Chasing A Child

Home sweet home

Okay, here's the deal. I've decided that I'll keep this space for awhile to write about things that seem light enough for the audience. But I've also started a new space, and it's going to be a bit more raw, dark, angst-filled, angry ... hell, it's going to be honest. So sue me. I've written the first post, but I haven't actually, y'know, posted it yet. Working up my nerve, I guess. If you've been reading here for awhile and you don't mind going down into the depths with me from time to time, drop me a note about who you are or why you want to follow me, and I'll send you the link when I finally get the guts to post. I promise I won't keep your email addresses and sell them to spammers! Those who asked to follow me in the comments to my last post are already on the list, so no need to duplicate your request.

So much for old business!

New stuff. Let's see ... We ran into the social worker from our adoption agency at the playground yesterday, you know, the one who was counseling us grief-stricken infertiles while she was hugely pregnant? Yeah, her. We actually became Facebook friends with her a few years ago, so we knew that she now has two kids, but it was a whole different thing seeing them running around with our son and the other kids. Instead of this weird awkward relationship where she held the keys to the magic parenthood castle and we were standing outside the gate begging to be let in, we were all just a bunch of exhausted parents trying to make it through to bedtime. We were all very different people 4 years ago. Now we're peers. It was nice to see her, but very strange.

In other news, we're buying a new house! We love our current house, but it's in the wrong school district for the Boy. He's such a wild child, so smart, so charming, so easily bored, so talkative, so open, so constantly in motion, that it will be really easy for him to pick up with the "wrong" kids (because they're the interesting/exciting ones!) or be labeled as a trouble-maker as early as kindergarten, and we simply couldn't allow that to happen. We wanted to get him into a good school district where the parents are involved (and probably over-involved) in their kids' lives, where there are resources to  provide him with extracurriculars, where there are other kids whose families look like his -- mixed-race, well-educated, and a bit driven. I feel guilty in some ways, because we're taking him away from an elementary school where a large percentage of the kids would look like him, and placing him in a district where more of the kids are white -- I never thought I'd do that -- but I also didn't know I was going to get this particular kid with these particular challenges. And honestly, we just want the best for him, and he's going to get a better education in the district where there are more resources. We're very conscious of making sure he has friends who look like him, with families who look like his -- some of his friends are Ethiopian, some were adopted domestically, some have black/white parents. Together, those kids will be able to figure out how to integrate themselves into all of their various worlds. It's not going to be easy for any of them, and I'm still very conscious of needing to make more connections in the non-adoptive black community so that the Boy will have more black adult role models/advisors. But in the meantime, we chose to make sure that he'll get a quality education. White flight or just being good parents? I like to hope it's the latter. Judge us if you will.

Our new house (assuming the inspection goes well and there are no major glitches before closing) is awesome. We're moving from a brand new green-certified home in a hip artsy neighborhood to a hundred-year-old craftsman in a family-oriented neighborhood with big trees and well-tended yards. The house is in near-perfect condition but will need some renovations eventually -- it needs a dishwasher, and we're already planning a second bathroom and maybe a kitchen remodel. If we can afford it, an on-demand water heater and some solar panels for the roof. (I suspect I'll need to start a "remodeling our house" blog at some point.) But basically, it's a solid house, a family house, the kind of house that should fit us until the kids are grown. It's 3 blocks from the Boy's preschool, across the street from the middle school, a mile from the elementary school, and a half-mile from the high school. We were able to get into it because it's not perfect, and it's on a street that gets busy at rush hour. Other houses in the district are considerably more expensive and way beyond our reach.

The housing market here is a bit nuts. The inventory in our price range is pretty much crappy, so whenever a good house goes on the market -- particularly in our target school district -- it's snatched up in a matter of days. We were reminded of looking for apartments in NY, where you'd need to show up with your credit score, your deposit, your proof of income, and there'd already be 30 people looking at the place. Once we figured out it was the same situation here, we got pre-approved with the bank and the instant our broker sent us a listing we liked, we'd schedule a time to see it that night, ready to make an offer on the spot if necessary. And even then, we "lost" at least one house when there were already several offers in before ours, at above asking price. We didn't expect to see this kind of competitive activity, given the way the national/international markets are, but our city is popular right now, and once people move into this school district, they don't leave until the kids are grown, so it's a tight market. We're very lucky that we're not underwater on our current mortgage and that we're going to be able to lock in a ridiculously low interest rate on the new place. I feel guilty because there are so many people still out of work or facing foreclosures. This is a tight squeeze for us financially, but we're able to do it, and we're feeling incredibly blessed. Of course, we still have to sell our current house, which is more than a bit scary, but based on what we've seen in the local market, it should go fast. I certainly don't want to be sitting on two mortgages for longer than absolutely necessary!

