The Hardest Part.

When I wrote The hardest post I’ve ever written, I wrote about my struggles with peri- and postpartum depression. But in it, I proclaimed that the hardest part of the hardest post was having to type the following words:

I can no longer have children.

In it I also wrote how incredibly grateful I am for having two children. I have a daughter. I have a son. I had two pregnancies that weren’t too scary. I had two c-sections that were, but produced babies with Apgar scores of 8 and then 9. I had two children come out of me at exactly 7 pounds and 12 ounces, my first born at 2:22 in the morning, my second at 4:11 in the afternoon.

I felt the magic.

And that magic is what I mourn the most.

There is nothing like that magic. The drive to the hospital. The anticipation. Seeing the baby for the first time. Those first few moments, and then days. The hospital stay (which, after baby number one, seems luxurious).

And the loss of that, of knowing I will never have that incredible feeling ever again, is what makes me feel sad.

Sometimes I anticipate the sadness; If I am going to visit a friend’s new baby or put my arms around a best friend’s pregnant belly, I can expect to feel the pang; but in those moments I experience that two hands thing that I was talking about. I feel so much joy for my friends. It is genuine. It is not about me at all.

And then, there are other times, times when I’m unarmed, when my armor is off, that I feel the pain so deeply it is almost hard to breathe.

Like today, when I went up to the playroom to pick up after my daughter. I was cleaning up tutus and dresses and toy cars when I saw a hand-sewn pillow among a pile of dress-up clothing. This pillow is in the shape of a heart and was given to me by my weekend nurse, Pam, when I had my son, when it was so hard to stand after my surgery. She told me to press the pillow into my incision when I would try to move, and that pressure would relieve some of the pain.

I saw that pillow today, and tears came to my eyes.

I will never have that feeling ever again.

I don’t know how many times I can say this: I realize that I am so blessed. I know what I have. I know that my children are amazing and that some people never get to experience that magic and I am so fortunate that I was able to twice. I have grown a team.

I get to sing “You are my sunshine” and mean every word, so deeply, that my bones tingle and my heart aches.

But it’s hard.

Just as this time in my life has been hard.

I cannot have another baby because it is not safe for my body and I cannot have another baby because it is not safe for my brain.

That magic, while powerful, is not worth the risk.

I cannot put my body through that stress again. I cannot put my family through the pain they have endured once more.

During this time in my life I have lost friends, friends who I thought would be true to me forever; I have scared my family members; my children have seen me cry; I have lost weight and lost color in my face and still, I cannot get over this idea that, despite all of these things, I am out of control of my own body and mind and future.

Sometimes I put a positive spin on things. I think about how I am now forever done the exhausting newborn phase; I think about how my children are both healthy and strong; I feel so glad that I will not have another c-section;

But there is this part of me, this small part of me, that still grieves.

Because there is this little part of me that thinks that there is this little baby out there that I will never know. That it should exist. And that I’m missing it.

I will never feel the magic again. I don’t have the chance.

Today, I had one of those low moments when my grandmother came by for an impromptu visit with a bag of grocery store treats; The baby was squirming and kicking his legs like crazy and I said, without thinking, “This is exactly what he used to do in my stomach, remember?”

And then I said “I will never feel that again.”

And she said “So what? None of us did. Look at what you have. Be happy with what you have.”

And, once again, I am.

There are different stages of grief that I am aware of. Perhaps my belief that there is a baby out there waiting for me is denial.

Sometimes I feel angry, at my body and at my brain chemistry and at my doctors. I am angry that this happened to me.

Other times I ask my husband that if, in 6 years we have loads of money, we could hire a surrogate to carry a third baby for us. Bargaining.

And then there’s the depression. The part of me that is making my eyes sting now as I type these words.

I am waiting for the acceptance.

But until I find it, which I pray that I do, I will go on rooting for my team, cherishing the good moments when I have them, and singing

“You are my sunshine” every single night.

You’ll never know, my dears,

how much I love you.

…

The hardest post I’ve ever written.

Since having my second child my world has changed in more ways than I could have imagined. As our triangle turned into a square (quite seamlessly in many ways, I should say), I have experienced love and joy that I had not yet known. And one positive thing that I have done has been starting 511, Ever After, as it has been a wonderful outlet for me, a return to something I’ve loved, and the discovery of a new passion. If you’ve emailed me privately I have shared that with you, but I have also shared something else…

I have always been someone with anxiety. I have written about it countless times on this very site, and that is because my original intention in starting Mommy, Ever After was to write honestly about things that people were not comfortable speaking of. Like how motherhood can be scary. And lonely. And boring. And weird. And yes, I wrote all about how being a mom is magical and enchanting, and I still feel that way completely–actually, probably more so than ever–but something happened to me the second time around that has changed my life forever.

In having my son, my sweet angel of a little boy whom I love with all of my heart, I experienced great depression. During my pregnancy, I suffered severe morning sickness. Let me put it to you this way; during the first go-round I was hesitant to take even a tylenol; during this pregnancy, I had to take a prescription anti-nausea medicine every 4 hours to keep my vomiting down to 10 times a day. That is not fun for anyone. Plus, the hormones. The crushing hormones that sneak up on you and embrace you in their anxiety-producing grasp. So I suffered what I now know is called peri-partum depression. I felt down. Not all of the time, but some of the time. A lot of the time. I couldn’t focus on my family. I had scary thoughts. But I was ok. I was still myself.

