Little red swing

Little boy's nap schedule was off today, and so instead of our usual Tuesday trip to the gym, we went for a late morning trek to a couple of my favorite places in Houston (where we live)--the Rothko Chapel and nearby Menil Park.

There's a swing in Menil Park--an old-fashioned rope swing, bright red with graffiti etched in it, and it's nearly always occupied. When we first arrived, sure enough there was a woman in it. As she saw us approach, though, she relinquished it to us without my asking. I took E out of the stroller and sat on the swing with him in my lap. Then I pushed off, allowing us to swing gently back and forth. My sweet little 12 month old smiled brightly, showing off his dimples, and giggled in delight. And then as we continued to sway, he rested his head on my shoulder. Back and forth, rhythmically, lulling us both into a deep calm.

I wanted to capture that moment in words because it was so perfect. A gentle breeze ruffled our hair as we swung together, a mother and a child holding each other tightly. I felt such a radiant, generous love at that moment I can scarcely describe it. In that simple little moment, everything felt right in our world.

We played a little more in the park, with him practicing walking while holding on to my index fingers, and laughed some more. Then we packed up and walked home.

I still feel the swaying in my body, though, and my son's head nestled near the crook of my arm. I think I'll continue to feel it for a long time.

Like looking in a mirror

I spent a little time looking at a photo album of my baby pictures the other day. And I was struck by the similarities between these photos of me and of my son. (Top photo is me; bottom is my little one).

I mean, come on. That's the SAME smile. Identical. Obviously, this is not a shocking revelation, being that I'm his mother, but still, it floors me all the same. Looking at him really is like looking in a mirror sometimes. And sometimes, that can also be a bit painful.

You see, when I was a little girl, I came to believe at some point that I was flawed. Deeply, irrevocably flawed. I was too much in so many ways--too sensitive, too emotional, too chubby, too difficult. I heard many stories about what a pain I was: I had colic and kept my mother up all night; I threw temper tantrums in public; I talked back to adults; I was scared of everything; I was overly emotional. I heard these stories after my father had left us (when I was 3 years old) and came to a miserable conclusion--he had left because of me. I was just too much trouble and clearly not lovable. And I carried that belief with me from then on.

I'm sure I was a handful as a child--highly sensitive, intelligent, easily overwhelmed by the world. I'm sure it was difficult for my father, who had deep-seated problems of his own, including addictions to gambling and pills, to manage parenting me. But I look at this picture of me, and I see that I also was full of joy, light and love. I wasn't a flawed child, I was radiant and perfect. Just like my son is radiant and perfect.

When I look at my boy, I see such light, and my heart just overflows. And then I think about where that light came from--it came from me. I have it too. I am not inherently lacking in worth. Sure, I'm human; sure, I have faults. But my being is not defective, just as surely as his isn't. His reflection has helped me to better love and appreciate myself.

As for how I was as a child, yes, I was sensitive and challenging. That's because I am a deeply empathetic person who feels things, including the pain and fear my parents felt at that point in their lives. I threw tantrums because I was a toddler, feeling things intensely, as toddlers do. I talked back because I was smart and observant. I was scared because I felt the fear of others and sensed the dangers in the world. I was emotional because that's a fundamental part of my being. All of my qualities are assets if they are nurtured and understood. There was nothing wrong with me as a child--I was just a child.

There was nothing wrong with me. Just like there's nothing wrong with my son.

Of course we humans develop traits that aren't helpful. But I believe at our essence, our core, we are beautiful and good enough. Although I believe that with all my heart, I've often had trouble extending that belief to include one person--me.

As I look in the mirror that my son offers me, though, I see more clearly now. I see the truth about me. That's something I needed to see.

Stolen moments

There are secrets about becoming a parent that few people really talk about. One of them is that you grieve your old life, even as you feel guilty about it. And perhaps I do that more because I became a mother in my late 30s--which means I had quite a few years of childlessness. So I might have more to miss.

Please don't get me wrong--I love being a mother. I can't imagine the world without my son now. But there are things about my previous life that I miss. Maybe there are those of you out there who yearn for these things too.

Here are some experiences I miss:

• Being able to decide, "hey, I'm going to the museum/the movies/out to dinner today," and just doing it. No need for a sitter, no need for an arsenal of baby supplies or scheduling around naps or bedtime. Just doing it.
• Sleeping in. At all. Ever.
• The luxury of a long heart-to-heart with a friend that isn't sidelined by a baby having a meltdown, or babbling, or doing something new, or just generally drawing all the attention of the people in the room.
• A long, uninterrupted chat with a friend on the phone.
• Possibility. Even if you might not do it, daydreaming that you could suddenly move to Paris, or join the Peace Corps, or work on a cruise ship, without immediately realizing the practical downfalls of said plan for a one-year-old in tow.
• Still being able to feel like the child yourself, even if you're a 30-something with a full-time job and a car payment.
• Having the full attention of your parents--being able to chat with them about something other than the grandchild.
• Having people notice you as a separate person, and not merely the child's mom.
• Your pre-baby body. Yes, it's OK to miss it.
• Being your own, whole, separate woman with interests and a well-rounded life. I know, that probably sounds horrible. But at least in the beginning, it can feel like that goes away, and it takes a while to get it back. Or so I hear--I haven't completely gotten it back yet.

Again, I love my son, dearly, unendingly, and I wouldn't change anything. I wanted to have him. I'm lucky to have him. But these are the truths no one tells you going in. You will miss your old life. You will grieve. You will yearn for it. You will yearn for those moments that seem like pure luxury now--those moments of being able to think for yourself, dream for yourself, be yourself.

I hear balance returns, and it has returned for me at times. But I'm still finding my equilibrium, and I'm still sad sometimes. And life will never be as it was before.

For now, I relish stolen moments to think, to be--to be me. Stolen moments like this one.

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.