Anyway (she says, finally getting to the thing I wanted to tell you about), our realtor made a point to tell the seller's broker about us, explaining how we built our family and that we just wanted the best schools we could get for our kids. As it happens, the sellers have a 5-year-old daughter who they adopted from China, and they are moving to get her into a district that has a Chinese-language immersion program. Their next-door neighbors have two kids through adoption, as do the people across the street. I know we were the first offer on the house, and they didn't have to take it, but they did, and our realtor is positive that what sealed the deal was the adoption connection. And they want to meet us, which I think is great. There's something about the adoption community that makes instant bonds between strangers. That sense of community is one of the positives of living in this post-infertility world, and I'm really appreciating it when I find it.

So wish us luck with the inspection/closing/getting-ready-to-sell/hopefully-quick-sale/moving process. Not sure how much time I'll have to post here or elsewhere in the next month or so, but I do intend to keep writing. Lots of things are in flux right now, but that much is clear. Writing is important to me, and this community is important to me. This community was my home when my IRL home was not a place of comfort, and I'll never forget that.

Where to go from here?

I had lunch with a friend the other day. It was awesome. She let me talk my head off about some difficult stuff that's gone down in the last few months (and years), and she gave me some thoughtful advice. It was such a relief to be able to talk about the things that have been rattling around in my head, but the best part was that she *got* it, and for an hour and a half, I wasn't alone.

Despite the fact that certain people think I have no boundaries whatsoever, there are things I just can't write about on this blog, and that sucks, because those things are directly related to my journey of chasing these long-elusive children. I want to write about what infertility, adoption and ART do to your life, your sense of self, and your relationships -- intimate and otherwise. I want to write about parenting and being married in the "after", and how babies never fix things that were broken before the wee ones were born. I want to write about battles that I can't believe I'm fighting and words that should never have to be spoken. I want to write about the way that you can tell how someone was parented by the way that they treat other people, and how conscious I am about wanting my children to not follow in certain footsteps. I want to write about being surrounded by people 24/7 and being deeply, profoundly lonely, even with a perfect baby nuzzling my breast.

I had no intent of becoming one of those infertility bloggers who stops writing when she has kids. But, for a variety of reasons, the things I want to say now can't be said here without creating a giant shitstorm in my life. Years ago, I made the mistake of sharing this URL with family members, and now I'm paying the price. If I happen to decide one day to open a new space for that story, and you'd be interested in reading, let me know.

****

In completely unrelated news, I've now started receiving hate mail of the white supremecist variety. Fan-tas-tic. Dear "Karen" in Ohio: It would be hard for me to send my son "back to Africa", since he was born right here in the good ol' U.S.of A. Perhaps you should go back to whatever European country you came from if you don't like me blogging about racist assholes like you. Just sayin'.

*****

Yeah, so, this space ... what to do with it ...

Second Time Around

I'm still here. Are you?

*****

Aside from that whole "giving birth with no pain meds to a live baby" vs. "adopting a beautiful 3-day old baby on one hour's notice" thing, there are 4 major differences between my daughter's and my son's babyhoods so far.

1. Breastfeeding.

I adore this part of the journey. Absolutely adore it. Even during nights like last night where the little bugger Would.Not.Stop.Nibbling.On.Me.And.Let.Me.Sleep. She wasn't hungry after awhile; she just wanted to use me as her own personal human pacifier. Even on nights like that, being able to feed this child from my own body is a truly amazing and humbling miracle. It feels good and it's fun. I'm producing enough milk now that the only time she gets formula is when the Mister or our nanny are out with her and haven't brought a bottle of thawed breast milk. Otherwise, it's all mama's milk all the time. I love the feeling of being able to pick the baby up and know that I have enough to make her happy.

I often think that the Boy would have benefitted a lot from being able to nurse. It might have grounded him a bit, provided him with some comfort when he most needed it, not to mention being so much better for his belly than the iron-heavy cow's-milk-based formula we fed the poor lactose-intolerant kid at first. Maybe he wouldn't have been so colicky. Maybe he might have learned to self-soothe. But, of course, that wasn't our journey.

