Rosie's First Birthday

-From December 5, 2011-

I woke up at 3:01 AM on the dot this morning.  That is precisely the minute on this day last year that I awoke, stood up and started walking to the bathroom.  I can hardly remember who I was then, but I remember parts of the next few days down to the most intricate of details.  And yet, still, there are whole chunks of time that I have completely lost from my memory.

I had fallen asleep on the couch that night after spending the day recovering from the stomach bug that had ravaged our house.  I was better, but still very tired.  I rolled over with my huge pregnant belly, got up from the couch and felt the feeling that every non-pregnant girl knows – warm, liquid was coming out of me.  I thought maybe that my water had broken, but then I saw that it was blood.  And there was lots of it.  In the fog of the early morning hours, my brain tried to compute what it was that was happening.  Adrenaline started flowing as I realized that this shouldn’t be happening because I was most definitely very pregnant. 

Pat still remembers being awoken by me that morning.  I don’t remember waking him.  He says that I was composed and firm.  He says that I kept calmly explaining to him what was happening.  That he had to get up and that we were headed to the hospital.  I don’t even remember.  I remember showering off, thinking that I cleaned up the bathroom (only to learn later that the people who came to watch Charlie re-cleaned it because they thought it looked like a crime scene) and waiting by the back door willing my belly to move with a baby’s kick.

At a certain point in my pregnancy with all of the bleeding I had experienced and all of the roller coaster-like doctors’ visits, I had meditated and prayed to the soul within me.  One night, in the bedroom where my one-year-old daughter now sleeps, I talked out loud to her.  I felt a little crazy – hell, I was a little crazy – while I told her that I could deal with it if she had to leave.  That it would break my heart, but I would carry on.  I asked her then, at about 18 weeks pregnant, to leave now if she knew she was going to have to go.  I told her that I didn’t think I could make it through losing her if she left later on.  After that night, I felt a strong sense that she would stay with me.  That whatever it took to get her here might be rough, but that she would pull through regardless.

But when I saw the blood everywhere, I thought that my prayer that had felt answered was only a wish that hadn’t come true.  I knew that I had to hurry to the hospital, but I was so afraid of what we would learn.

The magnitude of that situation last year sits on me this morning more than usual.  And yet, it feels almost silly because upstairs right now is my baby girl asleep in her crib.  She smiles, laughs, jokes, eats, claps, talks, crawls and almost-walks.  I wish I could travel back in time and hug my pregnant self as I frantically showered off the blood to get into the car to go to the hospital.  I would whisper, “It’s all going to be o.k.”

But, of course, that pregnant mama wouldn’t have totally believed me.  I knew that placental abruptions could equal disaster for all, even though I didn’t yet know that that was what was happening to me.  I knew that gushing blood six weeks before my due date wasn’t what we wanted to see.  I could see the concern etched in all of the nurses’, midwives’ and doctors’ faces as they tried to piece together what might be happening and what the best way to proceed was.  I could see when their concern changed to a controlled panic and then almost to pity when they worried that things could be bad for my baby girl.

I remember that the bleeding stopped by the time I reached the hospital and my explanation of how much blood there had been didn’t alarm them too much.  But then, about an hour later, I felt the familiar feeling of blood; I sat up.  It poured out.  And the nurse became worried.  The high-risk doctor and my own doctor had just left my room.  Both came back quickly now.  Within minutes, we were signing release forms and Pat was donning scrubs.

I remember the look of worry in the eyes of my midwife – a woman who has seen more births than most – as she sat with me while the doctor prepped.  I remember her eyes darting to the floor of the operating room when my doctor asked how long this amount of blood had been coming out of me.  I remember that the anesthesiologist was kind to me as I asked question after question about what was happening next.