And I saw doctors and they were all concerned for me for after the birth. I remember one saying “I am concerned about you having this baby and having a walloping case of postpartum depression.” And I didn’t quite understand it but I knew to fear it. I knew that postpartum depression involved feelings of wanting to hurt oneself, or, much worse, the child. I knew that I did not experience it the first time, despite some moments of blues or intense anxiety. But I also know that my two pregnancies were completely different.

I was talking to my friend Jordan over at Ramshackle Glam about these differences when she announced her second pregnancy. The first time, I felt like I was this enchanted, magical vessel of blooming life. I felt like every single part of those 10 months were filled with magic and wonder. And when I first got pregnant the second time around, I was excited. I peed on that stick, saw two clear lines appear, and I felt that magic again. We were going to be a family of four. I was even able to present it to my husband in a fun way, having my daughter hand him a box with the stick inside. I had my dad come over to “check out my new sconces” and had the stick on my mantle. It was all exciting. But I had anxiety. I had pretty crippling anxiety from the get-go. I felt a strong love for the growing baby instantaneously (perhaps because was already a mother and knew that kind of love) and therefore found myself protective of my midsection. I avoided hard hugs from my students, heavy lifting and anything else dangerous. I loved my baby that was the mere size of a cheerio.

And then, something happened to me that never happened during my first pregnancy; I started to spot at 6 weeks. At this point, I had yet to even see the baby on ultrasound, a different experience than the first. It was St. Patrick’s day. We were eating Chinese Food. And I saw a little bit of blood. We ended up in the ER and after ultrasounds and bloodwork we confirmed that my baby was in my uterus and with a beating heart and growing appropriately. It was an incredibly intense and scary night for me.

And after that night, I went numb.

It it very hard for me to write this; in fact, as I type this, as he sleeps on my bed next to me, I am listening to his breathing, in and out, in and out, and I have tears streaming down my face. I went numb to the baby inside of me. Clearly it was a defense mechanism.  I know that spotting is a very normal occurrence in many healthy pregnancies, but it threw me overboard. So instead of caring more, I cared less. This was not a conscious thing, mind you; it is only something I can recognize in hindsight. But I stopped feeling for the baby.

This numbness only intensified at 12 weeks when the perinatal ultrasound tech told me that he saw a penis. This is very early to find out the baby’s sex (that typically happens at the 20 week anatomy scan. And I was in shock. Not only was I having another baby, not only was I puking all day, not only was I feeling very mixed emotions, if anything at all, but a boy? We are such a  girl family.

And that feeling of incredulity continued.

I stopped being protective. I was responsible in my pregnancy, not eating deli meat or drinking excessively, but I also was not nearly as cautious or loving as I had been to my first. I didn’t sing to my belly every night or read it stories. I loved feeling my son kick and move (he was the biggest mover ever, and because he was transverse I felt EVERYTHING) but I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure I could love another child.

I wasn’t sure I could love a boy.

I even asked my best friend if she would take him if I didn’t love him enough to be his mom. How crazy does that sound? She still asks me if the deal is on because she loves him a whole darn lot.

And then, I went into labor. The baby was born. We sang to him in the OR. And I loved him immediately. And all of those feelings of insecurity and doubt washed away. But what I did not expect was that my C-Section would be complicated; I had a lot of scar tissue, the front of my uterus was very thin and I lost a lot of blood. I was very sick and ended up in the hospital for 5 days. But I was happy. Happier than I had been in months. I was also on Dilaudid, an opiate. But I was happy.

And that happiness actually lasted. It lasted a good two  weeks, just about as long as my Dilaudid consumption. And then, something started to creep in. Anxiety. Fear. Doubt. Sadness.

And I remember a text from my husband from the first week in November. It said, “I want to make sure you’re OK. I see the light starting to go out in your eyes.”

And I sobbed. Because I was so loved. But because he was right. And I fought the demons. But he was right.

The story gets darker from here, so I want to stop now with the promise that I will continue with the same kind of honesty with which I have always written. But I warn you. This has been a bad time in my life. And even though my house is filled with pretty throw pillows, it has been bad.

So here is my story. In the hopes that it will help others.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of this story, my Fall and Winter got very dark. So I warn you to proceed with caution. Because if you know me, you know that I am a happy person. That I’m always smiling, that I love children and that I have dance parties every day. This is a different kind of story.

In the beginning of November, I started to experience Postpartum Depression. Thank the lord, none of my depressed feelings ever had to do with my children; I was never overwhelmed by having two, I was never resentful at them, and I certainly never wanted to do anything but love them. I did not wish to hurt them in any way, which, as crazy as it may sounds, happens to mothers. And some other very crazy things did happen to me, so that’s why I feel the need to be so clear and forthcoming.

I decided that in order to be the best mother I could be, I would begin to seek therapy for my depressed symptoms. They were classic; I was tired, grumpy, sad and weepy, could no longer find joy in the things that once made me happy…and then there were worse things. I thought about my life a lot and why it was worth living. I knew that it was, but it was hard to feel it.

So I found a wonderful therapist, someone who did not judge me, but took me seriously, and was willing to work with me and my family in order to get me out of my funk. At that point, it was a funk. She prescribed medicine for me, which was a first. I have never before experienced any kind of depression, but she put me on an antidepressant that was safe for breastfeeding. I was still very committed to nursing my son, as I nursed my daughter for 18 months. It was something that I was not only consciously proud of, but something that I felt had defined me as a mother. I was a nursing mother. My daughter never once had a bottle. And so it was not an option for me to give that up with my son.