2. Cloth Diapers.

Until last week, the beautiful BumGenius AIOs that I got on a major sale while I was pregnant sat all sparkly-clean in a drawer, mocking my prenatal enthusiasm in the haze of exhaustion that is post-natal reality. I was too tired and stressed to make the jump from the familiarity of disposables to the mysterious world of cloth diapers. And then the Girl experienced a serious bout of green poop plus a nasty diaper rash that wouldn't go away. I'm pretty sure that the GP is related to the beginnings of teething. But all the magic potions at my disposal wouldn't make that rash disappear. It didn't seem to be yeasty and I hadn't made any sudden changes in my diet that would account for the sudden GP and rash. So I thought "well, maybe something soft will help" and put one of the BG CDs on her at the next diaper change. I swear, the Girl looked up me with the biggest grin as if to say "thank you! That feels so much better!" And within 3 days, the rash was gone. The GP is still around -- like I said, I think it's related to teething. (Please don't tell me I should cut out dairy; I'll cry.)

Both our nanny and the Mister have expressed pleasure with the ease of the BGs, and we're all delighted that there have been exactly ZERO blowouts since we started the CDs. Zero, after 4 months of one to three blowouts per day! Woo-hoo!

I was nervous about washing them and whether that would become a time-consuming chore, but so far it's been not bad at all. I'm washing every other evening, and the covers air dry overnight. Frequent washing means that we don't have to deal with the smell of dirty diapers moldering in the diaper pail (that nasty plastic monstrosity that we call the "poo tower'" -- we used it for the Boy but decided it was too gross an experience to repeat).

Of course we're still in the easy stages in terms of the, er, consistency of what comes out of the hind end of the baby and I may get frustrated (or, perhaps, grossed out) when she starts eating solids. But for now, count me in the camp of the converted. I may start using cloth wipes next.

3. Gender.

Pink pink pink pink pink and did I mention pink? Good grief, it's hard to find girls' clothing that doesn't involve some shade of pink or pastel. But you know what? She looks good in it.

4. Been There, Done That.

There is something to be said for having parented an infant once, particularly having parented a challenging infant like our Squeaker. Now that he's a kid with his own clear personality, I look back and really understand why he was the way he was. I wonder what I'll be thinking when I look back on my daughter's infancy?

She's so mellow most of the time. I worry that we're not giving her enough individual attention, that she spends too much time in her swing or her vibrating chair. I worry I worry I worry. Practically the definition of parenthood, right there.

But I also know from experience that we can only do the best we can do, and that all of this will pass in the blink of an eye and I'll be wondering why I wasted time doing dishes or laundry. Except that the reality is that we have to do dishes and laundry. Life has to go on. I'd love to spend my daughter's childhood sitting still and watching her every breath, but pretty soon I'd be bored and cranky and so would she.

So the best I can do is try to make sure the kids are fed and warm and safe and loved, that the dishes get done, that they have clean clothes to wear, that the bills are paid so they have a roof over their heads. I keep going to work and I get better and better at compartmentalizing my life so that less time is spent on transitions and more time spent in the meat of things. And I watch as my daughter learns how to laugh and keep reminding myself that I've got to get that on video, quick, before this phase is gone and she's moved on to something new.

A peek inside my head

Yay, it's finally my one day a week when I get to stay home from work with the baby! Wish I had more energy. There's so much to do.

Why does it seem like every time I brush my hair it gets dirty? Hmmm. Oh wow, look at all this gunked-on crap on my hairbrush. Wonder what it is? Hairspray, residue of hair products? Gross. No wonder it's making my hair dirty. I could toss it and get a new one but this was an expensive brush. I'll clean it. The baby is whining, but she can wait a few minutes. I need clean hair! Gack, this is taking a long time. I can't believe I haven't washed this hairbrush in 3 years. Oh wait ... has it been longer than that? Maybe. Eeew.

God, I wish I had time to give myself a pedicure. Guess I'll settle for finally clipping this torn toenail ... oh, wait, the baby is asleep! I'll clip all my nails, yay! Maybe now my socks won't get holes in them.

When was the last time I shaved my legs? I have no idea. But the baby is sleeping! I'll just clearcut the forests of hair from the knee down ... there. Hooray! But I still feel frumpy. None of my pants fit and these jeans I got at Goodwill 2 weeks ago are too big. I look like hell.

Oops, she's awake again. Feed the baby, burp the baby, cuddle the baby.

I'm tired. I'm so tired. Holy hell, I'm tired. I feel like I'm going to throw up I'm so tired.

Switch sides. Funny how my left breast is the big producer. Poor baby almost drowns sometimes. Baby is getting sleepy again. I'll just peek at my work email while feeding the baby.

