Feeling happy

So it's been awhile since I've written. I started an entry about AJ's sleep patterns several times, but I never finished it and probably never will. BTW- she sleeps 12 hours a night and has been doing that since she was about 4 months old. She's awesome.

Here's a quick update. Aleida June:
Is totally healed from surgery
Has two bottom front teeth popping through
Rolls over from front to back, but not from back to front (she hates being on her tummy, and isn't about to go there willingly)
Loves taking baths
Can sit up without support indefinitely- but I still hover nearby in case she topples over
Has eaten and enjoyed avocado, banana, brown rice cereal, yogurt, and mixtures of all of those
Will be trying sweet potatoes and pears this week
Weighs about 14 lbs or so- she's only about the 10-15%ile for weight- but about 50% for height
Was dressed as a monkey for Halloween
Has an average of 3 outfit changes a day
Stops fussing whenever we play the video for Beyonce's "Single Ladies" or Daft Punk's "Around the World" or various musical numbers from the show, Glee
Loves music, our pets, and going on walks
Turns pages in books as we read to her
Went crabbing on the Oregon Coast
Took her first airplane ride (and did very well) over Thanksgiving
Skypes with Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Juli on a regular basis
Has started playing with blocks
Enjoys going with mommy and daddy to the rock-climbing gym
Loves to practice standing up- and will probably walk before she crawls
Dances
Likes playing airplane
Drools excessively
Takes two naps a day
Gets very excited when we walk through outdoor-equipment stores- especially a place called the Next Adventure here in Portland
Has been to Greeley, Denver and Heeney, Colorado
Is an excellent grocery-shopping partner

I could go on- it has been quite a few weeks. It seems like she is developing at super speed now. Something about getting teeth or starting solid foods triggered a cascade of milestones. She's such a fun, good-natured soul. Sometimes when she's napping, I'll get impatient for her to wake up because I just want to hang out with her. She's SO MUCH FUN, in fact, that I want a dozen more.

Okay, not a dozen. But I have gone from thinking that I want two kids 3-4 years apart, to thinking I want 3 kiddos, closer to 2 years apart. Who knows how things will work out, but she has not deterred me from wanting more kids- quite the opposite.

I think back to the pre-AJ me, and have to laugh. Even as I was 8-months pregnant, I remember seeing women pushing strollers around the neighborhood and thinking, "How boring." Those thoughts used to worry me. But it is so not boring. Even taking a little walk with Aleida is pure pleasure. She gets more fun and interesting every day. I have started seeing little glimpses of the person she is going to be, and she is awesome.

Poo Emergency

Just a quick little story to illustrate that things are back to normal- or at least as "normal" as they are going to be for a new family with a 4-month-old.

We took a hike last weekend, to Punchbowl Falls in the Columbia River Gorge. It's a beautiful hike to amazing waterfalls. Dave had Aleida in the Bjorn. I carried a camelpack. We left the dogs at home, because it's a very narrow trail with very steep drop offs and lots of human/dog traffic. Don't worry, we made it up to them later with a solid session of fetch in the park.

Anyway, we hiked to the turn around point- the scenic falls. I pulled up a rock and sat down with my baby to feed her. I'd packed my nursing shield. As she was feeding, she let out one of her alarmingly loud, but not rare, poops. She was wearing a disposable diaper. We do cloth at home, but still travel with disposables. As she relieved herself with the force of a cork coming off of a champagne bottle, I thought about how I'd failed to bring an extra diaper on the trail. The diaper bag was well stocked, but alas, still in the car. She's not one to complain about a dirty diaper, so I felt a bit guilty, but figured she'd be okay for the hour it took us to hike down the trail.

That was until I felt the wetness on my leg. I looked at Dave and averted my eyes toward her bottom. "On my thigh...Is that...?"

He lifted the nursing shield to get a glimpse. "Oh yeah. That's poo. Oh no." I couldn't see the damage and Aleida was still happily feeding, but I could tell, from his face, it was serious.

"I didn't bring an extra diaper," I said.

"We're going to have to do something. You'll see."

I did see. Out of the diaper, through the onsie, through AJ's pants, through MY pants and onto my leg. That was the situation. Poo emergency on the trail. An hours walk from anywhere.

We took stock of our camelback, which we fortunately did not empty after each hike. We happened to have a roll of toilet paper, and several plastic bags- including a couple of the variety made especially for picking up dog poop.

AJ's whole outfit was ruined. Surprise, I didn't have a spare outfit in the bag, either! Here's what we did, AJ's MacGruber parents.

We stripped her down and threw all the poo-covered items into a bag. We wiped her down with toilet paper, then used more toilet paper to serve as the absorptive part of the makeshift diaper. We put holes in the corners of one of the dog poop bags, and shimmied this up over AJ and the toilet paper. We then wrapped Aleida in my nursing shield, and reinstalled her in the Bjorn. She took all of this with her usual good humor, not at all perturbed to be naked at the top of a mountain trail, nor wearing a paper and plastic bag diaper and makeshift toga back down the mountain.

I figure, this girl will either grow up to be highly adaptable, or just plain resentful of her parents. Lesson learned: Never take the baby anywhere without a spare diaper.

The Rest, Part 2

Being a couple weeks out from the horrific experience that was the surgery, I'm less inclined to write about the trauma. Now that I can happily report that my child is smiling often and sleeping well, I don't really want to relive details of the badness. Just know, it sucked. And still, I see the little bruises from the many IVs (and many more IV attempts), or AJ will start crying out of hunger or tiredness and I will relive a little bit of that week, and I will feel that pit in my gut, that physical ache, almost as if I'm trying to pull my little one back into the womb, where I know she would be safe from needles and narcotics and nurses. Fortunately, that sensation is now fleeting, just a bad remnant of memory of one of the hardest weeks of my life.

Just a few more thoughts before I put the surgery topic to rest.

We were at home, the first full day after leaving the hospital. Dave, Grandma Judy, and I were breathing easier after watching our little one blossom quickly back into the smiling, attentive baby she was before surgery. One of us said, "Thank god that is behind us now."

"Yes, that's the most difficult thing I've ever been through." I don't remember who said it first, Dave or his mom, but they both agreed, it was the hardest event in their lives. This struck me, though it probably shouldn't have. As the mom, I think I took ownership of this event as my tragedy to go through with AJ. I knew others were a part of it, but it was mainly mine and AJ's. This state of mind was not clear to me until I realized how much others had suffered. This was not just my struggle, and I felt guilty that I had been locked so selfishly into my own grief, that I did not see the grief of others. I saw their support and was grateful for it. But that's selfish, too, to see my husband and his parents and my family and friends as solely support for me and AJ. They were supporting me, yes, but they were suffering, too. I didn't acknowledge that. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism; perhaps my pain would have been too much if I had acknowledged their misery. Maybe I just couldn't handle any more sadness. I remember thinking that about my father when my mother was ill. To me, he seemed very selfish in his grief, unable to recognize that my sister and I were losing somebody, too. But maybe he just couldn't. He couldn't recognize our grief, because it would cause his to multiply beyond his tolerance.

Likewise, maybe part of the reason Aleida's surgery was so difficult for my husband and in-laws was a result of watching me and the physical and emotional pain I felt as the mother. Whatever the case, I feel grateful for their support, and grateful for their struggle as well.

During the same conversation mentioned above, my mother-in-law said to me, "You've had a lot of tragedy in your short life." I know she was thinking of my mother's cancer and resulting death. I know she was thinking about Aleida's heart and the surgery. And I can see why she would say this, especially since both of these major events happened since I met Dave. I appreciate the recognition that these were hard times. Nobody should have to go through these things.

But I've never thought of my life as more tragic than others, even though I did live in NJ for 4 years. Don't think that I have at all minimized the significance of losing my mother or watching my baby daughter undergo open-heart surgery. I have felt both intensely. But my life has been so full of goodness. I had a happy childhood, with loving parents and a good big sister. My mother may have died too young, but I wouldn't trade the 25 years I had with her for 50 with anyone else. I was able to pursue a variety of passions and interests. I have incredible friendships in my life. I have been able to travel and see amazing things in this world. I have lived in beautiful places. I have been so lucky in love. I have an amazing little baby girl, and again, I wouldn't trade her for any other baby without a heart condition. I even love and respect my in-laws! Not many people can say all those things (especially the last one). So, I guess what I'm saying is that the hardships in my life have been more than balanced by the joys. It goes back to those peaks and valleys- you can't have one without the other, and the lows make you recognize and appreciate the highs. As I close this chapter of my life, I recognize that I was in a valley. But, I've climbed out, with the help of my family, friends and modern medicine. And now I'm just enjoying the view from higher ground.

The Rest

Because I am home now, and see that Aleida is rapidly returning to her old self, even better, I can finally write about the rest of the hospital stay. Now that I can actually see and feel things getting back to "normal," I can write about how far away normalcy seemed less than a week ago.

After surgery, the big goal was extubation- removal of the breathing tube in Aleida's nose. As mentioned in a previous entry, extubation got delayed because AJ had a delayed (but pretty normal) inflammatory response. She was puffy and distended. Even her eyelids were swollen, so she couldn't open her eyes all the way, and when she did, she did not look like my baby.

Seeing her with the tube in was heart-breaking- especially when she was puffy. I could touch her and talk to her, but I could not hold her or feed her. For the almost 3 days the tube was in, she received only IV sugar water. As her primary source of nutrition, I was totally stressed out by the lack of calories. It may be routine, but it didn't feel right. Maybe this stems from all the focus we put on weight gain in the first months of life.

The tube did finally come out, and I thought, "It will all get better from here." She was able to cry once the tube was out, a sound that actually relieved me. She was hoarse and weak, but she had a voice again.