I heard a woman counting gauze pads and scalpels and realized they were keeping track so that nothing would be forgotten inside of me (clearly, I have watched way too many "ER" episodes to be conscious enough to have that thought while on an operating table in an emergency).  There were so many people in what felt like a tiny room and there was so much scurrying and hurrying.  And then Pat appeared.  I asked my doctor how it was going.  She said, “It’s going well because you have no fat to cut through.”  I’ll remember that line until the day I die, or at least every time I step on a scale or decide not to go for a walk.  And I'll take that second doughnut, thank you very much.

I remember just wanting to hear a cry.  It took long; surgery takes long.  Finally, I heard a muffled cry, but it quickly went silent as my baby girl coughed up the blood that she had been swimming in inside of me.

Pat went over to her then.  He left my side for hers, just the way I would have asked him to had I been aware enough of what to ask for.  Later, he told me that he said good-bye to her then.  There was a lot of blood and not a lot of clear breaths being taken by her and so he touched her amidst the doctors working, rubbed her and told her that it was ok if she needed to go now.  No one thought he was overreacting, which is to say that these moments were extremely precarious.  Many of them are a blur; some will never be.

I know now when that took place because I remember him coming back to me with wet eyes that hid something that I didn’t want to know.  He said she was ok, but everything about him belied the truth.  Like a child who pretends to believe in Santa long after she knows the truth, I, too, asked nothing further about my girl. 

I understood later that these moments were when she was in the most peril, when things could have gone very wrong and this whole story wouldn’t have ended with the facts that she now says “Ho, ho, ho” when you ask what Santa says or “Owl” when she spots a picture of any owl-like bird within a ten-foot radius.

Learning to share the task of turning the page... not sure who is teaching whom.

***

All of these memories flooded back in throughout the day today.  The chaplain coming into our room, the social worker – all of the people that you don’t want to see on the day your daughter is born.  With each of those frightening memories, though, there are beautiful ones.  The NICU nurse who put warm blankets on my shoulders when I went up to nurse Rose.  The people who brought us food while we were in the hospital.  The people who took care of Charlie so that we could focus on Rose.

Rosie, for as long as I am alive, you will hear the story of your birth with all of its knotty details every year on this day.  Some years, you will listen intently; other years, you will roll your eyes.  Oh, god, how I wished last year at this time that you would roll your eyes in annoyance at me someday.  Yes, you will get sick of the story until, if you decide and are lucky enough, to have a child of your own.  Then you will, I think, understand on some level the rollercoaster of fear, despair, anxiety, triumph, elation and, finally – oh thankfully, we made it to finally – happiness that we were on with you as we welcomed you into this world.

Your birthday feels like a birthday for me, too, for I am certain that I was born again on that day.  I became a mother on that day of the most primal variety fighting for you, learning from you, listening and waiting for every breath.

Week One of Rose's Life

Week 52 of Rose's Life

I learned that some times really bad situations, amazingly, can still turn out something really good.  I learned to believe.  I learned to find the good.  I learned, as I looked around that NICU, that you can always find someone who has it worse than you in some way, and, though that shouldn’t be your barometer for how you are feeling, if you need a kick in the ass, head in to any hospital anywhere where a child who is loved is sick.  Look at those parents.  If you want to see the face of grief, of disaster, look into the eyes of those parents who would do anything to have their child come out alive and well.  Then, go back out in the world and live.

I learned that having people who really want to help can make life so much easier to live.  I learned, too, what it means to really help someone in need: not to do the thing that you want to do for them, but to do the thing that they need you to do for them.  I learned that some people that you think will be good at this will suck at it.  And, others that you would never have asked before for anything will come to your rescue when you least expect it.

I learned that your Dada is the best Dada in the whole world for you because he, too, accepted being born again on that day.  He became a part of the agonizing group of fathers who have had to say good-bye to their babies.  He did it alone, without me, because I was too out of it to know that that is where we stood.  He left my side for yours because he knew that you needed him more.  He became one of the miraculous few to join that group, and then – luckily, thankfully – have his membership relegated to the “Almost” roster.  He had to say good-bye to you, but was able to say hello again.  Don’t think he doesn’t think about that every day when you wake at dawn.  It makes early wake-ups feel downright beautiful… sometimes.