And then I started to face some resistance. My symptoms were getting worse. My bad moments were getting more frequent than my good ones, and stronger medicines were encouraged. But that would mean giving up breastfeeding. I heard the expression “It is better for your son to have a mom without a boob than a boob without a mom” but it was still hard for me. So I kept on nursing and kept on going down a spiral of deep, deep devastation.

People started to notice around Thanksgiving. It was a holiday I have always adored and even written about. This Thanksgiving I spent in the corner of my aunt’s living room, speaking to no one, falling asleep in a the chair at one point, and keeping my month old son in his carseat next to me. It seems surreal.

I was withdrawing from my friends. I was quiet in my online presence. I was slipping away.

And then things got worse. A lot worse.

The feelings that I had been having about my life and it’s meaning started to take over me like a demonic plague. I couldn’t think rationally. I couldn’t feel happiness or love. All that I could feel was pain. So in order to keep me safe, my family members had to stay with me at all times, taking shifts. I was never left alone. The therapist reached out to my husband. She told him I needed to be hospitalized and found a program at Brown in Providence, Rhode Island. She feared for my safety. So did my parents and best friend.

So I made an appointment to check in to a Postpartum treatment center, one in which I could keep my son with me, keep nursing and try to recover before it got worse. This was a very hard decision to come to and I was feeling everything from ashamed to terrified, but I said I would do it. So my husband and I went out to the movies. We saw American Hustle, the day before I was supposed to leave my life and daughter and admit to needing to be admitted. And during the movie, we were in and out of the theatre, taking calls from my therapist and the coordinators at Brown. It was all happening so fast.

And I got home from the movie and kissed my son. And he was hot.

I took his temperature. 100.4. The magic number for a baby 3 days shy of 2 months. We had to go to the hospital.

So at my darkest moment, I had a sick baby to take care of. I thought it could not get any worse.

Life works in amazing ways.

This is hardest part of the hardest post. And though I’ve been so overwhelmingly grateful for the outpouring of support, both publicly and privately, that I have received thus far, it is still hard to put all of these things into plain words.

This has been a life changing experience to me, and writing it makes it real. It also exposes me at my most vulnerable spot. My ability to be a mother. It is admitting to the world that I am not the person who you thought I was. And that is hard. So I started to doubt myself a bit.

But I received a sign.

In rushing to pick up my daughter from school, feed and change my son and tidy the house, I picked up a little jewelry box of my daughter’s. It jingled.

Inside I found this.

A penny from heaven, from the year we lost our matriarch. She is telling me to be brave. And so I shall.

So when I left off, my baby had a fever and we had to take him to the Emergency Room. There, they had to do a full septic work up, including drawing blood, catheterizing him and, worst of all, giving him a spinal tap. He was diagnosed with RSV, which presented itself in my daughter as a cold earlier in the week. While in the ER, out of sheer malnourishment and stress, I passed out. I had to be admitted as well. So my son and I spent a cold night in December in adjoining rooms of the Emergency Room, each hooked up to tubes and tests, each fighting.

My son needed Oxygen, and spent 4 days in the hospital. I needed help.

And that meant weaning my son and giving him formula. So in the hospital that night I gave him his first bottle. And I began to take the medicine I needed. And it began to work.

I am about to type the hardest thing that I have ever typed.

After my complicated C-Section, I was told that it is not safe for me to have any more kids. I can no longer have children. I am just shy of 29 years old.

Perhaps this was a catalyst for the deep depression that would consume me this winter. And perhaps it was a combination of things. But it breaks my heart.

I look at the time after having a baby as the most magical in existence…and I will never again experience that.

And I should be clear: I am so freakin’ lucky. I have two healthy children. I have a boy and a girl. I narrowly avoided a blood transfusion. My son got to come home from the hospital. I was fertile and was able to nurse two babies, one for 18 months, one for ten weeks.

But it is still something very painful for me, to be told that I am not in control of my own future, my own plans, my own body.

I am happy to say that while my story is not yet over, things are looking up. I no longer cringe when I see the container of formula. I look at my strong, moose of a baby and am thankful that he is fed and that we have the resources to feed him. I no longer look at life as hopeless. I have hope.

My days aren’t yet easy, but they are also not so bleak.

And I have seen who my real support system is, my incredibly family and the friends who have become that.

And I love my children. I am able to enjoy them again. There is some light back in my eyes. And I am working, clawing my way back to happy.

A good friend recently told me that his mother always told him that “This too shall pass”. And in my darkest days, I did not, could not believe that. But I believe it. I believe that I can laugh with my friends again. And snuggle my kids and feel that feeling of home and right once more.

So, though I don’t know what the future holds, I do know that, as my friend said,

This too shall pass.

And I am thankful for each day.

The hardest post I’ve ever written, Part 3.

Life works in amazing ways.

This is hardest part of the hardest post. And though I’ve been so overwhelmingly grateful for the outpouring of support, both publicly and privately, that I have received thus far, it is still hard to put all of these things into plain words.

This has been a life changing experience to me, and writing it makes it real. It also exposes me at my most vulnerable spot. My ability to be a mother. It is admitting to the world that I am not the person who you thought I was. And that is hard. So I started to doubt myself a bit.

But I received a sign.

In rushing to pick up my daughter from school, feed and change my son and tidy the house, I picked up a little jewelry box of my daughter’s. It jingled.

Inside I found this.

A penny from heaven, from the year we lost our matriarch. She is telling me to be brave. And so I shall.

