Grief and because of...

After Riley died, there was only what I could describe as a primal urge to be pregnant. I imagined it was nature’s way of making sure that our species continued thousands of years ago when children dying was normal because nature was harsh, predators were abundant, and accidents were prevalent. If that urge didn’t exist, I suspect our species would have become extinct.

I wanted it so badly. My mind wanted it. My heart wanted it. My arms longed for it. I wanted to grow a baby and keep it alive with my body. And we tried. After months of negative pregnancy tests, the threshold of what we'd try kept moving. There were intrauterine inseminations, hormone injections, egg retrievals and finally in vitro fertilizations. With those, there’d been three pregnancies and three miscarriages. My body felt broken and my heart was exhausted from the emotional ups and downs. We finally gave up. Letting go was its own kind of grief.

And in letting go, we gave ourselves permission to dream of the not-so-distant future when our youngest goes to college. We began imagining ourselves in Europe or Central America with Adam as the water-sports instructor and me leading workshops for enthusiastic writers. I wrote about it in the last issue of Six Hens. But as it turns out, if you don’t use birth control -- even after many failed pregnancies -- one can get pregnant the old-fashioned way. Even if you’re pushing 45.

Because of those pregnancies and losses, I was six months along before I told anyone. It took me that long to start believing that the pregnancy would result in an actual baby because I knew that a positive pregnancy test didn’t guarantee a baby would be born alive. 

It also took me that long because I was facing an intense internal battle. 

In the three years of successes and failures, it never occurred to me how a pregnancy while in grief would feel. I had not been pregnant long enough to be faced with those thoughts. And how it felt was, well, complicated. How could I possibly be excited for a baby that was only possible because Riley died?

As a result, my pregnancy was emotionally complex and I'd done my best to hide myself and my changing body from the world -- under lots of layers. Fortunately it was winter, so layers were easy. As I quietly shared this news with my closest friends, I cautioned them that it would never be a congratulations kind of pregnancy. And just as it would never be a congratulations kind of pregnancy, it would never be a congratulations kind of birth. Even though births are congratulatory.

You see, I can't get past the reality that if Riley were alive I would never have been pregnant in the first place. And therefore I was pregnant only because Riley died. It's flawed logic, but when someone was excited about my pregnancy, it felt like they must be celebrating the fact that Riley died because the current reality didn’t exist without the other. Even though the intellectual side of my brain knows no one is celebrating Riley’s death, the emotional side of my brain finds it difficult to internalize that.

Ultimately, I do take comfort in the fact that Riley would have been enormously proud to have a new sibling. He’d proven over the years to be an excellent big brother, big cousin, and big friend to our neighborhood children. I imagine it will get easier over time to accept the pregnancy was because of Riley, not instead of. Because of how much I love him. Because of how much I miss holding him. Because of how I have so much love to give. Because of how I long for things to be different for him, for our family.

So, with trepidation, we introduce Riley’s new sister who was born on March 8, 2019. Her first name is Sage. Her middle names are Lois Riley. Lois is in honor of my mom’s sister who died at 4; Riley is for her big brother, who she will love, but never meet. Be proud, big brother. I can sometimes see you in her tiny face.  

The other side of motherhood

As a little girl, I thought about growing up and becoming a mother. My childhood was not unlike many little girls’ as it came to fantasizing about being married and having babies. I played with dolls and mothered my dog and rabbit as if extensions of myself.

As a teenager, I equated babies with mistakes and accidents, something to avoid. In my early and mid-twenties, I equated babies with a loss of independence, a loss of alone time, couple time, friend time, camping trips, vacations, restaurant meals, and privacy. Still, even with all of those fears about the things that I would lose as a result of parenthood, I knew deep down there were wonderful and beautiful things to be gained as a result of motherhood. And in my gut, I wanted to have a baby someday. That desire is biologically hard-wired. It is real. And powerful.

Now that I’ve been a parent for nearly nine years, it’s hard to remember what my life was like before my two children. My youngest is five-and-a-half years old. He’s not really a baby at all, although I pull him across my lap every so often, his head in the crook of my arm like a newborn and his feet dangling near the floor like a big kid.

