Acceptance

Two nights ago, I decided to test Sloan, my 17-month-old daughter.

At bedtime, after her bath and her PJ’s and a kiss “night-night” from Daddy, we went into her quiet, dark room and sat on our chair, snuggled in, and I gave her a bottle.  I didn’t pull up my shirt and offer her my milk.  Instead, I offered her a bottle of her almond milk that she loves.  There was a glimpse of uncertainty as she tasted the milk, but it vanished before I could really even recognize it.  She drank the bottle happily, and quickly.  So quickly, that when she was done I eagerly looked around for more, as though I could just make it appear and make the moment last longer.  But she was happy.  She started wiggling in the way she does when she is trying to tell me she wants in her crib, she is ready for sleep.  I didn’t want to let her go, this new night-time routine happened way too fast, it was not normal.  We normally had 10 to 15 minutes of nursing and cuddling before I laid her down.  This was over in one minute flat. 

Reluctantly, I walked over to her crib and placed her in, expecting a cry out, a whimper, or something to indicate that she was not ok with what had just transpired.  Nothing.  She rolled over, cuddled her bear and bunnies into her face as she does, and closed her eyes.  Typical behaviour.  I stood there for a moment, bewildered, until I finally accepted that she was clearly ok with this, turned around and tiptoed out of the room, silently closing the door behind me.

When I came downstairs, Jaime looked at me in surprise, with the empty bottle in my hand.  “That was it?” he said, confirming to me that it was definitely as quick it felt.  “Yep” was all I replied.  That was it.

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the couch, as an inexplicable feeling of numbness set over me.  That was it.  I am no longer breastfeeding Sloan.  And it happened so easily for her!

When I gave her the bottle, I truly didn’t expect her to take it.  It was a test, that in my heart I knew she would not pass.  So when she happily accepted the bottle, I was surprised and honestly quite sad.

Everyone talks about how fast they grow.  Savour the moments, they say.  Before you know it they will be grown, they say.  They don’t say, “the last time you nurse your child feels like you are taking their tininess and instantly making it big”. 

She runs, she plays, she is beginning to speak.  She eats real food, she laughs at funny things, she climbs everything in sight.  She is a child.  She is not a baby.  Why does this make me sad?  Every day I enjoy her, I love seeing her grow, I love seeing her learn.  Every day with her gets better.  I don’t yearn for her infancy, I look forward to her future.  I enjoy who she is with every day that passes, and I look forward to seeing more of her tomorrow.  There is no sadness in that.

Two nights ago, after giving Sloan that bottle, and I was sitting on the couch with my glass of wine and not knowing what to do with myself, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Facebook.  I came across a link to this article, which struck me something fierce (http://www.brainchildmag.com/2014/07/now-i-mother-from-a-distance/).

She said it best when she said: “Now there is a person I can’t wrap in a swaddle blanket and protect from the world”.  She nailed it. 

My bedtime nursing routine kept me holding on to her infancy.  It was the one time of the day that she allowed me to hold her tight, cuddle her hard, stroke her cheek and her arm and rock her sweetly as she lulled off to sleep.  Perfectly safe.  Perfectly content.  I know I can still do these things with a bottle, but the truth is, I now know she doesn’t need it.  Jaime can finally put her to bed, which is something I’ve claimed to want for months and months now.  It’s only a matter of time before the bottle is weaned off as well.  Will she still want bedtime cuddles?  How long will it be before she no longer fits “baby-style” in my arms?  Sometimes I feel I am only a breath away from report cards and sleepovers.

Despite my reluctance, I am accepting of these changes.  It’s called humanity.  It’s called life.  She will continue to grow, she is a person who is evolving into herself each and every moment of each and every day.  It is truly a wonder to see.  It reduces me to grateful tears more often than I could ever measure. 

I was once asked what the meaning of true love is.  At the time, I didn’t really know.  I thought of all the typical things, like patience, understanding, compromise.  I thought of my husband, who I love very much and who loves me.  But I still wasn’t sure how to define it.  But now I know.  True love is acceptance.  Motherhood has taught me that.

The Vicious Cycle

Every day, I look around my home and think, “Surely I should be doing better than this.  Do I suck at this?  I am a stay-at-home Mom most days…shouldn’t my house look spotless almost all of the time?”