So when I left off, my baby had a fever and we had to take him to the Emergency Room. There, they had to do a full septic work up, including drawing blood, catheterizing him and, worst of all, giving him a spinal tap. He was diagnosed with RSV, which presented itself in my daughter as a cold earlier in the week. While in the ER, out of sheer malnourishment and stress, I passed out. I had to be admitted as well. So my son and I spent a cold night in December in adjoining rooms of the Emergency Room, each hooked up to tubes and tests, each fighting.

My son needed Oxygen, and spent 4 days in the hospital. I needed help.

And that meant weaning my son and giving him formula. So in the hospital that night I gave him his first bottle. And I began to take the medicine I needed. And it began to work.

I am about to type the hardest thing that I have ever typed.

After my complicated C-Section, I was told that it is not safe for me to have any more kids. I can no longer have children. I am just shy of 29 years old.

Perhaps this was a catalyst for the deep depression that would consume me this winter. And perhaps it was a combination of things. But it breaks my heart.

I look at the time after having a baby as the most magical in existence…and I will never again experience that.

And I should be clear: I am so freakin’ lucky. I have two healthy children. I have a boy and a girl. I narrowly avoided a blood transfusion. My son got to come home from the hospital. I was fertile and was able to nurse two babies, one for 18 months, one for ten weeks.

But it is still something very painful for me, to be told that I am not in control of my own future, my own plans, my own body.

I am happy to say that while my story is not yet over, things are looking up. I no longer cringe when I see the container of formula. I look at my strong, moose of a baby and am thankful that he is fed and that we have the resources to feed him. I no longer look at life as hopeless. I have hope.

My days aren’t yet easy, but they are also not so bleak.

And I have seen who my real support system is, my incredibly family and the friends who have become that.

And I love my children. I am able to enjoy them again. There is some light back in my eyes. And I am working, clawing my way back to happy.

A good friend recently told me that his mother always told him that “This too shall pass”. And in my darkest days, I did not, could not believe that. But I believe it. I believe that I can laugh with my friends again. And snuggle my kids and feel that feeling of home and right once more.

So, though I don’t know what the future holds, I do know that, as my friend said,

This too shall pass.

And I am thankful for each day.

The hardest post I’ve ever written, Part 2.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of this story, my Fall and Winter got very dark. So I warn you to proceed with caution. Because if you know me, you know that I am a happy person. That I’m always smiling, that I love children and that I have dance parties every day. This is a different kind of story.

In the beginning of November, I started to experience Postpartum Depression. Thank the lord, none of my depressed feelings ever had to do with my children; I was never overwhelmed by having two, I was never resentful at them, and I certainly never wanted to do anything but love them. I did not wish to hurt them in any way, which, as crazy as it may sounds, happens to mothers. And some other very crazy things did happen to me, so that’s why I feel the need to be so clear and forthcoming.

I decided that in order to be the best mother I could be, I would begin to seek therapy for my depressed symptoms. They were classic; I was tired, grumpy, sad and weepy, could no longer find joy in the things that once made me happy…and then there were worse things. I thought about my life a lot and why it was worth living. I knew that it was, but it was hard to feel it.

So I found a wonderful therapist, someone who did not judge me, but took me seriously, and was willing to work with me and my family in order to get me out of my funk. At that point, it was a funk. She prescribed medicine for me, which was a first. I have never before experienced any kind of depression, but she put me on an antidepressant that was safe for breastfeeding. I was still very committed to nursing my son, as I nursed my daughter for 18 months. It was something that I was not only consciously proud of, but something that I felt had defined me as a mother. I was a nursing mother. My daughter never once had a bottle. And so it was not an option for me to give that up with my son.

And then I started to face some resistance. My symptoms were getting worse. My bad moments were getting more frequent than my good ones, and stronger medicines were encouraged. But that would mean giving up breastfeeding. I heard the expression “It is better for your son to have a mom without a boob than a boob without a mom” but it was still hard for me. So I kept on nursing and kept on going down a spiral of deep, deep devastation.

People started to notice around Thanksgiving. It was a holiday I have always adored and even written about. This Thanksgiving I spent in the corner of my aunt’s living room, speaking to no one, falling asleep in a the chair at one point, and keeping my month old son in his carseat next to me. It seems surreal.

I was withdrawing from my friends. I was quiet in my online presence. I was slipping away.

And then things got worse. A lot worse.

The feelings that I had been having about my life and it’s meaning started to take over me like a demonic plague. I couldn’t thing rationally. I couldn’t feel happiness or love. All that I could feel was pain. So in order to keep me safe, my family members had to stay with me at all times, taking shifts. I was never left alone. The therapist reached out to my husband. She told him I needed to be hospitalized and found a program at Brown in Providence, Rhode Island. She feared for my safety. So did my parents and best friend.

So I made an appointment to check in to a Postpartum treatment center, one in which I could keep my son with me, keep nursing and try to recover before it got worse. This was a very hard decision to come to and I was feeling everything from ashamed to terrified, but I said I would do it. So my husband and I went out to the movies. We saw American Hustle, the day before I was supposed to leave my life and daughter and admit to needing to be admitted. And during the movie, we were in and out of the theatre, taking calls from my therapist and the coordinators at Brown. It was all happening so fast.

And I got home from the movie and kissed my son. And he was hot.

I took his temperature. 100.4. The magic number for a baby 3 days shy of 2 months. We had to go to the hospital.

So at my darkest moment, I had a sick baby to take care of. I thought it could not get any worse.

