Mommy Dearest

Well, I just can't seem to get it together.  G. is almost 6 weeks - hard to fathom - and I've neither gone for a walk with him on my own, nor been able to run any errands with him.  Today, I'm sitting around in the clothes I slept in, considering leaving the apartment and ultimately, napping intermittently with him all day.  Normally, I at least try to get some sort of rhythm going with the day - out of bed at 10am, music, dancing, reading, face time, nap time for G. and mommy checks her e-mails, then lunch, more face-to-face time, bath, nap, eat, face, crib time, nap, etc...Can't do anything today.  He's sleeping now on my lap as I write.  I have literally 20 thank you notes to send out.  We've been getting almost a package a day for the past 6 weeks.  Our landlord passed away last Friday, and we never sent the thank you card for G's little  outfit she gave us a couple of weeks ago.  To quote Bernie Mac:  "Don't wait to pay your respects, America." Marco lost his cell phone today.  We're both a bit spastic right now.  

But what about all those Super Moms who are out exercising and getting their babies on a consistent schedule?  Or even the ones who manage to shower and brush their teeth once a day?  Why can't I be one of those?  I am dead tired.  Even though G. is now sleeping about 5 hours straight at night, I feel like I will never catch up from the month I spent getting 2 hours a night.  I've got my 6 week post partum check up with Dr. S. on Friday at 10:15am.  That's an ungodly hour at this point.  I actually have anxiety about making this appointment on time.  

Meanwhile, he is the most precious thing in the whole world.  He is gurgling and babbling at stuff in his crib, and yesterday, at me.  He is smiling and tracking objects.  And he holds his head up, and has for a few weeks, like a four month old.  I adore him. He is, of course, brilliant.  I miss him when he sleeps.

Breastfeeding is becoming pretty much habit, but I have not mastered pumping and he has not experienced a bottle yet.  I think this is bad.  I just read last week that you're not supposed to wait much past one month and here we are at almost 6 weeks.  I did manage to pump two ounces last Friday.  Marco said he wouldn't take it when I was out last Saturday.  Out consists of going to Stop N Shop or Trader Joe's, although I did manage to make it to Marshall's last Thursday, after our Babies R Us shoot.  That was like a homecoming...I easily was at Marshall's twice a week the entire time I was off work and waiting for him to be born.

So...when will all my superpowers kick in?  I've got IRAs to deal with  and taxes and correspondence - geez, just returning a few phone calls would feel like an accomplishment.   

And I'm thinking about work again.  Scary proposition.  I have no earthly how we'll handle child care.   How do women do it who don't make six figures?  Child care is like $1500-2000/month.  

Oh, he's awake.  Must stare into his face and coo.  More soon?  I make no promises.

Wide Awake on Oak Street

Two weeks ago today, G. was pushed into this world.  He came yelling, arms and legs flailing, attached to my placenta via a much larger than I imagined umbilical cord.   He had a full head of hair, perfectly styled in the most chic shag with blonde tips.   His hair became the talk of the hospital.  And almost every single nurse and doctor asked me if I had had heartburn.  I had.  This connection between babies' hair and heartburn is a scientific fact now, apparently.

There are very little words that one can use to describe what happens to your head, your core, your soul when your child is born.  They've been used millions upon millions of times and it is always pretty much the same sentiment:  everything changes.  Your heart expands to love someone beyond what you ever thought being capable of.   I fell madly, deeply, crazily in love with my husband again, but even that was different.   It was all bigger, deeper, soul-altering.   We had shared and created and wept and prayed and yearned for this child.  And there, after almost three hours of pushing, and with no epidural for the last 30 minutes, my husband was holding up one of my legs and giving me the eye-to-eye contact I so desperately needed.  And then...at a moment when it felt as if the earth stopped turning on its axis...our son...our SON....emerged...slithered....flew....out of me with one final push that made me feel more alive than I've ever felt.  It was the most sweet, visceral pain and then release.  He had been released from the confines of my body, my womb, my pelvic bone, my narrow birth canal. All 8 lbs, 15.8 oz, which they rounded up to 9 lbs.  He was free.  

And I am forever captive to him.

So now we try to figure out sleeping and eating and not much else.  What does that cry mean?  Is that expression on his face signifying anything more than gas?  Is he angry?  Is he sad?  Is he in pain?  Pee, poop, change diaper, rock, pacifier, feed.   Repeat.  I have managed to sleep 7 hours straight in one shot to the detriment of G.  He slept for that long and I relished it, but he should have eaten somewhere in the middle.  Now we have him on an eating schedule, which makes all of our lives easier. Even though I can't ever get more than 4 hours of sleep in at night, at least, I can regulate my nap times.   This is what it has come to, hoping to nap on a regular basis.  

I spent the entire first week, including that Thursday night before he was delivered, wide awake.  I never slept more than a few minutes at a time.  I had banked about 4 hours by his one week birthday.  And I felt slightly deranged.   