I hate that feeling.  I really, really hate it.  Because the answer to those questions is always lurking around my head: “Yes, you should be doing better than this.  Yes, you suck at this.  Yes, your house should be spotless almost all the time”.  Yet, as I am typing this, I am seeing how ridiculous that is.  But is it really? 

Being a stay-at-home mom is supposed to be a “job”.  And when you think of the cost of daycare, it’s a job that actually pays.  A job, with a description that includes (but is not limited to!): 

General Summary:

Clothe, feed, teach, play with and love children, all while maintaining a safe and comfortable home environment.

Essential Functions and Duties:

-          waking up before the sun

-          cooking (many, many meals.  Kids have to eat a lot)

-          cleaning (and MAINTAINING a clean house)

-          dishes (that never ever ever ever stop)

-          clearing the damn kitchen counter 500 times a day

-          picking up toys (also tripping over them, stepping on them and accidentally hoofing them across the room constantly)

-          picking up child as they tug on your pants saying “up up up up up” (leaving you with one hand to do all of the above, and all of the below)

-          read stories, read more stories, read them all again numerous times a day

-          laundry (which includes sorting, folding and PUTTING AWAY – all preferably during “off hours” so the hydro bill doesn’t sky rocket – leaving most evenings and weekends free to do…LAUNDRY!)

-          take kids to the park

-          play outside and make sure they don’t hurt themselves

-          go for walks

-          sing songs, preferably with dramatic actions

-          change lots of diapers (the ability to hold your breath for long periods is an asset in this category)

-          lots of handwashing (yours, and a those of a wriggling toddler not big enough to reach the tap even on a stool)

-          cleaning up a mess of some sort every 10 minutes or so

-          crafts, and the endless clean up that comes after

-          endless kisses, hugs, cuddles and giggles (my personal favourite responsibility of the “job”)

I have always prided myself on my work ethic.  I am a hard worker, I know I am an asset to my employer, I know I do a good job.  So when I am constantly asking myself why I am not doing better at home, it really, really nags me.   It makes me feel inadequate.  This feeling is compounded when my husband comes home to a house that is upside down.  While he is great, and hardly ever mentions it, I can’t help but feel he often wonders: “Hmmmm…wonder what she does all day”.  I know I would wonder that if I wasn’t me.  In theory, it really doesn’t sound too hard.  Keep the house clean.  Especially if you’re in it most days.  You have the time!  What about naps?  Totally doable.  Yet somehow, it’s not.  Not for me. 

I am not a particular tidy person.  I definitely like to be surrounded by a clean house, but I just don’t have the chops to maintain it.  I try.  I really, really try some days.  Some mornings I wake up and make a vow to myself that I am going to pick up after myself (and my daughter) all day long.  I will not let the house get upside down.  Then, the day wears on, and every evening I look around in bewilderment to see that it’s happened again.  So I tidy it all over again.  It’s a vicious cycle that makes me feel like some days all I do is try to keep the house clean.  All the while my sweet little babe is tugging at my pant leg, saying “up up up up”.  So I repeat a constant loop of “OK honey, almost done honey, OK baby, Mommy’s almost done sweetie”, until I am somewhat satisfied with my task and I pick her up up up.  There are a couple of problems with this:

1.       Each time she is asking for me to pick her up up up, is an opportunity for me to connect with her.  Really connect on her terms.  I can teach her things, read to her, sing with her.  In other words, really have that quality time with her that made me want to stay home with her in the first place. 

2.       My “cleaning” is so half-assed.  My little piles get bigger, the dishes only get half done (which is likely why it feels they never end), and only 2 laundry items get folded (which are then promptly unfolded by Sloan).

Therefore, nothing ever really feels complete.  I never feel all-in.   And I am an “all-in” kinda girl. 

Feeling inadequate doesn’t sit well with me.  It seeps into everything.  It haunts me with a cloud of anxiety that most days I can ignore and reason with, but some days it just sucks.

There are so many great blog posts and columns on the internet that address this very topic.  Most of them have such a positive “ah, fuck it” tone that I feel so great having read them.  I am not alone!  I am normal!  Yet, I think about it a little more and I think, “Really?  How hard is it to just maintain your own home?  Where is your pride in this?” 

