"Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness"

I have been rewatching The Wonder Years. It is one of my top five favorite shows of all time.  Today I watched the episode called "The Wedding" (S:5, E:22) in which the older sister, Karen, gets married.  I have cried every time I have seen that episode, but in the emotion explosion due to my baby turning one, I really cried.  I have always loved the poem that Karen's mom reads and so I looked up. It is powerful, spot on, and so wonderful I wanted to share it here. Enjoy.

Happy Birthday, Beans.

It is nearly the baby's first birthday and I still haven't written her birth story. 

My girl was born a week after her due date.  I was dilated (to a 5!), fully effaced, and sitting at home not in labor.  My doctor decided to induce me on the 18th of January.  On January 17th, my boys and I ate ice cream and stayed up late to savor the last few moments of "just the three of us".  I was not sad, but I felt something strong about it all. 

We arrived at the hospital at 6:00 AM, ready to get the show on the road, but until I did the paperwork, got put in a room, robed up, and ready, it was nearly 10:00.  My doctor came in and broke my water in an effort to jump start labor without drugs.  For one glorious hour I had great contractions that were gentle rising and bearable in a variety of positions.  I also had a sort of elation that I was going to experience birth as is intended to be.  But alas.  It stalled.

At 12:30 I was put on a Pitocin drip and thus began the familiar rapid and intense contractions that silenced the conversation my husband and I had been sharing, limited my movements to sitting still on the bed, and sucked me deep inside myself and simultaneously outside myself all at once.  Lost in a swirl of waves, the repetition of the word "open" in my mind, and nothing but my husbands hand to ground me, I was suddenly and intensely jolted into my surroundings. Push time.  It had been less than two hours on the Pitocin, but I knew this feeling.  The nurse doubting my rapid progress, checked me and called for the doctor.  He arrived and I got to work.  I knew this work.  I had done it before.  This time I remembered the cues of how I should position myself.  Unlike the time before in its quiet, I let myself be loud.  Never screaming as that wasn't the response I needed.  But loud.  Powerful.  I felt my face curl into an awful grimace, but I allowed it. I did work.  In a few short minutes, I birthed my baby into the world.  I looked down to see that this child I had been carrying was a girl.  My girl.  And as I reached for her, I felt something I never expected to feel.  Fullness. Contentment.  Satisfaction.  Completion.  As she lay crying (and I was crying, too) and wriggling on my chest I felt us begin the transition of being two separate selves-this girl that I had just met and yet always known, and me as a single individual with only one heart inside me.  I felt my soul make the same commitment it made once before-a guarantee to stay connected to this soul for the rest of my life.

The next months were exhausting, hard, and rather dark.  The delay of this birth story is due partly to busyness and partly due to only recently feeling brave enough to recall those early days.  Postpartum anxiety took a deep hold on me.  I was home alone with kids too early.  My grandma died.  My body was weak.  My daughter couldn't feed right.  My son was angry, sad, and confused.  And I was terrified.

Was terrified.  It is important to note that I was terrified.  And even more  important to note that I am no longer terrified.  I am amazed.  Amazed that we made it out the other side ok.  Amazed at the joyous bond between my kids as siblings.  Amazed at the way I love my husband on a new level.  Amazed at the baby girl who has become talkative, active, playful, and funny.  Amazed at the boy who has become a helper, caring, curious, and kind.  Amazed at the way our family still keeps me feeling full. Content.  Satisfied. Complete.

My Mother's Bedside Table

An essay by a four year old

My bed just sits in my room. A wall at the head of the bed and a wall to my left. I have no where to put my toys and reading material other than in my bed with me. My parents do not seem to care that I often awake with toys jabbing me in the side or worse so near my face that they are dampened with condensation from my nightly mouth breathing.

