Words and not rushing it

Sometimes my baby just wants to be held.

At times, this is difficult for me because my baby is HEAVY. He was 15 lbs by six weeks. But he has all the same needs for closeness and cuddles and comfort as a teeny little baby.

A fierceness I didn't know I had sprang up inside me sometime during pregnancy. One of the places I was surprised to find myself directing this fierceness was at protecting his littleness.

"What a man child!" an acquaintance exclaimed upon seeing him when he was just a few weeks old. "No." I heard myself say. "He is a baby, a newborn baby. Please do not call him a man child." A larger than average baby, yes, but still, relatively speaking, a very tiny human being.

People often call their baby boys "little man". This phrase has always bugged me. Babies are not little men. They are little boys or little girls. No need to make them adults before their time. I think this is especially true for babies who are on the larger end of the growth charts. A friend who has a 3 year old who is big for his age shared with me a particular challenge - he looks older, so people expect him to behave like an older child. But he is still very young. It is important to me that he gets to be young, gets to be a baby. He is little! He is growing and looking bigger every day, but when I step back, I see that he is still very small. (Though I am sure there will be a time when he lets me know that he is no longer a little baby, but a BIG boy. And that will be lovely too!)

In general, I tend to place a lot of importance on word choice. Words have power. I am careful to not refer to my baby as "naughty" or "bad". Partly this is because an infant can't really be naughty or bad. (Though of course they can be fussy, wake often, and be very needy!)

I am careful about what words I use when I soothe him. I try not to say, "Don't cry." It's important to me that as he comes into consciousness memory as a child, that he knows that we value his emotions and he knows that crying is a healthy emotional expression. I try to say instead, "I am so sorry you are upset, but I am glad you are letting me know how you feel. I am going to keep trying to help you work through this and together we will figure out what you need." (Yes, it did feel a little funny to say that initially to a newborn.)

Source: The Gottman Institute

More than anything, I want to hold space for my child to be himself at each stage, and language is a part of that. I want to stretch out space for my child in the midst of rushing and hurrying. I want to be mindful of his pace.

I imagine my day as a series of scatter points across a graph. I am a line going from A to B to C to D, etc. What I want to do is take a metaphorical tent post and stretch the line from the ground up, creating a little more room. I try to do this by slowing down, with my actions and my words, and hoping we'll both linger here a little longer. 

We are four

From August 31

This morning, our anniversary looked a little different than ever before. When the happy cooing sounded over the baby monitor that the littlest member of our house was up, I went and got him, and we all laid in bed- Caleb who could not quite open his eyes yet, Samuel who looked around eagerly as he lay between us, and me who alternated between looking around eagerly and not being able to keep my eyes open. 

This year has brought new ways of living out the promises we made each other. And so I have written a few new vows to articulate these new ways. 

I promise to always come check on you when you are trimming trees or working on the roof and there is a thud.
I promise to sit by your side when you are nursing a newborn, even if I am so tired I fall asleep.
I promise to always take over on baby duty when you are so tired you are about to lose your mind.
I promise to keep our cars running and the walls of our house from falling down.
I promise to tell you how much I love you 87 times per week, minimum.
I promise to be the keeper of the memories of Samuel's birth.
I promise to handle the baby poop and kill the cockroaches.
I promise to deal with the mice.
I promise to put away your socks and fold your t-shirts.
I promise to remember where you put your things (phone, keys, water bottle).
I promise to always fawn over how you look in flannel.
I promise to always tell you how good you look in pajamas.
I promise to always tell YOU how good you look in pajamas.
I promise to tell you how good you look period.

As I was working on this, I rediscovered this post. Our first year of marriage was so, so sweet. We cut back on a lot of commitments and activities to just focus on each other. This year, we are cutting back  on commitments and activities again, but for a different reason - it is less of an intentional decision and more of a sort of need to survive. And it is hard, but also it is also sweet. And there is no one I'd rather be sharing it with. 

On keeping vigil, part II

Three a.m. finds me sitting in the rocking chair, holding my infant who is curled around my torso. His little body is relaxed, his breaths soft and quick. I could put him down and go back to bed - I need to put him down and go back to bed - but I linger, willing myself to stay awake for one more minute. I feel his warmth against my heart. The energetic pull is strong.

In these moments, at three a.m., I know that the Bible was written by men. (Men who were probably not very involved in child-rearing.) There are a few metaphors of God as a mother in the Bible, but only a very few. 