It’s such a toxic thing, really…The Mind.   A friend recently said it best:  “Every day when he gets home I find myself apologizing for the state of the house, and he doesn't even care about the mess, why do we put this pressure on ourselves?”

And that’s just it.  I am putting the pressure on myself.  Why are so many women such masochists?  It’s the constant struggle between the not-so-distant-past of June Cleaver and the “leaning-in” Sheryl Sandberg.  Where does that leave the in-betweeners like me?  I don’t want to be June Cleaver!  And I sure as hell don’t want to be Sheryl Sandberg.  There is so much pressure to fit into a particular mould, to “have it all”.  But where is that pressure coming from?  My own head?  Because when you think about it, you can only be affected by what you allow to affect you.  So why do I care?

Once again I am reminded that I am my own worst enemy.  Shouldn’t I be my own best friend?

Thanks, Stuff.

I don't know about you, but I really like my stuff.
That may sound pretty shallow and a little spoiled, but think about it.  Think about how the inanimate objects in your life make your life a whole lot more awesome.  I am sure you appreciate your toothbrush.  And who doesn't love their pillow?
I think it's time for our stuff to get a little shout-out.  I'll start:

Thank you to my food processor.  You made it so easy to make baby food.  Because of you, I felt like a super-mom.
Thank you to my "H" mug.  You're the perfect size, the perfect weight, and you're pretty too.  You make me feel comfort every morning as I drink my beloved coffee from you.
Thank you to my pillow - the one I squeeze between my legs as I sleep.  You help me sleep so soundly, without the discomfort of my knobby knees pressed together.
Thank you to my flip-flops (affectionately known as my "flippy-floppies").  You make running out the door so easy, and the slapping sound you make against my heels is oh-so-satisfying.
Thank you to my wine glass.  The perfect shape and height.  You never judge me and say, "that's enough now".
Thank you to my bathtub.  You're so deep and warm.  Because of you, I now love baths.
Thank you to my iPod.  You play your white noise every night in Sloan's room, ensuring she doesn't wake up while Jaime and I watch TV way too loudly.
And thank you to my TV.  You suck me in to your plethora of worlds - and that's A-OK with me.

I could go on you know.

I'm Bringin' Culture Back...

Well, hello!

Yes, I am the most inconsistent blogger ever.  Can I blame it on busy motherhood?  I don’t really feel like I can, because I know there are MUCH busier moms than me out there.

The truth is, I am actually writing a lot.  Because I am taking a writing class!  I am so excited about this.  You may remember from my first post that I once signed up for a writing class and bailed after the first day because I was too embarrassed to read my writing out loud (and if I am honest, I also thought the teacher was a nasty cow). 

So how did I come across this glorious class, and in Newmarket no less? (the place I used to refer to as the Culture Free Zone).  Well, I really started paying attention to my community paper.  Since I have been off work, I’ve been getting way too excited for the twice-weekly delivery of the Newmarket Era,  (which on Thursdays is stuffed with oodles of flyers and coupons – my latest embarrassing motherhood obsession – but that is another story).   In one of the Thursday papers I came across the “Newmarket Fall Activity Guide” which is a big booklet full of courses, classes, programs and cultural events for kids and families – and as I discovered, for just adults too!  I scanned the courses, thinking there was no way I was going to find anything interesting.  But wait, what is this?  A photography course?  Cool!  Cooking classes?  Why not!  And could it be….a writing course?!  Surely it must be lame…but it’s every Wednesday from 7-9.  The timing is perfect!  Sloan’s in bed, happily full and asleep.  I was intrigued.  So I signed up.

I really didn’t know what to expect, but within 5 minutes of the first class, I knew I made a good decision.  The group of people was so eclectic and interesting.  A construction worker.  A painfully shy teenager.  An elderly grandmother type with the softest, most delicate voice I’ve ever heard.  A self-professed “hockey mom”.  A physically challenged fantasy and comic book fanatic.  A singer-songwriter.  An Indian woman obsessed with poetry.  A mysterious woman whose kindness I can sense, but who also seems to carry pain in her heart.  And me, a new mom who has felt completely out of touch with her cultural side since moving away from the big city (which was five years ago).