Holding her was nice, a much needed physical connection, but ultimately unsatisfying. She still had chest tubes, IVs and wires coming out of her little body, so just picking her up and moving her 2 feet to the chair beside her hospital crib was a 3-person job. She felt extremely fragile with all those connections, not to mention the incision.

This is what I wish I'd been prepared for: extubation means no more sedation. No more sedation means more awareness. More awareness equals more pain. Getting the tube out was certainly a step in the right direction, but a stage of the process for which I was unprepared. The night after her extubation may go down as the longest and most difficult night of my life. The nurses worked hard to manage Aleida's pain, but she was still uncomfortable all night. She would sleep for maybe an hour at a time, then wake up crying. Nurses would give medication if they could. Sometimes they would have to wait to keep her levels within limits. I would wake up and come to her from my little ICU bed by the window, and the nurse would place her in my arms in the chair next to her crib. She would cry and squirm, but ultimately settle down. I held her until I became so deliriously tired that I was afraid of falling asleep and dropping her. Then, I'd call the nurse and she'd help me place her back in the crib and the whole cycle would start over again.

I'd been able to start feeding her again, but it took awhile for her digestive system to kick back on, so though probably ravenous, she was bloated and distended and had trouble latching. I was disappointed that holding her was not the solace I had planned on. I was emotionally worn down from seeing my 3-month-old daughter in pain. I was physically exhausted from sleeping in the ICU for 3 days- which really means not sleeping much at all. In other words, I was nearing a breakdown.

But in the end it was not about me at all. It was about the innocent, ignorant little creature lying in that hospital crib, who clearly did not understand what was going on. Everyone kept telling me, "She's doing great. She looks great. Her numbers are good. She's progressing as we expected." I understand that this is what doctors and nurses have to look for. I really do. But for me, her mother, who sees the distended belly, the bruises from her IVs, and her furrowed brow, numbers mean jackshit. The furrowed brow, especially, broke my heart. She never furrowed her brow before the surgery. Now, every time she was awake, and even sometimes asleep, her little brow would be furrowed in discomfort. She felt so far away from the baby I'd brought into the hospital, that I became convinced that she had been forever changed, and that my smiley, shiny-eyed wonder was gone forever.

Post Op Day 1

I think this event has been traumatic enough that I am grieving it. Or maybe these major life events cause a process similar to the grieving process. Either way, I am in the "Anger" phase.



The nurses and doctors had been hopeful that AJ would spend minimal time on the breathing tube. Unfortunately, she had a delayed inflammatory response and a high heart rate that prevented that optimism from coming to fruition. It's day 2 now and she's still on the tube. Yesterday morning, however, I woke hopeful that I would be holding my baby before the afternoon. So, when it became clear that this would not happen, I started to get angry.



I spent much of yesterday trying to find an outlet for this anger. I'm angry at the situation, clearly. But there is no satisfaction or relief in that. There is no outlet for the tension. I tried to be angry at the docs and nurses who were delaying the removal of the breathing tube. But, I watched them go about their business and knew that they are only doing what is best. I want to hold my daughter, but I don't want to rush into something that could be a mistake and potential set-back.



I tried to be mad at Dave. We'd taken a break from the ICU to jog on the nature trails behind the hospital. After our jog, we were sitting under a shade tree, stretching and watching the fountain in a nearby courtyard. I told him that I'd been trying all morning to be angry at him. He replied, "Well, then you'd have to be mad at yourself too."



"No, I'm not angry at you for Aleida's condition. I was trying to be angry at you for taking me jogging on a trail that was mostly uphill."



He laughed. "Oh yeah. Sorry."



"I can't be mad at you though. Because I feel better."



"I knew you would."



"But I think I'm just looking for something or someone tangible to be mad at. There's no one."



"You could be mad at God."



"If I really believed in him...But even if I did, a real Christian isn't supposed to be mad at God because you are supposed to trust in his will."



"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Dave said. "That's almost enough right there to turn an agnostic into an atheist."



So my quest to find something to be mad at failed. I couldn't blame this situation on anyone. It just was.



I caught myself standing by Aleida's bed as she went through a cycle of relative wakefulness and struggled against her tubes and made the crying face but couldn't actually cry. And I noticed that I just kept thinking, "Nobody should have to go through this. Nobody should have to go through this." I meant myself. I meant my baby. I meant my husband and his parents. Nobody should have to go through this.



What does that mean, though? I'm going to get philosophical, but the situation calls for it. If nobody should have to go through this, then nobody should have to go through anything difficult that isn't a product of their own decisions. Nobody should have to go through natural disasters, illness, injury, oppression, loss. But I wonder, without the suffering, would we even notice the joy? Would we feel it as strongly? Isn't part of our enjoyment of the weekend a product of the work week? Would great food taste as good if we had no experience with bad cafeteria fare? You cannot have peaks without valleys. And I believe, the deeper the valley, the higher the peaks seem.

So I know that once this is all over and we are back home, the everyday routine will be sweeter. Our quiet moments will be more cherished, and I will be more grateful for each little smile.

In the mean time, though, this sucks. Nobody should have to go through this. But I've been thinking about what I've heard them ("them" being psychologists and talk show hosts) say about self talk. You can improve your outlook by consciously changing your inner monologue. So, instead of saying to myself, "Nobody should have to go through this," I've been trying to actively tell myself, "We will get through this and be stronger because of it." And when it's all said and done, I'll be the mother who wakes smiling for the nighttime feeding and finds joy in a poopy diaper.

Surgery Day

Right now, I'm sitting in the PICU on the morning after Aleida's surgery. I tried to write about the hardest day of my life last night, but I couldn't--too exhausted. Now, after some sleep and more staring at my daughter, I feel less delirious.





Yesterday started for me at 2 am. I set my alarm and woke Aleida to give her one last feeding. She couldn't have any milk after 2:30 am. She had a nice, long, sleepy feed and went back to sleep without issue. I went back to sleep as well, but fitfully. I knew too much to sleep soundly.





We woke at 5:30 am and reached the check-in desk at the hospital just a little after 6:30. AJ was smiling and alert. If she was hungry, she wasn't complaining.





The waterworks started as soon as they took us back to the O.R. waiting rooms. I was anticipating the handover, and I couldn't imagine giving up my baby to people I knew were going to operate on her. Sure, it might be for the best, but it's hard to be that logical in the face of trauma. AJ got a little fussy while they were weighing her and attempting to get a blood pressure. Dave bounced her to sleep and she spent the last 15 minutes of the waiting peacefully sleeping in our arms. I spent the last 15 minutes trying to keep my tears to a gentle stream.





Dave's parents came. They are so supportive and helpful. I can only imagine the burden they carry, having to worry about 2 generations of kin through this ordeal. I am so thankful for them.





We walked down the hallway to the "kissing corner," as they call it. They should call it "crying corner," because this is where I had to hand my baby over to the anesthesiologist. Right before the exchange, AJ opened her eyes. She looked at me calmly, with recognition and love. My heart broke a thousand times in that few second exchange.





They took her away and Dave's parents left Dave and I to cry it out. I felt sick. Exhausted. Scared as I've ever been in my life. Dave's presence and strong, long hug might have been the only thing that kept me from collapse. I remember saying, "Having kids is kind of horrible."





The next hours are a blur, waiting and trying not to think or visualize too much. I remember going to the cafeteria to get breakfast and barely being able to eat. I remember driving home with my mother-in-law to get my phone, which I'd forgotten. I remember walking with Dave to a particularly scenic viewpoint. Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens were imposing and clear in the distance.





The nurse called about 12:30 to let us know surgery was over. We hustled back to the waiting area to meet with the surgeon. He smiled as he came in. Everything went well. No surpises. No complications. He felt confident that Aleida's heart was mended and would do well.

We got to see her about 30 minutes later. She has a breathing tube, 2 chest tubes, a large incision, and several other tubes and lines attached to her. But she still looks like AJ, and that's a relief. I was a bit afraid I wouldn't recognize her.

The care she is getting is amazing. The nurses are so skilled, yet so compassionate. I have spent many hours standing by Aleida's bedside as the nurses hustle and bustle around us. I feel helpless, but grateful. It takes a certain kind of faith, not unlike the religious variety, to stay calm in the face of modern medicine.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Aleida slept. Dave and I watched her. Dave's parents relieved us long enough to go home, shower, and stop at Trader Joe's to get some snacks. By the time we got to TJ's we were exhausted. I'm sure a 3rd person would not have been able to take part in our conversation, because I don't think we were really making sense.

As we checked out at TJ's, the cashier asked us, "What have you guys been up to today?"

My mind started racing with possible responses. "We've just been hanging out at the hospital waiting for our 3-month-old to get out of open heart surgery," didn't seem an appropriate answer to such an innocent question, however true it may be. I didn't want to share that with this stranger.

Luckily, Dave was a bit quicker to respond, though there was still an awkward pause. "Oh, not much. Just hanging out. Now we're getting some munchies."

"Alright, well, have a good evening." We took our snacks and left.

"Thanks for answering. I didn't know what to say."

Dave looked at me and snickered a little. He was thinking about my bloodshot eyes and his tired squint. He was thinking about our slow response and our bag of trail mix and chocolate treats. "It's okay. That guy just thinks we're really high."

Pre-Op

I just realized the name of my blog is "The Next Adventure." Can this still be classified as an adventure? Can I somehow spin heart surgery to mean adventure? I don't know.

Today we were at the hospital for 6 hours doing pre-op stuff. We met with nurses, surgeons, social workers and met a mess of hospital staff. I won't go into all the hairy details, but here are the highlights (wrong word...stand outs, maybe?)

Two separate hospital staff cried with me. The cardiologist NP and the Child Life Services Worker who gave us the ICU tour. They didn't cry hard, but both got noticeably choked up when I cried. I almost couldn't take it. The empathy was overwhelming. But I was touched.

