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A Birth Story-My Sequel: Part 2

31 Jan

Perhaps I should back up a bit. As I mentioned, the doctor told me that because of the nature of my contractions,

the difference I was feeling (despite having already been through FOUR false alarms),

I should come in to Labor and Delivery to be checked out. You should know this about me: I am a positive person, I am constantly accusing my husband of being a big ol’ naysayer. But in this case, I was miss “this is ridiculous, why am I going in again, I am going to be pissed to be sent home again, blah da de bla bla”. And remember. I had “Hot Cocoa” on my nails and they were 2/3 chipped off. And, while typically I don’t care about dirty hair, I did a hasty wash, threw on some eyeliner and blush, and called my mom, while in a towel.

“The doctor wants me to come in.” I said sheepishly.

And for the first time, her voice was different. “I think this is it.” She said.

We didn’t tell my husband.

We called my mama bestie to have her “On call” in case we needed her to pick up my daughter from school, and off we went.

Just in case, I wore my lucky underwear and purple socks, but I was still skeptic city.

Upon our arrival at the hospital I was greeted as an old friend; everyone there knew me. The residents and I were on a first name basis. It was embarrassing. But I had to admit, the pain I was feeling was different. And the monitor showed the same. I was having strong contractions every three minutes, regularly.

But, alas, as it has always happened when it comes to me and my labors, my cervix was not opening. Not at all. Not even one centimeter.

So I waited in the bed, for hours, contracting to the point of agony, when I started to cry.

I cried from the pain.

I cried from the uncertainty.

And, most of all, I cried because I hadn’t said a proper goodbye to my daughter.

I had had fantasies of how we’d spend our last night together as a tripod; A special dinner, and then maybe I’d sleep with her that night, since it would be our last time being just us. 

As a side note, late in my pregnancy my kid discovered a PBS kids show called Peg and Cat. The theme goes like this:

It is a show that encourages counting and early math. But the lyrics go

“We are two, na na na na na, Me Plus You, na na na na na…”

and every time I would hear this I would think,

“It’s me plus you, girl. It’s us. What the hell are we going to do with a fourth? And a BOY!?” I still get a lump in my throat when I hear that song.

Anyway, back to the hospital.

I was contracting and thinking and perseverating and all of a sudden, I started to cry.

I cried to my mom, really from the pain. “I can’t go another weekend like this.” I said. And I consider myself to be strong. Emotionally, I may be a basketcase, but pain-wise, I am pretty darn tough. But I just knew, much like the first time around, that it was time for this baby to come out.

At about this time my OBGYN showed up. He confirmed what the residents had said, that my cervix was still closed, but added that it had softened a lot, and said that my contractions were really strong and regular on the monitor, inevitably putting stress on my uterus.

“We’re having a birthday party today.” he said.

And then I cried some more.

Out of relief, out of fear, and out of, pardon my french again, the “What the fuck?!” feeling of having planned everything, every last detail, and having it all turned upside down by a sideways (literally) baby.

And I still hadn’t called my husband!

At that point the doctor offered me an epidural for the pain, but I declined. If i couldn’t experience a natural birth, my dream, I’d at least experience natural labor. And that I did. I am no masochist, but it made me feel like I could, at least, have some control over my body.

And so we called my mama friend. She would watch my daughter, and host a playdate with her son, whom my girl refers to as her “prince charming”. And then we called my husband. He was in a big meeting. He was told to rush out. He asked for permission to go home and change out of his suit. He was told no, there was no time.

I was forced to take off my all of my clothes, including my lucky socks. And so when my husband arrived, handsome and dapper in his suit, I had him put on my lucky socks, in their neon purple glory, under his gray slacks and ultimately under his full scrub attire.

The next bit was a blur; I met with anesthesiologists, got an IV, met my labor nurse…it was really happening. And my nurse, Katherine, held my hand and told me I’d be OK, as I told her how scared I was to go into surgery. How unprepared I felt. How my three and a half year old needed me.  I am very superstitious and her name starting with a K, the same as my Nanny, comforted me. It was a sign, like the signs I had experienced during my first birth. My angels were there. And there were more of them to come.

But then Katherine told me it was time. So my hair was placed in a net and I was placed in a wheelchair and I hugged my mom and husband tightly. It was time. I couldn’t stop shaking. It was time.

Time to meet my son…

(Stay tuned for more…and it involves some more signs from angels and maybe even a little spontaneous singing in the OR)

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A Birth Story–My Sequel: Part 1

31 Jan

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…)

Because it’s her day o’ birth and all…

18 Apr

I figured I should dig these up from the ol’ archives.

