you up to eat. You are usually a pretty good sport about this very unfair arrangement, and you make the most adorable stretches as you slowly wake up. You are a phenomenal stretcher.
You were given lots of warm-weather newborn clothes, so we've had fun dressing you up, even on days when we just stay inside, just to make sure that you have a chance to wear everything. My favorite so far is a colorful striped sundress. You are wearing it today in honor of your birthday and you look positively adorable.
We have started to let you spend some time on your tummy on your play mat. Yesterday was the first time, and you loved it. You kicked your legs out again and again. It almost looked like you were thinking about crawling!! You are quite the kicker . . . we call you "frog legs" when we're changing your diaper because you kick your legs in and out so energetically. Does this mean that you are going to be an early mover? While I am so excited to see all your progress, I have to admit I love the fact that you stay right where I put you right now. It gives me less to worry about. Once you are mobile, you will start going where you want, when you want. You will start to assert your independence. And I will know that my tiny little baby will have grown up, and part of me will cry for the loss of the little snuggly lovebug you are right now.
So, happy one-month birthday to my snuggly cooer, my happy little sleeper, my observant, beautiful baby girl.
Our lives are one-month richer because you're here.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
That's What I Get
You know what happens when you take pictures of naked sleeping babies?
That's right. You get the finger. Atta girl.
That's right. You get the finger. Atta girl.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
New Thoughts on BFing
I've had a loooong post saved in my drafts folder for more than a week now, walking through our less-than-smooth start with breast feeding. I keep going in and adding a bit more to the story, never quite satisfied with how it's turning out.
I'm scrapping that post. The long, sordid details are not worth it.
So, here's my new post on breast feeding.
It's hard. There really should be a public awareness campaign about how difficult breast feeding can be. And I'm not even talking about the physical difficulties, of which I've actually had relatively few (only the occasional sore/stingy nipple). I'm talking about the mental difficulties.
The anxiety over whether or not your child is getting enough to eat (you can't really tell how much she is getting, can you? You can only rely on her to eat as much as she needs).
Over your supply (you can't really tell how much you're making, either. Is it enough to feed my child? Is she going to go hungry? Will my supply be affected if I don't pump after every feeding? Should I be drinking special tea, eating special foods, etc. What happens if I start having too much milk . . . and why on earth would that be a problem??).
Over the feeding schedule (why, oh why doesn't my baby want to eat every 2-3 hours like all the books say she will? Now I have to wake her to eat, and she just falls asleep on the boob after like three minutes anyway, and that brings us back to worry #1.).
I have never before found something so easy to obsess over.
Crazy, huh? I'm obsessing because my baby is a great sleeper. A great sleeper and a bad, bad eater.
Part of the problem (my mental problem, that is, the thing that is making it possible for me to obsess about this) is that she did not regain her birth weight by her 2-week appointment. About that time, I noted a noticeable drop in her nursing time. I freaked. I called lactation consultants. The phrase "failure to thrive" haunted my every waking and dreaming moment. We started supplementing with breast milk from the bottle at the start of every feeding (to attempt to wake her more gently than the bright lights, naked, cold rag, loud noise routine we had been following), then nursing on both sides, then pumping. The feeding routine took upwards of an hour and a half, sometimes longer. It worked though. She regained her birth weight by 2 weeks, 3 days. But I was exhausted. I came to dread feeding time. I could feel my anxiety start to build about an hour out from when the wake up - bottle feed - attempt to nurse - pump cycle would begin.
I met with a lactation consultant. Ali was examined. My boobs were examined. A nursing session was examined. Ali was proclaimed to be a "gourmet diner." As in, she took her damn sweet time to eat. We created a breast feeding plan that got rid of the bottle supplement and focused on responding more to her hunger cues rather than worrying so much about a schedule. We were told to just experiment over the weekend.
It was very hard for me to let go of the plan that had worked so well in putting on the weight. But I gave it a shot. And I'm still trying to give it a shot. I'm trying not to worry when she has a very sleepy day (I wish I had never read that sentence in the book about how babies who don't get enough will often be very lethargic and sleepy). I'm trying not to get frustrated when she falls asleep after only five minutes. I'm trying to trust that she is a healthy baby who just has a more relaxed eating schedule than most other babies.
I'm still pumping after every feeding to make sure that her not eating enough doesn't tell my body to start making less food. I honestly can't imagine a future where I'm not pumping after every session. Hopefully the lactation consultant will have a new plan for us to make that happen.
So yeah. Breast feeding has been hard for us. Not physically. But mentally. Emotionally. It has not come easy. But we are forging ahead, Ali and me. If nothing else, my own stubbornness has served me well in not giving up.
And for those three to five minutes when she is awake and contentedly nursing (ok, I really should say awake and sucking so noisily that I am not sure I'll ever be able to nurse in public because of the stares we would get), and she looks up into my eyes and just stares . . . it's those three to five minutes that keep me coming back the next time.
I'm scrapping that post. The long, sordid details are not worth it.
So, here's my new post on breast feeding.
It's hard. There really should be a public awareness campaign about how difficult breast feeding can be. And I'm not even talking about the physical difficulties, of which I've actually had relatively few (only the occasional sore/stingy nipple). I'm talking about the mental difficulties.
The anxiety over whether or not your child is getting enough to eat (you can't really tell how much she is getting, can you? You can only rely on her to eat as much as she needs).
Over your supply (you can't really tell how much you're making, either. Is it enough to feed my child? Is she going to go hungry? Will my supply be affected if I don't pump after every feeding? Should I be drinking special tea, eating special foods, etc. What happens if I start having too much milk . . . and why on earth would that be a problem??).
Over the feeding schedule (why, oh why doesn't my baby want to eat every 2-3 hours like all the books say she will? Now I have to wake her to eat, and she just falls asleep on the boob after like three minutes anyway, and that brings us back to worry #1.).
I have never before found something so easy to obsess over.
Crazy, huh? I'm obsessing because my baby is a great sleeper. A great sleeper and a bad, bad eater.
Part of the problem (my mental problem, that is, the thing that is making it possible for me to obsess about this) is that she did not regain her birth weight by her 2-week appointment. About that time, I noted a noticeable drop in her nursing time. I freaked. I called lactation consultants. The phrase "failure to thrive" haunted my every waking and dreaming moment. We started supplementing with breast milk from the bottle at the start of every feeding (to attempt to wake her more gently than the bright lights, naked, cold rag, loud noise routine we had been following), then nursing on both sides, then pumping. The feeding routine took upwards of an hour and a half, sometimes longer. It worked though. She regained her birth weight by 2 weeks, 3 days. But I was exhausted. I came to dread feeding time. I could feel my anxiety start to build about an hour out from when the wake up - bottle feed - attempt to nurse - pump cycle would begin.
I met with a lactation consultant. Ali was examined. My boobs were examined. A nursing session was examined. Ali was proclaimed to be a "gourmet diner." As in, she took her damn sweet time to eat. We created a breast feeding plan that got rid of the bottle supplement and focused on responding more to her hunger cues rather than worrying so much about a schedule. We were told to just experiment over the weekend.
It was very hard for me to let go of the plan that had worked so well in putting on the weight. But I gave it a shot. And I'm still trying to give it a shot. I'm trying not to worry when she has a very sleepy day (I wish I had never read that sentence in the book about how babies who don't get enough will often be very lethargic and sleepy). I'm trying not to get frustrated when she falls asleep after only five minutes. I'm trying to trust that she is a healthy baby who just has a more relaxed eating schedule than most other babies.
I'm still pumping after every feeding to make sure that her not eating enough doesn't tell my body to start making less food. I honestly can't imagine a future where I'm not pumping after every session. Hopefully the lactation consultant will have a new plan for us to make that happen.
So yeah. Breast feeding has been hard for us. Not physically. But mentally. Emotionally. It has not come easy. But we are forging ahead, Ali and me. If nothing else, my own stubbornness has served me well in not giving up.
And for those three to five minutes when she is awake and contentedly nursing (ok, I really should say awake and sucking so noisily that I am not sure I'll ever be able to nurse in public because of the stares we would get), and she looks up into my eyes and just stares . . . it's those three to five minutes that keep me coming back the next time.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Drunken Sailor
Things I want to remember: The Drunken Sailor
Sometimes, when Ali has had a great feeding and is still nursing even as she slips into a milk-drunk stupor, she'll take her top arm (she LOVES the football hold) and throw it casually over my breast, letting it hang there as she sucks (and sleeps) contentedly.
It looks like a drunken sailor throwing his arm around his favorite drinking mate as he staggers away from the bar.
Sometimes, when Ali has had a great feeding and is still nursing even as she slips into a milk-drunk stupor, she'll take her top arm (she LOVES the football hold) and throw it casually over my breast, letting it hang there as she sucks (and sleeps) contentedly.
It looks like a drunken sailor throwing his arm around his favorite drinking mate as he staggers away from the bar.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
And so we begin . . .
I don't think anyone is ever prepared for being a parent to a newborn.
Okay, maybe Mrs. Duggar is prepared. I would hope so, after 18 practice runs. But me and TH? Even knowing how hard it would be, knowing about sleepless nights, and knowing that "all babies do is eat, sleep, and poop," even knowing these things conceptually couldn't have--didn't--prepare us for the reality of parenthood. This girl lights up my face in a way nothing ever has before. She also can make me cry at the drop of a hat. (To be fair, I'm attributing that partly to her and partly to these crazy postpartum hormones.) I cry because she won't eat. I cry because she wants to eat too much. I cry because she cries and I feel like I would do anything in the world to make her stop, to take away whatever misery it is she feels.
But we also laugh. We laugh at the faces she makes. We laugh at her yawns and stretches, and the shocked expression on her face when she noticed her feet waving in front of her for the first time. We laugh at her farts--so predictably the first sign that she is starting to wake up! And when her eyes are open and she is staring intently, rapturously at our faces . . . well, there's no where else I'd rather be.
We had her newborn shots taken by a friend of ours the other day. Ali was a champ, sleeping through most of her set changes and posing attempts. She had been in the buff for hours--who wants to see unsightly diaper lines in her first official photo shoot??--and she hadn't dirtied the blankets we'd kept wrapped around her tooshy or the photographers beautiful baskets and blankets. What a great baby!
We wanted to get some family shots at the end, so I delicately positioned myself on the floor and held her cute little naked body in my hands. We heard a fart. Laughed it off--funny lady. I should have remembered. Should have remembered this was her "I'm starting to wake up" routine. I heard another fart . . . and then felt a warmth ooze quickly over my fingers. Poo! My sweet little lady was crapping all over me! I called to TH, "She's crapping on me! Get a towel!" and in the seconds it took to get those words out, Ali let loose a gusher of orange-colored poop, grinning away contentedly the entire time.
You know you are a parent when the funniest thing that has happened to you all day is getting crapped on by your child. The photographer, TH, and I laughed riotously for minutes!
TH came to my rescue, bringing me wads of paper towels, and we swabbed my hands and her butt as well we could. He then told me to hand her to him so that I could go and wash my hands. I had just turned on the water when I heard a gushing sound, followed by more riotous laugher . . . she had just peed a torrential flow all over her daddy!
If there's anything funnier than getting pooped on by your daughter, it's having your husband peed on by your daughter right after you've been pooped on. Gotta love that girl for being an equal-opportunity baby.
So the start of parenthood has been not at all what we thought it would, and paradoxically, everything we thought it would be. It has been harder. And more rewarding. It is the scariest thing I have ever done. And the most comforting. There have been more tears than expected. And more laughter. I have had to be more disciplined and more easy-going at the same time. I cannot wait for Ali to be older, to be more interactive. And I know that I will sorely miss this sleepy, cuddly baby.
What an adventure this has turned out to be.
Okay, maybe Mrs. Duggar is prepared. I would hope so, after 18 practice runs. But me and TH? Even knowing how hard it would be, knowing about sleepless nights, and knowing that "all babies do is eat, sleep, and poop," even knowing these things conceptually couldn't have--didn't--prepare us for the reality of parenthood. This girl lights up my face in a way nothing ever has before. She also can make me cry at the drop of a hat. (To be fair, I'm attributing that partly to her and partly to these crazy postpartum hormones.) I cry because she won't eat. I cry because she wants to eat too much. I cry because she cries and I feel like I would do anything in the world to make her stop, to take away whatever misery it is she feels.
But we also laugh. We laugh at the faces she makes. We laugh at her yawns and stretches, and the shocked expression on her face when she noticed her feet waving in front of her for the first time. We laugh at her farts--so predictably the first sign that she is starting to wake up! And when her eyes are open and she is staring intently, rapturously at our faces . . . well, there's no where else I'd rather be.