Intellectually and realistically, I’m done having kids. But my hormones clearly have other plans for me. As recently as a few months ago, I was having vivid dreams about pregnancy and nursing and the intoxicating smell of a baby’s head. At 38 years old, I suspect I have a few good eggs in there still. I felt intense pangs of desire, even though my body doesn’t like being pregnant. My vascular system didn’t like it, and I ended up with some varicose veins. My stomach didn’t like it, and I threw up until I was 20 weeks along. My sanity didn’t like it because sleepless nights and round-the-clock feedings are torturous. And, of course, there is the very real fear of having another child with life-threatening medical problems. But biology doesn’t care about any of my issues, and I'm sure that wasn't the last time my body will try to convince me to do it again.

The notion of having another has also come up a lot in recent months with other women whose youngest is also in kindergarten. I’ve also talked about it with my significant other’s sister-in-law when we visited them and their five-month-old twins in England just after Christmas. I’ve talked about it with close friends and acquaintances alike.* But what we’ve talk about, more than whether or not we really want another pregnancy and another baby, is what it’s like to be on the other side of the target that we aimed for from the time we held our first baby dolls 30+ years ago.

It’s just strange to be done, on the other side of motherhood. I still have lots of mothering to do. I’m not saying my job is done. But there won’t be any more pregnancies or nursing, and it’s a significant loss to realize it’s all behind me. Yes, I’m referring to the physical aspect of pregnancy and nursing and the logistical aspect of diapers and developmental milestones, but I'm also referring to everything else that separates holding your own baby from holding a someone else's baby.

(I also talked about my feelings with my significant other—not because I was trying to convince him we should make beautiful babies together, but because we talk about stuff :)

It really was just 15 minutes

I guess my kind of fame is very short lived. Almost as soon as I posted about my Internet fame, it was gone. Easy come, easy go. Good thing I saved a copy locally. Sadly the copy I saved is just a fraction of the actual photo. The real version has much more sky and weeds, etc. Ah...it was nice while it lasted.

I'm practically famous

One of my biggest regrets from my first pregnancy is that it wasn't properly documented. Sure we had the mandatory monthly belly snapshots taken in our living room. But I wanted to have real portraits done. And yet I didn't manage to get my act together enough to actually do it. Then I got another chance--I got pregnant again. We already know that second kids are destined to a life of hand-me-downs and that they get significantly less one-on-one time with mom and dad. But this second kid will have something his big brother doesn't have--very cool pictures of him in my belly. Not that he will care about that at all.

Yes, that is me and my eight-month-pregnant belly featured on my very talented photographer's web site. Ah, fame is just a web site away.

I am powerful: I am woman

It was terrifying. It was exhausting. It was by far the most powerful thing I have ever done. It was one of the most normal things in the world.

I laughed. I sobbed. I doubted. I rocked back and forth. I growled. I screamed. I swore. I sang Johnny Cash's Ring Of Fire between contractions. But mostly, I trusted my body. I gave birth--without drugs.

The female body is amazing.

Knocked up at the prom

What includes a black stretch limo, a high school year book show and tell, oodles of tell-all girl talk, gabs of glittery eye shadow, and 80s pop superstar Rick Springfield? It wasn't a high school prom. Nope. It was the Second Chance Prom--a local-radio-station-sponsored event in San Jose on June 10. I was a mere eight months pregnant.

Don't know what your high school was like, but a ripened-fruit like me was not an unusual sight when I actually was in high school way back when. There were probably 20 babies born to classmates during the four years I spent at Lockport High School. And who knows how many other pregnancies no one knew about.

But at this prom--this Second Chance Prom--I was proud of my blossoming belly. Sure my massive middle left me a little off-kilter and my left foot was still sore from my falling-down-the-stairs incident in May, but I danced and laughed and revisited my youth for a few hours. It was by far the best baby party ever, the best prom ever. There were no annoying jocks or popular kids to avoid, there were no curfews, no parents to lie to about where we were headed afterwards, and no boyfriends trying to score--that mission had been accomplished at least twice since this was my second pregnancy. That night, those couple of hours were about me and my girlfriends connecting, not necessarily as moms, but as friends. We forgot about laundry and dishes and diapers and husbands. And we remembered how to laugh and reminded ourselves that we need to do stuff like this more often.

