Marking a milestone ... delayed

Today was supposed to be my son's first birthday party, a couple of days after his actual birthday. Then, the afternoon of his birthday, he started acting like something wasn't quite right. I checked his temperature and, sure enough, it was almost 102. The poor guy was sick. Because he has had recurrent ear infections in the past, I took him to the night clinic, but found out it apparently was only a cold. But by Friday afternoon, I could tell a party was not a good idea. He was still feverish, fussy, and miserable, so I called it: I canceled his party. And I was surprised at the reaction that followed. Not our guests' reaction--they totally understood. My own reaction.

Soon after I canceled the party,I felt a bitter disappointment tighten my throat. I'd had no idea how much I was looking forward to it, and I had to dig within myself to figure out why.

It's because this year was hard. Exhausting, transformative, beautiful, overwhelming, gigantic--and hard. And after that, darn it, I wanted to party. To celebrate that we survived this incredible, and incredibly trying, first year. To thank the family and close friends who helped us get through it. For me, it's a ceremony of sorts, commemorating the first year, the loved ones who surrounded us, and the strength within and without that helped carry us. And to have it suddenly canceled felt like a great loss.

Turns out I didn't have to feel that loss for long--it looks like we've successfully rescheduled it for later in March, when it will be closer to a happy-13-months party than a first birthday party, but oh well. We will still celebrate, and remember, and reflect. I'll be able to look across the room at my own mother and marvel at all she had to carry, emotionally and physically, when I was a baby. Because now, I understand. Now, I've been there too.

I'll look at my husband and remember all the many sleepless nights we shared, the worries when he was sick, the frustration and irritation and harriedness of the early days, and marvel at all we survived. We are all survivors.

And I'll be able to look at my son and express the gratitude for that year of babyhood, for seeing him grow, for the gifts within the stress and worry and sleeplessness. For the gift of being his mother.

That's something I want to celebrate.

Happy birthday little one

Tomorrow morning, when my son wakes up, he will be one year old.

I am overwhelmed by that. So much has happened, so much has changed, so much has evolved since that moment I first held him in my arms, since he was whisked away from me to the NICU, since I counted the minutes until he could come home with us.

There are so many emotions it's almost too much to write about, but I will try.

This time last year, at this moment, I was in labor. Our baby was four days late, and I spent that day, February 25 of last year, trying to encourage this labor thing to get going already. My doctor, concerned about my advanced maternal age (39) and the possible increased risk of stillbirth related to my age, was only going to let me go a week late before I would be induced. So I walked and walked and walked (very difficult to do because I was so enormously pregnant that walking was painful). I tried to relax, getting a pedicure and having my toenails painted baby blue--as if to coax him out. Come on, baby, move toward the toes!

And it worked. That evening, the contractions started. At first they felt like menstrual cramps, but they became much stronger quickly, and they were close together right away. That didn't seem right, and I could already hardly talk when I tried to speak to my doula on the phone. She said it was probably best to go ahead to the hospital.

Nineteen hours later, after an unpredictable and at times frightening labor full of unseen twists--induction! Pain medicine wearing off! Failure to progress! Baby's heart rate dropping--twice! my doctor recommended a C-section. By then I was so afraid something was going to happen to my son that there was little question. "Please, just get him out safely," I remember saying.

In a whirlwind, he was out of my body, and I remember the next several minutes seemed like hours to me because I couldn't see him and I couldn't hear him. I kept asking, "why can't I hear him crying? Why isn't he crying?" and getting no response. I could see doctors moving, crowding in the corner, and I knew my son was at the center of their huddle, but no matter how I tried to move my head, I couldn't see anything. My husband was over there, seeing what was happening but wasn't saying much either. My heart raced in fear and anticipation, hoping to see my baby's face at long last, and wanting someone, anyone, to please tell me what was going on.

And then they held him up for me, ruddy and squinty-eyed, bubbles forming between his lips, not crying, but definitely alive and pink. And I heard broken pieces of conversation about needing to take him temporarily somewhere for observation. But that I would get to hold him.

Wrapped in a swaddle blanket, with a blue and pink striped hat precariously on his head, he was placed on my chest and I encircled him with my arms. I will never forget my first close-up look at his face--his wrinkled forehead, his heavy eyelids, his perfect tiny lips. I tried to memorize every detail--if they were going to take him away for now, I needed to remember.

And then he was gone, and I was being wheeled to a recovery room. My husband went with him and I lay in that room wondering how long it would be before I would see my son again. And if he would really be all right.

I found out later that he had inhaled amniotic fluid filled with meconium--his first bowel movement--and that it would take time for his lungs to clear. That's why he didn't cry. He ended up staying longer in the NICU so they could make sure he was eating enough and would continue to do well once he came home. That's a whole other story--adventures in initiating breastfeeding with a NICU baby. I'll tell that one another time.