Wow, look at all those people writing to tell me I was completely wrong in the question I sent yesterday ... to every general counsel in my teensy little industry. Oops. That's embarassing. That's what I get for trying to cram a new regulatory scheme into my head while feeding the baby, eating breakfast and force-feeding my 3-year-old. Too bad none of them know I've been on maternity leave -- they might cut me some slack. Damn, that was a dumb question. Can't believe I sent it.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Hm, the baby's sleeping. I'm hungry. Why does it seem like there's nothing to eat when our fridge is packed full? Oh, maybe I'd better toss some old stuff out. Hey, look -- moldy bread, rotten lunch meat, shriveled olives, several jars of homemade stuff that people gave us 2 Christmases ago .. no, 3, was it 4? Hm. When did we order this pizza? It was definitely before last weekend. Not sure. Lettuce is turning slimy, strawberries are shriveled ... yogurt expired in December. Homemade pesto made before I gave birth ... Let's haul all this stuff out to the compost, wash the containers for recycling, put empty jars in the dishwasher ... Okay, fridge is clean. And basically empty.

I'm still hungry. Oh wait, the baby woke up.

Feed the baby, change the baby, oops -- baby poos on the changing table before I can get a diaper on her, clean up the baby's mess, diaper the baby, dress the baby. I always used to wonder why the Boy never had blowout diapers. Now I know. We fed him formula. Breast-fed babies = explosive yellow poo. Who knew?

Noon. Baby is babbling at me. What to do with the rest of the day?

When "Having The Talk" doesn't mean birds & bees

Behold, children in hoodies:

Scary, right?

I have to stop reading the Trayvon Martin stories, because they're making me crazy with worry, but I can't help myself. He looks so much like my son. And he's not the only one. Sure, the Boy is now only 3 years old and is hardly someone who could credibly be described as threatening, no matter what he's wearing.

But someday he'll be 11 and then 14, and then 17. Someday he'll be in his early 20s. Someday he might be walking down the street to his first job interview and pull out his cell phone to make a call and some lily-white fear-based whacked-out nutjob will whip out his state-authorized concealed weapon and threaten my child's life.

Please, universe, let my son stay calm and remember what he has to do. Let him keep his hands visible at all times. Let him speak calmly and move slowly. Let him be brave enough not to run and smart enough not to turn his back. Let him stand up for himself without being aggressive. Let the person he's dealing with have half a brain and some modicum of human compassion.

I worry that we won't have prepared him for this. I worry that he'll be too comfortable in white culture, that he won't have developed that sixth sense that might keep him from harm. I worry that after all the hue and cry is over and done with, the nation will forget this horrible killing -- and all the others -- and return to pretending that race doesn't matter.

We're at the stage now where our most difficult talks are things like "yes, that lady is not very nice to those doggies" or "no, it's not okay to throw a kicking screaming tantrum in a restaurant." I absolutely hate that our talks will soon have to be much more serious. How do I explain the lunacy of 400 years of racism to him? And how much does it suck -- for him and for all those other kids whose skin happens to be brown -- that their parents have to have these conversations with them?

Little things

The basics are pretty important right now. Sleep. Shower. Get dressed. Eat. Feed children. Dress children. Change diapers. Help with potty training. Brush teeth. Commute. Work. Pump. Eat. Work. Pump. Work. Commute. Feed children. Play with children. Put children to bed. Brush teeth. Sleep. And somewhere in there, wash dishes, clean bottles and pump parts, do laundry, pack lunch, pay bills, put on and remove makeup, brush hair, converse with the Mister, email friends and family, and generally keep all boats floating.

*****

I finally gave up and started co-sleeping with the Girl. Two nights so far and, wonders of wonders, the child sleeps! I remember waking up a couple times in the middle of the night to nurse her, but we were both basically still sleeping. It's not perfect -- I'm so focused subconsciously on not crushing her or knocking her out of bed that I wake up with a big crick in my neck from holding my body just so all night long -- but it's infinitely better than trying to convince her to sleep in her bassinet (which she's basically outgrown already), and her crib seems so big and lonely ... But did I mention she sleeps?! None of this up-for-2-hours-for-no-reason stuff. If she's got a warm body to cuddle against and a nearby food supply, she'll let me stay in bed all night long, and wow oh wow does that make mama happy.

*****

The one thing that's really not happening yet is exercise. After giving birth, I immediately lost a ton of weight and was within 5 pounds of my pre-baby weight. I know, disgusting, right? But it was actually a problem, because I wasn't carrying enough weight to keep up with breastfeeding. I ate a TON in the first few months, just to keep a minimal level of milk flowing. Six meals a day and ice cream every night, yay! And I'm still only 6 or 7 pounds above my pre-baby weight. I'm backing off on the ice cream now, because I can tell my body's metabolism is slowing down (drat), but now I'm dealing with the general floppiness of skin and belly and behind and, oh, pretty much everywhere that comes with giving birth when one is 46 and not an Olympic athlete.