The unflattering in-betweens

They say nine months on, nine months off. But surely it would be nicer if it only took labor and birth to burn off all those calories and be back in our pre-pregnancy clothes. I remember thinking that there were several stages of pregnancy clothing--one for when none of the regular clothes fit, one for the cute-and-six-months-pregnant phase, and the hello-I'm-about-to-pop-the-seems-on-this-dress look. But postpartum has wardrobe issues of it's own.

My kiddo is just three weeks old and I'm totally frustrated with myself. And it's not even my weight that bothers me. Sure I'm a little rounder, a little softer, and more voluptuous thanks to nursing, and I'm okay with it. What was driving me crazy was the fact that I'm in a terrible in-between stage for clothing. My pregnancy clothes looked ridiculous and my non-pregnancy clothes were sizes too small. There was simply nothing to wear.

That left me in sweat pants and bulky T-shirts. As if the lovely things that happen to our bodies postpartum aren't bad enough--the crazy hormones, the bleeding, the night sweats, the sleep deprivation, the leaky boobs, the hair loss. It would be nice if I could at least be wearing cute clothing. Frumpiness is simply not acceptable. So I took steps. I went shopping for this unflattering in-between stage.

If we don't feel good--and who does with a three-week-old baby?--we need to at least feel like we look good. We need to have an illusion to grasp onto to convince ourselves that we feel good. Restaurant-owner friend told me that it's not how to feel, it's how you look. And I think that if you feel like you look good, it improves how you feel.

I've only had these new in-between clothes for a few days now and so far my attitude has improved immensely. Imagine what a little more reliable sleep would do...

Just showing us who's boss

Thirteen days after my due date, I was finally induced at 10am on Saturday. The pitocin was discontinued a couple of hours later and Carter MacLeod Norton was born at 5:12pm. The serious contractions really didn't kick in until noon so things went very quickly (I was in labor for 20 hours with Toddler in Chief). TIC had an opportunity to meet his baby brother before bedtime!

We were discharged just 18 hours later. Our family has gained some valuable hospital management skills. Here are the first pictures.

Now for some rest!

P.S. for those who've asked, MacLeod is a family name - Carter's paternal great-great-great grandmother was Lydia Ann MacLeod. She was born to Scottish immigrants in Prince Edward Island in 1864, joining most of Carter's paternal ancestors who had already been in America since the early 1600s. Carter's maternal side would arrive years later from Germany, Ireland and Italy.

And the days go on

I'm still pregnant--just nine days past due is all. I had a non-stress test today and my doctor said she could let me go until the 16th. My amniotic fluid is borderline...something about me having seven millimeters (whatever that means) and five is the cut-off or something, but the baby is fine for now. Anyway, unfortunately, July 16 is a Sunday and they don't induce on the weekends, so it will have to be Friday or Monday.

I originally said Monday, but we get into problems with airports, etc., with family leaving and arriving on Tuesday. And it would be really sad for Grammy to have been here for three weeks and not ever get to see baby brother or only see him for an hour before leaving, since induction can take 24 hours or so. That said, I guess if I don't go into labor by Friday, I'll have them induce me, which is really frustrating. I just hate the idea of being given and IV and being pumped full of pitocin, which means really intense contractions and the likelihood of an epidural or C-section.

I know it's silly, but having a little bit of control or at least the illusion of control is important to me. After having no control over anything with Toddler in Chief's birth, I want to be in charge of something. I want my body to work like it's supposed to and I want to birth my baby--my way. I know the most important thing is that baby comes out healthy, but I hate feeling like I'm losing control of the situation before I even get into things.

What lies ahead...

As the inevitable approaches--I'm four days past my due date--I try to remember the joys and stresses of having a new baby. I try to remember everything that I have forgotten. Only the odds suggest that our experience first time around will be avoided. So in many ways, this birth will provide many firsts. I don't know the weight of my brand new baby against the top of my stomach. I don't know what it's like to hold my baby and nurse him when he is new. I don't know what a belly button stump looks like, or how to clean one. I never changed a meconium-filled diaper. Many of the firsts we'll experience this time will be firsts indeed, even though this is our second baby.