We had her newborn shots taken by a friend of ours the other day. Ali was a champ, sleeping through most of her set changes and posing attempts. She had been in the buff for hours--who wants to see unsightly diaper lines in her first official photo shoot??--and she hadn't dirtied the blankets we'd kept wrapped around her tooshy or the photographers beautiful baskets and blankets. What a great baby!
We wanted to get some family shots at the end, so I delicately positioned myself on the floor and held her cute little naked body in my hands. We heard a fart. Laughed it off--funny lady. I should have remembered. Should have remembered this was her "I'm starting to wake up" routine. I heard another fart . . . and then felt a warmth ooze quickly over my fingers. Poo! My sweet little lady was crapping all over me! I called to TH, "She's crapping on me! Get a towel!" and in the seconds it took to get those words out, Ali let loose a gusher of orange-colored poop, grinning away contentedly the entire time.
You know you are a parent when the funniest thing that has happened to you all day is getting crapped on by your child. The photographer, TH, and I laughed riotously for minutes!
TH came to my rescue, bringing me wads of paper towels, and we swabbed my hands and her butt as well we could. He then told me to hand her to him so that I could go and wash my hands. I had just turned on the water when I heard a gushing sound, followed by more riotous laugher . . . she had just peed a torrential flow all over her daddy!
If there's anything funnier than getting pooped on by your daughter, it's having your husband peed on by your daughter right after you've been pooped on. Gotta love that girl for being an equal-opportunity baby.
So the start of parenthood has been not at all what we thought it would, and paradoxically, everything we thought it would be. It has been harder. And more rewarding. It is the scariest thing I have ever done. And the most comforting. There have been more tears than expected. And more laughter. I have had to be more disciplined and more easy-going at the same time. I cannot wait for Ali to be older, to be more interactive. And I know that I will sorely miss this sleepy, cuddly baby.
What an adventure this has turned out to be.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Birth Story
She's here. She's amazing.
We were quickly seen at the office and low-and-behold I was at 4 c.m. and 70% effaced. My doctor gave us a couple of options: go and walk around the grounds for a bit and check into the hospital later, or just go check into the hospital now. I had to make him repeat himself, sure that he had simply forgotten the third option: go home and come back when you're closer. Nope! Going home was not an option. One way or another I was staying to have a baby. It was at that moment that the enormity of the day hit me: I was having my baby!!
After being assured I was not going to be strapped to a monitor and held captive in bed, we went and checked into the hospital. It was about 7:30 a.m. I knew that there were only a few wireless fetal monitors and squat bars for delivery, so I wanted to get checked in early to try and get access to these tools. One serendipitous detail: our labor and delivery nurse's name was Ali!
After getting my initial assessment (baseline fetal monitoring of heartrate and contractions, etc.), we were allowed to walk the halls. And walk we did. The L&D floor was essentially set up in a big rectangle, so TH and I simply walked, lap after lap, hour after hour. (TH knows me so well, in fact, that he suggested that we time how long it took us to make one lap and then challenged me to beat that time on our next lap. I love that man.) We learned that six laps around the loop equals one mile; by my calculations, we probably walked five or six miles by the end of the day! I had to get back on the monitor every 30 minutes or so just to check on baby girl, but other than that, we had the freedom to labor however we desired.
Laboring together with TH was one of the most amazing experiences I have ever had. It was incredibly intimate. He was there for me in every way I needed him to be. He did everything right. He used all the coaching techniques we learned in our class. He supported me, encouraged me, made me laugh, kept me distracted, and basically made me feel like I was the most amazing woman in labor who had ever existed. We walked. We bounced on the labor ball. We swayed side to side. I used his shoulder for support and breathed into his neck. I can honestly say my labor experience was awesome.
My doctor arrived around 12:30 to check on my progress. Once you are in active labor, "they" like to see progress of about 1 cm per hour. It had been five hours since we checked into the hospital (when I was at 4 cm), and roughly 12 hours into my labor. I was only at 5.5 cm and 80% effacement. Not the kind of progress we were all looking for. We decided to break my water to try and encourage my body to pick up the pace.
After the doctor broke my water, I could tell that my contractions did not, in fact, increase in frequency or strength. In fact, the opposite happened. They spaced out and got easier to handle. My periodic checks on the monitor confirmed this; the mountains spaced out to six or seven minutes apart again. I had handled the lack of progress fairly well, but this change in pace was frustrating to me. I wanted labor to progress, not get set back!
When I was checked again at 3:30, I had only progressed to 6 cm and was still at 80%. So, three hours later and only a .5-cm change. Boo. I had now been in labor about 15 hours.
We talked about other ways of encouraging my body to pick up the pace. The next step after breaking my water was starting pitocin. I was wary of this step, as it had often been badmouthed in our Bradley class as the first step of a slippery slope. Pitocin made contractions unnaturally intense, so most people moved from there to an epidural. And epidurals, statistically speaking, made c-sections more likely. So pitocin was like the gateway drug of the L&D world. We decided to hold off and see if my body didn't pick things up on its own. But the doctor expressed concern over my slow rate of progress and we agreed to revisit the topic at the next check if I hadn't made good progress.
When I was checked again at just after 5 p.m., I was at a 6.5 and still 80% effaced. I was so discouraged by this. I had been in labor now for almost 17 hours and had only progressed 2.5 cm. We started the pitocin on the lowest setting possible.
Pitocin lived up to its reputation. The next 2.5 hours were not like the 17 hours I had experienced up to that point. The contractions became very painful and were starting to come with greater and greater frequency. Because I was on pitocin, I had to be continuously monitored. There was a wireless monitor, so TH and I could have continued to walk the halls, but I honestly didn't think I could just walk through these contractions the way I had the others. The best thing I found to do was to stand and sway back and forth, from side to side. I started moaning through the contractions, unable to last through them without vocalizing some of my discomfort.
Then baby girl's heart rate started to be affected. It wasn't picking back up the pace after each contraction the way it was supposed to. I had to get into bed and lay on my side. Then they gave me oxygen. Though it helped her hear trate recover, experiencing pitocin contractions in bed was honestly the worst part of my entire labor. I could no longer sway for relief. TH started to apply counter pressure, pushing his fist as hard as he could into the small of my back with each contraction.
I knew I couldn't last through hours and hours of this. What was more, I didn't want to. I didn't want to be so miserable through the end of my labor after having such a positive experience through the beginning. On the other hand, surely the hours of intense, painful contractions coming one after the other meant something. Surely I was now making progress and the end would be in sight. I decided I would wait for my next check; if I had made significant progress--I was hoping for around 8 cm dilation--I would continue to soldier through. If not, I was getting the epidural.
The doctor checked again at 7:30. I was still at 6.5 cm. Zero progress. I was shocked. Discouraged. Disappointed. Upset. Scared. Scared that things were not happening as they should. In the last seven hours of hard labor, I had only progressed 1 cm.
The epidural was ordered and I counted each minute, each contraction, until the anesthesiologist arrived.
Getting the epidural was scary to me simply because of the horror stories I had heard and because of the side-effects they talked about before giving it to me. Spinal headaches, paralysis . . . things that only affect .01% of the people who get epidurals. I was still in the throes of pitocin contractions, too, so staying perfectly still for the doctor was a challenge. There was a point when I felt a sudden pain to the left of the numbed area and I jumped. "Don't move!" the doctor ordered. Oh shit, I thought, I just screwed something up! I apologized again and again and kept asking him if I had messed anything up. He assured me that everything was still fine.
After I got the epidural, I had only two unpleasant side-effects: I started shaking, and my rectum started hurting with each contraction. I tried to ignore the shakes. Baby girl's heart rate was dropping again, so I had to stay on my side and keep the oxygen mask on at all times.
Tthe nurse encouraged me, saying that the rectal pain I was feeling was more than likely baby girl's head moving down into position. This was what really made me feel like we were finally making progress. Surely the epidural helped my body relax. We were cranking up the pitocin since I couldn't feel the pain anymore, and surely my body was finally being forced to progress! With each contraction that hurt, I simply pushed the little button and gave myself a little more medicine. Soon, I could feel the pressure of the contractions but no pain at all. I relaxed enough to be able to sleep a little.
The 9:30 check came. I want to take a break here and explain that my doctor got off work at 5 p.m. but had stayed around just to be there for me. We had told him how much we wanted him to be the one to deliver our baby. He was the doctor we trusted, and in the face of a labor that was longer and more complicated than we had anticipated, he was the one we needed to be there for our own peace of mind. What an amazing testament to the man and his dedication to his job and his patients that he stayed just to be there for us.
Anyway, the 9:30 check came. I closed my eyes and prayed for progress. Please body. Please do what you are supposed to do. It was closing in on 22 hours of labor now. I was tired physically and mentally. I just wanted my daughter born. I didn't want to worry any more about how she was tolerating such a long labor, about her heart rate dropping, about oxygen, about anything. I just wanted her here, safe, in my arms at last.
I was at 6.5 cm. Still. Zero progress. Despite increasing the pitocin every half-hour. Nothing. In the last four and half hours, I hadn't progress one bit. I was crushed.
We started talking c-section. TH and I asked the doctor every question we could think of, from risks to benefits, both immediate and long-term. It honestly didn't take much. I was tired. I was worried about my daughter. I was nervous about my ability to keep going with enough energy to make it through the actual delivery part, nevermind how much longer it might actually take me to finally hit 10 cm. I was anxious about the physical aspects of delivering a big baby, anxious about what it would do to my body.
Even then, though, I was so disappointed. We had dreamed for nine months about this moment, had prepared for labor and delivery. I had never doubted myself, never doubted my ability to give birth to my child. I cried. I cried from exhaustion and from disappointment and fear and from being overwhelmed with the events of the day. I sent TH to get my mother. I needed to see her smile, needed her to tell me that everything would be ok, needed to hear I was making the right decision.
At 10:15 I was wheeled into the operating room. While TH was putting on scrubs, they transferred me to the operating table. The jostling made me nauseated and I vomited. It was an awful feeling to not be able to move, to have your arms stretched out to your side, to be stapped down, and have to throw up. The anesthesiologist who was at my head was an angel. She was comforting and kind and knew exactly what to do and say to calm me down. I wish I knew her name so that I could tell her in person how much I appreciated what she did for me, how much she helped.
The surgery itself was a breeze. I was told to expect tugging and pressure and to try and relax through it, but honestly after all that I had been through that day, it was a total non-event.
I heard them telling me they were making the incision. I remember looking at nothing else but into my husband's eyes. He was stroking my hair, telling me how proud of me he was.
I remember telling him to take pictures.
I heard the doctor tell TH to get the camera ready.
I saw TH's eyes open wide with a kind of amazement I have never before seen on his face. It was the most pure light I have ever seen. It was joy. I remember hearing him say, "Oh my God!"
I heard a cry.
At 10:35 p.m. on 9/15/09, my daughter was born. She weighed 8 lbs, 1 oz--far from the 9+ pound gigantor baby they were predicting!--and was 20.75 inches long.
I remember hearing her wails fill the room and feeling so thankful.
I remember TH holding her up in my line of sight. I had a hard time focusing, but I remember seeing her face. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I remember them taking her to the nursery, and I remember telling TH not to leave her side. I knew he would be worried about me, and I remember knowing it was vital that he understood that he needed to stay with her.
I remember the doctors finishing sewing me up, and as they left the room, I remember telling them thank you multiple times. Thank you for giving me my baby.
After that, I was wheeled into a recovery room. I drifted in and out of my medicinal haze. I could have visitors, and one at a time my parents came into the room to greet and check on me.
Then TH came in. I was surprised to see him . . . hadn't I told him to stay with our daughter?? But he had been too worried about me and had snuck away to make sure that I was ok. And he had brought pictures. Pictures of our daughter. I remember saying "She's beautiful!" over and over again, as if it was the only true statement left in the world, as if it was the only thing I could say.
I later learned that Ali was face up, rather than face down as she "should" have been. My doctor explained that this probably played a roll in my failure to progress beyond 6.5 cm. Baby girl never dropped below a -1 station, in part because she was positioned wrong. Even if I had fought through to 10 cm (and who knows if I ever would have made it that far), there is only a 30% I would have been able to deliver her without resorting to an emergency c-section.
So, I left home one day as a wife and awoke the next day as a mother. Were the events that happened in between the ones I had hoped for and planned on? No. It wasn't the birth I had prepared for, wasn't the birth I had dreamed of in my mind. I still struggle with feelings of envy when I hear another friend has dilated beyond a 6, has given birth vaginally. I wanted the experience. I wanted to know what it was like to push.
But all of that is secondary to the end result. Baby girl is here. She is safe. She is healthy. All those months of worry, all those times I held my breath and prayed that she just be ok, all of that waiting has finally come to an end, and I can at long last hold her in my arms and kiss her cheeks and stroke her gorgeous dark hair. The "how" did not go according to plan, but in the end, those are just details. It's the "what" that truly matters.