Our “teacher” is kind, thoughtful and created such a safe, warm environment that we all seemed to feel comfortable to not only write galore during class, but share a particular piece towards the end of the two hours.  The format goes like this: we begin with a light meditation, to clear our mind and prepare ourselves to write.  We are then given a “prompt” and write for 10-15 minutes per prompt.  For example, one prompt was “I remember when…”.  And then you just go for it.  Then, after about an hour and a half of this (and a number of pieces in our notebooks), we go around the room and share a piece that we’ve written.  The rest of the class then comments on the piece – what stuck out to them, what really touched them, etc.  The rules are: everything is assumed to be fiction (so people don’t have to feel like they are spilling their guts), and only positive comments allowed.  It’s wonderful! Such interesting pieces! Such creative writing!  And such positive feedback!

I’ve never written so much in one sitting, and so many different things!  Each class we focus on a different aspect of writing, such as dialogue or description.  I truly feel like it’s making me a better writer.  And I absolutely love it.  It’s also been emotional at times.  My writing, as you know, is very personal, and some of the prompts bring out pieces that have literally brought me to tears (and allowed me to really write for something other than this blog – because as much as I spill here, there’s a lot more inside me that I could never really share publicly). 

One piece that has stuck out to me was from the prompt, “My Mother’s Hands”.  When I read this aloud my voice cracked in places, and when I was done I noticed a couple of the women in class had tears in their eyes.  I think it really touched on their relationship with their own mother, or lack thereof.  I know I am lucky to have the mother I have (what a reminder!), and I would like to share the piece with you now.

My mother’s hands.

So soft and so strong.

Even as a child I felt the strength in her, coming through her hands.  She would stroke my face and head in a way that made me feel like her love and calm was washing over me.   In theory, it was awkward – she would cover the side of my nose, forehead and chin, and with her whole hand sweep back, over my cheek and across my ear, coming right back to the exact spot where she started and stroke again, with the consistent repetition of someone petting a cat resting on their lap.

I craved that touch and she gave it in abundance.  She would often sing softly, or just hum, and it always made me feel so loved.

She always said I couldn’t possibly know how much she loved me and my brothers and sister; that only when I had a child of my own would I begin to get it. I never took those words in.  How could I?  You don’t get what you don’t get.  But now I know what she meant.

I now do the same stroke with my own daughter, an instinct that came to me the moment she was placed on my chest.  My hand went to that place on her face, and swept back with a gentle firmness that instantly took me back to my childhood, and I swear I remembered being a baby in that moment.

My mother’s hands have taught me many things: hard work, generosity, but mostly, they taught me love.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Xo Holly

I QUIT!

This post is going to be difficult to write.

I am sure it will be THE MOST difficult to share, that’s for sure.  That is because it is filled with shame, embarrassment, and I will be revealing a secret that only my good friends and close family know. 

I am a smoker.

I am one of "those" smokers, who has the following phrases locked down, and can recite them anytime I am encountered with someone who is shocked to find out I smoke:

- I only smoke occasionally

- I can quit any time, but I just don't want to because I enjoy it so much

- It relaxes me

- When I am stressed or upset, nothing calms me like a cigarette

In other words, I am full of shit.

You see, I care about my health.  I eat well.  I use all natural beauty products (since so many of the conventional brands have “cancer-causing” ingredients).  I make my husband feel guilty for the amount he smokes, because his amount is far more dangerous than mine (hello hypocrite).

Yet I smoke.  Every evening, after a day of healthy eating and using natural products, I would go outside and voluntarily poison myself.

Well, I DID.  A few days ago I got slammed with a cold/flu that knocked me off my ass.  Sunday was my worst-feeling day, which was the day my husband was out all day at the “Easy Way to Stop Smoking” seminar that I signed him up for without his knowledge, and then sent him to like a mom sending an unwilling child to camp for the first time.  I decided I would read the book, and he would do the seminar.  I am an avid reader, Jaime is not.  I knew the seminar would be more effective for him, and we had been talking about quitting together for a long time.  Jaime actually quit the night of our wedding, and didn’t smoke for a year and a half.  Then we went on a trip to Mexico with a whole bunch of people for a friend’s wedding and it all fell apart.  Plus, I didn’t quit when he did (see my earlier comment, on my “harmless” smoking habit).  I always felt guilty about this deep down, but like all smokers, I came up with bullshit justification that allowed me to push all rational thought from my mind in order to excuse my nasty habit.