During my leave I was at least able to get out the door for 45 minutes or so every day for a walk, but now I'm not even getting that. I basically sit on my a** all day, and it shows. I didn't expect to be Miss America right after giving birth, but I also didn't expect to be gaining weight after the initial loss of baby weight. I'm up several pants sizes from my heaviest weight pre-baby, and it mostly seems to be that my hips have gotten bigger, in addition to my floppy belly/behind issues. Is that possible? Will they shrink down again, I wonder? I wish we had space in our house for a treadmill, but we don't. Not that I have time to use it ...

Even today, the one day a week when I'm home all day with the baby, I haven't been able to get outside the house yet. I was about to head out a few minutes ago, but it started raining, and our stroller doesn't have a rain hood and ... sigh. I may end up going to the mall for an hour, just to walk. During the week, there is literally no time to exercise. None. How do other working/nursing moms do it? Or do you just not do it until something else in life eases up?

*****

In happier news, the baby coos now. And smiles big grins. And the Boy spontaneously tells us he loves us (while continuing to fight bedtime as if it's his worst enemy).

Hi-ho, hi-ho ...

I went back to work last week. Our little girl was 9 weeks old. It felt like I sprinted out the door Monday morning, ran full-tilt all week, and sprinted in the door Friday night. It was a full week. FULL. The temp attorney actually did a very respectable job keeping the worst of the work under control while I was gone. There are huge stacks on my desk, of course, but it's not the chaotic mess I feared. Just a lot of work requiring me to focus every minute I'm there on the task at hand, so I can dash out the door at 4:30 to start my home shift at 5. I'm working 7.5 hour days without a lunch break, which means that I have to pack all my food for the day so I can eat at my desk.

If I could leave the house earlier in the mornings, it would be helpful, but the sleep deprivation makes that impossible for now. Since the Mister is a nightowl, he's handling the Boy's lengthy bedtime process, and I try to go to bed with the baby at 9pm. She usually sleeps solidly until midnight or 1am, then feeds for an hour or so. After that, she naps an hour here and there in between feedings. She's a loud sleeper after midnight, so even when she's asleep, I'm not able to fall fully asleep for the rest of the night. I often seem to be awake or dozing with her in the chair from 1am to 5. She'll usually toss and turn in her bassinet from 5 to 6, when she needs more food. My alarm goes off at 6:30, the Boy is up at 7:30, and we're off to the races. I can barely get out the door by 8:30 when our nanny arrives.

And then we're spending half the weekend seeing various friends -- a friend's birthday dinner Friday night, brunch/playdate this morning, dinner/playdate tonight -- and Sunday morning we're having a photographer over to do our first set of family pix. After that, I plan to pass out. In all likelihood, I'll end up paying bills instead.

My maternity leave consisted of 2 weeks of sick time, one week of vacation time, and 6 weeks of short-term disability leave (at 60% of my usual pay). It was the best we could cobble together. I'm working 4 days/week, with the 5th day being unpaid FMLA leave. I'll do that until we can't afford it anymore. I wish I could stay home with the baby for the next few years, but that will have to wait until my next life when I'm reborn in the Netherlands or some other civilized place that mandates reasonable parental leave and universal health care.

The Boy is in preschool 4 days/week and his nanny has transitioned to being our baby nanny 3 days/week (she's in college the other 2 days). For now, the Mister has both kids on Tuesdays and I stay home with the Girl on Thursdays. We're hoping to switch the Boy's schedule around so that the Mister only has the baby on Tuesdays. Not that he can't handle both kids, but he'll be able to do a little bit of income-producing work if he only has one kid, and we need his income to pay for all this childcare. Figuring out our schedules has been like a very complex game of chess. Figuring out our finances is a never-ending balancing act, performed in the spare minutes I can grab here and there. Somehow, we're making it work, but it feels a bit like a house of cards -- if one extra thing piles on (visitors, school vacations, etc.), the whole thing could come tumbling down.

*****

I'm breastfeeding the Girl as and when I can. We got off to a rocky start. She had a great latch from the first minutes after her birth (our doula called her a hoover because she had such a strong suck), and I apparently have the perfect equipment for nursing. (Never in my life did I imagine that I would have so many women complimenting my nipples as I did in the days after her birth ... nurses and lactation consultants literally oo'ed over them! Way to make a girl proud ...)