The fierceness with which I love my child, with which I love (as much as one can love) the three a.m. wake-up calls, the desperate cravings I experience to be in his presence, to see his face as he discovers the world, the energetic pull that causes me to draw him to my heart over and over again - nothing could have prepared me for it. 

I can only imagine that God's love for us is just as fierce, just as strong. Okay, probably stronger and fiercer. And for all the metaphors for God, I think they miss this. Or maybe it's just something we have to experience. 

On keeping vigil [part I]

The ocean of birth

I grew up in a place where the nearest ocean was about 13 hours by car. I saw the ocean a handful of times in my life, but didn't really get a chance to experience it until I was 20. Then I became obsessed.

I loved the sheer laziness of spending a whole day outside laying around, reading books, napping, talking, snacking, swimming when it got hot. I loved jumping over or diving under the waves as they crashed in, or floating on top, their saltiness on my tongue. The ocean felt like my ultimate pampering, luxurious experience.

A few years later, I was living in Spain. I took advantage of a long weekend in late February to attend a three-day surfing camp. Even though southern Spain is extremely temperate (is that an oxymoron?),  it was still winter, and therefore still windy and a bit chilly. One day, it was too windy and stormy to surf. Our instructor drove us to a point where we could look out over the beach where we had been surfing. Tall, angry waves crashed in furiously. The wind from the sea blew my hair straight up in the air.

As I stood there, I realized I had been thinking about the ocean all wrong. I suddenly remembered that in centuries past, and even today, people fear the ocean. The ocean takes lives. I realized that the ocean I loved to play in is easily converted by a few shifts in pressure to the ocean that takes lives with tsunamis, hurricanes, shipwrecks.

I had not given the ocean the respect it deserved.

I still love to play in the ocean, but now I am not so naive. I'm a strong swimmer, but I don't assume all would be well if I ended up swimming past the boundaries, or swimming on a beach with strong tides.

My experience with birth is like that windy day on the ocean. I remember reading several birth stories in which the women described labor as a feeling of sheer power moving through them like a freight train. At the time, I wondered what that would feel like, but I neglected to think to remember that freight trains can be dangerous. Power is to be respected. The power of birth is beautiful, like the power of the ocean, but I will never underestimate it again. 

On keeping vigil

From August 14, 2017:

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder what time it is. "I can't believe he hasn't woken up yet," I think to myself. As if he just heard my thought, the baby monitor begins to chirp with his noises. If it is Caleb's turn, I will nudge him awake, but I often only wake up for my turns.

I can tell right away how long I will be up. If I wake up to sad cries, I know he will fall back asleep as soon as his tummy is full and his diaper is dry. But when I hear happy cooing, I know we are in for a a while. He is fully awake, feels rested, and is ready to play.

A while back, the weekend was a doozy. And so, when I woke up to giggles Saturday night and Sunday night, I made my way to his room with some resignation. But both nights, we kept vigil together. We prayed for peace, mercy, judgment, and repentance. We prayed with unspoken words (both of us) and deep exhaustion (me). I prayed for guidance on how to parent in times of such extreme polarization.

Some people believe that you have to teach children who God is. I believe that children already know, and that their knowledge is so pure. I wonder if God keeps vigil in the world through her tiniest assistants.

I will try to keep my eyes open to see it.

A letter to my pregnant self

Here's a fun story. Once upon a time after the baby was born, I poured myself a glass of grape juice. Then I was doing stuff around the house and when I finished I couldn't find it. I looked for it later with no success. I gave up and got a new juice. Hours later, I found the glass in this clothes basket. The End.

Hi love,

I have good news - being on this side is way better. And not just because of the freaking amazing baby that is available for external snuggles. Sleep - though frequently interrupted - is so much more comfortable. (I don't know why people tell pregnant women to sleep. Ridiculous advice. Sleep is better afterwards, in my opinion.) Also, good news, you can pick stuff up again when it rolls all the way under your desk.

Also, when it comes to birth nothing is going to go how you think. I know you have super loose expectations - but even those are going to be blown out of the water. It's okay. In the end, the choices you are agonizing over making are good choices. You are making the right decisions. Relax as much as you can. I'm glad you aren't afraid. Fear doesn't really serve anyone in preparing for birth. In the end, all the resources and videos your midwife shared with you are going to set you up for breastfeeding success. And though you will end up in the hospital, you still got to experience a lot of advantages to midwifery care, and that served you well.

I am sorry that so many people are making rude comments to you about pregnancy. Honestly, that doesn't seem to be the norm for anyone I have talked to since, so I'm sorry that is the case for you. Keep getting fiesty. Keep telling people you don't like their comments. The thing is, people are going to keep saying stupid stuff to you even after you have the baby, so it's good practice to find your voice now.