To be continued…

 

The hardest post I’ve ever written, Part 1.

Since having my second child my world has changed in more ways than I could have imagined. As our triangle turned into a square (quite seamlessly in many ways, I should say), I have experienced love and joy that I had not yet known. And one positive thing that I have done has been starting 511, Ever After, as it has been a wonderful outlet for me, a return to something I’ve loved, and the discovery of a new passion. If you’ve emailed me privately I have shared that with you, but I have also shared something else…

I have always been someone with anxiety. I have written about it countless times on this very site, and that is because my original intention in starting Mommy, Ever After was to write honestly about things that people were not comfortable speaking of. Like how motherhood can be scary. And lonely. And boring. And weird. And yes, I wrote all about how being a mom is magical and enchanting, and I still feel that way completely–actually, probably more so than ever–but something happened to me the second time around that has changed my life forever.

In having my son, my sweet angel of a little boy whom I love with all of my heart, I experienced great depression. During my pregnancy, I suffered severe morning sickness. Let me put it to you this way; during the first go-round I was hesitant to take even a tylenol; during this pregnancy, I had to take a prescription anti-nausea medicine every 4 hours to keep my vomiting down to 10 times a day. That is not fun for anyone. Plus, the hormones. The crushing hormones that sneak up on you and embrace you in their anxiety-producing grasp. So I suffered what I now know is called peri-partum depression. I felt down. Not all of the time, but some of the time. A lot of the time. I couldn’t focus on my family. I had scary thoughts. But I was ok. I was still myself.

And I saw doctors and they were all concerned for me for after the birth. I remember one saying “I am concerned about you having this baby and having a walloping case of postpartum depression.” And I didn’t quite understand it but I knew to fear it. I knew that postpartum depression involved feelings of wanting to hurt oneself, or, much worse, the child. I knew that I did not experience it the first time, despite some moments of blues or intense anxiety. But I also know that my two pregnancies were completely different.

I was talking to my friend Jordan over at Ramshackle Glam about these differences when she announced her second pregnancy. The first time, I felt like I was this enchanted, magical vessel of blooming life. I felt like every single part of those 10 months were filled with magic and wonder. And when I first got pregnant the second time around, I was excited. I peed on that stick, saw two clear lines appear, and I felt that magic again. We were going to be a family of four. I was even able to present it to my husband in a fun way, having my daughter hand him a box with the stick inside. I had my dad come over to “check out my new sconces” and had the stick on my mantle. It was all exciting. But I had anxiety. I had pretty crippling anxiety from the get-go. I felt a strong love for the growing baby instantaneously (perhaps because was already a mother and knew that kind of love) and therefore found myself protective of my midsection. I avoided hard hugs from my students, heavy lifting and anything else dangerous. I loved my baby that was the mere size of a cheerio.

And then, something happened to me that never happened during my first pregnancy; I started to spot at 6 weeks. At this point, I had yet to even see the baby on ultrasound, a different experience than the first. It was St. Patrick’s day. We were eating Chinese Food. And I saw a little bit of blood. We ended up in the ER and after ultrasounds and bloodwork we confirmed that my baby was in my uterus and with a beating heart and growing appropriately. It was an incredibly intense and scary night for me.

And after that night, I went numb.

It it very hard for me to write this; in fact, as I type this, as he sleeps on my bed next to me, I am listening to his breathing, in and out, in and out, and I have tears streaming down my face. I went numb to the baby inside of me. Clearly it was a defense mechanism.  I know that spotting is a very normal occurrence in many healthy pregnancies, but it threw me overboard. So instead of caring more, I cared less. This was not a conscious thing, mind you; it is only something I can recognize in hindsight. But I stopped feeling for the baby.

This numbness only intensified at 12 weeks when the perinatal ultrasound tech told me that he saw a penis. This is very early to find out the baby’s sex (that typically happens at the 20 week anatomy scan. And I was in shock. Not only was I having another baby, not only was I puking all day, not only was I feeling very mixed emotions, if anything at all, but a boy? We are sucha  girl family.

And that feeling of incredulity continued.

I stopped being protective. I was responsible in my pregnancy, not eating deli meat or drinking excessively, but I also was not nearly as cautious or loving as I had been to my first. I didn’t sing to my belly every night or read it stories. I loved feeling my son kick and move (he was the biggest mover ever, and because he was transverse I felt EVERYTHING) but I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure I could love another child.

I wasn’t sure I could love a boy.

I even asked my best friend if she would take him if I didn’t love him enough to be his mom. How crazy does that sound? She still asks me if the deal is on because she loves him a whole darn lot.

And then, I went into labor. The baby was born. We sang to him in the OR. And I loved him immediately. And all of those feelings of insecurity and doubt washed away. But what I did not expect was that my C-Section would be complicated; I had a lot of scar tissue, the front of my uterus was very thin and I lost a lot of blood. I was very sick and ended up in the hospital for 5 days. But I was happy. Happier than I had been in months. I was also on Dilaudid, an opiate. But I was happy.

And that happiness actually lasted. It lasted a good two  weeks, just about as long as my Dilaudid consumption. And then, something started to creep in. Anxiety. Fear. Doubt. Sadness.

And I remember a text from my husband from the first week in November. It said, “I want to make sure you’re OK. I see the light starting to go out in your eyes.”

And I sobbed. Because I was so loved. But because he was right. And I fought the demons. But he was right.