The Birth Story, as told in 5 Chapters.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5–A Happy Ending

Read ’em and weep, folks. Read ’em and weep.

Spotted:

18 Apr

On my sister’s bedroom mirror.

And, I’ve melted.

Scenes from The Bean/Happy Birthday, Twin!

11 Apr

So, I’ve been keeping a bit of a secret from you.

Actually, it’s kind of big…

(…at least in this land….the Land of Mom, that is.)

2 weeks ago, I spent my first weekend away WOB (without babe).

It’s taken me this long to share because

a) I had to find the right words

b) I had to process all that it meant to me

c) I have been terribly homesick for the weekend, and I was not yet ready to tap into all of the emotions that came along with it

d) I had many missed baby hugs to make up for

So, let’s start with a little question:

You have a baby, you spend every moment with her (save a few 8-10 hour stretches) for 2 weeks shy of 2 years. It’s time to leave her for the very first time. Where do you go?

I know what you’re thinking.

Duh! So obvious! (In the words of my girl, A,) Obviduh! You go see Twin!

So, after months of planning, (with a few moments of agonizing sprinkled in there) and a six hour train ride,

the husband and I arrived in Boston,

and, more specifically, into the arms of Twinny and Go Go.

It was perfection.

It was so us;

Wandering through Harvard Square, arm-in-arm;

Sharing bites of Grape Nuts Ice Cream and Anadama Bread

and sips of sparkling sake and gourmet hot cocoa;

Lingering in the Poetry and Children’s Books sections of the book store, reading about Haiku and Miro and Eric Carle;

Midnight dance parties and morning ebelskivers;

Our weekend meant so much to us. To all of us.

Our weekend made me feel light

and made me feel happy

and made me feel proud.

But, there’s only so much I can say in words.

So, here they are; Some Scenes from The Bean (and by scenes, I mean iPhone pictures of the food we ate…because that’s what you peeps really care about, right?!):

When I say that our weekend was delicious, I am not just referring to all of the sushi and onion rings and burgers and treats we indulged in during our stay. They were all great, yes, but nothing compared to the pure bliss of 3 solid days with my Twin.

And while it was hard for me to be apart from my little girl

(I missed a whole day of her life,

as that Saturday was the very first and only day of her existence that I missed seeing her wake up in the morning. It was weird, I tell you.)

it was also important.

Important for us (relationship us)

important for us (friendship us)

important for us (Twinship us)

and important for me.

Being a mother (for me) has meant giving all of myself to my little mini. But, in doing that,

in living the life of my dreams,

I lost some of my independent self along the way.

From the moment I became pregnant, my life was lo longer my own. Everything about me began to revolve around my daughter.

And so, our trip to Boston was rejuvenating. It was re-me-venating.

It was just what we needed.

And on that note, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the woman who was not only the Hostess with the Mostest,

but who, in the past 7 years of our Twinship,

has taught me what it means to be a sister, a friend and a golden, genuine, top knotch human being.

Happy Birthday, to my girl, way up Nahth.

I hope that you know how much better you’ve made my life

just by being in it.

I love you and am honored today, and always, to call you my twin.

Happy birthday, Happy Everything,

Happiness Always.

 

 

#febphotoaday/8

8 Feb

8. Sun

Because why have sunshine when you could have Starshine?

Made this for my daughter’s nursery while she was still in the belly; when she was still twinkle.

I still watch her, sometimes, when she’s sleeping.

6 Feb

I’m still moved by the rhythm of her breathing.

I’m still shattered by the feel of her hands, as they hold me.

I came across these little words, today, and I realize, now,

that my heart has grown

ever so much more.

Sweet girl, you glow.

My Daughter, March 2011

You are my daughter.

You whispered to me in my dreams

and said “Mama, I will know you. I will show you how big your heart can grow.”

long before we ever met.

You grew inside of me,

deep within my center

and in my heart

and I felt you dancing

and knew you, even then.

And then, I held you,

my baby bird,

and when you looked at me with those almond shaped eyes,

and opened your tiny, bow mouth,

we became tied.

We became a love story.

And you’ve grown.

Oh, how you’ve grown so beautiful.

Small, graceful hands,

made perfect for making nice.

Skin I want to live in.

And I stare at that face.

That face. That face. That face.

Your face.

That face of yours

that brings me to my knees.

When I look down at your sleeping face,

that leathery whip of black lashes,

the sharp chin carved from marble,

the colored cheeks and nose like a tiny clover

you are so breathtaking, my dear.