But our little Girl had severe jaundice when she was born, and spent 36 hours under the bili lights at the hospital (bringing our total hospital time to 6, count 'em, 6 days). She had to be hydrated quickly, and my milk hadn't come in, so I gave them permission to start her on formula. I went to the nursery every 3 hours to nurse her, and I'd bring as much colostrum as I could pump in between visits. But it wasn't an ideal start. Eventually my milk came in (engorgement, ouch!), but it's never been enough to fully satisfy her ravenous hunger, so we're supplementing with formula.

This is good in a way, because it gives us the flexibility to use formula when we're in a place where nursing might be awkward, and the Mister can step in at 4am when she's been nibbling on me for the past 6 hours straight so I can get some sleep and my "perfect" nipples can get a break. The lactation consultants all suggested various ways I could increase my flow, but most of those methods involved more work than I had time for. For example, they told me to pump after every feeding, which was pretty much impossible, since she was eating every 2 hours and took up a full hour to eat because she'd fall asleep as soon as she latched on. I'd wake her up, she'd suck down a few drops, and pass out again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then I'd have an hour to clean the pump parts, deal with the 3-year-old, do laundry, eat, sleep, pay bills ... Um, yeah. So post-feeding pumping was a non-starter. I'm actually fine with it -- the situation is what it is. I nurse her in the morning when we wake up and once more before I leave for work. Then I pump twice a day at work (yay for a private office -- I can pump and work at the same time). Our nanny feeds that milk to her the next day via bottle, with generally one additional feeding of formula. I nurse her as soon as I get home and then she might have one more bottle of formula before bed. After that, it's mostly breast milk the rest of the night. Sometimes she wants an extra couple of ounces of formula towards dawn, but I've worked up to managing most of her feedings all night. Which, of course, means that I'm getting less sleep, but that's okay. The minutes may drag, but the days fly quickly, and before I know it, she'll be weaned and I'll be glad I did what I could.

Did I mention she has an enormous appetite? Seriously, our little girl went from the 12th percentile on the growth charts in the first weeks after her birth to the 75th percentile at her 2-month well baby appointment. It's truly astonishing to watch her grow. She blew through the newborn clothing in her first month and is now out of the 0-3 month clothes too. The Boy was always on the lower end of the growth charts, so I'm a bit stunned by our little Amazon. She's going to be tall.

So much to say; so little time. Must wake up the Boy and get myself and the baby ready to go out. More another day.

My sparkly son

It's been a lot of pregnancy and birth stuff on this old blog lately. How about I write about my first kid for awhile, eh?

The Boy has had a rough time adjusting to his little sister. He loooooves her madly, but Oh.My.God. the acting out! The tantrums! The whining! The pushing of parental buttons! The competitive wailing! It's been a stressful few months.

Sleepless nights with a newborn? No problem -- the Boy trained us to handle that.

Having a new baby in the house? No big deal, really. She's a mellow little girl and is working up to being a pretty good sleeper (although it will be nice when she stops making loud snorting grunting what-the-heck-is-she-doing noises all night).

Post-partum hormones? Not really an issue after the first few weeks, thank god.

But a jealous 3-year-old? Exhausting.

We've been working on changing our disciplinary approach, which is a big challenge for the Mister and I, creatures of habit that we are. I've been reading the Love & Logic books and then coaching the Mister, who has his own unique approach to raising kids. Some days it works, some days we end up yelling at each other about it. Eventually, we'll figure it out.

In the meantime, we're able to keep the Boy relatively peaceful by indulging his girly side. He's in the middle of a huge princess phase. HUGE. He loves Angelina Ballerina most of all, with Cinderella running a close second. He has demanded (and his loving parents have purchased) at least three magic wands, one pair of pink glittery shoes, a tutu, ballet shoes, and last weekend ... a big poofy Easter dress.

The Mister grimaces a bit each time a fashion demand is made and met, but he's pretty much the opposite of a guns-sports-trucks-or-nothing kind of dad, so we're going with the flow. The Boy's preschool teacher is delighted that we're cool with it -- apparently, some parents are very rigid with their 3-year-olds when it comes to fashion and traditional gender roles.

And just look at how happy he is! How could we deny him the fun of a twirly skirt and shiny shoes? (Sorry for the blurry pix -- it's a wee bit difficult to catch him standing still these days.)

:

The Birth (part 2)

Where was I? Oh yes ... the tub.