My mom said that she was tired until we were about 9 years old.  Her advantage was her youth:  at least she was under 40 by the time everyone was 9.  In fact, when she was my age, I was 20 and off at college.  My brother Chris was born the day after she turned 30.  And that was the end of babies for her.   I still shudder to think that I will be 50 when G. is 9.  And then I look to my aunt Roxie for inspiration.  She will be 55 in March.  Her beautiful daughter will be 12 the day after her 55th birthday.  And Roxie looks like a million bucks.  I hope I've got those genes - my Granny's genes.  She is still drop dead gorgeous at 88.   And I've got the late fertility gene on my side.  Which is good.  Because, yes, we are already talking about doing it again.

So, back to those doors - oh my gosh, this one just flew open and will never shut!  Wide open, no going back, huge double doors with giant knockers (ha!).  There he is, inside this new, incredibly beautiful room:  so full of light and shadow, questions and windows, hidden knowledge, wisdom to be had, and God, God, God everywhere.  Oh is the Lord sweet or what?   What has He done for me?  What has He done to me?  Softened, broadened, enhanced, deepened my capacity to love unconditionally.  And to have a greater understanding of His love for us, His children, and for His own Son.   

These thoughts sort of consume my being in my waking hours, which are plentiful right now.  And they seem to have taken hold in some visceral way, as well.  I have muscle memory of the love that created and held this child inside me.  And now, waking or sleeping, everywhere I see his face.  

I expect to be wide awake for a while.  And I don't expect to sleep soundly again for a long, long time.  I hear him.  Must run.  

Here but Not Here

Here's Petty on pregnancy:

On becoming a mother:  I'm free fallin'....but even the losers get lucky some time.  

On pregnancy aches and pains:  Don't do me like that.  Stop draggin' my heart around.  

On being a parent:  Last dance for Mary Jane.   Don't have to live like a refugee. 

On going into labor:  Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me!  I need to know, I need to know, if you're gonna leave then just say so.  Take it easy, baby....make it last all night...

Actually, the waiting is the hardest part.    

And here we are 48 hours from the check in at the hospital.  One day away from the original due date.  When I saw my OB last Thursday, at week 39, she suggested I be induced this Friday.  We can do it one of two ways:  his way or the doc's way.   He's got 48 hours to show up on his own....and then it's all drugs and monitors and a forced entry.  

So here are a few things I ponder in these crystallized moments before Everything Changes:   every day that passes now is the "last" one to be a non-parent, i.e. this is the last Tuesday to watch Oprah by myself, etc. ;  I have no responsibility other than to myself for only 48 more hours, and then I will forever be responsible for and thinking about/worried about/loving this person until the day I die; I will become a mother to a real child within 96 hours and that role will probably become my biggest, most profound and lasting aspect of my own personal identity until the day I die.  Oh, that ominous phrase..."until the day I die."     Ah, but these are thoughts for another blog.

So before Everything Changes, Marco and I relished our "last weekend" as  __________.  We couldn't come up with a term that adequately expressed this period.    We kept saying things like "This is it."   "Last time to.....before little boo-boo comes."  But being able to sum up what and where we are now versus where we will be in just a few days has been a challenge.    We know that this change will be, quite literally, life altering.   But who are we today that we will be more of (or less of) on Friday?  What part of our Everything will change?  

And this leads me back to that idea about doors - opening, closing.  I think about there being many doors in a house.  That there are many rooms in "my Father's house" and that Christ is preparing each one for each of us.  So is my earthly room expanding or is this an addition to the house that God built for me here 41 years ago?  

Have all these years been leading up to me being able to turn the handle and enter in?  How different will it be on the other side?  And will I ever be able to go back into the rest of the house that I lived in for so long, so familiarly?  My guess is that this door just might open into a room that is bigger than the rest of the house in its entirety.  I think that I may delight in its new and unknown corners, secret cupboards, its vast library, its light, its view into a whole part of the yard I'd never seen before from new windows.   I think it will smell familiar.  Like my newborn baby.  

But the rest of my house will still be there, solid and patient, foundational, sturdy.  I can retreat to those places of familiar contentment when necessary.   I will bring my child with me and show him the wallpaper and the light switches, the views from the kitchen and my old bedroom, where I used to take baths in solitude, where I used to draw on the wall where my own mother wouldn't see.  And he will enter into my old house knowing that this is mommy's place - special, sentimental, secure and historical.  And he just might see me for me. 

 

I don't expect this to happen until he's middle-aged, if ever.  But a girl can dream. 

  

Anyway, we are not now in the "non-parent" period because we both became parents on June 8, 2007, right after I peed on a stick, twice, because I couldn't possibly believe the blue cross on the first one was right.  Nothing could change the fact that we were addressing the miracle of parenthood squarely in the face in that moment.   

Yet, there is something to be said about this child being here but not here yet.  He has commandeered my body, my mind and most especially my sleeping habits for 9 months.  I feel him move and kick and twist and burrow.  But he's not really here here.  He's still there. Tucked securely away in my womb.  A stranger to us.  To the world.  To oxygen and gravity.  But he is also so familiar and so present and so real. 

 

I still wonder how to describe this time that is not after but not before.  In a way, it's sort of like where we are as believers in this life. "So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen, for what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." 2 Co 4:18  What I'm seeing now is most definitely temporary, and what I can't see but what I know to be real, my love for this child and all that it will mean, is eternal.    We are in the Not Before and Not After place as parents.  And it is as real as it gets.