And here, at long last, is my "what."
My daughter is one week old today. I've fallen off the blogging wagon in the last week. Understandably. I hope to continue this blog, continue to use it as a place to record my thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and fears about parenting the way I've used it to record these emotions about both getting and being pregnant. And I know I still have the whole second half of the alphabet to get through! But I also want to spend every waking moment with her, staring into her dark grey (blue? brown?) eyes, and the moments she sleeps seem to disappear in a fog of napping, catching up on emails, laundry, and somewhere fitting in meals for myself. Blogging has just dropped off the wayside.
But for today, I just want to get down her birth story. It was such an incredible day. Such an incredible day. And already some of the details are fading, worn soft around the edges by sleepless nights and days filled with more smiles and laughs than I knew possible. I want to have a place I can come back to and remember it. The day my daughter was born.
I had my last doctor's appointment the morning of my due date. I had been having contractions all weekend, though they weren't painful. Just tightening. The morning of 9/14/09, I awoke to a bit of spotting on the toilet paper. I knew enough to know that this was not something to be worried about; this was something to be excited about! At the doctor's appointment, I got hooked up to a monitor, and TH and I could actually see the contractions as they happened, a series of little mountains spread across the paper. The doctor said he gave me a 5-10% chance of actually making it to my induction date of Friday the 18th. TH looked at me with wide eyes and we agreed we had better finish packing our hospital bag that night!
I went to work for what would be my last day, and the contractions gradually got a little more uncomfortable as the day wore on. I wrapped up all my loose ends--my boss and I had agreed I would work from home for the rest of the week, so one way or another I knew that would be my last day in the office for a long time. TH took me out to dinner--Chili's--for our "due date." We came home and walked around the neighborhood. As we walked, I noticed that the contractions were coming a little more consistently. I started glancing at my watch whenever I felt one. Five minutes apart. Seven minutes. Four minutes.
We got home and packed the hospital bag. Then, with nothing left to do but wait, I fell asleep to the sound of my husband reading our last chapter out of our pregnancy week-by-week book.
I was woken up by a painful contraction around 11 p.m. Another about 40 minutes later. Another about 20 minutes later. By 1:30 a.m. I had had enough and got up to start timing them. They were about 3-4 minutes apart and about 45 seconds long. I used Contraction Master, a website that helps you time contractions, and seeing each one consistently follow the previous one was surreal. Was this actually happening. I didn't want to be that woman, the woman who goes to the hospital only to be sent home again (and again?? Did anyone see Father of the Bride 2?), so I kept a healthy dose of skepticism about me. But after seeing the contractions come, one after another, for about an hour and a half, I woke TH.
We called the on-call doc, and he said to come on in. Still holding onto that fear of getting sent home, or perhaps to my incredulity that I was actually in labor, I asked if we could labor at home for a while instead, and he said we were more than welcome to. Around 3 a.m. I baked cookies for the nurses at the hospital, and we put the finishing touches on the hospital bag. All the while we had contraction master pulled up on TH's laptop (which he kept with him as he moved from room to room in the house). I would yell "Spacebar!!" from wherever I was in the house when a contraction started or ended, and TH would yell back "SPACEBAR!" from wherever he was in the house. We laughed a lot, overcome by excitement.
By around 5:30 a.m. my adrenaline was wearing off. I realized how tired I was. I sat down in the chair in Ali's nursery and tried to relax/sleep a little. We played her lullaby CD, which was already set up in her CD player, waiting to be used for real. As I relaxed, the contractions spaced out to about 6-7 minutes apart. Somewhere between uncomfortable and painful, they felt like intense menstrual cramps.
We were quickly seen at the office and low-and-behold I was at 4 c.m. and 70% effaced. My doctor gave us a couple of options: go and walk around the grounds for a bit and check into the hospital later, or just go check into the hospital now. I had to make him repeat himself, sure that he had simply forgotten the third option: go home and come back when you're closer. Nope! Going home was not an option. One way or another I was staying to have a baby. It was at that moment that the enormity of the day hit me: I was having my baby!!
After being assured I was not going to be strapped to a monitor and held captive in bed, we went and checked into the hospital. It was about 7:30 a.m. I knew that there were only a few wireless fetal monitors and squat bars for delivery, so I wanted to get checked in early to try and get access to these tools. One serendipitous detail: our labor and delivery nurse's name was Ali!
After getting my initial assessment (baseline fetal monitoring of heartrate and contractions, etc.), we were allowed to walk the halls. And walk we did. The L&D floor was essentially set up in a big rectangle, so TH and I simply walked, lap after lap, hour after hour. (TH knows me so well, in fact, that he suggested that we time how long it took us to make one lap and then challenged me to beat that time on our next lap. I love that man.) We learned that six laps around the loop equals one mile; by my calculations, we probably walked five or six miles by the end of the day! I had to get back on the monitor every 30 minutes or so just to check on baby girl, but other than that, we had the freedom to labor however we desired.
Laboring together with TH was one of the most amazing experiences I have ever had. It was incredibly intimate. He was there for me in every way I needed him to be. He did everything right. He used all the coaching techniques we learned in our class. He supported me, encouraged me, made me laugh, kept me distracted, and basically made me feel like I was the most amazing woman in labor who had ever existed. We walked. We bounced on the labor ball. We swayed side to side. I used his shoulder for support and breathed into his neck. I can honestly say my labor experience was awesome.
My doctor arrived around 12:30 to check on my progress. Once you are in active labor, "they" like to see progress of about 1 cm per hour. It had been five hours since we checked into the hospital (when I was at 4 cm), and roughly 12 hours into my labor. I was only at 5.5 cm and 80% effacement. Not the kind of progress we were all looking for. We decided to break my water to try and encourage my body to pick up the pace.
After the doctor broke my water, I could tell that my contractions did not, in fact, increase in frequency or strength. In fact, the opposite happened. They spaced out and got easier to handle. My periodic checks on the monitor confirmed this; the mountains spaced out to six or seven minutes apart again. I had handled the lack of progress fairly well, but this change in pace was frustrating to me. I wanted labor to progress, not get set back!
When I was checked again at 3:30, I had only progressed to 6 cm and was still at 80%. So, three hours later and only a .5-cm change. Boo. I had now been in labor about 15 hours.
We talked about other ways of encouraging my body to pick up the pace. The next step after breaking my water was starting pitocin. I was wary of this step, as it had often been badmouthed in our Bradley class as the first step of a slippery slope. Pitocin made contractions unnaturally intense, so most people moved from there to an epidural. And epidurals, statistically speaking, made c-sections more likely. So pitocin was like the gateway drug of the L&D world. We decided to hold off and see if my body didn't pick things up on its own. But the doctor expressed concern over my slow rate of progress and we agreed to revisit the topic at the next check if I hadn't made good progress.
When I was checked again at just after 5 p.m., I was at a 6.5 and still 80% effaced. I was so discouraged by this. I had been in labor now for almost 17 hours and had only progressed 2.5 cm. We started the pitocin on the lowest setting possible.
Pitocin lived up to its reputation. The next 2.5 hours were not like the 17 hours I had experienced up to that point. The contractions became very painful and were starting to come with greater and greater frequency. Because I was on pitocin, I had to be continuously monitored. There was a wireless monitor, so TH and I could have continued to walk the halls, but I honestly didn't think I could just walk through these contractions the way I had the others. The best thing I found to do was to stand and sway back and forth, from side to side. I started moaning through the contractions, unable to last through them without vocalizing some of my discomfort.
Then baby girl's heart rate started to be affected. It wasn't picking back up the pace after each contraction the way it was supposed to. I had to get into bed and lay on my side. Then they gave me oxygen. Though it helped her hear trate recover, experiencing pitocin contractions in bed was honestly the worst part of my entire labor. I could no longer sway for relief. TH started to apply counter pressure, pushing his fist as hard as he could into the small of my back with each contraction.
I knew I couldn't last through hours and hours of this. What was more, I didn't want to. I didn't want to be so miserable through the end of my labor after having such a positive experience through the beginning. On the other hand, surely the hours of intense, painful contractions coming one after the other meant something. Surely I was now making progress and the end would be in sight. I decided I would wait for my next check; if I had made significant progress--I was hoping for around 8 cm dilation--I would continue to soldier through. If not, I was getting the epidural.
The doctor checked again at 7:30. I was still at 6.5 cm. Zero progress. I was shocked. Discouraged. Disappointed. Upset. Scared. Scared that things were not happening as they should. In the last seven hours of hard labor, I had only progressed 1 cm.
The epidural was ordered and I counted each minute, each contraction, until the anesthesiologist arrived.
Getting the epidural was scary to me simply because of the horror stories I had heard and because of the side-effects they talked about before giving it to me. Spinal headaches, paralysis . . . things that only affect .01% of the people who get epidurals. I was still in the throes of pitocin contractions, too, so staying perfectly still for the doctor was a challenge. There was a point when I felt a sudden pain to the left of the numbed area and I jumped. "Don't move!" the doctor ordered. Oh shit, I thought, I just screwed something up! I apologized again and again and kept asking him if I had messed anything up. He assured me that everything was still fine.
After I got the epidural, I had only two unpleasant side-effects: I started shaking, and my rectum started hurting with each contraction. I tried to ignore the shakes. Baby girl's heart rate was dropping again, so I had to stay on my side and keep the oxygen mask on at all times.
Tthe nurse encouraged me, saying that the rectal pain I was feeling was more than likely baby girl's head moving down into position. This was what really made me feel like we were finally making progress. Surely the epidural helped my body relax. We were cranking up the pitocin since I couldn't feel the pain anymore, and surely my body was finally being forced to progress! With each contraction that hurt, I simply pushed the little button and gave myself a little more medicine. Soon, I could feel the pressure of the contractions but no pain at all. I relaxed enough to be able to sleep a little.
The 9:30 check came. I want to take a break here and explain that my doctor got off work at 5 p.m. but had stayed around just to be there for me. We had told him how much we wanted him to be the one to deliver our baby. He was the doctor we trusted, and in the face of a labor that was longer and more complicated than we had anticipated, he was the one we needed to be there for our own peace of mind. What an amazing testament to the man and his dedication to his job and his patients that he stayed just to be there for us.
Anyway, the 9:30 check came. I closed my eyes and prayed for progress. Please body. Please do what you are supposed to do. It was closing in on 22 hours of labor now. I was tired physically and mentally. I just wanted my daughter born. I didn't want to worry any more about how she was tolerating such a long labor, about her heart rate dropping, about oxygen, about anything. I just wanted her here, safe, in my arms at last.
I was at 6.5 cm. Still. Zero progress. Despite increasing the pitocin every half-hour. Nothing. In the last four and half hours, I hadn't progress one bit. I was crushed.
We started talking c-section. TH and I asked the doctor every question we could think of, from risks to benefits, both immediate and long-term. It honestly didn't take much. I was tired. I was worried about my daughter. I was nervous about my ability to keep going with enough energy to make it through the actual delivery part, nevermind how much longer it might actually take me to finally hit 10 cm. I was anxious about the physical aspects of delivering a big baby, anxious about what it would do to my body.
Even then, though, I was so disappointed. We had dreamed for nine months about this moment, had prepared for labor and delivery. I had never doubted myself, never doubted my ability to give birth to my child. I cried. I cried from exhaustion and from disappointment and fear and from being overwhelmed with the events of the day. I sent TH to get my mother. I needed to see her smile, needed her to tell me that everything would be ok, needed to hear I was making the right decision.
At 10:15 I was wheeled into the operating room. While TH was putting on scrubs, they transferred me to the operating table. The jostling made me nauseated and I vomited. It was an awful feeling to not be able to move, to have your arms stretched out to your side, to be stapped down, and have to throw up. The anesthesiologist who was at my head was an angel. She was comforting and kind and knew exactly what to do and say to calm me down. I wish I knew her name so that I could tell her in person how much I appreciated what she did for me, how much she helped.
The surgery itself was a breeze. I was told to expect tugging and pressure and to try and relax through it, but honestly after all that I had been through that day, it was a total non-event.
I heard them telling me they were making the incision. I remember looking at nothing else but into my husband's eyes. He was stroking my hair, telling me how proud of me he was.
I remember telling him to take pictures.
I heard the doctor tell TH to get the camera ready.
I saw TH's eyes open wide with a kind of amazement I have never before seen on his face. It was the most pure light I have ever seen. It was joy. I remember hearing him say, "Oh my God!"
I heard a cry.
At 10:35 p.m. on 9/15/09, my daughter was born. She weighed 8 lbs, 1 oz--far from the 9+ pound gigantor baby they were predicting!--and was 20.75 inches long.