My mother has this magical table right near her bed. It holds books, her phone, and her glasses. This is ideal. I can walk into her room first thing in the morning, grab the phone and demand to watch videos. If I knock her glasses to the floor to some unreachable spot that's too far for her to see, she may collapse in irratitaion and let me watch something on the phone. However, I feel that she is far to stingy with the magic box that plays cartoons, so I often have to resort to books. I have covered her Pulitzer Prize nominated book with the board book of Are You My Mother?- a classic story about a lost bird and snort. You should check it out. I have also crowed the night stand with such treasures as used tissues, a marble that she said I couldn't have, and a sock. My mother seriously does not know how to use her little side table efficiently-her books have no pictures, the little dish of earrings is "too pokey" and the lamp is just green- no animals, no design, nothing! If I had a bedside table I would treat it right. Pile it high with papers, cups, toys, dirty clothes, and even my pet fish, Hula.

So mom, if you're reading this, give up your table. I already covered it in my stuff making it basically already mine. Perhaps you could get dad to go ahead a move it over to my room? Thanks. Oh, and I'll get you the rent check next month- the stick collecting market is flooded right now and isn't paying too well.

Siblings

I really like my siblings.  They are people that I would spend time with, even if I wasn't related to them.  We share a corny sense of humor and an affinity for donuts.  My sister and brother also demonstrate an incredible willingness to be helpful, kind, honest, and supportive.  I really think that they are top notch.


One of my greatest joys has been to watch my children become siblings.  My son was 3.5 when his little sister arrived.  He loved her from the start, but her noise and needs overwhelmed him.  More than once after being told to be gentle or she could get hurt he replied "you can just buy a new baby".  Which is both funny and f-ing terrifying.  For three months I lived on the edge of panic and awe as big brother came to understand his sister.* 


After three months, my daughter was actually eating, making her more sturdy and less grumpy, my 3.5-year-old starting turning into an almost 4-year-old, and after a surprisingly crumby southern winter, the sun came out.  Things started falling into place.


First it was that big brother could make sister smile.
Then it was that she was big enough that brother could hold her (with help from mom or dad).
Then came the laughing.
Then the sitting up.
Then the playing with toys together.
Then it was the rides in the double stroller.
Then the head-to-head nuzzle.
Then it was the bath time together until the water is cold and both of them are all pruney.

They used to be just two kids who happened to live together, but now they are siblings.


Every now and then as I watch them interact on the floor, I get this funny feeling that they are bonding together so as to team up against my husband and me in the future.  I have these little visions of the two of them demanding puppies or trips to amusement parks, and the visions-I always give in. 


I am grateful that they will have each other.  I know that the years of pulling hair, breaking things, arguing, and fighting are yet to come, but someday when they are in their 20's or 30's they'll have each other to complain to about the fact that their mom wrote the intimate details of their lives on an internet blog with a title about flatulence.  But you know what my darling children reading this in the future?  Tough shit.  Also, brush your teeth.  No one likes a stink mouth. XOXO, Mom




*This single paragraph recap is a gross underestimation of the struggle we endured as a family, but this is one of those "light at the end of the tunnel stories".

Two Kids, Five Days, One Bag

I recently traveled with my two kids to visit family six hundred miles away.  While there, my sister saw my luggage and commented on the one bag that contained all that crap that a three-year-old, a five-month-old, and their mama might need for a five day trip.  With her encouraging, I have decided to share what I have learned about efficient packing with children.

This is the bag post-trip.  If you are interested in the bag, it can be found at Large Utility Tote

1: You are going to use less than you think you are.

2: If laundry is an option at the place where you are going, pack even less.

3: If packing diapers, pack them into your travel bag with the clothes.  By putting them in with the clothes, you are constantly freeing up more space in the bag for the things you are surely going to accumulate on your travels

4: Embrace the idea of clothes as pajamas.  A pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt can be used both for sleeping and also as a backup outfit if needed. You can plan for the kid (or yourself) to wear them on the drive home, eliminating an entire outfit from the bag.

5: If a single outfit requires its own special pair of shoes, pick a different outfit.