But, the beauty of your face is only second to that of your heart.

Your heart gives off light.

Sweet girl, you glow.

You share the sweetest of kisses.

You look me right in the eyes,

little bird.

You echo my own voice when I tell you how I love you.

You are my daughter,

my love,

and yes,

you’ve shown me

how big my heart can grow.

A second.

1 Feb

The time has arrived. The questions have commenced.

I’ve seen the looks.

I’ve caught the half-second-too-long-glances lingering over my mid-section (nope, sorry, it’s just the chicken burritos, thank you very much.)

People want to know when we’re going to have a second child.

They wonder. They whisper. They ask.

And the answer is…

Not yet.

Fooled ya, didn’t I?!

But, it’s a valid questions. My baby is almost 2, which, apparently, is when people start to grow siblings. In fact, most of the women who were pregnant with me are now pregnant again. Some of them have even given birth again. For a second time! Two kids!

I can’t fathom it.

Which is why, my answer remains

Not yet. Not just yet, I say.

I’m just not ready.

I love babies and I especially love my baby

(really? you say. I’d never have guessed.)

And being pregnant with and giving birth to my daughter was the single most magical, defining moment of my life.

And I’m not ready to do it again.

And, if we’re really being honest

 as I have been known to be,

it’s because I am scared.

I’m scared of all of the things that terrified me the first time around; I’m scared for all I’ve learned. And I’m simply not ready for the first trimester worries, the nausea, the green complexion, the exhaustion and the aversions. Nor am I prepared for the last trimester back pain, bed rest, bladder dysfunction. How do you cope when you have another child to care for? When I was pregnant, I could not enter my kitchen, let alone cook a meal, for 2 months. How will I feed my daughter?

And those are just the practical fears.

What about the emotions?

In my mind, every moment of my first pregnancy, the birth, my hospital stay…they were pure magic.

Pure. And magic.

So what would I be ready for ? I’d totally be ready to go through all that all over again. Literally. I’d love to be pregnant with my daughter again. To go through it all again. To relive those moments, those best moments; sitting in the hospital birthing course, sucking on the crumbly, delicious ice chips; driving to Labor and Delivery, contracting, for the very first time, with my heart in my throat;  seeing my daughter, swaddled in her tiny hospital bassinet, her almond eyes looking at me, opening her lips like a little bird; holding her for the first time, the only ones awake in the dark room at dawn, as I held her, our skin touching, knowing that she was showing me who I was meant to be, and that she was making me hers, just as much as I was making her mine. Those things? I would do those things again.

I’d do them again a second.

 I don’t know how anything else will ever compare.

A second child?

How will another baby change us? We are so in love with the little tripod we’ve created. We’re in a groove. It tooks us so long to get here.

I just don’t know.

I just don’t feel ready.

I don’t know how to perform the juggling act. I don’t know how to continue to give my daughter my all, while also taking care of a newborn baby. How does one do it? I just can’t imagine.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some things I am excited for.

I am ready to start brainstorming baby names with my sister again….even though she rejects approximately 98 percent the names I propose (including, might I add, the name I ultimately chose for my daughter. It’s grown on her, thank goodness.)

I am ready to be second-trimester-pregnant. You know, filled with energy and insatiable hunger, sporting long nails, thick hair and a little, round baby bump (one that does not resemble a burrito-filled pooch). Second trimester pregnancy is fun. I think I could warm to that idea.

I am ready to design and craft another nursery. That I could do. That I could love.

And I am most definitely ready for another Anatomy Scan. The very best.

But everything else? Not so much.

So, in case I have been unclear, this is not a post announcing an impending pregnancy.

Nor am I denouncing siblings, or denying that I will ever wish to have one for my daughter.

However, at the moment, I am saying that no, I am not ready.

So go ahead. Ask me. Stare at my belly. Watch me drink my wine.

I am not pregnant now and I don’t plan to be soon,

because as of now, I am counting my blessings and loving every moment I have with my daughter

and I don’t know when I will be ready to turn our party of 3 into a party of more.

But, there is one thing I can promise.

When I figure this all out,

when I decide I’m ready,

I promise to let you know

the very

second

I do.

 

Her 21st

18 Jan

Today, my daughter is 21 months old.

I can’t believe that she is so close to being two. I absolutely cannot believe it.

***

Tonight, I had to put away some paperwork in my filing drawer, and I stumbled into the “Baby Hospital” folder.