I remember hearing her wails fill the room and feeling so thankful.
I remember TH holding her up in my line of sight. I had a hard time focusing, but I remember seeing her face. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I remember them taking her to the nursery, and I remember telling TH not to leave her side. I knew he would be worried about me, and I remember knowing it was vital that he understood that he needed to stay with her.
I remember the doctors finishing sewing me up, and as they left the room, I remember telling them thank you multiple times. Thank you for giving me my baby.
After that, I was wheeled into a recovery room. I drifted in and out of my medicinal haze. I could have visitors, and one at a time my parents came into the room to greet and check on me.
Then TH came in. I was surprised to see him . . . hadn't I told him to stay with our daughter?? But he had been too worried about me and had snuck away to make sure that I was ok. And he had brought pictures. Pictures of our daughter. I remember saying "She's beautiful!" over and over again, as if it was the only true statement left in the world, as if it was the only thing I could say.
I later learned that Ali was face up, rather than face down as she "should" have been. My doctor explained that this probably played a roll in my failure to progress beyond 6.5 cm. Baby girl never dropped below a -1 station, in part because she was positioned wrong. Even if I had fought through to 10 cm (and who knows if I ever would have made it that far), there is only a 30% I would have been able to deliver her without resorting to an emergency c-section.
So, I left home one day as a wife and awoke the next day as a mother. Were the events that happened in between the ones I had hoped for and planned on? No. It wasn't the birth I had prepared for, wasn't the birth I had dreamed of in my mind. I still struggle with feelings of envy when I hear another friend has dilated beyond a 6, has given birth vaginally. I wanted the experience. I wanted to know what it was like to push.
But all of that is secondary to the end result. Baby girl is here. She is safe. She is healthy. All those months of worry, all those times I held my breath and prayed that she just be ok, all of that waiting has finally come to an end, and I can at long last hold her in my arms and kiss her cheeks and stroke her gorgeous dark hair. The "how" did not go according to plan, but in the end, those are just details. It's the "what" that truly matters.
And here, at long last, is my "what."
Monday, September 14, 2009
40 Weeks!!!
Today I am 40 weeks pregnant.
What a journey it has been. Looking back, I can't believe the time has come for baby girl to make her appearance . . . but at the same time it has been a loong 9 months, too.
I have been so, so lucky during this pregnancy. Lucky to get pregnant at all. Lucky to not face any major complications along the way. Lucky to feel so good the entire time. Lucky to have such an amazing man by my side to pamper me and read to me and learn with me and dream with me. I cannot wait to make him a father in the newest, realest sense of the word. I cannot wait to see him hold his daughter in his arms.
Last weekend was our last weekend together as just a couple, as just us, a pair of high school sweethearts who, for the last 13 years, have only known what it's like to have each other. It was the ending of an era. A wonderful era. We definitely took full advantage of the occasion. We played Boggle like we used to (I won but only by 5 points . . . it's amazing how close we always are in that game!). We went and saw a movie (9 . . . amazing animation, but a bit darker than I was anticipating). We went out to dinner (Chuy's burrito topped with Boom-Boom sauce . . . delish!). We went for walks and talked and remembered our time together and looked forward with excitement to what this week would bring us. We went to bed on Sunday night, looking each other in the eyes and saying, "Can you believe we are going to have a BABY this week?!?!"
Our 40-week appointment was this morning, and it brought with it a new and fun experience: we got hooked up to the fetal monitors and got to actually see the contractions happen. I had been having contractions all weekend, but they weren't painful . . . just periods of tightness across my belly. In fact, at first I thought baby girl was just pushing OUT very forcefully. It took a while for me to realize my stomach was in fact pushing IN. The fetal monitor showed a visual of each contraction, making a pattern of small mountains across the printout. I think it really helped TH connect with the experience, since he can't really feel them come and go the way I can.
We found out I had made more great progress over the week, and the doctor gave me only a 5-10% chance of making it until Friday, my scheduled induction day. We picked Friday because he will only let me go one week overdue, and it seemed easier for family and friends to come visit over the weekend than if we induced on a Monday. I knew all about stories of progress only to have baby not come for weeks and weeks, so I wasn't really getting my hopes up too high . . . plus this doc had no idea how stubborn the women in my family (even if they're babies) can be! While I hoped baby girl would come on her own in the next few days, I also planned on Friday being the day.
I went to work. I think I made my boss thoroughly anxious by being there. I assured her I would not go into labor while at work, though the more constant contractions I started feeling all day made me wonder if something was, in fact, happening. TH and I went out to dinner on a "due date." We walked around our neighborhood. We packed our hospital bag. Though the contractions were becoming more uncomfortable and uniform, I managed to fall asleep to the sound of him reading our weekly chapter out of our Pregnancy Week by Week book.
I awoke to a contraction. Typically able to sleep through pain, I tried to relax. An hour later another. 20 minutes later another. TH heard me moan in my sleep and tried to make me comfortable. Eventually I just got up. 1:45 in the morning the day after my due date, I started timing contractions. Real contractions. And they were coming about every 3-4 minutes and lasting about a minute. And they've stayed consistent for more than an hour.
So here I am. I am excited. Anxious. Nervous to take this too seriously and have it be a false alarm. Scared to get my hopes up and have it not pan out just yet.
Hoping against hope that this IS it. That the time has come. That in only hours I will get to meet my daughter, get to hold her in my arms, get to kiss her cheek and marvel at her hair and cry at the miracle of it all.
40 weeks. What an amazing milestone. What an amazing day.
What a journey it has been. Looking back, I can't believe the time has come for baby girl to make her appearance . . . but at the same time it has been a loong 9 months, too.
I have been so, so lucky during this pregnancy. Lucky to get pregnant at all. Lucky to not face any major complications along the way. Lucky to feel so good the entire time. Lucky to have such an amazing man by my side to pamper me and read to me and learn with me and dream with me. I cannot wait to make him a father in the newest, realest sense of the word. I cannot wait to see him hold his daughter in his arms.
Last weekend was our last weekend together as just a couple, as just us, a pair of high school sweethearts who, for the last 13 years, have only known what it's like to have each other. It was the ending of an era. A wonderful era. We definitely took full advantage of the occasion. We played Boggle like we used to (I won but only by 5 points . . . it's amazing how close we always are in that game!). We went and saw a movie (9 . . . amazing animation, but a bit darker than I was anticipating). We went out to dinner (Chuy's burrito topped with Boom-Boom sauce . . . delish!). We went for walks and talked and remembered our time together and looked forward with excitement to what this week would bring us. We went to bed on Sunday night, looking each other in the eyes and saying, "Can you believe we are going to have a BABY this week?!?!"
Our 40-week appointment was this morning, and it brought with it a new and fun experience: we got hooked up to the fetal monitors and got to actually see the contractions happen. I had been having contractions all weekend, but they weren't painful . . . just periods of tightness across my belly. In fact, at first I thought baby girl was just pushing OUT very forcefully. It took a while for me to realize my stomach was in fact pushing IN. The fetal monitor showed a visual of each contraction, making a pattern of small mountains across the printout. I think it really helped TH connect with the experience, since he can't really feel them come and go the way I can.
We found out I had made more great progress over the week, and the doctor gave me only a 5-10% chance of making it until Friday, my scheduled induction day. We picked Friday because he will only let me go one week overdue, and it seemed easier for family and friends to come visit over the weekend than if we induced on a Monday. I knew all about stories of progress only to have baby not come for weeks and weeks, so I wasn't really getting my hopes up too high . . . plus this doc had no idea how stubborn the women in my family (even if they're babies) can be! While I hoped baby girl would come on her own in the next few days, I also planned on Friday being the day.
I went to work. I think I made my boss thoroughly anxious by being there. I assured her I would not go into labor while at work, though the more constant contractions I started feeling all day made me wonder if something was, in fact, happening. TH and I went out to dinner on a "due date." We walked around our neighborhood. We packed our hospital bag. Though the contractions were becoming more uncomfortable and uniform, I managed to fall asleep to the sound of him reading our weekly chapter out of our Pregnancy Week by Week book.
I awoke to a contraction. Typically able to sleep through pain, I tried to relax. An hour later another. 20 minutes later another. TH heard me moan in my sleep and tried to make me comfortable. Eventually I just got up. 1:45 in the morning the day after my due date, I started timing contractions. Real contractions. And they were coming about every 3-4 minutes and lasting about a minute. And they've stayed consistent for more than an hour.
So here I am. I am excited. Anxious. Nervous to take this too seriously and have it be a false alarm. Scared to get my hopes up and have it not pan out just yet.
Hoping against hope that this IS it. That the time has come. That in only hours I will get to meet my daughter, get to hold her in my arms, get to kiss her cheek and marvel at her hair and cry at the miracle of it all.
40 weeks. What an amazing milestone. What an amazing day.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
L is for Love
Love.
Nothing will play a bigger role in your life.
Nothing will bring you more joy. Or more pain.
Nothing will drive your decisions more. Nothing will be a bigger influence.
Love is an eternal motif. It is found in every great story.
Love is paradoxical. It is both culturally defined and an integral part of what makes us human.
There are a thousand, million, billion different types of love. The love you feel for your family. The love you feel for your friends. The love you feel for your romantic partner. The love you feel for yourself. The love you feel for your job, your pets, your home, your beliefs, your peers, your hobbies, your favorite possessions, your favorite ice cream flavor . . . the list goes on forever. And each of them is different, a different kind of love, than the last. Yet they are all love.
How can I possibly talk to you about something so ubiquitous, something so universal? What can I possibly tell you that will help you when it comes time for your own experiences with love?
Ultimately, as with everything else baby girl, you will have to decide what love means for you. You will have to decide what love feels like. What love looks like. What love acts like. What love's limits are.
There are many who would say I've been lucky in love. I met your father when we were 16. We fell in love almost immediately, though it wasn't the romantic kind of love, not at first. That came later. That may be why our relationship is so strong; it is one layer of love built on another, different kind of love. We met when we were 16, and now, 14 years later, we are expecting you. And our love keeps growing. One layer of love added to the previous.
So I've been lucky in love. Yes. Blessed. I would say everyone who has experienced love has been lucky. Blessed. But those who would say that our experiences with love have been easy would be wrong. The truth is, love isn't easy. Not true love. Not lasting love. That's because life isn't easy, and love is the thread that connects our lives, connects one day to the next, one moment to the next, one experience to the next.
Some of those transitions are jarring. Some are painful. Such is life. And love has to be there to make those jarring, painful steps.
Sometimes the steps are too much, and love is lost. Such is life.
Ultimately, it's up to you to decide when love has been stretched too thin. But know this: love is stronger than you think. It is stronger than faith. It is stronger than hope. Even when you have lost your faith, when you have lost your hope, even then, love remains. Love remains, often times long after things like common sense and personal safety and respect are gone. In times like these, there are two different loves at odds with each other: love of self and love of another. I can't tell you which trumps which. You will have to discover that for yourself when the time comes.
What I can tell you about love, or about my own experiences and discoveries about love, is this: I do not believe those who say the best you can do is simply love someone for who they are. There is some truth to that, yes. You have to have the ability to know who a person is, deep down, beneath all the pomp and circumstance and flair they put on to impress others. That person--the REAL person--is who you have to know and love, just as they are. But you do NOT have to love and accept the pomp and circumstance and flair. You do not have to love a person's decisions. You do not have to love a person's actions. Loving someone does NOT mean you have to accept their behavior as is, take it or leave it.
In my opinion, in my experiences with love, loving someone means not being able to imagine a life without them. It means you would rather argue with them than not have them around at all. It means they make you smile every time you see them . . . even if you are only seeing them in your mind's eye . . . even if you are only smiling on the inside. It means they are the first person you think of telling when something funny happens to you, or something sad, or something moving, or something surprising or amazing or scary or heartbreaking or thought-provoking, or simply something as trivial as wondering how it's possible that some fruit juices have twice as much sugar as sodas. Loving someone means you want to share your life with them, in all it's big and small moments.
But loving someone also means loving them enough to hold a mirror to their face, to not allow them to sell themselves short, to not accept self-destructive behavior, to always fight to raise them up, to support them to be the best they can be . . . to be the person deep down that you know they are. It means wanting the best for them even when they don't want the best for themselves. It means accepting their anger. No one likes the mirror being held to their face.
Loving someone means, when it's all said and done and the time comes for decisions to be made, being willing to walk away, being willing to give that person exactly what they want, remembering that ultimately it's the other person's decision about what kind of life they choose to have. You can't choose for them. Loving them means remembering that.
And love means always coming back to help that person fight their fight, even when it hurts. Love means being there for someone, no matter how little they deserve it.
Love means never giving up on someone.