Aleida had to get blood drawn for testing and whatever they do with it before surgery. The regular nurses decided not to try, so they called in the specialist team (called PANDA- but I'm not sure what it stands for.) They had to poke my baby 4 times before they got the flow they needed. 3 times on her hands and arms and once on her head. She cried harder than she has in her life. I had to cry too, so I didn't have a more physical reaction to her cries. Again, I am amazed by the way her crying makes me feel. She seems no worse for the wear and surely has forgotten about it by now. I, however, have not.

The surgeon is British. He used the word "untoward" which I have only ever heard in movies of Jane Austen adaptations. Needless to say, I like him. He apologized for making me upset (yes, I cried with him, too), but admitted that he often said things that upset people. I am confident he knows what he is doing.

I am thankful that just about every view from every window is scenic. Even through the shimmer of tears, Mt. Hood looks awesome. Dave and I, while having a sad and heartfelt moment together, broke the gloom and tension by realizing how glad we are that we're not going through this in New Jersey. (Sorry, NJers.)

Finally, the biggest highlight- and this is a highlight- was my daughter. She smiled as much today as any other day. She sat completely still through her EKG (which requires a tech to put about 10 stickers onto her chest, hook wires to them, take a reading of her cardiac output, then unhook everything and pull all the stickers off). She took a 1.5 hour nap in Dave's arms. She melted the hearts of everyone we met in the hospital. I am sure they will all do their best to make sure everything goes smoothly.

Contrast

I spent the last 3 days doing wedding-related festivities for my good friend, Erin. I was in the wedding party, so we spent lots of time celebrating and preparing and just having a great time. The ceremony was beautiful, the girls a lot of fun, and the weekend altogether enjoyable. Of course, in the back of my mind I kept thinking about Aleida's surgery coming up on Thursday. This wedding was always the event before the surgery, and it was a nice distraction. But now, I have no other place to focus my thoughts. My mind is spilling over with thoughts of the operation.



Truthfully, I think I would be less scared if I was about to have open-heart surgery. But I'm not and I can't take my daughter's place. I can't even explain to her what's going to happen. So, while I'm enjoying these few days with her, every one of her smiles has the sad outline of ignorance, and I feel guilty knowing more about her future than she does. Maybe it is better, her not knowing. There is anxiety in knowing and waiting and just thinking about something. And maybe that is where most of my fear is coming from- the thinking.



What am I most afraid of? It's hard to pinpoint because there are so many things. Here's a list of just a few.



1) The most obvious fear, that something will go wrong with the surgery. Let me just put it out there...that she won't make it. It's open heart surgery, afterall, and all surgeries have some inherant risks. I do not know what I would do if the worst happened. I do not know what I would do.



2) I'm afraid of seeing her taken away from me, knowing where she is headed. I don't like saying goodbye when I leave her with Dave to go to the grocery store. I know the hours she is in surgery will be agony.

3) I'm scared to see her directly after the surgery. She's going to be hooked up to machines and tubes. She'll be pale, drugged. I don't think I'll be able to hold her for several hours- maybe not even touch her. I'm not sure.



4) I'm afraid of the recovery. She's getting sturdier every day. She's working on standing up and crawling. We play airplane and she loves it. She loves baths and smiles through diaper changes. How fragile she's going to seem after such a major surgery. When will we feel comfortable handling her again? Is she going to be in pain? Will this delay her milestones like rolling over and crawling? When will we be back to normal, back on track again?

5) I'm a little afraid that they won't be able to fix her, that this will be a "wait and see" or "wait and try again" situation. I don't think this is likely, but this thought wormed its way into my brain a few days ago, and now it's leaving tracks up there, moving around and around in my head.

6) I'm worried about the scar. Honestly though, this may be the least of my worries. I'm not a vain person, and I can already tell that my daughter's lovely face, sweet temper and just that shine in her eyes will overshadow any cosmetic blemish. This scar will give her a story to tell, will make her aware of her own mortality, will help her feel lucky and blessed, will give her an appreciation for the human mind and modern science. She will hopefully embrace this as part of her life story, something that sets her apart from other girls. Still, this is a big procedure. I look at my daughter and she looks so PERFECT, that it hurts me to think about what they must do to her. But, she is not perfect. She has a whole in her heart, and the scar will be a visible reminder that she has been mended.

7) I think my biggest fear is that this will change her in some profound way. She is such an easy-going, adaptable, cheerful little creature. She is wholly unspoiled by any trauma or hardship. She is well loved and regularly cuddled. She's warm and full and comfortable most of the time. She smiles a lot. I am afraid that this surgery and the pain and confusion that accompanies it will change her. I don't want her to become fearful or suspicious or wary. She is too young to realize that life is not all warm milk and swaddled blankets. I don't want her to lose her innocence before she's 4 months old.

Why I am crying...

I'm sitting in the nursery rocking chair, AJ swaddled and close to sleeping in my arms, and I am doing what new moms are prone to do, just staring at my child. We had a long, fun, stimulating day at Mt. Tabor's Adult Soapbox Derby with friends. Aleida slept fitfully in the Bjorn, but had no real nap. Consequently, she had a bit of a melt down when we got home. I am still surprised by the physical reaction I have to my daughter's cries. This connection I may never understand.

It took a while, but now we are rocking peacefully. Suddenly, I have tears running down my face. One splashes on Aleida's chubby cheek and she flinches, but does not waken. But why am I crying?

I'm crying because that is my default reaction to any overwhelming emotion. Too happy...I cry. Too sad...I cry. Too mad...yep...tears-a-streaming. It's inconvenient sometimes, but cathartic always. But which emotion is the most overwhelming to me right now... I don't know.

I'm crying because AJ is sleeping with her mouth slightly ajar, head tilted back, reddening hair askew. When I was a child, my family would take road trips. Without fail, my mom's turn in the passenger seat would result in her sleeping like this. We used to laugh at the predictability of her mouth falling open, her head lolling back and forth against the head rest. My daughter, born on my mom's birthday, named after my mother, looks like her in this moment and I can't help feeling squeezed by the closing of the generation gap between June, my beloved mother, and Aleida June, my dearest daughter. That they will never physically meet still pains me, but I am comforted by this connection they have that is greater than I am as the obvious link between them.

I'm crying because I feel as if my heart might explode with the maternal love that was so abstract and unknown until about 12 weeks ago. I have heard it said that the love you have for your kids is stronger than any other love in the world. To say that is not entirely fair, because it is not an apples to apples comparison. To say parental love is different than any other would be true, however. It is love mixed with a great and overwhelming responsibility to a small, helpless, dependent creature.

I'm crying because we have scheduled Aleida's heart surgery for September 10, and I cannot think about that fast-approaching week without anxiety. She is so small. Deep down, I know she will be okay. I am thankful she has a condition that can be fixed so she can lead a normal, vibrant life. But, I also know that when they take her away from me to the operating room, I will feel a physical, emotional schism that will not mend until I am able to hold and feed her again. Fortunately, she will not remember a thing. So though I am worried about her and how she will handle the procedure and recovery, most of my anxiety is selfish. I simply don't want to suffer.

I'm crying because having a child is amazing. Full of challenges, full of insecurities, full of changes, but all the difficulties are eclipsed by the love and wonder and beauty of this new relationship. And I know, from what others have told me, that is only gets better from here.

Careful what you wish for...?

So, after my breastfeeding saga, I'm glad to report that we've gotten it down. I am even comfortable nursing in public (with one of those fashionable cape-like covers) Furthermore, AJ's 2-month check up revealed that she continues to gain over an ounce a day. Makes me feel like I have magic boobs.

I remember reading posts out in the breastfeeding blogosphere about women whose babies were so "good" at breastfeeding that they didn't want to take anything but mommy's nipple. As a mom who was experiencing quite the opposite, I felt anger toward these braggarts. So what if you your baby just wants to suckle all the time? Stupid jerks. I remember reading one blog comment that said something like, "My baby will only take directly from my breast! I guess she knows what she likes!!!" and absolutely hating those extra exclamation points. With throbbing nipples and 6 pumping sessions a day, I despised the cheerful b-word who gloated about her picky baby.

Well, last week, I was in the park- having a girls' outing with some friends. I'd pumped and packed a bottle to avoid whipping out the boob during the picnic. When AJ acted hungry, I grabbed the bottle and sat her down. She took the bottle nipple into her mouth, spit it out and dribbled milk everywhere. She fussed every time I tilted her back and offered the bottle. She refused the bottle! My friend, Georgia, who had her 2nd child in late June said, "You'll probably have to hand her off to someone else if you want to feed her from the bottle. She knows you have the real thing." I ended up sitting under a tree and nursing her; she ate with no hesitation.

Since then, she's refused bottles every day from me, daddy and even grandma. We will continue to offer her the bottle in the hopes she will pass through this phase. Part of me is flattered that she seems to want the intimacy and warmth of breastfeeding. Another part of me is panicked that I have cursed myself to a year in which I will not be able to be away from my daughter for more than a few hours at a time. This week grandma is visiting, and I would like to take her up on her offer to give us a baby-free date night, but don't want to stick her with a baby that gets pissed every time she's offered a bottle. Also, there's a bit of terror that comes with realizing your 2-month-old is already proving to be extremely opinionated.

In the end, I think it's kind of hilarious. And I feel confident that Aleida will re-learn to take the bottle eventually. I do value the nursing relationship we have established and her refusal of the bottle feels like an odd kind of victory. Still, I can't help thinking of the saying, "Be careful what you wish for..."

On Breastfeeding

If you don't want to read my long personal story, scroll down to the bottom for my list of advice on breastfeeding.