In it, I found her original (unofficial) birth certificate, copies of her foot prints, lists of her measurements from the hospital pediatricians, our hospital bracelets, her poop and pee schedule from the first few days..I found it all.

And I showed it to her.

And she held her foot up to the tiny foot prints, her present day soles towering over the ones on the paper;

she tried on our bracelets (and did not want to let them go);

she flipped through the papers of the packet called “The New Mom’s Handbook”;

and then,

we took shots.

It is her 21st, after all.

A case of the crazy.

22 Dec

Today, I took my daughter to the to the post office. As we stood in line waiting to buy our stamps, I noticed the guy behind me. He was fidgeting. He kept putting his hands in his pockets. What is he doing?  Does this man have a gun? Is he going to hold up the place? Isn’t there something about post offices and hostage situations? What’s my exit route? Will I be able to get out in time? I grabbed my phone and held it between my thumb and forefinger, keeping it close, in case I needed to secretly dial 911. I held my breath until we had finished our transaction and I was out the door and at a safe distance from the shop. The man behind me bought his stamps and went on his way.

***

Having a baby changes every single morsel of life; every single centimeter of who you once were and who you will become. It’s as if you become a parent and someone takes a hammer and shatters your self-portrait, and then you put it back together so that it kind of looks like you, but everything is slightly different than it once was, as things fit differently, shapes are shifted and cracks and fissures form where it was once smooth and pristine. But, I say this in the best possible way. Becoming a mother was the absolute, no question about it, best thing I have ever done. Being a mother is the peace in my heart and the joy in my life.

I cherish every single second with my daughter. I love her so much it knocks the wind out of me. She surprises me with new, amazing things nearly every hour. I am completely enveloped by my love and affection for her.

But, what happens when that all consuming love becomes a smothering, shattering, choking kind of feeling? What happens when you love your kid so much that it literally hurts?

***

When I began this journal, I did it to chronicle my memories, to share my funny anecdotes and, most of all, to speak honestly about the things that the other new mothers around me couldn’t bear to admit. I promised myself, and my readers, that I would share it all; I’ve shared my bliss, my excitement, my joy; I’ve shared my disappointments and my losses; I’ve shared so much. It wouldn’t be fair to stop now; I won’t hold back.

***

I’ve shared before the feelings I’ve had about motherhood making me feel a bit crazy at times. After all, the combination of sleep deprivation, surging hormones and a new, warm body to clothe/feed/change/love can be overwhelming. So overwhelming.

So new parents are stressed. And tired. And sometimes feel a bit loopy. Or loony. Or lost.

I sure did.

And then la la la, time goes on, things change, your baby develops her blood-brain-barrier and you no longer have to fear fevers and you’re ok again. You almost feel human again.

Almost.

Except, what happens when a little piece of that fear

of the cray cray crazy

lurks within you

and then returns, over a year after the postpartum hormones have waned, and many months after the breastfeeding hormones have dissipated….

For me, my fears have ebbed and flowed. They’ve grown with the questions I’ve feared asking my pediatrician, and faded with my daughter’s newest developments and the trust I’ve been able to place in her strength and solidity.

But lately, if I’m being honest,

I am feeling scared.

I love my daughter so much that I am scared that something bad will happen to us. To her.

I live in fear.

***

Last week, on vacation to my  happy place, I was able to live freely. It was wonderful.

The schedules that I so strictly adhere to seemed to wash away in the waves.

My daughter napped on the beach, and ate out for almost every meal and did not (GASP!) use a high chair cover or place mat.

And, miraculously, she was well rested and happy, flexible and wonderful, and she did not contract Ebola from a dirty high chair.

At least, I don’t think she did. I haven’t noticed any symptoms. Yet.

For the first time in a long time I was able to go with the flow. I was able to breathe.

But, although so many of my scary voices were quieted by the sounds of the sea,

they still haunted me. They crept up on me, sometimes so loudly that it was hard to hear anything else.

Like on our flight home, when the plane rocked back and forth in a bout of turbulence, and I felt so scared that I was literally shaking, teeth chattering and unable to move.

I was so scared of something bad happening. I felt so out of control. My instinct to protect my daughter was swallowing me whole, and I could barely breathe. I felt so guilty for putting her in harm’s way, so powerless and so afraid. In hindsight, I can see that by taking her on this vacation I gave her so, so much. I gave her sunshine and freedom and the ocean. But, in that moment on the airplane, I felt nothing but terror.

***

Today, I took my daughter to the post office. Today, I felt scared. Yesterday, I took her to have photos printed. I felt scared there, too. Why is that man looking at us? Does it want to kidnap her? Where is the exit door? Will I make it in time? What if he has a weapon?