OH MY GOSH - I have such good news about your (our?) belly button. Even though it turns black and turns completely inside out during pregnancy, it never disappears and it totally returns to normal afterwards.

Yes, what feels like ALL your hair will start to fall out around 12 weeks postpartum. And, good news, around 6 months postpartum, you will stop feeling hot all the time. You will even feel a little cold! You'll get a few stretch marks, but to be honest, your baby is going to be so big that you had to get a few just so that no one hated you. And you will fondly trace them and remember them as "the place where baby's bum was" and " the place where a tiny foot was always pressing out".

And finally, I know everyone tells pregnant women to hydrate, but maybe cool it? I promise you only need like 1/4 of the liquid you are currently consuming.

Love,

Me on the other side (it's so much better here!)

Birth and arrival story - part IV of IV

To begin:

Why do I want to share this story? There is almost nothing about Samuel’s birth that went how I had thought it would go. Processing through this story has been challenging for me, but also surprisingly easy. There are so many narratives about birth in our culture. I recommend (and will continue to recommend) this article. I am working to claim this birth as our story and writing helps me to do that. I share it because I believe in the importance of sharing even birth stories that are labeled as negative or traumatic. 

A quick word about our story - like most parents, we researched every decision and made what we felt was the absolute best decision for ourselves and for our baby. For us, that means we planned to have a home birth. Home births, particularly in the United States where emergency medical care is available when needed, are incredibly low risk. We had an exceptional story. However, we still believe home births are an excellent option for some families. Negative comments about this will be deleted. Thank you for being respectful of our decisions and our story. 

Trigger warning - I actually don't think this portion of the story needs a trigger warning, as it is our happy ending. However, it does touch on a few difficult moments around our home birth, so if you think those will be hard for you, take note.

Part I 

Part II 

Part III 

Dear Samuel,

The first time I held you, you still had a C-PAP machine on. Your cheeks were so chubby that the strap cut into them, and I wondered if it was uncomfortable. “He’s strong,” all the nurses said. You didn’t want to breathe with the machine, you wanted to set your own rhythm. You were wrapped in blankets. You exceeded my max weight-lifting limit of 10 pounds, so I got settled in the chair and you were placed into my arms in blankets. I stared lovingly at your face, more than half of it covered with machinery. I could not wait to see what you looked like without all that. I would get to know sooner than I would have thought. 

I will always remember the occupational therapist who came to assess you. (I didn’t realize that there were occupational therapists for newborns!) As she moved your body around, testing reflexes and stretching to test for muscle tone, you opened your eyes and looked at me for the first time. “Hi honey,” I said. “I’m so happy to see your eyes!!” Your little face was so chubby that you even had eye chub. You squinted out at me from deep underneath it, your eyes locking on to my face. I alternated sticking my face and hands in the hand holes in the incubator, equally desiring to see you and touch you. 

The sequence of the next events is a bit blurry in my memory. I kept holding my breath, but the good news kept on coming. You were cleared to go down to an oxygen tube instead of a C-PAP. My milk came in fast and furious during the pumping session when I heard you cry for the first time as they removed the electrodes stuck on your head that monitored your brain activity. “Ellen, you need to stop pumping,” Caleb said. “Why?” I asked. “Because the bottles are full!” 

They fed you a bottle of my milk down your feeding tube first. Next the nurse did a bottle feeding to test your suck-swallow-breathe reflex. You did well, so we were cleared to try nursing. With some help from a nipple shield and the skilled NICU nurses, you latched on and I experienced how much better that was than pumping. At one point, I lifted you up to switch sides, and your face was pure cherub. Your eyes were closed in bliss. Your cheeks were enormous and flushed pink. Your little mouth was wet and relaxed. You were the very definition of milk drunk, and it was at that moment that I fell explosively in love with you, head over heels, no turning back. I had loved you fiercely and protectively for months, but now I loved you with sheer and utter delight. I was addicted and I needed you in my arms as much as possible. I needed to fill your little tummy and for you to know that you were safe and we were done with the scary stuff. 

On Tuesday, I was discharged early in the day. The Mother-Baby unit was mostly empty, so we packed up, but kept our room as a base. I would be keeping my catheter for two weeks at home. I learned how to care for it, and was given a leg bag so I wouldn’t have to carry it around all the time. If I have another baby and don’t have to care for him or her while also hauling around a bag of my own pee, it will be amazing. The one plus is that I never had to worry about going to the bathroom… if desperate, someone else could empty the bag for me! 