He, like I, will never forget the lessons learned from the couple of days that we spent in the land of “this might not work out all right.”  We would be complete fools if we missed, or more likely, forgot, all of the love and hope and faith and connection that take some people a lifetime to understand.  You put us on the fast track to grasping and focusing on the things that really matter in life.  We might have wished for an easier way for these realizations, but we know that there are harder ways that we were lucky enough to avoid.

My smile looks like it's about to bounce off my face, but you know what?  I was that happy to be there with her.

Today, you raced around the house on all fours pulling yourself up to standing anywhere that was somewhat stable whether it was a wall, an oven door or your brother’s head.  You walked while I held your fingers.  You played with toys, you laughed, you talked.  You said “Mama” and “Hi Dada” and “Arlie” and all of the other words that ramble off of your tongue regularly.  I should marvel at all of this everyday, but I have already forgotten that none of this was a given on this night a year ago.  You make me forget because you just jumped into our world and moved on. 

I’m following after you, sweetheart.  Here I come.

Harebrained Idea(s)

Yesterday, the monotony of the week had taken its toll; I was ready for adventure.  Pat was headed downtown for a meeting and I asked if we could drive him.  I never say, "Poor Pat" - I never need to because my mother always does (she is the exact opposite of the typical definition of a mother-in-law with him in that I am pretty sure the blood line she shares with me has been obliterated by her adoration of my husband), but I will say "Poor Pat" just this once because I saw his eyes as he cancelled out the vision of a quiet ride to himself into the city and back again and replaced it with what actually happened: two kids talking and singing loudly in the back seat while he intermittently replied to emails and I drove.

I needed to see something new.  Actually, just as I sat down to write this, I started to go through my phone to see what pictures I took of our adventure yesterday.  As I scanned through, I noticed a theme: I could trace my weeks through the pictures.  The week starts with pictures of the kids inside and outside, finding fun any which way.

Then, more things like this appear.

Finally, pictures from a new location show up.

End of Week 1:
Charlie on a hike in the woods

End of Week 2:
At a farm - this place is 10 minutes from our house!

End of Week 3:
At the lake

By the end of the week, I just cannot stand to be around my wonderful, little town anymore.  I have to get out.

Yesterday, we drove Pat downtown and then headed to Hyde Park and the University of Chicago to visit my mom at work.  I love seeing different.

One of the things I really miss from my life before having young kids is being able to just go.  When I get this longing for adventure, I still go, but it's so flipping slow.  And if I rush it?  Well, then the feeling of adventure just turns into a feeling of defeat and anger at how things turn out because I never win when I rush them.  It is one of the great truths of parenthood: You will always lose if you rush them.

So we amble along where I would otherwise like to move more quickly.  I do less but I see more with them at my side.

Not really interested in the Business School, but definitely interested in his reflection.

I kissed Pat good-bye when we dropped him off at his fancy restaurant.  With our packed lunches in the car, I drove away and yelled to him: "I might live to regret this, but at least I'm living!"

Just as he shut the door after kissing Rosie on the head, I was pretty sure that the "live to regret this" part would be all that I remembered once I got home because Rose cried from North Michigan Avenue to Hyde Park because her daddy didn't take her out of the car with him (and maybe she knew that our lunch wasn't going to be as special as his).

But, once we made it there, and had lunch in the car while the three of us sat in the front seat outside of Rockfeller Chapel (we couldn't make a picnic outside because my kids were hungry... you eat wherever when your kids are hungry), I felt like I was living.  I also felt a little crazy, but definitely alive and in the moment... Guess those are the bonus feelings to being crazy.

We walked around and met my mom.  Charlie played at a new park.

And then I pretended that they would take a late afternoon nap on the car ride home.

Pat finished up working and took a cab so that he could drive home with us - a move I am sure that he regretted as we sat in traffic with two kids who didn't feel the need to nap.  Each of us, I believe, silently thought of how much better it would be to be in the coffin that is a Yakima rack on top of the car rather than riding in the looney bin that our children create in the car.  But we said nothing to each other.