And no, I am not exaggerating.

And no, it does not make me proud to share this with you. In fact, this is probably the most vulnerable I’ve felt in all of the hundreds and hundreds of posts I’ve shared. It’s one thing to joke about being crazy, but it’s another to feel, truly, as if my anxiety is taking control.

I know I am a great mother to my daughter. I just don’t want that to mean I have to be a scared mother.

So, my question is, how can I love her this much,

with the kind of love that gives me goosebumps, and overtakes me, so viscerally, that it’s as if I am experiencing life and adoration on a whole new plane of existence? Seriously, though. That is how I feel. Every single day.

I feel this incredible love for her when I hear her talking to her doll babies,

when she sings,

when she gives me eskimo kisses,

when she counts to ten and leaves out the number nine,

when she says “please” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome” to strangers,

when she gives bear hugs,

when she plays her cute jokes that only I know about,

when she moves,

when she smiles,

when she breathes air.

Even now, I want to cry just writing about my love for her.

I want my love for her to consume me. I just don’t want it to choke me.

Most of all, I don’t want to teach her to be scared. I want her to continue to be the fearless spirit that she is,

chasing iguanas, dancing in public, defying me when even I can admit that she is right.

It is going to take all of my strength to overcome this.

Thank goodness I have a pretty darn good motivation.

***

Tomorrow, I will take my daughter out. I will try not to be scared. I will try to look at the smiles of strangers and know that they are admiring my sweet girl. I will try not to look for the scary. Or for the exit door.

I will try to overcome this one part of my parenting that does not make me proud. I’m hoping that writing about this problem so candidly will help me to be accountable, so that I can really work on changing. I know I can change for the better. I already have.

***

So my self-portrait does look a bit different than it once did. Perhaps my pieces are not put back together in the right order, but I am more right than I have ever been before in my life. In my crevasses are my stories, the things that I have overcome, the changes I have made and how much I have grown.

And as my portrait continues to morph and evolve, I hope that I can take a way a few worry lines,

add a few more sizes to my heart

and continue to wear the overwhelming love for my daughter right on my sleeve.

Wish me luck.

When I peed on that stick (What I didn’t know then.)

23 Sep

When I peed on that stick, and, miracle of all miracles, got two lines to appear, I knew that I wanted to be a mother.

I knew that my life was only beginning

and that in living my dream, I would find joy and love like I’d never before imagined.

Yes.

I knew all of that.

But then, there were also things that I didn’t know.

So. Many. Things.

Basically, all the things that I have done in the past 6 hours, since I first woke up this morning.

Today, I saw my child sick.

And when the emergency care nurses on the phone line told me that she could be seen by her Pediatrician, but only if I could make it there in 15 minutes, I ran…

….to get ready. Ran to throw on clothes over my pajamas. Ran to my sick daughter.

Today, as I raced to get out the door, I had to ignore the fact that my daughter had gotten sick all over my bed.

All over her beloved stuffed animal.

All over my shirt.

Today, I put a fresh shirt over my disgustingly dirty shirt, to get to the Pediatrician on time.

Today, I didn’t make it on time.

Today, I managed to make it to the other doctor’s office just in time to wait an hour for her to be seen.

Today, I fought back tears.

Today, I told a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner that I did not agree with her plan. I told her that I thought she was wrong.

(Today, I was right.)

Today, I got my dehydrated daughter to drink one small cup of diluted Gatorade by squirting it in her mouth with a tiny syringe, one milliliter at a time.

Today, I did the laundry. And I didn’t mess it up.

Today, I couldn’t fight back the tears any longer.

No, when I peed on that stick and saw one line become two, I never imagined that I’d be sitting in a doctor’s office, with tears in my eyes, and knots in my hair, and poop on my clothing. I never imagined that motherhood, in all of its amazing, love-filled, beautiful glory could also, sometimes, feel

(and please excuse me for this/pun inteded)

pretty darn shitty.

But, I did it.

And after my shirt was changed

and hair was combed

and proper Pediatrician was called

and correct medicine was given

I held a sleepy, sick baby in my arms and read her a favorite book.

And sang to her.

You are my sunshine

I sang.

And, my little girl looked up at me,

her tired eyes half closed

and said “Sunshine”.

A new word.

And then I was OK again.

So what I didn’t know then,

way back when when we were just two people with two lines,

was that the little person that was beginning her journey with me

would be my sunshine;

and always, always make me happy when skies are gray.