The story gets darker from here, so I want to stop now with the promise that I will continue with the same kind of honesty with which I have always written. But I warn you. This has been a bad time in my life. And even though my house is filled with pretty throw pillows, it has been bad.

So here is my story. In the hopes that it will help others.

To be continued…

The hardest part.

The hardest part of being a parent is watching your child suffer.

I am so so so so so so so millionsofsos blessed that our suffering has been limited

and that our daughter has had a healthy, happy life.

But, today she is sick. She has been sick for a week. It is RSV

or, for those of you who are not

doctors,

parents,

teachers

or crazy,

Respiratory Syncytial Virus.

And it freakin sucks.

As I said, she has been sick for a week now, and at our second visit to the doctor today, she tested positive for this virus.

And she has to use a nebulizer, as she requires breathing treatments every four hours.

And each treatment takes 5 minutes, and they feel like the longest five minutes I’ve had, because she hates the machine, and the mask she must wear, and the cloudy air she must inhale, and so she cries, and screams and fights me and her veins bulge and my heart shatters into five million pieces.

And then we eat M&Ms.

And we dry our tears.

So, if I’m quiet for the next few days, it is just because I will be using all of my energy to nurse her, and to hold her, and to make her feel as comfortable

and as loved

as possible

until she gets better.

Thank goodness we have the family that we do

(may I just add that both of my grandfathers, her great-grandfathers, called in the past 30 minutes, just to check on us. How lucky is that?!)

and, and I don’t mean to boast or to be obnoxious,

but thank goodness that my daughter has me as a mom,

because I can’t control how she feels

and I can’t control what germs she picks up

and what viruses she comes down with,

but I can sure as heck give her all of the love and kisses and episodes of Elmo’s World and fruit pops that she needs.

I love her with all of my heart, and when she can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. When her voice gets lost in a coughing fit, I can’t make a sound. I love her and I want to kiss her and make her all better. I will sure try.

Please let my baby feel better soon.

Stay Tuned and Get Pumped! (is what I was going to say.)

Patience, my dear ones. For I am off to a happy place, where I will be celebrating my 8th Engagemaversary in that very same spot.

…is what I had written, yesterday,

prepared to publish today,

as I would now be off to St. John, via St. Thomas, with my entire family; Parents, siblings, kids…

It’s funny. Just last week, Jordan said, “The way to virtually guarantee that a child will get sick is to schedule something that you really want to do.”

And it has been no secret that we have been sickie little chickies in my house for the past month.

But weeks of sick days and doctor visits all kind of came to a head yesterday when I crashed, unexpectedly, at 3pm, woke up two hours later in excruciating ear pain. I have been suffering from TMJ on my right side, but this pain was on my left. And I couldn’t hear out of my ear. Weird.

So, I shook the sleep out of my head and rallied to give the baby his nighttime bottle, give my daughter her kiss goodnight, and I told my husband that something wasn’t right. All of the local urgent care facilities were closed and all my doctor besties were stuck without otoscopes (I just wanted to see if I was crazy), so we found a Care Stat location a little ways away and I got checked out.

I told the doctor about my TMJ. “First let me look at your right ear, or your ‘good ear’,” she said.

“Yup, this ear is infected.”

Then she moved onto my left.

And all she said was, “Whoa.”

That’s never what you want to hear from a doctor.

So I have a double ear infection, but on my left side it is pretty severe, and I am prohibited from flying for a week. Which means that we had to cancel our trip to our happy place.

It’s ok. I was most disappointed for my daughter and parents, but we have made alternate arrangements so that my kids will be taken away on a fun family trip, just the four of us, that involves driving, and no change in elevation that will perforate my eardrum.

I walked out of the urgent care office, into the Krispie Kreme two doors down, and ate a hot glazed doughnut right off of the conveyer belt. Because, really, what else was there to do?

So, I will continue where I had left off yesterday before this all went down (when I thought I would be leaving you for St. John):

Please don’t think I would leave you hanging. Oh no.

Because we have some big changes on the not so distant horizon; my home for the past 4.5 years,

http://www.mommyeverafter.wordpress.com,

just got quite the makeover. We are moving on up people.

Very soon, this blog will be located at…

http://www.mommyeverafter.com

You can visit the site to countdown to our big launch on December 22. There will be ads! There will be new categories! There will be a feathers! This is forrealz.

And I realize that my audience here is mixed; some of you have been here from the beginning, while others are newer to the land of mom. So I am leaving you with some old favorites. And the fun thing is, they lead you to other old posts. You have almost 900 of ’em to wade through as I wade through the ocean. (Editor’s note: I don’t even have to say it. Frowny face.)

Let me take this opportunity to say thank you.

This past year (and I am getting choked up) has been the hardest in my life; I am so grateful for the support I have received from YOU. You have empowered me to tell me story and motivated me to help others. Thank you. I would not be here without you.

So here you go. I’ll be popping in here and there over the next week, but to tide you over:

Something motivational

Something sweet

Something musical

Something nostalgic

Something comprehensive

Some Important Insight

The craziest call to the pediatrican ever. (Really, ever.)

The second craziest call to the pediatrican,, ever. And it’s a close second.

Something Happy.

Something Hard.

Something Hopeful.

See you on the flip side at http://www.mommyeverafter.com,

the home of everything ever after.

Be there and be square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My daughter was my everything.

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

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

I was scared to push my luck.

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

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

And then something happened.

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

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

And then all hell broke loose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

And all I felt was gratitude.

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

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

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

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

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

The story of two girls, the story of two women, and everything in between.