Eventually, the water cooled off, and they moved me to a bed in the tub room. I labored there for awhile, leaning on the raised head of the bed as I had on the wall of the tub. I was deep in my dark work space, and became increasingly angry when people messed with me. The nurses kept taking my blood pressure while I was in the tub, and now they weren't even waiting for a contraction to end before taking my vitals while I labored on the bed. The squeeze of the blood pressure cuff during a contraction totally threw me off of my rhythm, making it hard to concentrate on my coping mechanisms. (I had the opportunity to fill out a post-birth survey and wrote a long rant on the form about how invasive and annoying this was.) The nurses even had the nerve (the nerve!) to have conversations in the room, and I remember snapping at one of them to stop talking. I know now that the shift change was coming up and they were telling the Mister and our doula that they wanted to get me back to my room if I wasn't going to get back in the tub. I remember the new nurse and on-call OB coming to introduce themselves to me, but I was too far gone to even make eye contact, much less say hello.

It was dark outside by this time, and I couldn't stand the idea of getting back in the tub -- by the time I'd climbed out, my fingers were turning into prunes, the giant tub had become too small and confining, and the water wasn't making me happy. But I also couldn't imagine how I could possibly get back to my room. The contractions were coming too hard and fast, and there was no way I could emerge long enough from my cave to walk. I managed to communicate this to the Mister, using just a few words, tone of voice, and a glare. He then acted as my interpreter to the rest of the room. Our doula called for a wheelchair. They wrapped me in towels, then we waited until the end of a nasty contraction and helped me clamber into the chair. It was incredibly uncomfortable, and I could feel another contraction rising up. I couldn't face the lights or the faces at the nurse's station in the hallway, so I covered my face as they ran me (and my good buddy Stanley the IV trolley) down the hall and back to our room. Thankfully, it was a quick enough trip that the next contraction didn't hit until we reached our room, because the noises I was making would have echoed down the hall. (It occurred to me that the L&D rooms must be heavily soundproofed. Wonder if that's true?)

Back in our room, mysterious hands (nurses? the Mister? our doula? I wasn't looking and didn't really care) helped me up in the bed, where I again knelt facing the raised head of the bed, gripping it as each wave came in. The Mister continued placing a heated bean bag on my back, giving me sips of water mixed with Gator*ade between contractions, and oh yes -- handing me tissues. I guess I forgot to mention until now that I was laboring with The Snotty Cold From Hell. I must have blown my nose at least once per contraction, sometimes twice, which just further annoyed the hell out of me. Ugh.

It felt like I was only on the bed a little while, but the Mister assures me it was at least another hour. The room cleared out and somehow it was just the two of us when I turned to him and said the most words I'd managed in awhile: "You'd better get someone in here. I feel like I want to push." The room filled back up with blue-suited medical people. Someone checked my cervix - ouch ouch ouch bloody hell OUCH. But I was 8cm dilated! How had that happened so quickly? Ah, the funny things time was doing ...

They moved me and Stanley to the bathroom and sat me on the toilet. Our doula told me that I was in transition, and that this would be the hardest but shortest part of my labor. (I remember thinking "Transition ... transition ... I know it's an important stage and towards the end, but what happens during transition?" It was like I'd forgotten to study for that part of the exam.) Oddly, I enjoyed transition a lot more than the earlier labor. I wanted to push and they were fine with that, so I didn't hold back. The contractions at this point were strangely intense. It really felt like something momentous was happening, which was so much better than the hours and hours of sick-feeling surges. The Mister took the brunt of the pain during this period as he knelt on the floor and let me use his arms for support and leverage as I strained and roared. I really thought I was only there for 15 minutes or so, but I've since been told it was at least an hour. I vaguely recall someone checking my cervix and saying there was just a little lip left. It was time to push for real.

When they moved me back to the bed, the room had been transformed into a birthing space. The foot of the bed stepped down like a staircase, the heating lamps were on over the infant bed, and the room was brimming with carts full of medical equipment, blue tarps, bowls, and a lot of other whatnot that I barely glanced at with my peripheral vision. I was still focused primarily on getting through the contractions, and the urge to push had become very strong.

By this time, the strangest thing was happening. I could actually feel the baby twisting and turning her way through the birth canal. I'd push during a contraction and it would be horrible and uncomfortable and then -- ah! -- I felt her head reach the next station and I could relax. And then the same thing would happen with the next contraction. It was at this point that I really began to bond with the baby as I admired her ability to corkscrew her way through my pelvis. How did nature let her know how to do that?? And how completely bizarre was it that there was a human head traversing its way through my pelvic structure?!