About eight hours after he was born, I was finally able to come to the NICU to see him (before that I was in recovery from surgery and even getting in a wheelchair was impossible). I held him for the second time, pressed my cheek against his, and made a promise to him--that I would always and forever be there for him, that he would always me my priority, that he would always know how incredibly deeply he is loved. Then I just clutched him to me and cried.

After four days, our son finally came home. My heart rejoiced, and rejoices still.

Our son. He is the most amazing child. Everyone says that, but it's really true. He is the most joyful, inquisitive, open-hearted, gregarious, energetic baby that I've ever seen. I remember a friend saying when he met him, "there's so much joy there in that one little dude." His smile--oh, how those little lips turn up into a dimpled grin that lights up his whole face--is my very favorite thing in the whole universe. Or maybe it's second to his laugh, his deep, belly laugh, which makes a frequent appearance. He is the very essence of joy and light. He is the love of my life.

And tomorrow, he will be one year old. 12 months of sleep deprivation, fumbling with diapers and snaps and pants and socks, breastfeeding and bottle feeding and finger food feeding and burp cloths and bibs and baby gates and play dates and so many toys that play music and pacifiers and swinging and shushing and ...

Joy beyond words. Gratitude beyond expression.

Happy birthday, little one.

To (NOT) sleep, perchance to dream

Written in November, but I'll go ahead and post it retroactively with an update ...

According to Shakespeare (in MacBeth, because I was an English teacher and writer and I'm geeky and know these things), "sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care." If that's the case, then sleep deprivation must tangle the hell out of it.

In case the reference is too obscure, let me simplify: sleep relieves stress. Lack of sleep creates a whole mess of stress.

I have had only an occasional good night's sleep in the last eight months--or really the last year if you count my last trimester of pregnancy (which, for anyone who doesn't know, is an exercise in constant discomfort and resulting insomnia. Meanwhile, people keep telling you to sleep now because you won't have a chance when the baby comes. Evil people.) I could say I haven't had a single good night's sleep in that time, except there have been a few nights in which my baby has taken a break from his standoff with the sandman and slept for a glorious 6 or 7 hours in a row. But it's usually just for a night or two, and then something happens to balance the sleep deprivation karmic scale: he's teething and cranky, so he wakes up often. He's sick, so he wakes up often. He's hungry, so he wakes up often. (Sense a theme?) And so we're back to Mommy drinking gallons of Diet Coke to function.

Other parents joke about it--probably to keep from crying--but sleep deprivation is hard. It's ridiculously hard. There's a reason it's used as torture--it reduces the person to a delirious, crabby and desperate puddle. It makes people certifiably nuts. And by people I mean ME.

The worst of it was in the few weeks after E was born. It got so bad that at one point, as I walked back and forth between my hospital room and the NICU (that's another story), I could have sworn I saw cats in my peripheral vision. Cats prowling the hospital halls, because of course.

It was bad.

UPDATE, February: it has improved greatly most nights--he now wakes up an average of once a night, and my husband often is the one who gets up with him. Some days now, I even feel human. Back to normal. Able to function.

But the threat of a resurgence of sleep deprivation is always there. I hear once they can climb out of their crib, it is ON.

I hope not. Sleep deprivation is hell. And I'd like my sleeve of care to be knitted, thank you very much.

And for the imaginary cats not to return.

I suck at this blog thing

I got so excited about the idea of starting a blog, and then what happens? I write three entries and vanish. Bad, bad blogger. But this mothering thing is hard, and lots of sleep deprivation, and blah blah ... I'm procrastinating. I have high standards for my writing, and I'm out of practice, and also possibly overwhelmed by all the changes in my life, and also not wanting to write exactly what everyone else writes. I want to have something beautiful and wise and interesting to say, and I come up blank while I'm fighting off sleep or cleaning up after diaper blowouts or trying to convince my now 11-month-old (!) to eat vegetables.

I cannot believe my little baby is going to be one year old in a few weeks. Excuse me while I blink back a deluge.

I haven't promoted this blog or even told my closest friends or family how to find it, so I'm not sure anyone has even noticed whether I'm posting to it. I didn't want to tell people until I knew what the heck I was doing with it, or how personal I wanted to get. I'm such a good little procrastinator. Really.

I do have Important Things to Say about motherhood ... maybe. Or maybe just about my experience of it. But because of the aforementioned high standards, I don't say them. If I can't say them with the poetic flair of some of my favorite writers, I'll just stay silent. I'm a chicken.

But hey, I posted something today. That's progress.

And with that, I'm going to watch "Downton Abbey" and let myself breathe after my not-so-little baby's bedtime.

I'll stop procrastinating tomorrow.