Where to begin? I sit here, hands tracing the keys of my laptop, but I don’t know how to start our story; to really tell our story in a way that will do it justice. It probably won’t make sense to anyone else. But it does to us, so I guess that is all that matters.

As our mentor’s mentor, Ernest Hemingway, said, “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

And so I shall try:

I saw a girl, once, sitting on the ground of the third floor of an old, musty school building and she looked like the most beautiful and interesting thing, and I was desperate, instantly, to get close to her.

***

I have written many stories on here, about my childhood and adulthood and parenthood, about things joyful and sorrowful and fanciful, but there is one piece of my life that I have left almost untouched.

I did not have a traditional college experience. I started off attending the Honors Program of a big state school, so that I had tiny, elite classes, but also giant, cheering crowds of football fans (which was supposed to be the best of both worlds) and I stayed there for a year and a half straight.

It was there that I fell in love, with reading literature and with a boy from a tiny town in the Mid-Hudson River Valley.

It wasn’t a perfect fit for me, but I have some fond, nostalgic memories; of running in a storm of icy snow to catch the school’s busline, so that I would make it in time for my seminar on Jewish Cinema; of walking into crowded frat parties, with their smell of stale kegs and the feel of sticky floors and air; of being selected to sing in the school’s talent competition my first week as a Freshman; of buying a beer funnel and leaving it in a tax and buying funnel cake and eating it at Arts Fest; of watching the Friends series finale and sobbing on the floor of the dorm room two doors down, which always seemed to smell like popcorn. And the list goes on.

But after a year and a half, I left school and the small life that I had built there to travel abroad to Barcelona (where I would experience many new things, the most important being Twin (obviously).

Upon my return home to the states that May, the summer after my Sophomore year, I decided that I did not want to go back to the big school, 3 hours from home. I had just lived in a vibrant, colorful world, and couldn’t bear to go to a place where there were no tall buildings. I don’t mean to say this disparagingly. People live and breathe for the school that I attended. It just wasn’t for me.

And so I transferred, to a satellite campus in Philadelphia, where I was able to remain in the Honors College.

This was the best academic decision I have ever made.

I entered into a class of five. There were five of us in the Honors Program. It was so intimate and astounding and life-altering…

but I have gotten ahead of myself.

On my first day of classes at my new school, where I knew no one, I felt nervous and detached. I had made the choice to trade these huge, crowded cities for a mere two buildings and a duck pond.

As I had already declared myself an English major during my Freshman year, my first class was one on literature, with this incredibly smart and dynamic, dark-haired professor who spoke with great passion about American Popular Culture.

And after that, I trekked up the stairs of the old building that housed most of the Liberal Arts classes,

and I found my way down a small, corridor, to a tiny corner classroom.

And there she was.

Sitting on the floor with a spiral notebook, I saw this beautiful, and elegant and impossibly chic looking girl. And as we introduced ourselves, we realized that we had been previously “set up” by mutual friends, but just so happened to have met coincidentally that day. She was one of the five in my class.

My honors class was like “The Breakfast Club”. Really. We were all so different, but got along beautifully. There were four girls and one boy: One quiet but sweet Information, Science and Technology girl, one Class President type, studying business and ruling the school with her sparkly, kind demeanor, a shaggy haired boy, shy and pensive and incredibly bright, and then, the girl. She was a fellow English major. She liked words like I did.

And at the helm of our happy, mis-matched group was a Hemingway scholar like no other.

She was the author of a book about the “Lost Generation”, the group of colorful expatriates who gathered in Paris, often at Gertrude Stein’s salon after World War 1 (or, as they thought, The Great War), like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot and Jon Dos Passos. Note: I am oversimplifying this incredibly, and for that I am sorry. But if i were to continue to try to define the Lost Generation, this post would turn into a novel and I wouldn’t be able to see straight.

Our Professor was a personal acquaintance of the Hemingway family, and she knew it all. She introduced us to his short stories, novels, memoir…and to the color and life of that time in history.

Why does all of this matter?

It matters because this band of early 20th Century misfits seemed to mirror and our little Honors band of misfits, and learning with my class, in this tiny classroom around a boardroom style table

changed my life.

Because it brought me a soul sister.

I wrote this week about soul friends, and from the moment we met, the beautiful girl from the hallway floor and I formed a bond.

I admired everything about her, and the closer we got, the more I liked her and marveled at her.

I loved her sense of style, and the way she furnished her apartment (it seemed so grown up to me, with her fancy lamps and dressers painted with flowers and her own cats!) and her incredible work ethic. Her brain. Her insight. Her intellect.

The next two years, she and I worked closely together, as we were in almost all the same classes, and our Hemingway Scholar Professor became the mentor for both of our Honors Theses.

It is funny to say this, because I had a long-term relationship for the first half of college, met my Twin during Sophomore year, met my husband during Junior year and became engaged to him during my Senior, but this girl, to me, is like my one, real college friend.

I realize that I am in the minority, as I see my friends so connected with their former sorority sisters and roommates, but for me it was different. As I told her today, it was quality over quantity. And she’s it.

And over the years since college we have woven in and out of each others lives. There were times when we were inseparable, seeing each other several times a week and talking for hours on the phone; and other times that years went by without a date; but it never mattered. Never ever. Not once has she missed calling me on my birthday, and when my daughter was born, we brought her downtown to meet my dear friend in her gorgeous city apartment.