A couple weeks ago, I wouldn't have been able to predict if this entry would be called "On Breastfeeding" or "On Bottles." I was pretty close to giving up on doing things the "natural" way.
Funny, how misleading the word "natural" can be. Yes, breastfeeding is natural. But so is walking...and it takes a lot of time and development and strength to be able to do it. Babies have to learn how to walk. They have to take small steps with a lot of help. They have to fall down many times before they can do it properly. Yet there is no denying that it is, in fact, natural.


Breastfeeding...ahhhh...breastfeeding. How confident I was telling people, "Yes, I'm going to breastfeed." Just saying it seemed natural. I heard it was painful at first, but most accounts seemed to limit the discomfort to the first few days. No problem.



How cute I was with that confidence. LIttle did I know what was ahead.







As you know, my daughter was born a month early. The hospital had a "protocol" for premature babies. They offered her my breast right away, but she was too small and sleepy to nurse. The pattern was this: Breast, bottle, pump. Offer her the breast. Supplement with the bottle. Pump for 15 minutes to stimulate your milk supply. Let me tell you: 15 minutes is a long time to have something tugging at your knockers.







While we were in the hospital, Aleida didn't do much with my breasts. So, we started off giving her formula (I heard the collective gasp from all the La Leche Leaguers out there). It was nice because both Dave and I could feed her. Daddy liked that. Not what I wanted or expected, but I knew she needed nourishment. And the nurses assured me that she would be able to breastfeed eventually.







I used to see breasts as a feminine, sexual thing. That's why women wear necklaces and low-slung tops, right? To flaunt the boobage. To showcase the tatas?







Cue the breast pump. If you've never seen one, it's like this: A funnel shaped piece of plastic is placed over each breast. You have to hold it there- no handsfree contraptions. I've heard they exist, but the hospital did not offer... These funnels are connected to a splitter. One end goes to a collecting bottle. The other end connects to a tube which runs to the pump. Turn it on and you get a nice "whirrr, slump, whirrr, slump, whirrr."







In essence, I became a cow. Hook me up to a milker and collect. At first, it's a painful tug that for me brought not a drop for almost 24 hours. Once the milk started, the yield was little drops and trickles of milk. After a couple days, I was getting a stream. I had extra milk. More than AJ needed. By day 3, she was on nothing but breast milk, but not from the breast. Had I been more informed, I would've been more proactive in getting her to latch. But I had lots of other things on my mind, and the lactation consultant was clearly not aggressive.




Jump ahead 7 weeks. Today I'm going to my 4th appointment with a lacation consultant. These appointments will outline for you the general points of difficulty that I've encountered on the journey.



1st Visit: Aleida 1 week old. Routine Visit to Kaiser's Mother-Baby program. She was weighed. Lactation consultant watched her try to latch. She gave us a "nipple shield." It's a plastic dome that covers your nipple. It's usually used for flat or inverted nipples. I don't have this problem, so I think she gave it to us as a transition from bottle to nipple. I was advised to try the shield, but continue to pump and supplement with the bottle.



2nd Visit: Aleida 3.5 weeks old. Back to Kaiser's Lactation Specialist. Originally, I made the appt b/c we were really struggling at the breast. Aleida would cry and pull away from my breast, but happily finish off a bottle. Feedings often ended in frustration, sometimes tears. Aleida was still small, still premie, so my expectations might have been a bit unrealistic. Still, I just wanted to breastfeed her. I didn't want to struggle with it. Between making the appointment and going to it, things improved dramatically. Aleida was taking more from the breast. We were still using the nipple shield, but I was okay with it b/c it was better than the bottle. At this appt, Aleida was again weighed and still gaining like a champ. We also did a before and after weight. Weigh her. Feed her. Weigh her again to see how much she was getting. AJ proved to be efficient. In about 14 minutes of nursing, she took in close to 3 ounces- more than her nutritional need. Everyone was happy and I thought the worst was over.



3rd Visit: Aleida 5.5 weeks old. I wanted to wean off the nipple shield. Though my husband continues to warn me away from the blogosphere, I continue to turn to it for advice. I saw that nipple shields have been shown to decrease milk supply and can be very hard to wean off. So, I started nursing without the nipple shield, and started having some pretty major pain. I'd heard breastfeeding caused pain in the early days, so I suffered through, thinking that this was my equivalent of the early days. I started to have anxiety associated with breastfeeding, b/c I wasn't sure how she was going to latch on, and I anticipated pain. I would often have to give myself breaks from nursing. Even when I wasn't nursing, I would have intense soreness and even acute pain in my breasts. I started to worry about infection and I had no idea if this was normal. I called a different lactation consultant under my new insurance, and made an appointment. I was skeptical that anything could be done, and worried that I would be giving up shortly after the visit.

Fortunately, Aleida was still gaining weight. And this consultant was much more knowledgeable than the last. She showed me that with some very minor technique changes, I could get AJ to take more of the breast in her mouth. Before, she was really just nursing off my nipple and I thought "latching on" referred to her grip on my nipple. What "latching on" really means is that the baby's lower lip is latched on below the nipple, towards the bottom of the areola, taking much more into her mouth. She again did the before and after weight, and again we saw that Aleida is an efficient sucker. I felt good. I was equiped with good information.



I asked about the pain. My consultant did suggest that I might have Reynaud's Syndrome. This is the same syndrome that causes people's fingers to turn white when they are cold. Apparently, you can have it just in the breast, and that could be a cause for pain, especially when your nipple is already traumatized. The blood vessels in the area actually constrict, so it feels like a spasm. Yep, I was having nipple spasms. I often referred to these episodes as "nipple attacks" and affectionately described them as "cheese-grater nipples." Lovely, no? Don't worry, this is an outlier symptom- not among the scope of "normal" breast-feeding adjustment.

**24 hours have elapsed since I started this entry**

4th Visit: Aleida 7.5 weeks old I made this appointment because while my pain has greatly diminished, Aleida is inconsistent with nursing. Sometimes she will be on and off in 5 minutes and I can't convince her to go back on. In the last few days, she's been fussy at the breast, squirming around like she's uncomfortable and sometimes crying. Since she's not a fussy baby by nature, I'm worried that something's wrong. And I'm worried that she might not be getting enough milk with her quick feeds. Again, the blogosphere has me worried about foremilk/hindmilk inbalance, insufficient weight gain, etc.

Good news from the visit- Aleida now weighs 8 lbs 14 oz which means she's been gaining about an ounce a day since birth--over an ounce a day since my last appt. She's also a total Hoover- sucks down 2 ounces in about 5 minutes on my boobage. The consultant said I'm doing everything right. She said AJ's latch is great, I make it look easy, I'm a good mother. Shucks...I thought...keep going... The only question is the fussiness. 6-8 weeks is one of the more fussy periods across the board- so it could be that. She also said the buzz word in lactation circles is acid reflux in babies and they are actually treating babies with antacids. She isn't buying into it, and neither am I. I checked the blogosphere and most babies suffering with reflux have many more and much worse symptoms than my AJ.

So, I'm trying new positions and just in the last few feedings, I've noticed a big improvement. Part of the problem could be my overabundance of milk and therefore my fast let down. I think it's probably just creating gas. So, I'm trying more upright nursing positions. I prop AJ up beside me- almost in a sitting position, and offer her the breast that way. She hasn't fussed this morning, so I think it's working. And there's validation in her weight gain and the words of the consultant. So this time...fingers crossed...I do feel like the hard part is over, though I still hope to get more consistent feedings, and I want my milk to regulate so I don't feel so swollen.

In summary...here's my advice to anyone attempting to breastfeed:

1. Lower your expectations. This is a difficult process for a lot of moms. Some lucky people transition w/out much trouble, but from what I'm hearing, it is totally normal to have a bumpy start.

2. Do what's best for you! For me, pushing through was the right decision. The disappointment of not breast-feeding would've outweighed all the pain and frustration. On the other end, I'm glad I suffered through. But this is not true for everyone. If you need to pump and bottle, pump and bottle. If you need to go to formula, go to formula. Don't let frustration hurt your relationship with your baby, or your body. In the end, a happy bottle-feeding mom is going to be much better for a baby than a miserable breast-feeding one.

3. Forget your cans as anything but functional milk-makers. They are as big and pretty as they are going to be, but they are not your boobs anymore. Nor are they your partner's. They are your baby's. It's temporary.

4. Use lactation consultants. The minute you feel frustrated, call and schedule an appointment. I wouldn't be breastfeeding now if it wasn't for the help I got.

5. Beware the blogosphere. Keep reading my blog...of course...but watch out for the info out there. Every baby is totally different. So when I was reading that babies should nurse for at least 15 minutes on each breast, I was totally insecure. My baby gets what she needs in under 10 minutes (that's right, suckas). But advising others to stop at 10 minutes could be harmful. You will learn what works for you and yours.

Breastfeeding is hard, but I must say, there are few things more precious than my daughter nursing. It's a beautiful, amazing thing that our bodies can be the sole producers for our offspring. Oh yeah, and you burn 500-800 calories a day breastfeeding- that's more than during pregnancy- so eat away!

Final piece of advice: Be gentle and patient with yourself, your baby, and the process. Remember, it's all temporary.

a matter of the heart

Pregnant women (and I speak for all of us here) can't help but worry that their children will turn out okay. We hear enough about Downs Syndrome and Cystic Fibrosis and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome to freak anyone out. I worried about the careless 2 doses of NyQuil I took after conception but before my knowledge of it. When my dad joked that he would be happy with a "grandson, granddaughter or friendly alien," I laughed, but had nightmares about giving birth to something that looked like an extra terrestrial. You worry about the missing toes, the cleft palate, the hair lip, the deafness, the blindness, the deformation. Once baby is born and you count the fingers and note the proper placement of her nose, you breathe a sigh of relief. All that worrying for naught, you think.



So, on day 2 in the hospital, when the pediatrician came in to check my perfect daughter, I was confident. Even after she told me she heard a heart murmur, I didn't despair. "Lots of babies are born with murmurs that go away in a day or so, so I'll be back to check her tomorrow," she'd said.