And of course, the paradox: balancing the love of yourself with all of the above. Love means knowing when you have to love yourself more, knowing when the love of someone or something else becomes damaging to your own life. And, because love of others will always eventually result in a situation at odds with love of yourself . . . knowing where to draw that line. You cannot only love yourself, cannot always put yourself first. But you cannot only love others either. You cannot always put yourself last.
There are no wrong answers when it comes to love. You get to choose your own life. You get to define love for yourself. But remember, when struggling to define love for yourself, when struggling to find your balance, when struggling to decide on your next move, remember that love is not easy. Something so important, so big, so wonderful, was never meant to be easy. Even back in the 16th century, Shakespeare knew, "the course of true love never did run smooth."
You will have to fight for what you love. For those you love. You will have to fight yourself. You will have to fight others. You will be consumed with the most wonderful, terrible confusion and clarity. You will feel lost and found at the same time. You will want to escape your thoughts, and you will want to think of nothing else.
Yes, love is a fight. But this I promise you: it's worth it.
Even the loves that don't last. Worth it. Because they will, for the time you had them, have brought you the highest of all human emotions.
And the loves that do last? The loves that stay with you, that move your life, your identity, your soul, that flow through you like a river through a canyon until you are shaped into a new, deeper, more beautiful version of yourself?
Those loves are what put a smile on your face before you even open your eyes. Those loves are what puts the life in life.
Know that you are loved. Already your father and I love you more than you know. That love will never end, no matter what you do, no matter what you say. You are surrounded in love. You were conceived in love. You will be brought into the world already the focus of so many people's love.
And one of the things I'm most looking forward to about being a parent, about having created a new life to bring to the world, is that I'm giving one more soul the chance to know love.
I wish for you a life filled with a thousand, million, billion different kinds of love.
Nothing will play a bigger role in your life.
Nothing will bring you more joy. Or more pain.
Nothing will drive your decisions more. Nothing will be a bigger influence.
Love is an eternal motif. It is found in every great story.
Love is paradoxical. It is both culturally defined and an integral part of what makes us human.
There are a thousand, million, billion different types of love. The love you feel for your family. The love you feel for your friends. The love you feel for your romantic partner. The love you feel for yourself. The love you feel for your job, your pets, your home, your beliefs, your peers, your hobbies, your favorite possessions, your favorite ice cream flavor . . . the list goes on forever. And each of them is different, a different kind of love, than the last. Yet they are all love.
How can I possibly talk to you about something so ubiquitous, something so universal? What can I possibly tell you that will help you when it comes time for your own experiences with love?
Ultimately, as with everything else baby girl, you will have to decide what love means for you. You will have to decide what love feels like. What love looks like. What love acts like. What love's limits are.
There are many who would say I've been lucky in love. I met your father when we were 16. We fell in love almost immediately, though it wasn't the romantic kind of love, not at first. That came later. That may be why our relationship is so strong; it is one layer of love built on another, different kind of love. We met when we were 16, and now, 14 years later, we are expecting you. And our love keeps growing. One layer of love added to the previous.
So I've been lucky in love. Yes. Blessed. I would say everyone who has experienced love has been lucky. Blessed. But those who would say that our experiences with love have been easy would be wrong. The truth is, love isn't easy. Not true love. Not lasting love. That's because life isn't easy, and love is the thread that connects our lives, connects one day to the next, one moment to the next, one experience to the next.
Some of those transitions are jarring. Some are painful. Such is life. And love has to be there to make those jarring, painful steps.
Sometimes the steps are too much, and love is lost. Such is life.
Ultimately, it's up to you to decide when love has been stretched too thin. But know this: love is stronger than you think. It is stronger than faith. It is stronger than hope. Even when you have lost your faith, when you have lost your hope, even then, love remains. Love remains, often times long after things like common sense and personal safety and respect are gone. In times like these, there are two different loves at odds with each other: love of self and love of another. I can't tell you which trumps which. You will have to discover that for yourself when the time comes.
What I can tell you about love, or about my own experiences and discoveries about love, is this: I do not believe those who say the best you can do is simply love someone for who they are. There is some truth to that, yes. You have to have the ability to know who a person is, deep down, beneath all the pomp and circumstance and flair they put on to impress others. That person--the REAL person--is who you have to know and love, just as they are. But you do NOT have to love and accept the pomp and circumstance and flair. You do not have to love a person's decisions. You do not have to love a person's actions. Loving someone does NOT mean you have to accept their behavior as is, take it or leave it.
In my opinion, in my experiences with love, loving someone means not being able to imagine a life without them. It means you would rather argue with them than not have them around at all. It means they make you smile every time you see them . . . even if you are only seeing them in your mind's eye . . . even if you are only smiling on the inside. It means they are the first person you think of telling when something funny happens to you, or something sad, or something moving, or something surprising or amazing or scary or heartbreaking or thought-provoking, or simply something as trivial as wondering how it's possible that some fruit juices have twice as much sugar as sodas. Loving someone means you want to share your life with them, in all it's big and small moments.
But loving someone also means loving them enough to hold a mirror to their face, to not allow them to sell themselves short, to not accept self-destructive behavior, to always fight to raise them up, to support them to be the best they can be . . . to be the person deep down that you know they are. It means wanting the best for them even when they don't want the best for themselves. It means accepting their anger. No one likes the mirror being held to their face.
Loving someone means, when it's all said and done and the time comes for decisions to be made, being willing to walk away, being willing to give that person exactly what they want, remembering that ultimately it's the other person's decision about what kind of life they choose to have. You can't choose for them. Loving them means remembering that.
And love means always coming back to help that person fight their fight, even when it hurts. Love means being there for someone, no matter how little they deserve it.
Love means never giving up on someone.
And of course, the paradox: balancing the love of yourself with all of the above. Love means knowing when you have to love yourself more, knowing when the love of someone or something else becomes damaging to your own life. And, because love of others will always eventually result in a situation at odds with love of yourself . . . knowing where to draw that line. You cannot only love yourself, cannot always put yourself first. But you cannot only love others either. You cannot always put yourself last.
There are no wrong answers when it comes to love. You get to choose your own life. You get to define love for yourself. But remember, when struggling to define love for yourself, when struggling to find your balance, when struggling to decide on your next move, remember that love is not easy. Something so important, so big, so wonderful, was never meant to be easy. Even back in the 16th century, Shakespeare knew, "the course of true love never did run smooth."
You will have to fight for what you love. For those you love. You will have to fight yourself. You will have to fight others. You will be consumed with the most wonderful, terrible confusion and clarity. You will feel lost and found at the same time. You will want to escape your thoughts, and you will want to think of nothing else.
Yes, love is a fight. But this I promise you: it's worth it.
Even the loves that don't last. Worth it. Because they will, for the time you had them, have brought you the highest of all human emotions.
And the loves that do last? The loves that stay with you, that move your life, your identity, your soul, that flow through you like a river through a canyon until you are shaped into a new, deeper, more beautiful version of yourself?
Those loves are what put a smile on your face before you even open your eyes. Those loves are what puts the life in life.
Know that you are loved. Already your father and I love you more than you know. That love will never end, no matter what you do, no matter what you say. You are surrounded in love. You were conceived in love. You will be brought into the world already the focus of so many people's love.
And one of the things I'm most looking forward to about being a parent, about having created a new life to bring to the world, is that I'm giving one more soul the chance to know love.
I wish for you a life filled with a thousand, million, billion different kinds of love.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sweet Cheeks
That is your new nickname, baby girl. We had another great weekly appointment yesterday and got our first picture of you in a while that wasn't just a head/stomach/leg measurement:
This is a shot from beneath your chin (chin would be in bottom left corner), looking up your nostrils (you will see "NOSE" labeled in the middle). Check out the scrumptious cheeks on either side of that nose!! You DEFINITELY take after your momma in this feature . . . I simply cannot wait to get you out and kiss and squeeze those squishy cheeks!
There was a full moon over the weekend, which has been shown to have the power to bring on labor. All it did for me was make me extra crampy. We had more slow, steady progress this week: we are now just under 2 cm dilated, 30% effaced, and my cervix is soft! The doctor said he doesn't expect you to come anytime this week, but he also doesn't expect you to be very late, either. He is sticking with an on-time delivery of you! (Can I just say I will be soo impressed if you actually show up ON your due date?!)
Today is 9/9/09. I will admit, ever since we found out your due date, I have been secretly hoping that you would choose to come on this fun day. I was cautiously optimistic over the weekend with all the cramping, and the night before last was the MOST uncomfortable I have been yet--waking every hour, pain when I shift positions, the whole nine yards--so yesterday we took advantage of already having had an internal (which can bring on labor) and added to it a nice long walk and some "other" ways of inducing contractions. I went to bed hoping something exciting would happen overnight . . . only to get the most comfortable, deepest sleep I've had in days! So, it looks like 9/9/09 will not be happening for us. Which is okay. I love the fact you are already asserting your independence, already reminding me that mommyhood is just another thing I'm going to have to get used to being flexible about.
So baby girl, sweet cheeks, we are close. How close remains a mystery . . . but close! See you soon!!
This is a shot from beneath your chin (chin would be in bottom left corner), looking up your nostrils (you will see "NOSE" labeled in the middle). Check out the scrumptious cheeks on either side of that nose!! You DEFINITELY take after your momma in this feature . . . I simply cannot wait to get you out and kiss and squeeze those squishy cheeks!There was a full moon over the weekend, which has been shown to have the power to bring on labor. All it did for me was make me extra crampy. We had more slow, steady progress this week: we are now just under 2 cm dilated, 30% effaced, and my cervix is soft! The doctor said he doesn't expect you to come anytime this week, but he also doesn't expect you to be very late, either. He is sticking with an on-time delivery of you! (Can I just say I will be soo impressed if you actually show up ON your due date?!)
Today is 9/9/09. I will admit, ever since we found out your due date, I have been secretly hoping that you would choose to come on this fun day. I was cautiously optimistic over the weekend with all the cramping, and the night before last was the MOST uncomfortable I have been yet--waking every hour, pain when I shift positions, the whole nine yards--so yesterday we took advantage of already having had an internal (which can bring on labor) and added to it a nice long walk and some "other" ways of inducing contractions. I went to bed hoping something exciting would happen overnight . . . only to get the most comfortable, deepest sleep I've had in days! So, it looks like 9/9/09 will not be happening for us. Which is okay. I love the fact you are already asserting your independence, already reminding me that mommyhood is just another thing I'm going to have to get used to being flexible about.
So baby girl, sweet cheeks, we are close. How close remains a mystery . . . but close! See you soon!!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Single Digits!
Only nine days, baby girl!
NINE.
Nine short, long, fleeting, interminable days until your due date.
I wonder how accurate that really is. Since due dates are notoriously inaccurate (I mean, it IS hard to pick a single day nine months ahead), I wonder if you are actually going to make your appearance in fewer than nine days or more.
People all around me are having their babies. Women who were due just before me. Women who were due just after me. It's a constant reminder that I am actually going to have MY baby sometime soon, too! So far I've been pretty successful at balancing the "oh my god it could happen ANY TIME" with the "remember it could still be more than two weeks away and going crazy will just make those two weeks impossible." I've been pretty good at balancing the excitement with the patience.
There is a full moon this weekend. Supposedly that can have some effect on going into labor. I'm not sure if it was related at all, but you were SO squirmy yesterday, SO active. Could you feel the pull of the moon? I found myself restless at night, kept inside by rain, not wanting to watch TV, not wanting to be on the computer. Your dad and I ended up going for a walk around 10 p.m., and the fresh, rain-cleaned night air was just what I needed to relax. Was I feeling the pull of the moon?
It is so exciting not knowing when you are going to make your appearance but knowing that it's going to be sometime soon. It's like turning the handle on a jack-in-the-box toy. You know that clown is going to spring out at you sometime soon, you just don't know exactly when. It's exhilarating.
Nine days, plus or minus . . . oh . . . nine days I suppose.
Are you ready to come meet us?
NINE.
Nine short, long, fleeting, interminable days until your due date.
I wonder how accurate that really is. Since due dates are notoriously inaccurate (I mean, it IS hard to pick a single day nine months ahead), I wonder if you are actually going to make your appearance in fewer than nine days or more.
People all around me are having their babies. Women who were due just before me. Women who were due just after me. It's a constant reminder that I am actually going to have MY baby sometime soon, too! So far I've been pretty successful at balancing the "oh my god it could happen ANY TIME" with the "remember it could still be more than two weeks away and going crazy will just make those two weeks impossible." I've been pretty good at balancing the excitement with the patience.