In the past few months, though, I will say that we have connected in a way that is so profound, it is almost impossible to describe. I was talking to her today and I said, “It’s funny that you’re the hardest person I’ve ever tried to write about.”

And she replied, “Because words don’t do it for us. It’s deeper. Ironic…”

and I finished her sentence with, “because we are both all about words.”

We have not seen each other in years at this point, but are planning to reunite soon. But until then we speak every day, and we are just there for one another in this impossible, indescribable way.

And, you may ask, if it is so hard to describe, then why are you writing about it?

And I would reply, because I love to tell stories; that is what this is all about. And this is a big part of my story. And she is a muse; a radiant character, and she deserves to be a subject of some sort of art, and this is a (terribly inadequate but) fine place to start.

I had asked her to show me pictures of her apartment, as I have always been so amazed by her style. And she sent me these photos and told me to look closely.

Hanging prominently in her apartment for the past two years are two sketches that I made for her the year after we graduated. In the top photo, it is the drawing of a cat, stretching. In the bottom, it is a girl’s face, with red lips.

When she showed me this, gobsmacked is the best word I can use to describe how I felt. I drew her these pictures because I love her and I shared them with her because I trust her, but this is not me being modest when I say I that am not an artist. I am not very good at drawing. But for her, these pieces were special enough to hang in her home, her sanctuary. I am humbled beyond words.

There are many stories in my story; the story of how divergent paths can lead you to the same place as someone with whom you’re meant to be; the story of how friendship, when true, prevails over all else; the story of two young women, who met at twenty, are meeting each other, a decade later, and falling in love all over again; the story of passion; and the story of college, and how it looks different for everyone.

I saw a girl, once, sitting on the ground of the third floor of an old, musty school building and she looked like the most beautiful and interesting thing, and the closer I got to her, the more she unfolded, and the more stunning she became.

I always say this to her,

that I am a reader and not a writer,

so I will leave it to one of the greats to wrap up our story for now.

But I just mean on the computer,

for I believe our story together has only just begun.

Their eyes met and in an instant, in an inexplicable and only half conscious rush of emotion, they were in perfect communion.

F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The little feather that could.

This morning was a morning like most others.

We watched an episode of My Little Pony, found the “Tuesday” underwear from my daughter’s drawer, hurried her off to school, as my son and I stayed in our pajamas.

My son and I snuggled up in bed for a good two hours and napped together, as I fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of his breathing.

And then we went to the eye doctor. And we got some unexpected news. My son had to get glasses at 11 months to correct his farsightedness, just like his sister before him. He also had to have a minor surgical procedure to unblock a clogged tear duct, and I feel so fortunate to say that it went very well.

Today, we learned that my son’s eye crossing is not exactly like my daughters, and my sister’s before her, and my mother before her ; he not only is extremely farsighted, but he also has a weak eye muscle. This will require a surgery, and it is a much more extensive surgery than the little tear duct probing. And my heart stopped beating.

Let me stop right now.

I realize that my son is getting eye surgery.

In the scheme of life, this is a blip. It is a slightly large blip, but I recognize that parents, every hour, are given far worse news about far worse procedures and prognoses, so please do not think for one second that I do not have perspective. I do. I send all of the love I can muster to those parents and those children and those families.

But I also have the knowledge that my son will have to go under general anesthesia, be intubated, and face some pain afterwards. And, this surgery will not do anything to correct his vision.

The eye doctor said, “Boy, this one can’t catch a break, can he?” and I replied with, “None of us can this year!”

And I was thinking about my son’s first year;

He had a mother who went a little crazy and then was later hospitalized. He has been to the Emergency Room FIVE times now: once in utero, twice for RSV (which lead him to a most depressing Christmas week stay in the children’s ward of the local hospital), once for Carbon Monoxide poisoning and then, finally, for slicing his wrist on my mirrored coffee table, requiring seven stitches. He hasn’t had it so easy.

But just like the realization that I had a week ago, when it occurred to me that my sweet son is the best thing to have ever happened to me,

I had another epiphany today.

He is my strength symbol.

Right before we left for the Ophthalmologist, I found this tiny, stray feather stuck to the inside of the wrist of my sweater.

It gave me the feeling that I always get when I see feathers, which is that I can be strong and that there are people watching over us to guide and protect us, even through the darkest of days.

And then I got this crappy news from the eye doctor and I looked back down at my feather and tried to figure it out. What was it telling me?

And I got it:

My son is my strength symbol.

He has shown me bravery, fortitude and resilience like nothing I have ever seen.

He has had a tough year with some tough circumstances, and wakes up with a smile on his face every single day, showing seven little teeth, gapped and perfect.

So, my tiny feather, you are my inspiration. You show me what it means to be courageous. You have faced so much in such a short time and I am so, so, proud to be your mother.

You are my little hero.

And we will just keep chugging along.

The key.

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.”

This key was given to me by a very caring woman at a very special place during my time of great transformation.

Incredibly, the quote was given to me that very same day, by a soul friend.

***

Sunday nights are always hard; They are the hardest after a vacation. I dread the start of the new week.

But, in my pursuit to live more fully, I will try to start this week differently. I am not saying I will succeed, but I will try.

Instead of mourning the end of the holiday break, or the TV series with the final episode that I watched, in tears, last night (by the way, if you haven’t watched The Killing, you are

a) crazy

and

b) so lucky, because I would do anything to have magically never seen it, only to be able to watch it again for the first time.)

I will try to start fresh and to keep moving forward. Ice cream cones. Slow dances. Extra minutes of cuddling.

And I will try to believe.