Then there is a big part of me that is terrified that other things will be wrong. It's like my brain is trying to shield itself from the inevitable pain by convincing myself ahead of time that things are going to be bad. Don't be optimistic. Don't be hopeful. Don't take anything for granted. I'm afraid to have this baby because I'm afraid of having a regular baby. I'm afraid of having a regular baby, only to find out later that he has so many problems. I'm afraid of having a sick baby because I've already been through that and I can't go through that again. Father in Chief says if our baby is sick again, we'll get through it--just like we've gotten through it with Toddler in Chief. I wish I felt that optimistic. I think all of my strength has been used up. I just don't feel capable of doing it again. In some ways I feel bad for this new baby. It's as if all of my energy, all of my hope, all of my optimism is gone. And if I need to pull some of that strength for the challenges that inevitably lie ahead--the challenges of a perfectly healthy, normal baby--it won't be there.

I can only hope that when he is born, all of my fears will disappear because he will be real. He will be perfectly healthy and normal. And I will fall into the rhythms and ebbs and flows of being a parent, of having a newborn, and finding myself in a new and wonderful "normal."

How dare I have another?

For at least the first year of Toddler in Chief's life, I couldn't imagine having another baby. We had been through so much. We were still bruised, still reeling from what we'd been through early on. We were still haunted by what was to come. But after his second surgery, we realized that having another baby was like giving ourselves permission to keep living. Our life didn't end when we had a child with life-threatening health problems. It had just become part of who we are. Even though our experience could never be described as normal, it's the only experience we know; it's our normal. There will always be life before and life after. But that doesn't mean we need to be totally defined by where we've been, what we've seen, the sorrow we've felt, the mourning we've done, the uncertainty we face.

When TIC was in the hospital earlier this year--during one of his darkest days in the Pediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit--one of the nurses asked me, "So, why did you decide to have another?" The tears fell on cue. Her tone suggested that she couldn't believe that we decided to have another, considering things obviously hadn't worked out so well with the first one. I have often suspected that people have wondered that about us--not that it's anyone's business if we decide to have more kids. But especially as I waddled around the hospital for those six weeks, I often felt like I was being judged. And from the tone of that nurse's voice, I apparently was, even as I hovered over the listless body of my three-year-old son.

But why shouldn't TIC have a sibling? Why shouldn't we have the joy of another baby? The joy of a bigger family? Even with all of TIC's problems, he is amazing and I feel honored to get to know him, to spend time with him--even if he drives me crazy occasionally.

A friend is going though the process of having a second baby with a surrogate. She is 44 years old and the surrogate just went through a failed IVF cycle. My friend and her husband were thinking it was getting to be too late to try again because they are in their 40s. But her fears, her hesitations, her concerns about the future reminded me of why we decided to have another baby. We don't know how much time we have on this earth. All we can do is make choices based on where we are right now and what we want for ourselves. When my son was born, I realized that life doesn't come with any kind of guarantees. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't strive for the best life we can build for ourselves, complete with all the ups and downs. Even with all of our downs--and we've had more than our share--the ups, the joys of being a parent to my special kid, far outweigh all that other stuff. Don't get me wrong, that other stuff is real, it's there everyday. But sometimes we forget about it for a few minutes and we live and we laugh and we just are. And it's all worth it.

TIC doing better; MIC not so much...

We finally celebrated TIC's third birthday today--just seven weeks late. From a cardiac perspective, he's doing great. Unfortunately, his lymphatic system isn't healed and he's back on a non-fat diet for another month. As for me, I'm 34 weeks pregnant and I fell down the stairs last night and broke my left foot. As if my life wasn't exciting enough. Now I'm on crutches and practically useless as a caretaker. Ugh. Actually, at this point, we're not sure if my foot is broken or just sprained...we didn't get an x-ray. But I'll either be on crutches for two weeks or five weeks. At least I didn't fall on my belly and go into labor.

And the gender is...

After not posting all weekend, I thought I'd take the easy way out and publish a picture of my expanding waistline. And I thought I'd share the good news that Toddler in Chief is going to have a brother! Both Father in Chief and I come from families with an older brother/younger sister, so we're breaking the trend. Brothers...I think it's pretty cool.

Fetal echo looks good

The belly was examined Friday and the baby's heart was checked out -- every chamber, every valve, every artery, and vein that could be identified was examined and looks good.

Don't know why I'm not comforted by this information.