6: Baby shoes, while cute and a natural cause of "aww", are useless.  If the kid ain't walking, the shoes are just taking up space.

7: Skip the awkward sized toiletry bag. Wrap your toothbrush in a paper towel and throw it in the bag.  Pack just the basics.

8: Duffle bags are a lie.  While unzipped, they seem to fit all your things, then you go to close it and its like putting sausage back in it's casing. Stick to rigid shapes if possible.  It also is easier to get to what you need.

9: Make it multi-purpose: hydrocortisone works on burns, bites, hives, and sores. Skip single purpose items.

10: Accept that you may need to stop at the drugstore.  To pack for all types of possible injuries and ailments is stressful and demands a lot of space.  Pack one type of pain reliever/fever reducer (sans box) and hope for the best.

*I also had a diaper bag with changing mat, bulb syringe, my wallet, phone, etc. and bag that contained my pump and supplies.

**From this trip I learned that I should have packed sunscreen and bandaids.  They were the only two things I needed by did not have.  Next time I will pack only the lotion-style sunscreen (the spray kind leaves a smell on clothes packed nearby) and two bandaids just tossed loosely into the bag.

***If you want specifics, here is what was in the bag.

For me:
1-dress
1-pants
2-shorts
1-gym shorts that were worn as pi's but could be regular shorts if need
1-pair of jeans
5-shirts
1-bra
3-unies
2-socks
1-pair of sandals
1-swimsuit
1-book
1-ipad
1-charger
1-sweatshirt
1-zipoc bag of vitamins
1-small tube of hydrocortisone
1- hair straightener

For the toddler:
3-shorts
1-pair of pants
5-tshirts
4-undies
2-socks
1-pair of shoes
1-swimsuit
1- one cup sized pyrex with medicine
1-sweatshirt

For the baby:
5-outfits
1-pj's
3-socks
1- cardigan
1-pack of diapers
1-pack of wipes
1-swimsuit
1-bottle of infant tylenol
1- container of formula
1-bottle

Windows of the Soul

Whoever wrote "The eyes are the windows of the soul" must have cared for an infant.

Among the pooping, spitting up, feeding, and crying (sometimes from the mama, too) babies occasionally afford the most miraculous experience to those who care for them.  It is hard to describe without cliché, but it is beautiful and wonderful and my goal to describe it here.

 I literally look at my newborn all the time.  I watch her eat and watch her play.  I check her body for rashes and bumps.   I see her.  She sees me.  We have even reached a stage of chatting with each other.  But now and then, my baby will catch my eye in such a way as to invite me into her soul. There is no other way to describe it.  She will lock onto my eyes with this smile of utter joy on her face and attach herself to my heart. I feel my eyes well up with tears and my heart beats a little faster.  It is so nearly tangible, that when I inevitably avert my eyes, I expect to see the tether between us.  I am always the one to break the stare.  I try not to, but within a few seconds it overwhelms me.  It simultaneously breaks my heart and fills it. 

Even among the adults I love most dearly I have never felt that anchoring of lives through a wordless look the way I have with my children.  Pride, shame, or fear prevent that exchange between adults-whether on my part or theirs, the window is closed. 

But a baby.  A baby will let you in.  All the trust that they have in their entire being is in you.  It is a charge that is humbling and terrifying.  But each little moment that I am granted that view, I feel the forces within me pledge myself to a life of loyalty, love, and care.  And I know that she is seeing me, too.  She is the breeze through the gap in the sill drawing out my secret self.  The part of me that exists beyond my self-consciousness, my self image, and my doubt.

I remember telling my sister in early months after my son's birth that sometimes I would look at him and it was more than I could see.  Like I couldn't take it all in.  But now, nearly four years later, I am keenly aware of what was happening.  I know because I can't sleep at night unless he has been checked on.  I know because I have washed his vomit out of my hair, and the only feeling I had was sadness that he was ill.  I know because I have loved him on the hardest days.  Those moments I had described before-he was letting me in.  And I was letting him in, too. 