There is a full moon this weekend. Supposedly that can have some effect on going into labor. I'm not sure if it was related at all, but you were SO squirmy yesterday, SO active. Could you feel the pull of the moon? I found myself restless at night, kept inside by rain, not wanting to watch TV, not wanting to be on the computer. Your dad and I ended up going for a walk around 10 p.m., and the fresh, rain-cleaned night air was just what I needed to relax. Was I feeling the pull of the moon?
It is so exciting not knowing when you are going to make your appearance but knowing that it's going to be sometime soon. It's like turning the handle on a jack-in-the-box toy. You know that clown is going to spring out at you sometime soon, you just don't know exactly when. It's exhilarating.
Nine days, plus or minus . . . oh . . . nine days I suppose.
Are you ready to come meet us?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
K is for Kindness
I've known that K is for kindness for a while now, but for some reason it just never seemed like the right time to sit down and tell you about it. I just couldn't find the right mindset. Until today. Today was a rough day at work. Well, today was the latest in a string of rough days at work. I left frustrated with coworkers, irritated with power struggles, annoyed by office politics and policies. And when I got home, it hit me: I am ready to talk to you about kindness.
You see, baby girl, it's one thing to be kind to others when the sun is shining on you, when your life is clipping along exactly how you want it to, when fate and circumstance seem to align and you wind up getting a free donut tossed into your order at the local bakery. Those days, smiling at strangers, waiting your turn, holding the door, giving a friend a sympathetic ear, basically going the extra step to bestow your own good fortune, your own good mood, on others is easy.
It's the days that seem to fight against you, the days that wear you down, that kindness becomes just one more thing that you don't want to have to put effort into. One more thing you think you shouldn't have to put effort into.
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever heard is this: No matter how little they might deserve it, always be kind to others. Everyone is fighting their own battles.
Keep that last part in mind. Everyone is fighting their own battles. That person who just cut you off in traffic? Maybe they just lost their job. That friend who betrays your trust? Maybe they are struggling to find their own place in their world, their own identity. Everyone is fighting their own battles, so even those people who scowl at you, who treat you without respect, who seem to deserve every bit of ill will and lack of consideration you can throw at them, even those people--be kind to them.
Try to live above reproach. There will be a million, a trillion wrongs done to you in life that you can point your finger at disapprovingly. But try to never let that finger be pointed at you. Don't use others' bad behavior as an excuse for your own. You are your own person, in charge of your own behavior. If someone treats you poorly, respond with kindness. It will be hard to do, and it will seem counter intuitive, but it will keep you from falling into the pit. It will keep you true to yourself. And the more frequently you do it, the easier it will become.
Make kindness a habit. Practice it. The world is a tough place. Whether it seems like it or not, the world is hard on everyone. If you are in the habit of being kind to others, regardless of the kind of day you have had, regardless of how they treat you, you will brighten someone's day without even realizing it. You may, in fact, be the only bright spot in that person's day. Or week. Or month. Being kind to others is like being a shining spot of sun . . . you really never know when there might be a person for whom you are the ONLY spot of sunshine they will see. You really never know how you might brighten someone's day. What you might mean to them.
When I was in high school, there was a girl who tried out for every sport. She was not athletic. She was not coordinated. She was our water girl, our manager, our ball girl, but she never actually made a team as a player. But she still came out and tried out for every single sport. My best friend and I, impressed by her tenacity, befriended her and encouraged her through every grueling week.
Years later, we both received a note from her. She had dropped out of school, but she wanted us to know how, in those early years, our encouragement, kindness, and friendship were one of the only things that had kept her coming back.
You see baby girl, you never know what kind of an impact you are going to make on someone's life by just being kind.
Yes, the world can be a tough place. But it doesn't discriminate. It's tough on everyone. You never know what private battles someone might be facing. So be kind. Be kind and make a difference in someone's day, even if it's just a temporary feeling of happiness they get when they see you smile at them.
Be kind and make a difference in someone's life.
You see, baby girl, it's one thing to be kind to others when the sun is shining on you, when your life is clipping along exactly how you want it to, when fate and circumstance seem to align and you wind up getting a free donut tossed into your order at the local bakery. Those days, smiling at strangers, waiting your turn, holding the door, giving a friend a sympathetic ear, basically going the extra step to bestow your own good fortune, your own good mood, on others is easy.
It's the days that seem to fight against you, the days that wear you down, that kindness becomes just one more thing that you don't want to have to put effort into. One more thing you think you shouldn't have to put effort into.
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever heard is this: No matter how little they might deserve it, always be kind to others. Everyone is fighting their own battles.
Keep that last part in mind. Everyone is fighting their own battles. That person who just cut you off in traffic? Maybe they just lost their job. That friend who betrays your trust? Maybe they are struggling to find their own place in their world, their own identity. Everyone is fighting their own battles, so even those people who scowl at you, who treat you without respect, who seem to deserve every bit of ill will and lack of consideration you can throw at them, even those people--be kind to them.
Try to live above reproach. There will be a million, a trillion wrongs done to you in life that you can point your finger at disapprovingly. But try to never let that finger be pointed at you. Don't use others' bad behavior as an excuse for your own. You are your own person, in charge of your own behavior. If someone treats you poorly, respond with kindness. It will be hard to do, and it will seem counter intuitive, but it will keep you from falling into the pit. It will keep you true to yourself. And the more frequently you do it, the easier it will become.
Make kindness a habit. Practice it. The world is a tough place. Whether it seems like it or not, the world is hard on everyone. If you are in the habit of being kind to others, regardless of the kind of day you have had, regardless of how they treat you, you will brighten someone's day without even realizing it. You may, in fact, be the only bright spot in that person's day. Or week. Or month. Being kind to others is like being a shining spot of sun . . . you really never know when there might be a person for whom you are the ONLY spot of sunshine they will see. You really never know how you might brighten someone's day. What you might mean to them.
When I was in high school, there was a girl who tried out for every sport. She was not athletic. She was not coordinated. She was our water girl, our manager, our ball girl, but she never actually made a team as a player. But she still came out and tried out for every single sport. My best friend and I, impressed by her tenacity, befriended her and encouraged her through every grueling week.
Years later, we both received a note from her. She had dropped out of school, but she wanted us to know how, in those early years, our encouragement, kindness, and friendship were one of the only things that had kept her coming back.
You see baby girl, you never know what kind of an impact you are going to make on someone's life by just being kind.
Yes, the world can be a tough place. But it doesn't discriminate. It's tough on everyone. You never know what private battles someone might be facing. So be kind. Be kind and make a difference in someone's day, even if it's just a temporary feeling of happiness they get when they see you smile at them.
Be kind and make a difference in someone's life.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
September
On January 1st, staring back at the phantom second line, screaming after seeing the word "pregnant" on screen, September seemed so far away.
In February, when we first saw you squirm on screen, moving distinct limbs, when we learned how healthy you are. In March, when you went from "the baby" to "baby girl," from Cosmo to Alina. In April, when I first started to feel you move inside me, something wholly separate from me, yet so much a part of me at the same time. In May, when you finally let your daddy feel you from the outside, when you started to make my stomach dance and roll, tangible, visible evidence of your existence. In June and July, when we bought a car just for you, when we took pictures, when we had parties celebrating your impending arrival. Even in August, baby girl, as we finalized our preparations of our home--of your home--and our lives, readying them to welcome you.
Even then, September seemed so far away. A mirage on the horizon. A goal that seemed to stay just out of grasp.
And then I woke up one morning, and it's here. September.
September means the end of summer. September means the end of waiting.
September means you.
In February, when we first saw you squirm on screen, moving distinct limbs, when we learned how healthy you are. In March, when you went from "the baby" to "baby girl," from Cosmo to Alina. In April, when I first started to feel you move inside me, something wholly separate from me, yet so much a part of me at the same time. In May, when you finally let your daddy feel you from the outside, when you started to make my stomach dance and roll, tangible, visible evidence of your existence. In June and July, when we bought a car just for you, when we took pictures, when we had parties celebrating your impending arrival. Even in August, baby girl, as we finalized our preparations of our home--of your home--and our lives, readying them to welcome you.
Even then, September seemed so far away. A mirage on the horizon. A goal that seemed to stay just out of grasp.
And then I woke up one morning, and it's here. September.
September means the end of summer. September means the end of waiting.
September means you.
Monday, August 31, 2009
14 Days to Go
38 weeks pregnant. Only 14 days to go.
This whole pregnancy I've heard how "time flies until the end . . . then it slows back down and just crawls."
Looking at my ticker, seeing "only 14 days to go!" makes me disagree. Holy moly. 14 days. Maybe less. But no more than 21. And then I'll have a baby. The thought takes my breath away. Makes my stomach erupt with butterflies.
It's a hard thing to wrap my mind around!
And it certainly doesn't seem like it's dragging on forever. These last few weeks have gone so quickly. And I can only imagine that the next two will as well. Two weeks. 14 days.
We had our weekly appointment this morning, and our doctor was unfortunately in an emergency c-section of twins, so we met with the NP instead. After feeling so good all week (except for that one little bout of "stress cramps," I felt much better last week than I did the week before), I figured I wouldn't have made much progress. I was right. Still at "about 1 cm," still at "about 10%." When they looked at my placenta, there were no calcification spots, which is what a normal placenta starts to look like around this time . . . it starts to break down. It's part of what happens when your body is "done" being pregnant. Nope. My placenta is "beautiful" apparently.
So I'm growing a big baby in a uterus that is so comfortable being pregnant that it's not really doing anything to suggest that it realizes it is supposed to NOT be pregnant sometime soon.
Makes me wonder who's going to win this waiting game: the big kid or the comfortable uterus.
They have 14 days . . . 21 max . . . to figure it out.
In other news, we are ready. I know I've said that before, but I guess we're "more ready" now. Our pack-and-play is assembled and waiting in our bedroom. All her blankets and hand-me-down clothes are washed and put away. I bought some nursing tanks. We are packing our hospital bag today. Any more preparation we get done from here on out is just piddling details, things that CAN be done but don't HAVE to be done before she can make her appearance. Things like boiling bottles. Putting batteries in her monitor. Getting a clock/CD player for her room.
All those details don't really mean so much any more. They're just things to do. The closest things I can do if I can't actually have her yet. Things that keep me distracted, when all I really want is to hold her to my chest, stroke her sweet arms, and still her cries with the sound of my beating heart and the warmth of my body.
I know once labor starts, the reality of the monumental task before me, the thing I have to get through before I can actually meet her, will come crashing down on me like a wave, and I will feel overwhelmed and anxious, perhaps even fearful of the imminent challenge before me. But for now, in my dreams, I skip that part and I think only of holding her.
I am thankful for my job, for our busy lives. Perhaps those are the only things that are keeping me distracted, the only things that have made, are making, will continue to make, time pass quickly.
14 days. I can't wait.
How far along?: 38 weeks
Total weight gain: 22 lbs
How big is baby?: 8.5 lbs
Maternity clothes?: I can count how many I still find comfortable and appealing without even having to use my toes.
Stretch marks?: Not that I can tell . . . maybe they're hiding somewhere?
Sleep?: It's actually been better lately. I'm falling asleep fast and sleeping heavily. I am so thankful for that while it lasts!
Best moment this week?: Every moment is wonderful. I know our time together is limited now, so I'm just enjoying every movement, every push, and thinking about how soon it will be until I get to meet her.
Movement?: I can literally almost see body parts now. When she does get to moving around, my belly rocks and rolls with the strength of her movement. I'm so proud of my strong girl--I hope she's still comfortable in there!
Food cravings?: Nope. Since she's dropped, my stomach once again has room for more normal-sized meals. She is a BIG fan of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as a sweet treat.
Labor signs?: Not really anything new. Still 1-ish cm. Still 10%-ish effaced. The strange "stress cramps" over the weekend were the closest thing I can think of to actual labor signs, and they were only timable for about 30-40 minutes. Now they come and go in random sneak attacks that make me sharply mutter "ow!" before they leave again just as quickly.
Belly button in or out?: Still in . . .
What I miss: Having a wardrobe full of clothes that fit.
What I'm looking forward to: Meeting my daughter!
Milestone: 38 weeks!
This whole pregnancy I've heard how "time flies until the end . . . then it slows back down and just crawls."
Looking at my ticker, seeing "only 14 days to go!" makes me disagree. Holy moly. 14 days. Maybe less. But no more than 21. And then I'll have a baby. The thought takes my breath away. Makes my stomach erupt with butterflies.
It's a hard thing to wrap my mind around!
And it certainly doesn't seem like it's dragging on forever. These last few weeks have gone so quickly. And I can only imagine that the next two will as well. Two weeks. 14 days.