Dave listened to her heart, heard the murmur, but didn't seem worked up, so I calmly waited for the next check up.



On day 3, the pediatrician still heard the murmur, so she ordered an echocardiogram. The technician came in with a big machine and ran a wand over my darling as she lay sleeping on my chest. Dave was watching intently; he had some training in these mysterious images, after all. I just watched my daughter and occasionally glanced at the screen or my husband to see if I could make sense of anything. I couldn't.

The technician, knowing Dave was a doctor, said, "I can't really tell you what I'm seeing. You'll have to wait until the doc looks at the images," but he proceeded to point out major landmarks anyway. Words were tossed around between the tech and my husband that made little sense to me, but piqued just enough worry to raise my own heart rate. When the procedure was over, I asked my husband what he knew.



"Nothing really," he said. "It could be *insert gibberish words* and it could not be, we'll have to wait and see what the doctor says." I know now, he was protecting me. He knew that our little baby had a hole in her heart.



Those gibberish words can now be defined as "tetralogy of Fallot." For a while, I thought they were saying "tetralogy of flow" which made sense since we're talking about the heart. But no, Fallot is the guy who defined the condition. Tetralogy refers to 4 key anatomical features of the condition, but my understanding is that only 2 of them matter. 1. A hole between the left and right ventricles. 2. A narrowing of the pulmonary valve. In a nutshell, oxygenated blood can mix with deoxygenated blood, meaning that not enough oxygen gets taken throughout the system. In an even smaller nutshell, this means babies can turn blue.



Our baby is not blue. She's not even purplish. She's pink and rosy and beautiful. She's currently considered "mildly affected." She has the same oxygen levels in her blood as any other baby. You look at her and you have no idea that she has a congenital heart defect.



In the end, she's going to need surgery. Open heart surgery. Probably before she's 6 months old. Right now, we go to the cardiologist every 3 weeks to check her stats. We watch for "blue spells." We wait and let her grow and get strong. We enjoy her and forget that there is anything wrong. Truly, as far as heart conditions go, this is a best-case scenario. She's otherwise perfectly healthy. We discovered the condition via the murmur- not a "blue spell" (can you imagine how scary THAT would be if you weren't expecting it?). We have the means and resources and attitude necessary to get her the required care. We have good health insurance. Once she has the surgery, she'll be fine. Follow up with the cardiologist throughout life- but no limitation to her activities. Shaun White- the Olympic snowboarder- had this condition. So AJ can be an Olympian if she wants to.

Still...open-heart surgery on a baby. My baby. You can imagine what it's taken for me to come to terms with this. But I have. I had to accept a few truths to get there. First, this has nothing to do with her being a month early. Second, there is no known cause of this. It is congenital, but not hereditary. Dave and I are no more likely the have another child with this condition than any other couple. Third, this doesn't define her. She is beautiful and healthy. We'll fix this, but until then, she's just a normal (well...exceptionally adorable and smart and perfect) baby.

Finally, I've accepted that this is not my fault. Of course, I could go into how I've wracked my brain to come up with something I used or did or ate that could've caused this. If I was a religious person, I might see this as God's punishment to Dave and I for having premarital sex. The most spiritual I'm going to get about it is this: Balance. I have a fairly charmed life. This is a challenge, an obstacle, but I can handle it. We can handle it. AJ won't even remember it.

Dave summed it up best. We were still in the hospital. I'd been crying as I realized what had to happen to fix my baby's heart. "Now that I've met her, I wouldn't exchange her for a baby without this problem." I said. "I mean, she's pretty perfect, except for this hole in her heart."

Dave looked at her, then looked at me. "She's pretty perfect with it."

80/20

It is hard to justify writing in my blog with so many other things to do. But my goal is to complete at least one entry--however short--a week. We'll see.

This morning was a bit rough. My mellow angel baby who sleeps well and rarely cries has been super fussy. She's refusing to nap- though I can see she's tired. She's crying more, and I'm a little scared that this is the beginning of a trend- though there is no logic considering the past 6-weeks have been suprisingly fuss free. Everyone has bad days. This is one of hers.

Couple that with one of my bad moods and you get a mess. Baby crying. Mommy crying. Daddy confused. A bit of a wasted morning.

Here's what it comes down to. 80% of the time, I feel so privileged to be the mommy. I get to breastfeed her (though this comes with challenges and frustrations too- but that's for a later blog). I am the sole care-taker, even though my husband is more involved than 99% of dads out there. But, he works full time. AJ is my full time job. And I spend probably about 6-8 hours a day just feeding and changing her. Usually, I love it- even the poopy diapers. She's beautiful, pleasant, interesting and a part of me. In fact, most of the time, I'll tell you this is easier and more fun than people say it is.

This morning was part of the other 20%. As I work to feed a fussy baby and my husband goes outside to work out and play around in the garden, I start to feel sorry for myself. This is my life, and my first responsibility. On days when she doesn't nap, I don't get a chance to work out or even shower when I want. It's hard to fit in meals some times. Dave's trying to help me. "Let me take care of her while you go workout."

I'm in an unreasonable mood and frankly, a bit too tired and frustrated for working out to sound like a good idea, though I'd just complained about not having time to work out. "Well, do I work out? Eat breakfast? Shower? Which of these important things do I choose, because I don't have enough time to do all three? And what about you? I was hoping to spend some quality time together."

Dave throws out several logical options that hit at least 2 of the 3 activities, but I shoot them all down. I'm just set on feeling sorry for myself. This is my life now. Catering to the needs of a small little human being with moods and demands and a personality that I'm still trying to figure out. I love her, but I don't always get her.

Truth is, I'm ashamed of these moments of self-pity. I want to be the always on, always happy mama bear that has no trouble putting the needs of her young above all else. And believe me, I know this is a privilege and most of the time it feels like one. But occasionally, I have a little pity party. I envy my husband the part-time nature of his role. He gets a kick out of her when she's fussy, because then he goes to work and sees much more fussy people in the ER.

A pregnant friend asked me for my best piece of advice after a month of motherhood. Here it is: Expect the 20% moments. Roll with them. Know they will pass. Forgive yourself for being a little selfish. Your life is about to change in a major way. It is amazing, beautiful, meaningful. But it's hard and at times scary and frustrating. No relationship is perfect- so you're bound to have down moments with this new little person at the center of your life. But the ups much outweigh the downs. 80% to 20% at least. Maybe more like 90% to 10%, now that my little angel is napping. And after a successful, long feeding, I got a smile. Totally worth it.

AJ comes early

Here's how Dave's day went: He woke at 8am on Saturday to attend a birthing class, the first of two. The class went from 9:30 to 3:30pm. Dave then had a shift in the pediatric ER from 6pm to 2am. After completing notes and coming home, he got to bed around 4am. At 5:30, his wife (me!) woke up to pee and came back to bed to report that she thought her water had broken.





"Everything okay?" he asked.


"Well...uh...I'm not sure, but I think my water might have broken." Don't forget, due date is July 1st- still over 4 weeks away.


"I doubt it. But if you're worried, call the nurse advice line." He was thinking, "She just has it on the brain b/c of birthing class. There's no way her water has broken. I'm so tired. Please just let me roll over and go back to sleep."





But Dave is a dear, dear husband, and as his wife called the advice line, he dragged himself out of bed to check things out.





His wife had woken up to pee, as per usual, only to find that her underwear was wet. According to our class, amniotic fluid should be colorless...check...and odorless...check. It wasn't pee and not likely sweat. The advice nurse told her to give it 10-15 minutes and if she continued to "leak or start to gush" she should definitely go to labor and delivery. She stood up to walk around, and felt liquid running down her leg. She looked at her sleepy husband. "Uh...I don't think there's anything else this could be."





"Alright then, let's go."





We weren't packed. We didn't have the recommended labor bag with snacks and music and comfort items and aromatherapy. We threw together a bag with a change of clothes and some reading material. Sorely unprepared were we.

******

Anyway, I've been trying to finish this blog post for 2 weeks now, so I'm just going to give you the condensed version. In the end, this was kind of a worst-case scenario birth. I wanted to go quickly and vaginally and naturally. I ended up going long with pitocin and ultimately a c-section. I was transferred from the nice, alternative, midwife-staffed hospital (sadly without a NICU for premie births) I wanted to give birth at, to the big, heavy-handed medical facility with state of the art NICU in case things went badly. We were given the choice and opted for the big, technologically advanced hospital, because we knew we could NEVER forgive ourselves if the little one needed help that was not available at the smaller hospital. Hospital policy insisted I transfer via ambulance. Totally unnecessary. But it was a fitting precursor to the rest. They strapped me (a perfectly healthy, mobile, not even in labor female) to a stretcher, put me in the back of an ambulance with a taciturn EMT, and drove me to the other hospital. Not the grand entry I was hoping for.

The pitocin was to speed things up because my body was taken by surprise and not moving things forward fast enough. "Failure to progress" is the official term, I think. Gives you warm-fuzzies, I know. I can't blame my body though. By all standards, I was small for 36 weeks. I was expecting another month of stretching and preparation. Only the baby was really ready for the process. I swear that she was crammed and decided to break my amniotic sac with the huge inner-uterine body slam I'd felt the night before. She was ready. My body wasn't. I know I could've labored just fine if the conditions were right, but they weren't.

The fetal moniter (an evil, evil device) was showing concerning decelerations of her heart. So they wanted to speed things up, mainly to see if she could handle it and get her out of there. Turns out she couldn't handle it. She wasn't getting enough breaks between contractions. My contractions weren't organizing enough. Her heart patterns scared the docs- and they have their asses to think about. They want what's best for the baby- which in the end, is also what's best for the mother- though certain literature contradicts this simple point. So, after 20 hours of this give and take with the docs and the pitocin and contractions that hurt but weren't productive, I consented to a c-section. I cried. I didn't want it this way, but I wanted my baby out and healthy. I still know I'd be damn good at laboring. The few hours of good labor I had weren't bad. I breathed through the contractions. I felt strong and able. But it was not to be.