Caleb and I went home Tuesday night with a hospital grade loaner pump from the NICU. We went home alone, to the house where we had thought you’d be born. Our house had been left a disaster after we went to the hospital - sopping wet towels in a hamper, dirty sheets on the bed where I had labored, an unflushed toilet. Fortunately, Caleb had been home a couple of times, family members had taken out the trash, and Caleb had done a lot of laundry. Nevertheless, walking into our house without you was an experience I would not wish on anyone. Caleb and I were uncharacteristically snippy and curt with each other, me battling ghosts of terrible labor memories, him feeling similarly. It was night, but no matter how many lights I turned on, I could not get the darkness out. 

Until... we were standing in the kitchen. Neither of us remember exactly what it was, but it was a comment or a gesture, something silly that made us both laugh. The laughter tinkled through the room and then shot across the icy darkness, cracking it open into a night that almost felt normal. Almost. 

I pumped that night in your room, and then slept in my bed, finally sleeping next to my husband, carefully hanging the catheter bag on the bed rail each time I laid down.

We spent that day with you in the NICU where you had a bath (maybe that was the day before), got your hearing checked, and graduated to a regular cradle instead of an incubator. You got to wear your first outfit, some little footed jammies with baby chicks on them that we got from a coworker. Or maybe all of that was the day before. What I do know is that you passed your hearing test and your grandmas got to hold you. Your dad read books to you. And that night, when I told the nurse I planned to go home, she gave me a frank talk that I will always appreciate. Look, she said. I am not going to tell you what to do. What I do know is that in order to go home, they want to see him eating well. He seems to be nursing well. If we switch back to bottles tonight, we are going to have to track exactly how many milliliters he is drinking. If he doesn’t drink a certain amount, they will keep him here longer. I made the decision to stay at the NICU. Caleb brought me my pajamas and toothbrush and pillows. I traipsed down the hall to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, returned, and got settled in.

Our little cherub in his chicken jammies.

A word to my readers: may you never have to spend the night in the NICU. And if you do, may you not have to do it when you are sore from giving birth, tired, catheterized, and sleeping on a chair. And if you have to do it like that, may they not come in and wake up your baby every three hours, or do the NICU test at 2am where they put him in a car seat for 90 minutes to make sure he doesn’t have a cardiac or respiratory emergency. That was the worst night. No night since has been that bad. Finally, around 5am, they brought in a swing because he wasn’t sleeping and neither was I. We both finally slept. 

Throughout this, Samuel, you were finally losing a little bit of birth weight. You had stayed steady at 11 lbs since you were born. Now you were losing, and though I had an abundance of milk, the doctors were worried. You lost weight all day Wednesday, all night Wednesday, and into Thursday. So you can imagine my surprise when I learned that you would be discharged Thursday afternoon! (And I was beyond grateful to not have to spend another night in the NICU.) We jumped through lots of NICU hoops that day, promised to come back for a weigh-in on Monday, and promised to follow an arduous schedule of nursing you following by offering a bottle/ me pumping until then. Anything to go home with you. Anything to hold you without the mandatory NICU oxygen and heart rate wires. 

We had a male nurse that day named Nate. Nate wore cowboy boots with his scrubs and was the one to carry you in your car seat down and out to the car where your dad was picking us up. We had so much stuff that your dad had taken it out on a cart. When he got to the parking garage, he realized he didn't know what to do with the cart, and he didn't want to spend the time walking it all the way back - so he put it on the roof rack of his car and drove it out. Nate the nurse thought that was awesome. 

We drove home (I even rode in the front seat - I knew you had passed your car seat test after all!) and took a photo by the front door. 

“Samuel, this is our home. This is where we live,” I shared with you as we walked inside. In response, you let out an enormous scream and began to cry. Maybe you felt the ghosts of labor too. But, having already battled them as your parents, we were able to dispel them quickly with some skin to skin and nursing. 

And with that, we dove headfirst into a more normal newborn experience. But I’ll save those stories for another time. 

Love,

Mom

P.S. A final note - we are perhaps some of the only parents ever who did not look up what your name meant before we named you. Once we were snuggled up in our home together, days and nights mixing into one sleepless, love-filled blur, I realized maybe I should do that. I sat in the chair in the room where I thought you were going to be born, space heater whirring in the background on a snowy March day. You were snuggled in my arms, breathing softly. When the result popped up on the Google page, I caught my breath and then tears filled my eyes.

Your name means "God has heard".
Amen.