We had our weekly appointment this morning, and our doctor was unfortunately in an emergency c-section of twins, so we met with the NP instead. After feeling so good all week (except for that one little bout of "stress cramps," I felt much better last week than I did the week before), I figured I wouldn't have made much progress. I was right. Still at "about 1 cm," still at "about 10%." When they looked at my placenta, there were no calcification spots, which is what a normal placenta starts to look like around this time . . . it starts to break down. It's part of what happens when your body is "done" being pregnant. Nope. My placenta is "beautiful" apparently.
So I'm growing a big baby in a uterus that is so comfortable being pregnant that it's not really doing anything to suggest that it realizes it is supposed to NOT be pregnant sometime soon.
Makes me wonder who's going to win this waiting game: the big kid or the comfortable uterus.
They have 14 days . . . 21 max . . . to figure it out.
In other news, we are ready. I know I've said that before, but I guess we're "more ready" now. Our pack-and-play is assembled and waiting in our bedroom. All her blankets and hand-me-down clothes are washed and put away. I bought some nursing tanks. We are packing our hospital bag today. Any more preparation we get done from here on out is just piddling details, things that CAN be done but don't HAVE to be done before she can make her appearance. Things like boiling bottles. Putting batteries in her monitor. Getting a clock/CD player for her room.
All those details don't really mean so much any more. They're just things to do. The closest things I can do if I can't actually have her yet. Things that keep me distracted, when all I really want is to hold her to my chest, stroke her sweet arms, and still her cries with the sound of my beating heart and the warmth of my body.
I know once labor starts, the reality of the monumental task before me, the thing I have to get through before I can actually meet her, will come crashing down on me like a wave, and I will feel overwhelmed and anxious, perhaps even fearful of the imminent challenge before me. But for now, in my dreams, I skip that part and I think only of holding her.
I am thankful for my job, for our busy lives. Perhaps those are the only things that are keeping me distracted, the only things that have made, are making, will continue to make, time pass quickly.
14 days. I can't wait.
How far along?: 38 weeks
Total weight gain: 22 lbs
How big is baby?: 8.5 lbs
Maternity clothes?: I can count how many I still find comfortable and appealing without even having to use my toes.
Stretch marks?: Not that I can tell . . . maybe they're hiding somewhere?
Sleep?: It's actually been better lately. I'm falling asleep fast and sleeping heavily. I am so thankful for that while it lasts!
Best moment this week?: Every moment is wonderful. I know our time together is limited now, so I'm just enjoying every movement, every push, and thinking about how soon it will be until I get to meet her.
Movement?: I can literally almost see body parts now. When she does get to moving around, my belly rocks and rolls with the strength of her movement. I'm so proud of my strong girl--I hope she's still comfortable in there!
Food cravings?: Nope. Since she's dropped, my stomach once again has room for more normal-sized meals. She is a BIG fan of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as a sweet treat.
Labor signs?: Not really anything new. Still 1-ish cm. Still 10%-ish effaced. The strange "stress cramps" over the weekend were the closest thing I can think of to actual labor signs, and they were only timable for about 30-40 minutes. Now they come and go in random sneak attacks that make me sharply mutter "ow!" before they leave again just as quickly.
Belly button in or out?: Still in . . .
What I miss: Having a wardrobe full of clothes that fit.
What I'm looking forward to: Meeting my daughter!
Milestone: 38 weeks!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
What a Weekend
It all started last Monday. TH has talked about getting lasik for a looong time. We had always planned on it being his 30th birthday present. I saved up a little money in secret for him because I knew when it came down to it he would have a hard time spending so much on himself. Well, on one of our nightly walks, we talked about it some more. I told him about the money saved. We talked about our budget and how it would not likely improve after having kids. We talked about how much he hates his glasses and how frequently baby girl would pull them from his face, stick them in her mouth, etc. And finally, finally he agreed meet with a doctor for a screening. I told him if he was going to get it done, it needed to be this week. I may be crazy for letting him get major eye surgery only 3 weeks shy of my due date, but at least I drew the line somewhere! He had his consultation on Tuesday evening, and before we left we were signing the papers--surgery was scheduled for Friday at noon!
Number 1 thing to worry about this weekend: making sure my husband suffers no complications from major eye surgery leaving him blind and unable to see our new baby.
Wednesday we had what is more than likely our last softball game. He and I have been playing on a co-ed team for years, and though I haven't played in, oh, about nine months, it has still been a chance for us to get together and visit with our friends, something I KNOW would fall by the wayside of our busy lives if it weren't a set event. The very first inning TH went in, he had a hard bouncing grounder hit straight at him. It took a nasty bounce at his feet and hit his right middle finger straight on before bouncing up and smacking him in the chest. He quickly corraled the whirling dervish and tossed it to second for the out. Then he stopped and looked at his finger, which was squirting blood with each pulse like a scene from a cheap horror flick. The ball had separated his nail from his nail bed. I let him try ice and bandaids for the first night/day (he's not a "let's see what the doctor says" kind of guy), but when, 24 hours later, it was still oozing blood, I forced a trip to a walk-in urgent care clinic (much to his chagrin) where one tetnus shot and one x-ray later we were told it was broken. We left with said finger bandaged into a finger splint and strict instructions to leave on the splint for six weeks.
Number 2 thing to worry about this weekend: TH being unable to help me with the final prep work we have to do to get ready for baby girl, not to mention being able to support me through labor and delivery, not to mention concern that the finger incident would somehow negatively impact the eye surgery scheduled for two days later.
Ran over a frog in our neighborhood on the way home. Cue pregnant lady meltdown.
TH, true to form, always feels better when he's taking care of me and not focusing on his own problems. He "coached" me through my meltdown (thank God for that Bradley class!), put me to bed, and then did the dishes just to prove his broken finger wouldn't get in the way of him helping out.
So, going into the weekend, there were literally about 48 hours in which I could NOT go into labor. I needed him to be able to drive me to the hospital. I needed his finger not to be hurting him so badly that he couldn't help me with the process. I needed his parents and my dad not to come into town and see his broken finger and eye covers, as they are being kept blissfully ignorant of both events.
Friday: eye-surgery. The process literally took 20 minutes. A lifetime of bad vision wiped away in 20 minutes. They had him on valium, so he was plenty woozy on the way home and took a nice, long nap afterward. When he woke up, five hours post-op, he looked at me through his clear plastic eye shields and said, "I can see you. You're not fuzzy." Mental tally: eye-surgery worth every penny.
Saturday: First day without eye shields. Though his scleras are a little bruised, TH checked out with 20/20 vision at his 9 a.m. check-up. I headed to San Marcos to meet my dad for lunch and visit with my grandparents, leaving TH to hang out with his brother. Back home, we built a shelf for the bathroom, assembled our pack-and-play, started packing our hospital bag, and were about to go on a walk when I felt a sharp, shooting pain in my lower abdomen. Ow. What the hell was that? We nixed the walk and I sat on the couch while TH fixed dinner. Sharp shooting pain decided to return about every, oh, 10 minutes. I focused on relaxing, reminding my body and my daughter that we were still well within our 48-hour window of THIS CANNOT HAPPEN. We watched 17 Again, which was actually better than I thought it would be. I apologized to my body for being so busy that day, for being so wound up. Fell asleep on the couch.
Sunday: today. After a fitful night, I am delighted to report that sharp shooting pain has subsided, TH's eyes are healing right on track, and TH's finger swelling and bleeding have dissapated! The weekend shaped up much better than I feared (as is typically the case with fears). I am chalking aforementioned pain up to my stress levels about the weekend events. I am not thinking of them not as contractions--they weren't affecting my entire stomach, just the lower abdomen--but as cramps. Stress cramps if you will.
We now have all of today and all of tomorrow (TH decided to take Monday off with me as a sick day!) to focus on healing one of our bodies and keeping the other as relaxed and hydrated as possible.
So baby girl, you did it! You didn't come in the forbidden 48 hours. Now, I know it's asking a lot, but if you could just consider waiting at least until next weekend, that would be great. My stepdad is in Switzerland until Friday, and I know he desperately wants to be here when you make your grand entrance!
Number 1 thing to worry about this weekend: making sure my husband suffers no complications from major eye surgery leaving him blind and unable to see our new baby.
Wednesday we had what is more than likely our last softball game. He and I have been playing on a co-ed team for years, and though I haven't played in, oh, about nine months, it has still been a chance for us to get together and visit with our friends, something I KNOW would fall by the wayside of our busy lives if it weren't a set event. The very first inning TH went in, he had a hard bouncing grounder hit straight at him. It took a nasty bounce at his feet and hit his right middle finger straight on before bouncing up and smacking him in the chest. He quickly corraled the whirling dervish and tossed it to second for the out. Then he stopped and looked at his finger, which was squirting blood with each pulse like a scene from a cheap horror flick. The ball had separated his nail from his nail bed. I let him try ice and bandaids for the first night/day (he's not a "let's see what the doctor says" kind of guy), but when, 24 hours later, it was still oozing blood, I forced a trip to a walk-in urgent care clinic (much to his chagrin) where one tetnus shot and one x-ray later we were told it was broken. We left with said finger bandaged into a finger splint and strict instructions to leave on the splint for six weeks.
Number 2 thing to worry about this weekend: TH being unable to help me with the final prep work we have to do to get ready for baby girl, not to mention being able to support me through labor and delivery, not to mention concern that the finger incident would somehow negatively impact the eye surgery scheduled for two days later.
Ran over a frog in our neighborhood on the way home. Cue pregnant lady meltdown.
TH, true to form, always feels better when he's taking care of me and not focusing on his own problems. He "coached" me through my meltdown (thank God for that Bradley class!), put me to bed, and then did the dishes just to prove his broken finger wouldn't get in the way of him helping out.
So, going into the weekend, there were literally about 48 hours in which I could NOT go into labor. I needed him to be able to drive me to the hospital. I needed his finger not to be hurting him so badly that he couldn't help me with the process. I needed his parents and my dad not to come into town and see his broken finger and eye covers, as they are being kept blissfully ignorant of both events.
Friday: eye-surgery. The process literally took 20 minutes. A lifetime of bad vision wiped away in 20 minutes. They had him on valium, so he was plenty woozy on the way home and took a nice, long nap afterward. When he woke up, five hours post-op, he looked at me through his clear plastic eye shields and said, "I can see you. You're not fuzzy." Mental tally: eye-surgery worth every penny.
Saturday: First day without eye shields. Though his scleras are a little bruised, TH checked out with 20/20 vision at his 9 a.m. check-up. I headed to San Marcos to meet my dad for lunch and visit with my grandparents, leaving TH to hang out with his brother. Back home, we built a shelf for the bathroom, assembled our pack-and-play, started packing our hospital bag, and were about to go on a walk when I felt a sharp, shooting pain in my lower abdomen. Ow. What the hell was that? We nixed the walk and I sat on the couch while TH fixed dinner. Sharp shooting pain decided to return about every, oh, 10 minutes. I focused on relaxing, reminding my body and my daughter that we were still well within our 48-hour window of THIS CANNOT HAPPEN. We watched 17 Again, which was actually better than I thought it would be. I apologized to my body for being so busy that day, for being so wound up. Fell asleep on the couch.
Sunday: today. After a fitful night, I am delighted to report that sharp shooting pain has subsided, TH's eyes are healing right on track, and TH's finger swelling and bleeding have dissapated! The weekend shaped up much better than I feared (as is typically the case with fears). I am chalking aforementioned pain up to my stress levels about the weekend events. I am not thinking of them not as contractions--they weren't affecting my entire stomach, just the lower abdomen--but as cramps. Stress cramps if you will.
We now have all of today and all of tomorrow (TH decided to take Monday off with me as a sick day!) to focus on healing one of our bodies and keeping the other as relaxed and hydrated as possible.
So baby girl, you did it! You didn't come in the forbidden 48 hours. Now, I know it's asking a lot, but if you could just consider waiting at least until next weekend, that would be great. My stepdad is in Switzerland until Friday, and I know he desperately wants to be here when you make your grand entrance!
Monday, August 24, 2009
37 weeks!
It feels both completely normal and completely surreal to say that today I am 37 weeks pregnant . . . full term by many counts. Full term.
As in, you are welcome, baby girl, to make your appearance whenever you feel ready.
We had our weekly appointment this morning, our second one. I was curious to see whether any progress had been made over last week. I haven't really felt anything going on this week, other than some uncomfortable menstrual-like cramping a couple of times a day. After pondering it for a moment, your daddy felt confident that there would be progress. I am still thinking that you are quite comfortable in there, and that my body is quite comfortable being pregnant, so I was not as confident at my body making such early progress. Turns out a *little* progress was made! I am now one centimeter dilated, and about 10% effaced. So, slowly but surely, my body is in fact calmly preparing for your exit . . . or perhaps we should say your entrance.