What can I say? I'm disappointed, but only b/c I didn't get the experience of a vaginal birth. I got a beautiful girl, and my first major surgery. Must've had great docs, because recovery has been a breeze. Truthfully, I feel like a lot of the literature I read about the ideal of a natural birth actually worked to make me feel a bit ashamed of having a c-section- and I might not have felt that way if I hadn't read them. Really, can there be any shame in following medical advice for the health of your unborn infant? No. There shouldn't be. But the focus on natural birth (believe me- that was my goal), does throw a really negative light on anything but, and this idea that you have to "grieve the loss of your ideal birth" seems wrong. Am I less of a woman for having a c-section? What's to grieve when the product is a healthy, beautiful baby?

Enough of that. Not my ideal situation. But like my yoga instructor told the class, "The only guarantee in birth is that the baby comes out." And thank god for that.

There is a beautiful story in this mess of modern medicine. My water broke a MONTH early! My due date was July 1. There is no earthly reason she should've been born so early. I had the world's least eventful pregnancy. Pathology on my placenta showed no infection or other possible reason for a premature labor. By the time I had my daughter, it was 2:08 am on June 1. Now, as many of you know, my mom died of ovarian cancer about 6 years ago. Her name was June. My daughter, Aleida June, was always going to have her name for a middle name. I always harbored some hope that she would also be born in the month of June (though really, I was thinking more like June 29 or 30th). But, she was born instead, on my mom's birthday. How amazing and meaningful is that? The ONLY reason this baby should've come early is to be born on her late grandma June's birthday.

A letter to my mother

I did not originally write this letter for my blog. It was a private undertaking from me, to my mother. I hope that adding it to my blog doesn't feel like exploitation of precious memories. I wrote it this morning, Mother's Day morning, after looking through pictures of my mother and missing her. I want to put it in my blog because it is part of this journey and another thing that took me by surprise. I have not felt much sorrow at being pregnant without my mom alive. Part of me knows it is there--this void, this grief--but the novelty of pregnancy has kept me preoccupied. Today, however, memories of my mother and the pain caused by her absence hit me as people wished me a Happy Mother's Day for the first time. So, here's the letter I wrote my mom. Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there. Love your mothers, and make sure that they know it.

Dear Mom,
Today is Mother’s Day, 2009. I’m over 32 weeks pregnant, so I’m about to embark on motherhood. I have gotten many Mother’s Day wishes already, and I guess they took me by surprise. I feel very mixed emotions as I write this. I am excited to become a mother. Nervous, anxious, overwhelmed, yes. But mostly eager and excited. But, I miss you. So much. You were an excellent model of motherhood, but this is my 5th Mother’s Day without you. And as I prepare for motherhood, I can only yearn for you, for the talks we might be having as the big day arrives, and for the comfort of my mother’s physical presence.
Yesterday, Debbie, Judy and Juli gave me a baby shower. Today, we will take Judy to Mother’s Day Brunch. She is the best mother-in-law I could hope for, and I know she will be an excellent grandmother. I want you to know that I am loved and supported, and that your granddaughter will be, too. Nobody can replace you, but I am fortunate to have many loving females in my life.
I got a voicemail from Jenny’s mom, Cindy, this morning. She said, “Isn’t it special to be in the middle of two such amazing generations?” It is. It is an honor and a responsibility to follow your lead as a mother. Not only do I want to emulate the unconditional love that you gave me, but I want to honor you as a presence in my daughter’s life. How can I make sure my daughter knows you? How can I communicate to her the depth of your spirit and generosity, the love you had for life and family, the passion you brought to your work and interactions with others? I still grieve that you are not with me, but I feel it is an injustice that my daughter will not know you, will never be held by you or spoiled by you.
I was looking through an envelope I have of pictures of you. They span from a childhood portrait of you, to pictures of you when you were sick, weeks before you died. I found a picture of you pregnant, with me, at your baby shower. And I found a picture of you holding me. The back of that picture says, in your handwriting, “1st outing- Denise goes to Dr’s. Age 1 ½ weeks.” I’m sleeping in your arms, wearing a cozy pink knitted jacket and bonnet. You are smiling. You look great: fairly rested, comfortable with an infant. I will cherish these pictures. I can appreciate them in a way I could not a year ago.
I feel like this letter is inadequate: a poorly-composed, formal attempt to communicate with you. I need you to know that you are in my thoughts every day, that pregnancy has made Mother’s Day a happy occasion again, but that my grief is perhaps deeper this year, because I am grieving not only for myself, but for my daughter, who will have your name as part of hers. I love you, as much as I ever have, and I know that she—my daughter, your granddaughter—will love you, too. You are part of her; genetically you contributed to her. I take it on as my job to make sure that your energy, your spirit, your lust for life is passed onto her as well.
I miss you, Mom. But I know you are nearby. Most of all, I love you. Denise

The stray

I became nearly unraveled when a stray dog showed up at our house yesterday. Here's the story:

I got home from work on a nice afternoon. Dave was home and we decided to take our dogs to the park for a little frisbee action. Loki's been a good frisbee dog for a while now, but Ullr is also starting to develop some mad skills. Anyway, it was a nice walk, cut only a bit short by the rain. As we approached our house, I could see a dog near our driveway. I got a bit nervous, because Loki sometimes takes issue with strange dogs, and there was nobody attached the this one. The strange dog ran as we got closer, but loitered just across the street, where he sat and looked at us, hopefully.

I'm a sucker for dogs, and apparently a magnet for lost ones, too. Just a couple months ago, a little Jack Russell showed up, on my porch, wearing a little rain jacket, but shivering and peering into our warm house. Turns out he had escaped from his owner and was looking for shelter. I took him in, called the vet on his tag, and he was reunited with his owner the next day. He was little, easily contained, and not a threat to my dogs.

This new dog, on the other hand, was a big Rottweiler/Australian Sheppard Mix. I took my dogs inside, and Dave approached the vagabond mutt, who sat eagerly for him, wagged his tail, and let Dave read his tags. Phone number on the tag led us to a very rude man who hung up on Dave twice. Apparently not the owner- or maybe it was her jaded ex-boyfriend. The vet was closed. And, Portland has no after-hours animal control services. It was Wednesday at about 7pm. The emergency animal control dispatch gave me this advice, "Hang onto him until morning when the shelters open, or let him go." She advised me to let the dog go...?!

So, with the dog in our fenced front yard, and my dogs occasionally barking through the front door at him, my dear husband went about making dinner, as I sat at the table and came nearly unglued. For some reason, I just did not want to deal with this. I knew, as Dave reminded me, that we would feel good for doing the right thing and sheltering the dog, but I was SOOO annoyed. I kept thinking how my own dogs were being driven crazy by the dog outside. I watched the dog do the little "post-potty dance" which tore up our yard, and I thought about how the yard would look to people coming to visit next week. I thought about him staying outside all night, probably cold and lost and worried. But we had nowhere to put him inside. I thought about how I would have to wake up early in the morning to sort out the dogs before work. I thought about all the phone calls I'd have to make and what I would do if I couldn't find the owner. Then I started feeling dispicable thinking, "I'm clearly not a good person, because I am totally resenting doing the right thing right now." That spiraled into, "I am not going to be a good mother because I don't even have the patience and flexibility to deal with a stray dog."

Poor Dave tried to console me, but I wouldn't have it. I thought about going to bed, but knew I had to eat something. Dave cooked an amazing meal of stuffed chicken breasts, artichokes and spinach salad. I didn't help at all b/c I was so consumed with irritation at this dog situation. I ate in silence. I just felt that as a pregnant woman, I should not have to deal with this added annoyance.

There is some history, here. It may sound unrelated at first, but it all fits together. I have decided not to go back to my job next year. I just couldn't make sense of it financially- with my sorry alternative school salary, I figured that more than half of my paycheck would end up going to daycare. Plus, I couldn't foresee spending my days with middle-school punks and my nights with a newborn. I don't have that much patience in my body- and I don't want my performance as a mother to suffer b/c I have to give so much energy to the students. So I let my boss know I would not be returning as the science teacher next year. It is bittersweet in many ways, but ultimately a relief to my mind.

Anyway, I came home on the night of the stray dog a bit irritable. The students have spring fever, and all of the staff is feeling the strain of their frustrating behaviors and indifference to school

Anyway, as Dave hugged me hello and asked me how my day was, I said, "It was okay," but then proceeded to tell him this. "You know, in my everyday life, I probably spend about 1% of my time feeling exasperated." I'm talking about how you feel when you have car trouble, or when you're stuck in traffic, or when somebody changes plans at the last minute and screws up your whole day. Or when something comes up that throws a monkey wrench into your plans for a quiet, relaxed evening. "But," I continued, "at work, I bet I'm exasperated over 50% of the time." High-risk middle school students = exasperation. "I won't miss that."

Ironically, stray dog came along a couple hours later and I couldn't help but re-visit my earlier conversation.

We did not, as advised, "let the dog go." The dog stayed on our porch. We fed him dinner. I could hear him whimpering occasionally. I softened to him and laid out some old towels for a bed. Our plan was to call animal control in the morning, but as I lay in bed and heard him barking at some passersby, I couldn't imagine impounding him. I decided I would post an ad on craigslist and call the vet and do everything I could before surrendering him. And in the morning, as I went out to feed him, he was so damn cute that I started to think,"Maybe 3 dogs wouldn't be too many." But of course, a 3rd dog is the last thing we need with a baby around the corner. In the end, the story has a happy ending. The dog's owner was out of town and the roommate had left the back gate open and the dog escaped. The roomie had searched all night for him, and placed an ad on craigslist, which I found at about the same time the owner called me to let me know the vet had gotten my message and contacted her. So, the dog was reunited with the careless roommate, and everyone was grateful and I got to feel good about myself and I don't have a third big, hairy dog.

