A Birth Story–My Sequel: Part 1

Hello, there. Or, to many, I should say Hello, Again. Welcome. Or Welcome Back. 

Right now, you can find me mostly over at 511 Ever After, but I’ve decided to return for a post that could only be written here; here where my mommy roots are anchored in deep, 

in stories of joy, enchantment, confusion, pain….my stories from the trenches. So much is different now. First off, I now have two kids. It’s funny; I wrote this post literally a day shy of two years ago. I was grappling with the idea of a second child. And now, spoiler alert!, he’s here. And he’s just as magical as my first baby was, but the experience has been totally different, starting with the birth. If you want to start from the beginning with many of my past stories, including my birth stories, in all 5 parts, you may. 

Or you can just start here, at the sequel. 

So, like any good story, let’s start at the beginning. It was a cold morning in March and my husband was out to brunch with my dad and some of their friends. And I was a week late. So I took an old HPT that I had in my linen closet, peed on it, and two lines appeared in 20 seconds. And my daughter was in the bathroom with me. And I said, “Holy shit, I’m pregnant.” And she said “I’m Cinderella.”

I was stunned. When trying for our first, we tried. This pregnancy happened immediately. I hadn’t expected it to happen so fast, as we had barely unpacked the boxes in our new house. But I was excited. Thrilled. And I was even more enthused when I had my daughter hand my husband the positive pee stick upon his return home from brunch. Our little family was growing and my heart was bursting. 

And a lot happened in the 9 months following, and perhaps I’ll go into them some day on here, and perhaps I will not, but for now, I shall cut to the chase. The birth story. In parts. 

For the last two months of my pregnancy, I was experiencing painful Braxton Hicks contractions; so strong that these moments of uncomfortable tightness would show up strongly on the monitor. I went into labor and delivery 4 times for “false alarms”, as the contractions were present, but not doing anything to induce real labor. 

I should mention that because of my previous C-Section with my daughter, I was scheduled for a repeat surgery on October 28, 2013. Not only was this a routine repeat, but my little boy, in all his enormous glory, was lying in the transverse position, which means instead of being head down (or, in breach cases, head up) he was lying smack across my stomach. I looked like I was smuggling a watermelon under my shirt. It was ridiculous looking. I was all belly and my belly had a belly. 

I had mixed feelings leading up to my c-section. I was relieved, in some ways, to have the luxury of planning my second child’s birth; to schedule a day, to make sure that I gave the proper preparations and goodbye to my daughter, to make sure that my nails and toes were perfect….but I was also scared. And pardon my French, but I was scared shitless. 

I remembered the scary parts of my first C-Section: The Spinal and the feeling of not being able to breathe; the kind anesthesiologist who put a wet sponge to my parched lips; and then the whole BABY thing. The idea of another baby terrified me. And I teach babies. I love babies. I am kind of a baby expert. But I was so scared about how to expand our little tribe. We had things down over here, and I worried, every minute, about going through surgery, surviving surgery, and then surviving parenthood. I grew increasingly nervous as the date approached, talking to my husband, parents, friends and OB. He would refer to the scheduled C date as a “birthday party” and I looked at it as a day of dread. It is hard for me to admit this (especially in hindsight) but I was just terrified. 

And all of my trips to labor and delivery did nothing to assuage my fears. Four times I said “Bye Bye” to my little girl, saying “We may be going to meet your brother!” and then having to waddle on out hours later with a closed cervix and tons of embarrassment. And pain. And contractions. And, in one case, sleepy baby. 

And then, at 4 am on the morning of October 24, I awoke out of a dead sleep in pain. Real, can’t really breathe, stomach-tightening pressure and pain. It was so painful that I woke up my husband. I was 38.5 weeks pregnant. My C-Section was scheduled for the following Monday. And so, I said to myself, “Self. You are NOT going in again for a false alarm. You are not. If this means that you are having this giant transverse baby at home in your bathtub so be it.” 

I even went as far as to pack my daughter’s lunch note reading “Four days until you meet your baby brother!” I gave her a regular kiss goodbye. “See you after school!” I said. 

But by 10 am when the contractions were becoming more painful and regular, I called my OB. And he asked me if these contractions felt different. And they did. And he told me I had to come in. 

“It may be party time!” He said. 

My nails were chipped, my hair was dirty and I had not said goodbye to my daughter. It could not be time. But the contractions were hurting so badly that I was almost in tears. 

So off to the hospital I went…

To be continued…(and trust me, it gets a lot better…)

Just some things.

This past week has kept me oh-so-busy.

Like, Bizzy.

And it’s been good.

But, it has not left me with the time or energy to put my pen to paper to keyboard,

or what have you.

So, as a way to fill you in (or an attempt to make an excuse),

here are some things.

Some things I’ve done since we spoke last.

Just some things:

I’ve started to jog. And by jog, I mean I jog for a minute and then walk for ten minutes. But, I’m moving my body, so now I can officially call myself a jock. My next step will be getting a jersey with my name on it.

I’ve become a regular at our favorite lunch spot.

I’ve been singing. For other people (!).

I made these. And I ate them. All of them. Thank Gd I’m an athlete, now.