The first nurse who took your measurements this morning showed you weighing only 6-something pounds and being a little behind in your growth. This was a huge shock considering last week you were measuring 2-3 weeks ahead and at 8 pounds! It just goes to show how different measurements can be depending on who takes them. My instinct was telling me that her measurements were more inaccurate than last week's, though, and the doctor, who served as sort of the tie breaker, backed up this motherly intuition. According to him, you are about 7.5 pounds, right on track to be a 9-9.5 pound baby. That sounds right to me! He also told me that there's an old obstetrician saying that a woman can "comfortably" deliver a baby that is equal in pounds to her shoe size. Well, baby girl, your momma wears a 9.5, so it looks like we are in perfect shape to do this!
Not only is my body totally ready (or, at least, capable . . . and getting itself slowly ready) for you, but your dad and I had a wonderfully busy weekend getting our house and car ready for you, too! We made trips to Target and Babies R Us and finished purchasing the few things we still felt we needed for you. Your dad installed your car seat in my mom-mobile. We made our phone list for when the time comes. We practiced our relaxation techniques, and we were able to realize that we aren't scared anymore of what labor and delivery are going to be like! We are of course a bit anxious about the unknown, but more than anything we are so excited to finally, finally, after all this time, meet you face to face.
Your dad is getting more and more attentive to me, more and more insistent that I take it easy and focus on relaxing. It's not an easy thing for me to do, especially when I feel bad that me doing less means that he has to take on so much more. But there's something driving him that will never let him tire, that will never let him resent the extra responsibility that's been placed on his shoulders. It's love. It's his love for you, and his love for me. I've never seen him so productive, so calm, so indefatigable. I've been feeling bad about not being able to do so much around the house as I used to, especially with all the new things added to our to-do list. But this morning at the doctor's office, when we saw you on the screen again, healthy and wonderful, when we heard how perfectly you were actually measuring, when we felt once again confident that we are on track for a beautiful labor and delivery and that we would be holding you in our arms soon enough, he turned to me with wet eyes and said, "Thank you. Thank you for growing our daughter so perfectly." You see baby girl, it's love. It's his love of you, and his love of me, that lets him remember the important work that we are both doing during this exciting time.
So here we are. 37 weeks. Ready for the final stretch, the final big push (yep, pun intended) that we will have to go through to finally reach the end of this fabulous 9-month journey. Your room is ready for you. You have a safe place to ride. My body is right on track. You are right on track.
Whenever you decide you're ready . . . we are, too.
I love you and can't wait to kiss your sweet little cheek.
Mom
As in, you are welcome, baby girl, to make your appearance whenever you feel ready.
We had our weekly appointment this morning, our second one. I was curious to see whether any progress had been made over last week. I haven't really felt anything going on this week, other than some uncomfortable menstrual-like cramping a couple of times a day. After pondering it for a moment, your daddy felt confident that there would be progress. I am still thinking that you are quite comfortable in there, and that my body is quite comfortable being pregnant, so I was not as confident at my body making such early progress. Turns out a *little* progress was made! I am now one centimeter dilated, and about 10% effaced. So, slowly but surely, my body is in fact calmly preparing for your exit . . . or perhaps we should say your entrance.
The first nurse who took your measurements this morning showed you weighing only 6-something pounds and being a little behind in your growth. This was a huge shock considering last week you were measuring 2-3 weeks ahead and at 8 pounds! It just goes to show how different measurements can be depending on who takes them. My instinct was telling me that her measurements were more inaccurate than last week's, though, and the doctor, who served as sort of the tie breaker, backed up this motherly intuition. According to him, you are about 7.5 pounds, right on track to be a 9-9.5 pound baby. That sounds right to me! He also told me that there's an old obstetrician saying that a woman can "comfortably" deliver a baby that is equal in pounds to her shoe size. Well, baby girl, your momma wears a 9.5, so it looks like we are in perfect shape to do this!
Not only is my body totally ready (or, at least, capable . . . and getting itself slowly ready) for you, but your dad and I had a wonderfully busy weekend getting our house and car ready for you, too! We made trips to Target and Babies R Us and finished purchasing the few things we still felt we needed for you. Your dad installed your car seat in my mom-mobile. We made our phone list for when the time comes. We practiced our relaxation techniques, and we were able to realize that we aren't scared anymore of what labor and delivery are going to be like! We are of course a bit anxious about the unknown, but more than anything we are so excited to finally, finally, after all this time, meet you face to face.
Your dad is getting more and more attentive to me, more and more insistent that I take it easy and focus on relaxing. It's not an easy thing for me to do, especially when I feel bad that me doing less means that he has to take on so much more. But there's something driving him that will never let him tire, that will never let him resent the extra responsibility that's been placed on his shoulders. It's love. It's his love for you, and his love for me. I've never seen him so productive, so calm, so indefatigable. I've been feeling bad about not being able to do so much around the house as I used to, especially with all the new things added to our to-do list. But this morning at the doctor's office, when we saw you on the screen again, healthy and wonderful, when we heard how perfectly you were actually measuring, when we felt once again confident that we are on track for a beautiful labor and delivery and that we would be holding you in our arms soon enough, he turned to me with wet eyes and said, "Thank you. Thank you for growing our daughter so perfectly." You see baby girl, it's love. It's his love of you, and his love of me, that lets him remember the important work that we are both doing during this exciting time.
So here we are. 37 weeks. Ready for the final stretch, the final big push (yep, pun intended) that we will have to go through to finally reach the end of this fabulous 9-month journey. Your room is ready for you. You have a safe place to ride. My body is right on track. You are right on track.
Whenever you decide you're ready . . . we are, too.
I love you and can't wait to kiss your sweet little cheek.
Mom
Friday, August 21, 2009
J is for Joy
If I could give you just one piece of advice, baby girl, it would be to find your joy. Yes, there are tons of other very, very important aspects to life, things like what I've talked about in this ABC list, things that I've completely forgotten to mention, things that I might not even know about, but believe me when I say that finding your joy tops them all.
And really, all of those other aspects, all those other things I've either talked about or have failed to mention, all of them can in some way be tied back to your joy. Being a good person, acting in such a way that you accomplish your goals, appreciating beauty for what it is . . . all of these things ultimately bring you happiness.
Life is too short to spend it unhappy.
I want you to notice that I am using happiness--not pleasure--as a synonym of joy. In The Art of Happiness, the Dalai Lama distinguishes between these two often confused feelings. Pleasure is temporary; happiness is long lasting. Things that bring you immediate pleasure may or may not contribute to your long-term happiness. This is where addicts get into trouble: they equate the momentary pleasure of their fix with true happiness, and in fact find themselves more and more miserable as time goes on. Lying to get out of a punishment might increase your temporary pleasure (by feeling like you got away with something), but remember, any action that does not lead you to be the person you want to be can never result in true, long-term happiness. Eating a third helping of chocolate cake can (and probably will!) increase your temporary pleasure, but the resulting stomach ache--or weight/waist gain--will not give you long-term happiness. So finding your joy in life is not about pursuing temporary pleasures, not about immediate gratification. Finding your joy in life is about knowing what makes you truly happy, what makes you feel realized, what makes your soul sing . . . and going after it.
As you grow and learn about yourself, about what your happiness, your joy, actually is, you'll discover that it is wholly unique to you. Everyone has a different joy. It is imperative that you remember that another person's joy does NOT have to be your joy, no matter what they tell you. This goes for your friends as well as your family (including me, darling baby, and your father). Your grandparents and I have very different ideas about what brings us joy. They cannot imagine a more fulfilling, enriching experience than music and art; these pursuits bring them their joy. Your father and I never found that same joy in these pursuits; I have always found joy in sports, in achievement and teamwork and success, and your father and I together have always found joy in traveling, in seeing new, incredible, exotic sights and learning about other people and other cultures. My goal as your mother is to introduce as many possible joys to you as I can and to let you decide for yourself which of them is YOUR joy, which of them brings YOU your ultimate happiness.
Never let someone tell you that your joy is wrong.
Never let someone tell you that your joy isn't good enough.
When you find your joy, when you discover what it is that makes your soul sing, pursue it relentlessly. But here's the key: never let it lose it's meaning to you. Don't allow your joy to become a chore.
When I first went to college, I took a softball scholarship to a small college about 3 hours away from your father. At the time, softball was my joy. But when I got to that college, softball became my job. I was no longer playing because it brought me happiness. It was no longer simply the game of my youth, played on fields in warm Texas summer twilights. It became scientific. It became a battle. It became a stress. I transferred to your father's college after one semester and didn't play another game for nearly 10 years. I knew I wanted to keep that joy, didn't want for it to become something I hated, something I resented. So I gave it up until the point I could get back to playing it for the pure pleasure of the game, for the fun times spent with friends, for the thrill of the close play at home plate.
Similarly, never allow yourself to take your joy for granted. It's easy to stop paying as much attention to something that becomes routine in your life. When something is new and shiny and exciting, you'll find no trouble in spinning yourself in that joy, arms outstretched, beautiful smile on your face. But when that thing is a part of your daily life, it's easy to forget what a blessing it is. So try, baby girl, as hard as you can, to stop every day and remember the wonder of having that joy in your life. Remember to be grateful. Remember to appreciate the awesome blessings that you have. Remember to spin in the sunlight with your arms outstretched, to dance in the joy you have found.
This, I think, is the meaning of life.
Finding joy.
Being joyful.
Life is too short, and too precious, for anything else.
And really, all of those other aspects, all those other things I've either talked about or have failed to mention, all of them can in some way be tied back to your joy. Being a good person, acting in such a way that you accomplish your goals, appreciating beauty for what it is . . . all of these things ultimately bring you happiness.
Life is too short to spend it unhappy.
I want you to notice that I am using happiness--not pleasure--as a synonym of joy. In The Art of Happiness, the Dalai Lama distinguishes between these two often confused feelings. Pleasure is temporary; happiness is long lasting. Things that bring you immediate pleasure may or may not contribute to your long-term happiness. This is where addicts get into trouble: they equate the momentary pleasure of their fix with true happiness, and in fact find themselves more and more miserable as time goes on. Lying to get out of a punishment might increase your temporary pleasure (by feeling like you got away with something), but remember, any action that does not lead you to be the person you want to be can never result in true, long-term happiness. Eating a third helping of chocolate cake can (and probably will!) increase your temporary pleasure, but the resulting stomach ache--or weight/waist gain--will not give you long-term happiness. So finding your joy in life is not about pursuing temporary pleasures, not about immediate gratification. Finding your joy in life is about knowing what makes you truly happy, what makes you feel realized, what makes your soul sing . . . and going after it.
As you grow and learn about yourself, about what your happiness, your joy, actually is, you'll discover that it is wholly unique to you. Everyone has a different joy. It is imperative that you remember that another person's joy does NOT have to be your joy, no matter what they tell you. This goes for your friends as well as your family (including me, darling baby, and your father). Your grandparents and I have very different ideas about what brings us joy. They cannot imagine a more fulfilling, enriching experience than music and art; these pursuits bring them their joy. Your father and I never found that same joy in these pursuits; I have always found joy in sports, in achievement and teamwork and success, and your father and I together have always found joy in traveling, in seeing new, incredible, exotic sights and learning about other people and other cultures. My goal as your mother is to introduce as many possible joys to you as I can and to let you decide for yourself which of them is YOUR joy, which of them brings YOU your ultimate happiness.
Never let someone tell you that your joy is wrong.
Never let someone tell you that your joy isn't good enough.
When you find your joy, when you discover what it is that makes your soul sing, pursue it relentlessly. But here's the key: never let it lose it's meaning to you. Don't allow your joy to become a chore.
When I first went to college, I took a softball scholarship to a small college about 3 hours away from your father. At the time, softball was my joy. But when I got to that college, softball became my job. I was no longer playing because it brought me happiness. It was no longer simply the game of my youth, played on fields in warm Texas summer twilights. It became scientific. It became a battle. It became a stress. I transferred to your father's college after one semester and didn't play another game for nearly 10 years. I knew I wanted to keep that joy, didn't want for it to become something I hated, something I resented. So I gave it up until the point I could get back to playing it for the pure pleasure of the game, for the fun times spent with friends, for the thrill of the close play at home plate.
Similarly, never allow yourself to take your joy for granted. It's easy to stop paying as much attention to something that becomes routine in your life. When something is new and shiny and exciting, you'll find no trouble in spinning yourself in that joy, arms outstretched, beautiful smile on your face. But when that thing is a part of your daily life, it's easy to forget what a blessing it is. So try, baby girl, as hard as you can, to stop every day and remember the wonder of having that joy in your life. Remember to be grateful. Remember to appreciate the awesome blessings that you have. Remember to spin in the sunlight with your arms outstretched, to dance in the joy you have found.
This, I think, is the meaning of life.
Finding joy.
Being joyful.
Life is too short, and too precious, for anything else.
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