I still don't know why I got so bent-up about it, but I think I have some ideas. One, I'm pregnant and hormonal and I do really cherish my relaxing evenings with Dave. Two, I get enough stress and unpredictability at work. And three, a coworker helped me to see how much of a metaphor the stray dog is for our students. I was telling him about the dog incident, and about how frustrating it was for me, but how it had all worked out. He replied, "Well, in a way, a stray dog is really a metaphor for our kids. They're lost. They're needy. They don't know where they are or where they're going. They are total victims of their circumstances."

I added, "They are helpless and they are the way they are due to someone else's irresponsibility. They don't know any better. They are dirty and hungry and starved for attention. They can be really sweet but they can also be huge pains in the ass."

And the worst part is, they have no guarantee of a happy ending.

So, I guess I learned a few things from this experience. I learned that just because I got a bit unhinged doesn't mean that I'm a bad person. Ultimately, I did the right thing and I feel good about it. I became unhinged because I knew I had to do the right thing, even though I really wanted my evening to be calm and uneventful. I learned that my job (as a teacher of high-needs adolescents) has been really difficult these past few years, and that I take it hard because I am emotionally invested in these kids' lives. If my students are stray dogs, most of them are not on their way to a happy ending. Most of them have been mistreated and neglected and victims of other people's carelessness. Most of them will continue to wander without getting all of their needs met. But a few of them might get turned in the right direction, and they might just find their way. Maybe even a little bit because of my influence. Finally, I realized that doing the right thing as a mother will not always be the easy, fun way, but I am taking on this responsibility with the utmost seriousness and intention. Just like with my dogs, I have a responsibility to care for my child and lead her so that she feels secure, loved, and happy. I don't ever want my baby to feel like a stray.

On parenting philosophies

I didn't realize until I got pregnant and started reading loads of pregnancy and parenting books, how defined the world of raising babies has been. There are whole "philosophies" outlined and practiced and coached and taken to extremes. It's kind of like politics. People seem to belong to one camp or another. People become fanatics about breast-feeding and sleeping schedules. They judge others who don't see eye to eye. There are blogs upon blogs of people arguing for their way or against the ways of others. There is bitterness and animosity. People are mean and self-righteous. They have totally lost sight of the whole purpose they chose a certain "way" to bring up their child. They just wanted to do what's right for the baby.

But I don't know if I can always blame them. Parenting styles, like anything else that people are passionate about, can be polarizing. I do not mean to judge, and I have no place to judge (considering my inexperience), so if some of my commentary comes across as judgmental, I apologize in advance. I am just forming my own ideas as I read what's out there.

This whole journey on parenting styles started at a bowling alley. One of the residents in Dave's program has an adorable 2-year-old boy and newborn twins. The whole family came out for the bowling get-together, and I was impressed by how content babies were, how polite and good-natured older brother was, and how rested and amiable the parents appeared. They recommended a book called On Becoming Baby Wise. They said they followed that book and consequently, their son slept through the night at 8 weeks, and their twins were already doing so at 10 weeks.

Dave and I immediately vowed to go get the book. And we did. I've read it and passed it onto Dave. Upon mentioning it to others, people tend to react somewhat strongly. Some were very enthusiastic. Someone referred to it as "strict." Someone told my husband it was like a cult. Having read through and found no odd suggestions or sacrifices required, I feel this is an unfounded accusation. But I will allow that judgment so I can have mine.

Chapter One drew me in right away. This chapter is called, "Your baby needs a family." It warns about "child-centered parenting" in which the marriage relationship become secondary to the parent-child relationships. It encourages couples to remember to focus on the importance of their relationship, because in doing so, the baby will be more secure. This makes sense to me. I know our life is going to change immensely- in fact, it already has. But I am totally in love with my husband, and can't imagine deprioritizing our relationship, though I see it happening in many families. Again, I feel like maybe I sound selfish here, like I want to have my cake and eat it too. But I think I CAN, and this book validates those thoughts. It says you can fulfill all of your child's needs, without sacrificing your own or that of your marriage. *Big sigh of relief*

This book does at times sound too good to be true, and does claim that you can have your child sleeping through the night by 12 weeks by putting some extra effort into the breast-feeding schedule. The goal is long, full feedings at fairly regular intervals so that the whole family has some predictability and flexibility. This schedule, if done right, leads naturally to longer nights and dropped feedings until baby just works into 10 hours of healthy sleep. Which means parents can get more sleep and alone time as a result. Sounds great, right? Read the book. It's convincing. It works around a central idea of "parent-directed feeding" (PDF) that seems to be a happy medium between "demand-feeding" (always offer the boob at baby's first sign of restlessness or hunger) and the very strict "clock-feeding," in which time becomes more important than the baby. I certainly don't want to be a clock feeder. It sounds unnatural and unhealthy. Likewise, the book makes some interesting objections to demand feeding, including that you overlook the real needs of the child, babies often end up "snack-feeding" and don't spend enough time in one sitting to get to the richest "hind-milk" and that moms become sleep-deprived and frustrated when in the habit of offering the nipple every time baby gets fussy.

Demand feeding is closely linked to a style of parenting called "Attachment Parenting" (AP). I know many loving mothers who follow this philosophy, and the last thing I want to do is de-value their efforts or intentions. However, the more I read about it, the more I think, "This is not for me." Granted, I want my child to be "attached" to me, and I plan to hold and cuddle and love my baby A LOT, but that is as far as I wish to take the word attachment. This parenting style, at least in it's extreme, condones demand feeding. This leads to several other practices, and this is where I veer off. AP encourages parents to literally be "attached" to their baby. They recommend carrying the child in a sling as much as possible, allowing the child to sleep and feed as it desires. Where they really lose me, though, is with the practice of co-sleeping. They encourage parents to have children in their rooms, in close vicinity or even in the bed with them, indefinitely, as far as I can tell. And they encourage allowing the child to self-ween, meaning that many children may nurse well into toddlerhood. One website has pictures of moms with an infant on one breast and a toddler on the other.

I know myself, and I know my sleep habits, and I know that if I had a baby in our bed or even in our room, I would get NO SLEEP! And I wonder about intimacy between parents who adopt this "family bed" (AP's term, not mine). When it comes to sex, I don't even like it when my dogs are w/in earshot of the action. I just don't see myself as a co-sleeper. Again, am I being selfish? I have talked to people who had a baby in a basinette in their room for the first 6 months or so, just for the convenience of those nighttime feedings. That makes some sense to me, though I still plan on having my daughter sleep in a crib. I also realize I will probably end up with the air mattress in the nursery at times, and that's okay. But on some of the AP websites I perused, parents had multiple kids sleeping in their bed through childhood, even into their early teenage years.

One of the mothers in my pre-natal yoga class is pregnant with her 2nd child. Her first is almost two, and sleeps on a futon beside their bed. She says he is a wiggly one, and has fallen out of his bed every night for over a week. He is too young to pull himself back onto the bed, so he lays there and cries until she wakes up and puts him back. He is unhurt, as it is a low bed. She voiced the concern that she did not know what to expect when she had two young children in her room at night. She sighed and looked tired.

So for me, I think the only reasonable decision is to keep the baby out of the bed. I will love this baby as much as any other mom, but I do not think that co-sleeping can possibly be conducive to my goal of keeping my marriage vibrant and prioritized. Feel free to raise arguments if you have proof otherwise. Again, I recognize my naivete when it comes to all this. Maybe I will be singing a different tune 4 months from now, but I don't think so.

Transitions in my mind

So, I've reached the point where I'm more focused on the end product than the process. I'm less anxious, more excited. I've stopped seeing pregnancy as the main event, and started looking ahead to having a baby. I'm talking labor, delivery AND immediately after when parenting begins. Maybe my journey is being shaped by the books I'm reading. Maybe it's just the beauty of a 40-week adjustment period, in which Baby just naturally makes herself more and more real and obvious. The progression from the abstract double line on the pregnancy test, to the faint and very fast sound of the heartbeat, to the skeletal images of the ultrasound, to consistent movement and kicking and repositioning that I can feel internally and see externally, this little girl is gradually initiating me into motherhood.

After Misconceptions, I moved onto the much gentler and positive Birthing from Within. This may sound crazy, but I've started to get excited about labor! I'm one of those people who looks forward to getting shots, just because I know I can handle it. I like strenuous workouts and activities for the way they make me feel ALIVE and for the stories I get to tell afterwards. I'm not truly comparing labor to a shot or a strenuous workout, but I am getting excited about the experience of it. And I guess I know, as this little girl wriggles around inside me and as I fall more in love with her, that the effort and strain will be worth it, exponentially more so than any vaccine's immunity or workout's new muscle fibers.

Back to the book. Birthing from Within is a lovely book about the personal experience of birth. It encourages women (and their partners) to do "birth art," journaling, and introspection to prepare for the big event. I guess some may say it's a bit "new agey" or "hippyish," but after the very REAL Misconceptions, it's a nice change of pace, working the other side of my brain, perhaps. Also, while Misconceptions made me feel a bit out of control, Birthing from Within makes me feel a bit more in control. One excerpt spoke to me, "Who you are in labor and as a mother is merely an extension of who you are in the rest of your life. So if you want to be present and strong in birth, you need to practice that way of being in your everyday life. The patterns of your life are all cut from the same cloth." The passage is a comfort to me, because I am happy with who I am as a person and how I handle most situations. I feel like both books have been important in helping educate me about the process, and now it is up to me to visualize the birth of my daughter and prepare mentally for the difficult and rewarding task of delivery.