I found my poetry, again.

I crowded into a tiny dressing room with my Mom and my Mommom and my Aunt and My Sister and my Daughter, as we all helped my sister to find the perfect dress. I felt so lucky. (More on this to come…)

I watched a dear, so-in-love couple as they became husband and wife.  I toasted to their marriage. I requested this song I got DOWN.

I bowled, terribly.

I woke up one morning and danced, in sunglasses, to Queen, before brushing my teeth.

I heard a friend tell me that I didn’t seem like myself; I knew that she was right; I let her talk me through it; I felt so much love.

I had a picnic outside with my class. We dined on chocolate cake and rice cakes. We are so elegant.

I heard my daughter sing every word of “Sydney (I’ll Come Running)”.

I got a hair cut. I botched a manicure. I found my daughter in my makeup drawer, with a face-full of blush. And pride.

I explained to a group of 3-year-old boys why my daughter needs glasses.

I haven’t slept well.

I’ve seen piles of feathers.

I’ve missed you.

Far from being over.

This week, I had the privilege of witnessing a magical event;

The day was beautiful,

crisp and sunny,

and my class, as well as many others, enjoyed the weather outside on the playground.

As I supervised my children, scanning my eyes back and forth across the tot lot, another teacher called for my attention. She told me to look over to the area by the sandbox.

There, I saw my daughter

having her back rubbed by a 4 year old boy.

He then rubbed her head, sweetly.

She smiled and beamed.

He then began teaching her how to play catch with him.

He would throw the ball to her, she would miss, he would rub her back and tell her it was OK and then give her some instruction, with a smile.

She would throw the ball to him to, and each time she did, she would giggle and he would praise her.

This went on for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes,

which in Toddler is 7 and a half years.

It was incredible.

They played and played, not because I was there watching, but because they were enjoying each other.

And then, he hugged her,

and after he did he came running over to me.

I was prepared to thank him,

to compliment him on his kindness,

but he interrupted my thoughts

as he leaned in to me and said, “I have a feeling she may have a poop.”

It was the best thing ever.

And so, I learned many things while watching my daughter and her new friend in those fifteen minutes,

not the least of which being that my fears about my daughter and older boys are far from being over.

In fact, I have a hunch that they have only just begun.

Chag Purim!

Today, I wore my wedding dress in front of the entire school,

the baby went grocery shopping in a tutu,

and we ate donuts for a mid-morning snack,

as we took the “Eat, Drink and Be Merry” spirit of Purim and ran with it.

When I dressed as Queen Esther two Purims ago with a “Queen In Training” sign displayed on my big belly,

little did I know how true those words would become.

All aboard for Shushan!

(and bottoms up!)

 

Preludes and Words.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

My favorite line from a favorite poem, Preludes by T.S. Eliot. I remember when I first read this poem. This line took my breath away, then.

Tonight, it made me cry.

***

It was the summer after my Freshman year of college. I decided to stay up at school with my boyfriend at the time, and on the weekends, we would take long drives on quiet roads through the center of the state. We’d visit state parks, small sandy patches of land, lakes or ponds or rivers, I am now not sure what they were. I would drive, and it would be sunny, and he would sit in the passenger seat, his legs stretched out and resting on the dashboard, and he would read to me. We had bought a stack of big, old books for one dollar at a flea market: “The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway” and “Great American Short Stories” and some other anthologies, all faded and mustard yellow or brown. And he would read these stories out loud, a wonderful storyteller, he was.Roman Fever. The Most Dangerous Game. Hills Like White Elephants.And I fell in love. With the characters. And the backdrops. And every surprise. And every nuance. Every word.

***

Today, my husband sent me a message on is way to work; He had just read a passage in his book that made him stop and marvel. He read it to me, tonight, in bed, and it was like he was painting for me as he recited the words. Velvety words. Evocative imagery. It was beautiful. And it made me want to read my favorite poem. So, I read Preludes.

And I cried.

And I fell in love all over again.

With all of the things I worry about…

Last week in school, my daughter’s class shared the indoor play area with the Pre-K. I was so tickled to see many of the older girls fawning over my daughter, as they held her hand and walked her around, pushed her in a play car and even taught her some of their games.

But my daughter, fearless and determined, wanted to hula hoop. So, she marched over to one of the little five-year-old boys and grabbed his hoop. And he was happy to share. He let her get it in with him and helped her to try to figure it out.

And this whole thing made me smile.

And then, yesterday came, and my daughter and I had to walk through that same Pre-K classroom in order to get to the playground.

And when the little boy spotted us, he ran in our direction.

“Hey,” he called to me,

eager to get my attention.

“Is she old enough to Skype?”

This five year old was asking me if he could video chat with my daughter.

…

So, with all the things I worry about,

all of the things that keep me up at night and give me bouts of The Cray,

I never expected that having to ward off older boys from my 22 month old

would be one of them.

#febphotoaday/22

22. Where you work.

Because a place without glittery butterflies is no place for me.

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.

The very best.