Well, I spoke.

I said, "Thanks, this was fun for me."

Size 2

I run up and down our stairs at a good clip multiple times a day - up for socks, down with laundry, up for a toy that he cannot find, down with diapers that she needs.  I add weights to that routine at least 50% of the time: up with Rosie to rock her to sleep, down in a Spiderman-like fashion avoiding the creaky stair spots so that she doesn't awaken.

I eat not when my cues tell me I am hungry, but when I realize that I have morphed into a crazy mom because I am starving.  It is 11:00 in the morning and I have not had breakfast yet.  I have been up since at least 7 AM and I have fed another human being twice without any nourishment for myself.  I gobble a breakfast over the sink.  Or, I sit down to eat civilly, only to be asked by the beggars that are my children for bites of my food.  I share.  Of course, I share; I am a mother.

I walk to pick Charlie up from preschool where he tells me to "run so fast that the wind blows my hair" for the walk home.  I oblige as best as I can, panting for breath and puffing out responses to his questions in between strides.  Sometimes, I ride him home in the Burley attached to my bike; I pull the forty-plus pounds of kids like I am competing in the Strongest Woman in the World competition.  But, alas, I am not.

I am a mom.
Trying to stay fit.
Having to stay fit just to partake in my normal life.

Why I am not a Size 2 I will never understand.

Charlie and I walked to the library the other night.  He conned me into going without bringing the stroller.  He was superb with his persuasion, "Mom, I am three now.  Look at my fingers: one, two, three.  I don't need a stroller."

We made it there easily.  It was great to walk side by side, turning to look at the same things at the same time without fingers directing eyes.  But that picture above was taken on the walk home.  I walked at least five blocks with a bag of books and a not one, not two, but three-year-old on my back who provided no assistance as you can see by the fact that he is looking up at the sky.  He didn't hug my neck and support himself.  I used my core, my quads and my triceps to lug the bag of bones that my body produced all the way home.  

And I came home the same size as I have always been.

Three Years

I have a three year old.

My dear baby boy.  What all of the moms of older kids say is true - it goes so fast, though they forget to mention how slow some days with them as babies can be.  But now, now that we are out of middle of the night wakings and explosive poops, now the time is flying.  He is literally growing before my eyes.  Each night that I say good night to him, I know that I have said good night to a piece of his baby-ness, for tomorrow he will not ask what "gradually" means when I use it in a sentence.  He will not ask why the moon is not a full circle tonight.  Tomorrow, he will explain to me that the moon is full only once a month and that in the middle of the month, it is a half moon.  He will explain the word "half" using my words - "first you have a whole peanut butter and jelly, and then, when you cut it, you get two halves."

A more developed boy emerges each morning after his slumber.  Stretching, growing, learning - he, as well as me.

My first child forces me to think, to reflect, to feel, to try harder.  I grow each day he does.  I learn each day he learns.  I rejoice in his accomplishments knowing that they are his alone; he is separate from me, though it feels like our hearts beat in unison.

Probably the fifth time "Happy Birthday" was sung; hence, the half eaten cake.

He is funny.  More importantly, he has a sense of humor.  He wants in on the joke and he wants to be the one to make a joke.  When he was 19 months old, we were at Old Navy.  I was looking for some summer tee shirts to bring for him on vacation.  I made my purchase after being checked out by the cashier lady, whose name tag read "Barb", but who also introduced herself after giving me my receipt and showing me how I could go online to say that she did a good job.  As I walked out the door, the alarm started sounding.  Normally, I wouldn't care about the alarm knowing that I had paid, but I knew that if I had one of those plastic things still attached to one of the pieces of clothing, it needed to come off before I left the store.

Barb wasn't looking my way even though I kept sounding the alarm.  I was carrying a 19-month old and I wasn't about to walk all the way back with the bags and a baby in my arms.  So, I did the most mommiest of things: I yelled across the store, "Barb, I'm beeping over here.  Can you help me out?"  The reason moms do mom things is out of convenience and exhaustion.  Like, probably mom jeans started out just cheap and comfy and the only thing a mom could find, so she just started wearing them without realizing that the zipper was so damn long and the style nothing but unflattering (I am not, however, in any way condoning the wearing of mom jeans).