Gains and Losses

Most obvious gain- belly. Most obvious loss- freedom of movement. I'm bigger. The clerk at Jiffy Lube asked me when I was due, so I'm officially showing for all the world to see. I cannot move as carelessly as I used to. I have to apply new methods to exit the swimming pool or bend over.
These are the obvious gains and losses. All pregnant women outwardly experience these things on some level. But there are gains and losses less talked about in our culture, and I want to talk about them. I'm reading a book called Misconceptions by feminist author Naomi Wolf. This book sets out, in some ways, to balance the bubbly optimism of many books about mothering, such as the famous What to Expect... and other well-circulated pregnancy manuals. Several years ago (6?), I pulled this book off a shelf b/c my friend, Johanna, was pregnant. I thought this looked interesting and bought it for her on a whim. She was my first close friend to have a baby, and I wanted to contribute. She recently sent the book back to me, telling me to read it, "it's the best book on pregnancy I've found." So I dug in.
This is no warm-fuzzy book. Yes, Wolf talks about her personal experience, her excitement at being pregnant, the ups and downs of her physical and emotional condition, and insights she gained as she became a mother. But there is no sugar coating happening here. In fact, her book sometimes dusts off all the sweetness wrapped up in pregnancy for a down and dirty look at how women are expected to deal with such a major and transforming change, and how our culture is often not supportive in effective ways. She talks about gains and losses: "...you get a whole new world...filled with gifts but also with losses." "Indeed," she writes, "the greatest loss for many new mothers is a kind of loss of self." She further states that many women, while outshined by the bliss of a new life, are forced to quietly mourn part of themselves that is lost in the journey.
As I read this book, I find myself occasionally raising my happy-mommy-to-be hackles, feeling that her honesty is almost callous or abrasive. But then I realize, it is HONEST. Despite all the happiness and excitement that I feel as the baby wriggles inside of me, I also feel anxiety and a partial loss of self, even as I become a bigger (literally and figuratively), better mother-self. I want to be defined as a mother. If not, I'd never have gone off birth control. But as I get bigger, I realize that the visual manifestation is the most obvious part of myself that people see. I am pregant lady first, teacher, wife, outdoor enthusiast, animal-lover, etc. second.
I guess in some ways, it is similar to when my mother was sick with cancer. I didn't want that to be how people defined me: the girl whose mother is dying. Certainly, it was an important part of my life, and I wanted people to feel comfortable talking to me about it. But I didn't want their sympathy to overlook my multi-faceted humanness: the fact that I was also getting married, going to graduate school, moving across the country, and participating in life on a daily basis. I don't want the comparison of these two events to imply that I feel negatively about having a child, but both events did at times feel so ALL-CONSUMING that I couldn't help but feel defined, even trapped, by just one aspect of my life. Even as I say this, though, I laugh at myself, who so eagerly awaited the belly. Now that I have it, I am proud to show it off. I choose not to button up coats, because I want others to see that I am pregnant and proud of it. So even my concern with being defined as only pregnant is contradicted by my active attempts to force people to see my big baby bump. You see, emotionally, this is very confusing. I imagine that one day, I will not feel it necessary to separate myself from my pregnancy. Just like now, I have incorporated the loss of my mother into my whole self, and don't feel like it is a mere piece of my puzzle I want to remove or focus on, depending on the time or audience. Soon, pregnancy and ultimately motherhood, will just be part of the bigger picture that is me. Incorporation takes time, however.
And physically, there is no doubt things have changed. I like to think I am just as active as before, but my activities have changed, if not the frequency. Instead of the heavy lifting of the crossfit workouts I used to do with my husband, I find myself opting more often for the cheesy, but appropriate, Jazzercise pregnancy workout. I snowboarded once this season, but have replaced downhill sports for the safer and more peaceful snowshoeing. Less rock-climbing, more yoga. Jogging makes my legs cramp, so I swim laps. I know this is temporary, and I have every intention of taking up more strenuous hobbies as soon as my girl parts heal after delivery, but still...I will have the baby to consider before going out for a jog or heading to the bouldering gym. I know I can and WILL be active, but I also know it will take more effort and planning, and in a way, that is a loss to me.
Then, of course, there's the career to think about. I'm not even a career-oriented person. Those who know me know that I'm a job hopper. But, I take pride in working and strive to do well, regardless of my current position. I don't think I'm full-time stay-at-home mom material. But I really don't know. And how can I know how I'll react? I won't know until the baby comes and maybe many months beyond. However, I must decide soon, whether I plan on returning to work full time, part time, or not at all. Questions plague me, even as I happily think about names and make plans for the nursery. Can we afford for me not to work? Can we afford childcare if I do work? Do I have enough patience to be a full-time teacher and mother? Will my job performance suffer once I become a parent, or worse, will my ability as a mother be affected by the demands of my job? Will the dynamics of my marriage change if I don't work? If I do? Will others respect me more if I stay at home to care for a baby, or put a newborn into childcare to return to work? Which decision will I respect more?
I don't think there's any way to know these answers. But I know that at times it feels like a lonely journey. Regardless of how understanding my husband is (and he is the best), or how extensive my support system is, the decision is ultimately mine. It has to be that way. But still, I feel a bit guilty about sharing these thoughts. I feel the need to justify myself and convince readers that I AM totally thrilled to be pregnant, and extremely excited to meet and raise my child. I'm going to be a MOM! But, even good stress is stress, and having a baby is one of the biggest changes a person can go through. So, why DON'T we give as much air time to the concerns of mothers as we do to the little thrills and the big optimism that we expect throughout pregnancy? Why should I feel guilty for expressing these concerns, when I imagine they are totally natural? In Misconceptions, Wolf argues that women should have the freedom to talk about these issues without worrying about judgment that they aren't ready to be mothers, or that they are selfish. Let us mourn these losses of ourselves and our bodies, even as we rejoice in the wonder of what our bodies can do and how our psyches can adjust to becoming parents.

Clothes for the bigger-bellied woman

I went maternity clothes shopping today. I have tried it before, but had trouble b/c I wasn't really showing and felt it to be frivolous. I'm not a shopper anyway. I get bored in about 5 minutes. But, my sister got me a gift certificate, and my friend Erin, pretty much a professional shopper, was eager to accompany me as my personal shopping assistant. So we went.

The store was not that large. I remember thinking as I entered, "I doubt I'll be able to spend my gift certificate here." Left to my own devices, I would've probably bought a couple stretchy tees from the clearance rack, a couple bras for my own growing rack, and I would've called it a day, with my wardrobe no better off than when I started and an odd remaining balance on the gift card.

Thank god for Erin. She kept me busy. She brought shirts and skirts and dresses and pants. She encouraged me to try on the stretchy-belly pants that I thought I loathed. I was strictly AGAINST them. They just look so silly with that extra piece of elastic around the waste. On the hanger is just flops over, looking excessive and strange.

Wow, was I ever wrong. Those pants are soooo comfortable. It's like a soft, supportive hug for my growing belly. I can bend over without flashing my undies to the world. I can lean forward without the waste of my pants digging into my stomach. They "smooth everything out" as the saleslady said. I love them. I bought two pair.

In the end, I spent all of my sister's generous gift certificate, plus some extra of my own money. I eventually had to stop Erin from bringing me more candidates. I rarely wear skirts or dresses, so buying one of each was plenty. I tried on more than a dozen dress up items. "Enough!" I said to her, laughing, but loving her good taste and attentiveness.

I had more fun shopping (and bought more clothes) than I have in the last 5 years combined. But it was worth it for the comfort and feel-good factor.

Grow, baby, grow!

I'm more than 21 weeks now. Past the halfway point. I'm showing, but still not enough for the average stranger to be sure I'm not just weird-shaped and chubby. But it feels real now..."it" being the idea that I'm pregnant, not the baby inside. We don't have to say "it" anymore because we had our ultrasound. We're having a little girl. A little girl. And as one of my best friends, Jenny, pointed out, "It just feels right that you're having a girl." She said this mainly to honor my mom, who died of ovarian cancer in 2003. The baby will have my mom's name, June, as her middle name. But that's as far as we've gotten in the naming business. Lots of ideas floating around, but none I'm ready to share or commit to.





You see, we didn't really expect a girl. The deciding genetic material comes from the father, and the last 3 generations of Richter males created only...Richter males. I have a lovely and wonderful sister-in-law, begotten by adoption. So I was expecting a boy. But a little girl...? It took awhile for that to sink in, but I am oh, so happy about it. And I think Dave is proud of himself for breaking the all-boy trend. We're bringing the first grandchild into the family (on both sides) and the first biological daughter to top it off.





The ultrasound helped me connect what I've been feeling to her actual movements. Right now, we're calling her "Wiggles" because she is a squirmy, active little thing. Even at the ultrasound, she was doing sommersaults and moving from one side of my uterus to the other. I saw the little, gray, skeletal-looking images twitching around and I realized this was an actual child inside me. And now I'm hyper-sensitive to her movement. She's most active from about noon to the evening time. She seems to know when my bladder is full, and she likes jumping around on it. Already, Dave has gotten to feel some subtle movements through my belly. She's strong. A hard little ball of wiggly child that likes to hang out in my lower abdomen. I, and a couple of my students who have ventured to touch my belly, are surprised at how solid the mass is. Not the fleshy, squishy feel you might expect, but a firm baby ball.



I swim once a week, and last Friday, as I was doing laps, I could feel her- a warm, solid ball in my tummy. She's quiet when I swim, no wiggling around, and I like to imagine what she might be feeling or thinking. I'm sure I'm projecting much more intelligence than she is currently capable of, but it's a bonding experience for me. I can imagine it's just me and her in the pool, quietly coasting in the water. I can't wait to meet her.