They had added a birthing bar to the bed, and I squatted on the edge of the bed's top "step" and pulled on that damn bar for all I was worth. (In hindsight, I think they should advise birthing women to do lots of pull-ups during pregnancy if there's any chance there will be a bar involved at the birth. Just saying.) Pushing was a bitch, I won't lie. It felt like I was trying to pass the biggest poo in the history of the universe, and every position was uncomfortable. I could feel the baby in the birth canal and no matter how I moved, I was sure I was sitting on her head. I was almost out of steam, and several times thought to myself "They're just going to have to cut this baby of me. I can't do it anymore." The contractions had slowed down to one every 5 minutes or so, which stretched the time out. All total, I pushed for about 2 hours, and for 1 hour the baby's head was crowning. Yup, I hung out in the dreaded "ring of fire" for a full hour. They had placed a big mirror at the foot of the bed, so I could see the top of her head I and eventually I was able to reach down and touch it, but getting past that point was more than I could do.

As it turned out, this gave the OB plenty of time to use mineral oil, warm compresses and perineal massage, which I thanked her for when all was said and done. I didn't even get her name until afterward, but she was a patient person and didn't rush me. That was a huge gift, because I needed to take my time. The room was full of people -- god knows who -- and every time I'd start pushing, they'd all lean forward and encourage me to keep going. Then I'd run out of energy and they'd all slump back or sit down. The room would be completely silent while I caught my breath and we all waited for the next surge to come.

I had lost the strength in my arms and could no longer hang on the birthing bar. Instead, I reclined back in the raised bed, with my feet braced against the bar, gripping the handles where the ends of the bar met the bed. My legs were shaking with hormones and exhaustion and it was hard to keep the traction going. Suddenly, at the very end of a particularly difficult push, I felt something snap in my chest. I gasped and clutched at my sternum. "Something very bad just happened!" I cried. I was afraid that it was my heart or something equally deadly, but what it really felt like was that my sternum had just cracked down the middle. The medical people were obviously concerned, but after some questioning, they decided I wasn't in imminent danger, and that the most important thing was to get the baby out ASAP. They let me catch my breath, and then ordered me to keep pushing. I realized I had no choice and, still terrified, got back to work.**

The OB coached me to stop vocalizing and move that energy into pushing. It was hard to switch gears from what I'd been doing all day, but once I did, I was able to make more progress. Finally, I heard the Mister say that he could almost see the baby's face. And it was that word "face" that made think "Right, this is a baby with a face, and it's time to get her out!" About that time, they finally removed the girdle! Woo-hoo! I pushed as hard as I could, and this time, when I reached that familiar "I can't do this anymore" place, I didn't stop. The room erupted in cheers as the baby's head popped out. The OB suctioned her quickly, and then the rest of her body slid out easily. I think she was screaming before she was fully out in the air. "It's a baby!" I rejoiced in surprise, as they lay her on my chest. And then "Oh my god, I feel SO much better!" She was still yelling when she reached my arms, mad as hell to be pushed from her warm uterine home, a slippery bundle of purple wrinkled skin, covered in blood and sticky white vernix, and absolutely perfect.

Per our birth plan, we had lots of time to bond. We waited until the cord stopped pulsing before the Mister cut it. The OB delivered the placenta and gave me two small stitches. They compressed my uterus from the outside and dumped a final full bag of Pitocin into me to help stop the bleeding. At last, I would be free of Stanley! Our doula helped me start breastfeeding, and the baby latched on right away. We called our parents, and then relaxed as the medical staff took care of cleaning up the mess and getting me and the baby ready to move. The Mister helped with her first bath and I lounged around like a lady of leisure. Our little girl was born at 10:36 and we didn't get settled into our room upstairs until about 1am, but I was grinning the whole time.

I was fine, the baby was fine. After 46 years, 3 IUIs, 2 IVFs, two chemical pregnancies, one 11-week miscarriage, one last-minute adoption, 3 years of sleep deprivation, two generous donor families, one failed FET, one little heartbeat, 39 weeks of nervousness, one external version, a 3-day induction (two doses of Misoprostol, one Foley catheter, umpteen bags of Pitocin), one mysterious mid-birth chest injury, and not one single pain medication, we had a 6-pound 13-ounce daughter, 19-1/2 inches long, who scored a perfect 10 on the Apgar scale, "and we never give 10s!"

Was I a proud mama? You betcha.

 

**[We never did figure out what happened to my chest. The doctors' best guess is that, due to the amount of relaxin in my body peaking during labor and the strain of pulling on the birth bar, I either popped out a rib or tore a ligament. Either way, the pain of that injury completely overshadowed and out-lasted all of my other post-partum discomforts. I went through a 12-hour labor with no pain meds, but had to take Vicodin for my labor-related chest injury. Go figure.]

We interrupt this story ...

... for some cuteness. Because I'm just too tired to write today.