So here I am.....learning to fly.

And here (not there) comes my....boy.

Love, 

American Girl (raised on promises)

Doors That Close

One morning this week, Marco said, "I like having doors that close."  His father recently planed our hinky, old doors so that we now have a bedroom door that shuts completely, as well as a bathroom door that actually gives one the privacy one would normally be grateful for in a bathroom.   Our son's room, however, still doesn't quite shut completely, which appears to be a metaphor for so much of what lies ahead.   

I am feeling hopeful about doors.  I've been given a gift these past few weeks of pregnancy.   At 34 weeks, I was diagnosed with something called "polyhydramnia" which means I have excess amniotic fluid.  So far, here at 38 weeks plus, it's yielded little more than a weekly ultrasound and a weekly non-stress test, in addition to my weekly check ups.  And that little door into my womb gets pushed open every week via the ultrasound.  It's a miraculous, almost unbelievable view.  There is a child, a human being, fully formed, lots of hair, moving, rubbing his eyes, his face, oh-my-goodness touching his forehead with his...foot??, sucking, breathing, eyes popping open, mouth moving and grimacing.   He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful child I have ever seen.  And I long for him to get here.  I ache to hold him, smell him, look at him, rub my lips on his skin.  And what's cookoo, is that he is inside me, closer than he'll ever be again. Ever.

  

My therapist once said to me that she wished she could put her 18 year old daughter back in her womb for a while.  And every new mother I've spoken to recently says she misses the feeling of the baby moving inside her.  My husband seems envious of the experience.  It is truly (and sometimes, literally) breathtaking.  

And I can't help but think of Mary, carrying the Son of God inside her own womb.  Was Jesus a restless fetus, anxious to get on with it so He could get back home to Dad?  Or was He a quiet One, already contemplating the enormous life ahead of Him, relishing the safety and comfort of His mother's womb?  What was her pregnancy like?  Did she have morning sickness?  Did she cry when she gave birth?  How long was her labor? Did she spend nights wondering what this child would look like? Who did Jesus look like? Has anyone ever thought about that?  Who did He resemble?  His mother?  His Father? I bet Mary's neighbors whispered about it..."That child does not look like the carpenter, Joseph..."  And yet, we know nothing, other than she received the angel's message of her imminent, supernatural pregnancy gladly, as holy as a human could respond, and that she pondered all these things in her heart.  (Oh, her young girl heart, how enlarged, shattered and ultimately healed it was to become.)  

Both a Christian and an atheist mother mentioned to me within the same week that babies tend to resemble their fathers in the first year or two of their lives.  The Christian chalked it up to God's way of protecting the mother's reputation and confirming the patrimony and responsibility of the father.  The atheist chalked it up to evolution for basically the same reasons.  So here I wonder:  did Jesus look like God the Father?  Yet, "he had no form of comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him." (Isaiah 53:2)  What does this mean about the face of God?  What does this mean about my ideas of beauty?  

Fully human and fully divine.  In a way, I get it now in a different way than I did before: this merging of infinite Spirit with finite, yielded flesh to create the Christ. God is so mysterious, so vast in His ways.   Who am I to have been graced to partake in something divine, something my Lord partook in, something He shares with every single mother who has ever walked the planet?  The responsibility, the utter miracle, the sheer magnitude of it, are overwhelming.

  

So these doors that close and those that don't- they allow for movement or give us pause, give us glimpses into the Other Room, allow us to walk into that new space, or stop us dead in our tracks.  I feel as if I'm straddling an old space and a new space - who will be waiting for me in the Other Room?  Who will I become when I cross that threshold? 

 

I'll keep you posted.     

enjoying the silence...and barry white

i've joined the ranks of blogger moms.  i guess i'm more than that, a "blogger mom." i could be a blogger babe, a blogger producer, blogger wife, blogger synchronized swimmer, blogger bmc'er, blogger raver, etc., etc.  but the reason for this blog is the impending birth of my first child.  i am, for sure, a pregger blogger.  

i'm 41.  i'm 37 weeks pregnant.  i've had a lot of free time and blissful silence all to myself for over four decades.  and that's about to change. for-ever-ever-ever-ever.......or at least for a good 18 years.  and at that point, i'll be so old and tired and probably partially deaf anyway, that i probably won't have remembered the silence and the freedom of the first half of my life all that well.   and the trade-off, although i can't possibly fathom it yet, will be so worth it, it won't matter.  

i was dancing to barry white's "my first, my last, my everything" with my giant, giant belly this afternoon.  and in so doing, i couldn't help but joyously and astoundingly consider that when i put this song on my mix list in 2004,  it represented my new sexy-romantic feelings towards my now-husband, and today it means how i feel about this little child, this little, beautiful human being whom i don't yet know....dancing and crying in a tank top and tiny shorts with a belly that can hardly be believed....

by the way, i chose this template b/c a former colleague of mine from my music days informed me that a black screen uses less energy than a light screen.  so...i guess you could call me a blogger with an eco-conscience, as well.