My 19-month old started laughing and saying "Barb, I'm beeping" as clear as any 14-year old would have taunted me.  And, he wasn't laughing with me; he was laughing at me.  Like, I started laughing with him and he kept repeating to himself "Barb, I'm beeping" while laughing and looking away from me; clearly, his first moment of "my mom is such a dork and I cannot believe the things she does."

I laughed in astonishment all the way home.  I knew then that I was in for quite a ride with this kid if I was getting ridiculed at the tender age of 19 months.  Yikes.

But, man, does it make for great companionship.  He gets jokes, nuances and irony.  That is fun with a three year old.

Yesterday, he found a stuffed dog while we were over at family's house.  He walked around with that thing - holding it, loving it - saying, "This is my dog, Toto.  He's a good little guy."  He said "my dog" like he was born and bred in New York, heavy on the vowels.

We somehow ended up outside with him in only Buzz Lightyear undies, a white undershirt, Pirate rain boots and the dog.  He wanted to take the dog for a walk and I couldn't resist.  So what that he was barely dressed.

We just walked to the corner.  I texted Pat his words because they were just so sweet:

"This is my dog [gives the dog kisses].  Oh, he is just so good and he is my friend.  This is a special walk with you mom.  You are a nice mom and this dog is my nice dog.  Well, I got this dog because I'm married.  And I asked god, 'God, could I have a really nice dog?'

"And god put him in my belly and gave him to me.  And I woke up and he was in my bed.  Oh, I love you guys."

His imagination is in full bloom.  When he is happy, there is no drug that could compete.  And when a three year old gets peeved, no disordered person could compare.  The juxtaposition of his temperaments keeps me thinking and growing.  He keeps me on my toes.

For the first time, he stayed up to watch fireworks.  All day we talked about it - would it be too loud, what would they look like, would he be scared.  He has heard their booms, but never seen their lights.  We were up at the lake and on the Fourth, we went over to my cousins' house on the lake where we could see fireworks up and down the beach.

You get moments like this as a parent - moments where you feel like you are doing it right, like you are making a happy human out of the environment you are creating.  He was in his pajamas with just socks on outside on the deck.  He carried Woody with him for the show.  And he watched and clapped when he saw a firework that he particularly liked.  I feel like he will remember that moment too, but likely it will just be for Pat and me to hold onto.

My sister came in to town for the Fourth.  I love the Fourth of July like a lot of people talk about loving Christmas.  For me, the Fourth is summer in all its glory.  Heat, sun, even a moody storm every now and then coupled with family, food, beaches and pools and no hint of guilt for it not being big enough or stress from not having the right gift.  It's just chill.

We went up to the shores of Lake Michigan, where we have gone since I was a little girl.  Since Pat and I have had kids, we have rented our own house so that our kids can sleep and we get a little more privacy.  This year, though, we didn't think we were going to be able to go.  It just wasn't working out and so we kind of just gave up.  But, on July 1st, a house came available for the next day and the following week.  We packed up in a night - with no electricity because of a bad storm, by the way - and left the next day.  Best last minute decision we've made in a long time.

I love being there.  Every one should have a place that is close enough to their home that they can get there in a day and that brings them peace and joy just in being there.  We get that here.

My sister and my mom stayed with us until Meg had to fly back to Los Angeles.  Usually, when she leaves, it's easy.  But this time, we had such a good and relaxing time that I didn't want her to go.  Neither did he.

Getting away, however you can do it, is so essential.  Your family dynamics change.  People change.  I change.  I relax.  I have more fun.  I see everyone in a different light.

We are in the heart of summer.  Every day, there seems to be a list of fun things to do - pick up produce at the farm, swim, cook, garden, beach, the park, ice cream.  This is my heaven.