Listening to my husband, as he brags to his parents

and regales his friends

with tales of cuteness from our daughter’s school day

is one of the most joy-filled experiences imaginable…

…second only to the exquisite gift of witnessing these moments of cuteness firsthand.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,

but being a parent has made me a better teacher

and being a teacher has most certainly made me a more blessed parent.

My daughter now knows how to wear a backpack

and climb up the big slide

and clean up toys

and dance to the recorder

and use a bigger kid as a footstool.

Seriously, this whole school thing…it’s just the best. The very best.

Well, second only to the love I see in my husband’s eyes

as he wells up with tears

and talks about his little girl

and how proud he is of her…

for how she has grown up so much in just two days…

for how she dances…

for how she is so loved.

Oh, how proud I am to call them mine.

She had her first day.

Today, my daughter had her first day of school.

Real, big kid school.

I had a hard time believing it.

She had her very first backpack.

She had a hand-drawn cartoon, made by her daddy, which he tucked, carefully, into her school bag.

She had her feathers.

She had her first day.

She had the time of her life.

Back to school blues.

Today, as I sat at my teacher in-service day workshop, I got to thinking.

I looked around the large conference table, and stared at the faces of the women around me; my beloved colleagues.

I could not love my job or coworkers more.

And so, as I sat there, between bites of pizza and rounds of ice-breaker games,

I realized that these women,

these faces,

these ladies whom I’ve grown to love

will someday soon be the people with whom I will leave my daughter.

Before I know it, I am going to have to drop my daughter off at the classroom door

and run away, as she cries for me.

Or, you know, run away, as I cry for her.

Whatever the case may be.

As I mulled this over, I started to remember to take my own advice.

I wrote about just this, over at Babyssentials for my column, The Little Scholar*.

I blah-blah-blahed over there about the Back to School Blues.

It was easy.

My daughter was 16 weeks old. She couldn’t even sit up on her own.

And I wrote, quite emphatically, about the importance of giving a child independence and ripping off the back to school bandage.

And then, my daughter grew up.

And now, I’m the crazy parent who will want to lurk in threshold of the classroom

and unwrap my kid’s clementine for her.

I won’t do those things, but I will want to.

But, thank goodness for me, the bodies that I will be pushing my daughter into are ones that I know well;

they are the hands that rubbed my belly as my daughter kicked from deep inside;

they are the arms that embraced me, as I cried, missing baby girl as I went back to work;

they are the women whom I’ve learned from and loved with.

So no matter how hard it will be I know that she,

that we,

will be ok.

No blues

or bandaids

necessary.

(*just in case you (or I. I!!!) need a little reminder, below is my article on how to beat those blues and be better for it.)

As originally published on Babyssentials

There are so many reasons that I am so thankful that I became a teacher before becoming a mom. I now know that ear infections sometimes make a child’s ear smell. I know how to pack a mean lunch. I know how annoying it is when parents don’t label their child’s clothing, only to get mad when a sock gets lost in the school-day-shuffle.

But, most importantly, I know an incredible secret about children who scream, cry, kick, throw tantrums, curse (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating here, but, it gets ugly!) when their parents drop them off from school. These children, who leave their parents as red-faced, teary-eyed messes, are fine in approximately 30 seconds after their parents drive away. They just are.

I’ve seen it time and time again; screaming child clinging to the minivan door as the mother in the front seat weeps in abject despair; sobbing little one clinging to daddy’s leg as he tries to exit the classroom door. Talk about heart wrenching.

Yet, as soon as the parent is out of sight, the child is happy as can be. Yes, sometimes it takes some extra TLC from the teacher, in the form of a few minutes on the lap or a quick hug, but, like clockwork, within five minutes, those frowns are turned upside-down, as the child is thrown into the exciting school day.

Now that I’m a mother (OK, so my daughter is only 16 weeks old, but still) I can’t imagine how heartbreaking it must be to drop off your child when she is happy.

You mean, I won’t get to experience her every smile today?

You mean, someone else will tie her shoe, kiss her boo-boos and unwrap her string cheese?

I can’t even fathom how trying it must be to leave your child when she is distraught, let alone wailing. But, I’m here to tell you that the very best thing you can do for your child is the very thing that defies every parental instinct and goes against every mommy bone in your mommy body; you must leave, and leave fast.

As impossible as it seems, I promise you, your child will be fine. The sooner you make your getaway and let your child adjust to his or her teacher, friends and classroom, the better. It’s just like ripping off a band-aid; it may sting for a moment, but then, the pain is over, so fast that you hardly knew it was there.

And so, the next time that you go to drop your child off at school, and the tears and “No mommy! Don’t leave me!”s begin, please, heed my advice, put the pedal to the metal and high-tail your mommy-mobile out of there.

Your child will be fine. Your child will be happy. Your child will be well taken care of.  Your child will be learning new, and wonderful things, that he or she didn’t know yesterday. And, most of all, your child will be able to tell you all about his or her day when you pick him or her up after school’s end. And, the excited greeting and kiss hello makes any drop-off antics worth every single, solitary, salty tear.

After all, the greatest thing I’ve learned from being a teacher and a mommy is that the best part of being away from your child, even if only for a few moments, is being back together, again.