Friends have asked what it is like having kids, well, this is it.

 

Information Overload

My sweet daughter came into this world at 41 weeks gestation- enough time to have been thoroughly cooked.  However, she arrived with some surprises that made the ability to eat challenging.*

Nursing was hard from the start. The lactation consultant came to the hospital room on the day she was born and told us that we were both capable of breastfeeding and that it would come together soon.  She didn't sound alarmed.  Then we went home at 30 hours post-partum.

At home, she screamed at me in an effort to latch on, sometimes taking up 15 minutes a side to get on the boob.  We powered through, with my expectation that she was just on the verge of figuring it out.  "She is able to eat and make wet diapers, so she is ok, it's just me having a hard time." I thought this every feeding, so 8-10 times a day for days.

In my delirium of new baby/raising a toddler/lack of sleep I let this go on for two weeks before loading up in the car and going to the lactation clinic, after first getting a prescription for such a service from my OB so that this visit wouldn't cost a million dollars.

This one visit turned into weekly visits, which turned into suck-training with a pacifier, which turned into pumping, which turned into supplementing using a special needs feeder, which turned into surgery to correct her tongue tie and lip tie, which turned into using a nipple shield, which turned into weaning off the nipple shield, which turned into a return to the familiar painful nursing we started out with along with supplemental feedings of pumped milk.

Meanwhile, baby girl was weighed weekly and I did everything in my power to fatten her up, regardless of her poor ability to suck, high palate, and ability to spit up the entire contents of her stomach three times a day.  At six weeks she had gained a whole pound since birth and I celebrated.  (I got chik-fil-a drive thru and sat in the parking lot listening to my audiobook for 30 glorious minutes)

We are making progress! So why the cynicism oozing from this post?  Its because at some point it all became just too much.  Too much talking about it.  Too much pumping.  Too much stress.  Too much time occupying my mind.  Too much information.

Here are just SOME of the titles of the handouts given to me from the ladies at lactation:
Need to Increase Your Milk Supply?
Let's Talk About Galactogogues
Relaxation for the Baby Who Arches
The Calma (propriety bottle nipple information guide)
Baby-Led Bottle-Feeding
Breastfeeding Tips for Babies with Muscle Issues
Posterior Tongue
Suck Training Exercises

Now these nice ladies are wholly invested in the health and well being of mothers and babies.  It is a noble job and an under promoted profession.  My feelings of irritation are not with these women, but with this idea that the right thing to do is to struggle.

One thousand times I have wanted to crack open the container of formula that sits smartly on the counter.  But I want permission.  I still can't seem to grant it to myself.  The approval of friends and loved-ones still hasn't convinced me. Mom guilt is incredibly powerful.  I don't even know where it is coming from, but that doesn't make it any easier to reckon.  I used formula to supplement my first child, then exclusively formula fed for months. I was formula fed starting at six weeks.  My issue is not with formula.  It is my stupid inability to admit to defeat, as long as I can continue to make forward progress with my daughter, regardless of how much anguish it causes me, I can't seem to let it go.  I can't seem to say out loud, "I need a break."

I gain nothing by being stubborn.  I gain nothing by allowing my spirit to become weakened by fatigue and failure.  I gain nothing by denying modern advances in baby care.  I know this.  I know this full well.

And so, anonymous stranger that sits in a library in Tallahassee perusing pintrest and happens upon this post, or beloved devoted reader, or whoever lands here and needs to hear it:

"You have done an amazing thing.  (You have kept a human alive.)  You have earned the right and privilege to let go of whatever that thing is that you keep mulling over in your mind.  Let's do it together."

*My daughter was born with the mildest of issues. I feel absolute gratitude for her health and functioning body.  My heart goes out to all babies and mamas that face life-threatening challenges.

UPDATE:  In writing this I freed myself.  I opened that carton of formula a day later.