The first time around, I was convinced that everything was fine. I was so laid back and had a blissfully ignorant pregancy. Now this time around, I'm convinced that everything is wrong. Okay, so the pediatric cardiologist says the heart checks out, but then it will definitely be something else. So the genetic counselor says my expanded AFP looks good and there are likely no chromosomal defects, but it still could happen. I guess I'm just not that comforted by statistics. Sure my chances for Downs are 1 in 3,900, but that's nothing to me. Toddler in Chief's chance of ending up with his smorgasbord of defects was around 1 in 100,000, so 1 in 3,900 sounds like a pretty significant chance.

Even if Baby is handed to me and the docs say everything looks great--a perfect baby--I doubt I will ever feel that he is really okay, that I can finally stop worrying. I'm sure he'll be blind or deaf or in a couple of years, we'll find out that he has a mental disability or autism or a life-threatening peanut allergy. It just seems so unlikely that I could possibly grow a healthy baby. I've never done that before.

Modified mission accomplished, sort of

Despite yesterday's curmudgeon-like attitude, I signed up for the pre-natal fitness class and actually attended the first one today. Getting out the door without Toddler in Chief was a feat all by itself. No, it's not anything to stimulate my brain, like an actual class where you learn stuff. But at least I'm doing something for me--even if it is directly related to motherhood.

They say the first step is always the hardest, right? Perhaps this will build confidence that I can actually manage to get out of the house and attend a regularly-scheduled event without TIC (and no, going out dancing doesn't count--only because it's not a regular enough outing).

And the verdict is that it was great fun, and there were some potential friends there (yes, still mourning the move of my fabulous dance partner-in-crime). Yes, I was scoping out the class--probably would have been asked to leave if anyone knew. I tried to do it on the sly, but I'm a bit out of practice.

Psyched for the impossible

As Toddler in Chief gets bigger, more verbal, and independent, I fantasize about gaining a bit of my old life back. My photography-loving, hiking, can't-sit-home-for-a-minute, want-to-get-an-advanced-degree me. I start looking at university web sites, figuring out deadlines for admissions and start wondering how I'm going to get all those essays and recommendations from former professors who haven't heard from me in 10 years in by the deadline. I get excited about the thought of being on a college campus, surrounded by the enthusiasm of young students who haven't been jaded by real-world corporate BS just yet.

And then I realize I'm almost 20-weeks pregnant.

I can't help but wonder if my enthusiasm is heightened by the unconscious realization that can't realistically go back to school right now. There's no way I can be in school in the fall (not to mention that the deadlines for admissions have already passed). I'll have a tiny baby and I'll be nursing round the clock and totally exhausted. I'll have two kids needing my attention and twice the laundry to prove it. So I scale by my ambitions. I thumb through our town's continuing education catalog and pick out photography, Spanish, cooking and pre-natal yoga classes that I'd like to sign up for. I get excited about getting out the house to do something just for me, without any kids in tow (except for that little creature doing summersaults in my belly). And I get almost euphoric as I realize that the classes are starting this week!

And then I realize that TIC is going into the hospital in just a couple of weeks, which means I'll miss a month of class, maybe longer.

I can't help but wonder if I get excited about doing stuff for myself only when it isn't possible. I get excited about stuff that I know that I'll never actually do. At least not for a bunch of years. How pathetic is that?

Where's the enthusiasm?

When family comes to visit, I love those little breaks from full-time parenting. And recently the breaks are even that much more appreciated because I'm totally exhausted and downright cranky from just being pregnant right now. My energy level is shot, my desire to play on the floor is nonexistent, and I really, really appreciate feeling like crap all alone, without toddler arms and legs jabbing me in the gut.

However, I realize this as I sit back and watch my mother read countless stories to Toddler in Chief that I don't have that kind of energy, well, ever. I'm sure the pregnancy has exacerbated my inability to be totally present with TIC, but there's something about watching other family be so excited with him that I feel sort of inadequate. My vocal level never quite reaches that same exuberance that my mom's reaches when she watches him play or accomplish some task. My cheers don't seem quite as authentic as the other onlookers when TIC poops on the potty. Is this just because no one can have this level of enthusiasm every day? Is this just because my kid's a novelty to these out-of-state relatives that they manage so much authentic emotion?

I don't know what it is, but it makes me feel like I'm not living up to the proper motherly standards, whatever those are.

New baby tough on dads too

Now that I'm pregnant and out of the pregnancy closet (at 15 weeks), I can't help but thinking about when the Baby in Chief arrives. And I'm not talking about what that means for my work. I've realized that will be the easy part. I'm talking about what that means for our family and for Father in Chief. I started thinking about this after reading Miriam's post called, "The New Year." It's about paternity leaves and the sad and short duration that they so often are. Her husband's short paternity leave recently ended. She wrote:

We parents face terrible choices. It's the obvious thing to say, but it strikes me all the more. It's not just moms. My husband took off the first two weeks after Amelia Jane was born. He held her, cuddled her, stared long and meaningfully at her. Then, January 3d it was back to work.

Her words about her spouse shot me five-and-a-half months into the future to see what our life will be like. Most of us at-home moms already know that we are devalued in society. But what I sometimes forget is that fathers are devalued even less. When we think of new babies, we think about the moms and short maternity leaves, "but we often forget that there are two parents who are likely struggling with the desire to be at home with the baby," I wrote on Miriam's blog. But when one parent isn't making very much money (as in our case), someone needs to be out there earning money to support the rest of us. And in our case--as in many cases--it's the dads.

I know that Father in Chief had a really hard time going back after our son was born. But somehow his conflict isn't respected the same way it is with women. I'm going to generalize here, but I think that the work-world *expects* women to want to be with the new baby. But men are *expected* to be indifferent. Or at least not care outwardly.

What's a contract got to do with it?

The stereotypes and stigmas and fears about being pregnant at work or while gainfully employed run deep. Will my boss think the quality of my work will deteriorate because I'm pregnant? Will I be passed over for a much-deserved promotion because of a pending maternity leave? Will my job somehow be conveniently eliminated during some kind of department restructuring--just as I go on maternity leave? Or just as I'm supposed to come back?

Sure all that stuff's illegal, but it happens all the time. And it's difficult, very time consuming, and expensive to prove.

Still, I thought those pregnancy anxieties would just be felt by people with real jobs. Not people with fluffy, freelance jobs who aren't expected to show up in an office in clean clothing. Not people who have jobs with incredibly flexible schedules who only work a couple of hours a week. These anxieties--I thought--would not be felt by people who can manage to fulfill their very-part-time obligations and have a baby. People like me, for example.

So how is it that I'm feeling this way? Not wanting to come out on my personal blog that I'm pregnant for fear that my employeer will read it and not want to renew my contract in March? It's so messed up.

Is preschool replacing playgroups?

One of Toddler in Chief's playgroups has all but dissolved. All of the women are just weeks from Laborland and Newbornville, so they aren't making it to the park. I'm sure they're home feeling large and are focused on finalizing the nest.

For TIC, those weekly groups are his primary socialization with other kids. Sure we go to the park and the zoo and have play dates, but those groups are a staple in his life. Perhaps the absent moms aren't so worried about a lack of socialization because many of their kids are enrolled in preschool. To me, it seems so strange to put a 2 1/2-year-old kid in preschool. But the moms have been pleased with the results because they combine chunks of socialization, with structured activities, and other adults in authoritative rolls.

Could it be that preschools are replacing playgroup? Now that we have moms' night out without kids, why do we need playgroups? It was really all about the moms anyway. The fact that the kids got to play together was an extra benefit the way a dollop of whip cream enhances a tasty mug of hot chocolate. And if there is a program doing what the playgroups were doing--socializing the kids--then why bother?

Sam over at PlayIsTheWork is on the other end of the spectrum. She had a post earlier this month that talked about why her five-year-olds are not in kindergarten. Rather, they started pre-K this year. She wrote, "One more year to further develop their social, emotional and yes, their academic independence before being faced with the rigors of kindergarten." I'm a big advocate of having lots of time for free-play, downtime, and boredom. Sam wrote:

"...children are overstressed and over scheduled, and we parents are suffering under unreasonable expectations and a pervasive sense of guilt. Too much of childhood has been taken over by preparations for adulthood--to the point that young kids’ afternoons are being scheduled with an eye toward college admissions. If it were not so harmful to parents and kids alike, it would be funny."

There are zillions of activities we're supposed to have our kids in so that they are well-adjusted and well-rounded by the time they start school. But sometimes all that activity seems like overkill. I'd love a three-hour break while my kid is in preschool, but not at the price of pushing my kid into a structured environment too soon. A lifetime of structure isn't that far away.