Getting the cold, I now realize, was angelic timing.  It gave me the time to read the book, and of course I didn’t feel like smoking when I felt like crap.  And it allowed me the time to really let the book’s philosophy sink in; the most poignant point of all for me was to replace every craving for a cigarette with a celebration that you actually aren’t going to have it.  Because it’s gross, or ugly, or whatever it is to you that makes you feel ashamed to do it.

For me, it’s Sloan.  100 percent Sloan. 

Of course, the moment I found out I was pregnant, I did not dream of having a cigarette (OK, I dreamed about it, and fantasized about it, and really, REALLY wanted to do it - but I did NOT ever do it).  It was tough.  I was a pretty energetic preggo, and my social life didn’t change much while I was pregnant, except I wasn’t smoking or drinking.  I was constantly surrounded by it (sadly, almost all of our friends are smokers), but since no one we know smokes indoors (thank goodness), I was constantly alone many times throughout the evenings, while my friends “enjoyed” themselves outdoors. I’ve always smoked socially.  It’s part of my social life (as of course it is for most smokers).  So being forced to “quit” didn’t have the same effect as quitting for real.  People often asked me if I planned to quit forever, since I had gone so long without smoking, and my response was always a VERY weak “ummm…maybe”.  The truth was I was dying for the moment I could have another cigarette. 

Of course, when Sloan was born, the last thing on my mind was smoking.  I was so exhausted, and there was no aspect of my life that was truly social.  When she was sleeping, I let my head fall on the softest spot near me. 

But then I started to settle in to this baby thing.  I’ll never forget the moment I realized I could potentially smoke.  I was at a friend’s place, and they were outside smoking.  I had just breastfed Sloan and she was sleeping and I knew she’d be asleep for 3-4 hours.  And it hit me.  I NEED A CIGARETTE RIGHT NOW.  AND I CAN HAVE ONE!  I marched outside, grabbed the closest pack, and lit one up.  And it was so good.  SO GOOD.   There was a nagging guilt inside me, which I pushed away with force.  This was ok.  It was just one.  I had done research on smoking and breastfeeding, and one little cigarette would be fine.

EW.  Typing this is sickitating me.  But I will continue.

That one cigarette led to another…to another.  Before I knew it, my daily routine began to include a cigarette (or two, or three, or sometimes even four), after I had put Sloan down for the night and I knew she’d be down for hours.  After each cigarette, I would scrub my hands, brush my teeth and hang up my “smoking sweater” which I would wrap around myself in hopes of it catching the second-hand smoke, rather than my skin or hair (dumbass). 

But with EACH and EVERY cigarette, I felt GUILT.  I felt SHAME.  Sure, I had felt those things before (especially when non-smokers would see me smoke, and I could see the judgement in their eyes), but nothing like this.  My own mother, who doesn’t pull out the judgemental card very often, saw me smoking one evening after Sloan was in bed.  She was completely shocked, flabbergasted and clearly disgusted with me (she smokes “socially” too).  “HOLLY!!  You are BREASTFEEDING!!  What are you DOING?  You’re so into your natural stuff, yet you are SMOKING???  I can’t believe I am seeing this!!”  Talk about wanting to be swallowed by a sink hole and die.  I rambled off a bunch of bullshit (one cigarette a day won’t hurt, Sloan is sleeping, BLAH BLAH BLAH), but I knew she was right.  And I was SO wrong.  But away those thoughts went with each cloud of smoke I exhaled. 

EW.  I am so disgusted with myself right now I need to take a break. 

Continue…

But the guilt got worse.  Every time Sloan would stir in the night, and I had to go soothe her, I knew that no matter how hard I tried to wash the smoke away, the smell (and the chemicals) still lingered on me.  Every morning when I brought her into bed with me, she was cuddling up to our pillows and blankets that were against our smoky bodies and hair all night long while we slept (Jaime and I went so far as to have “Sloan Friendly Pillows” that would replace our sleeping pillows before bringing her in with me in the morning, but it’s not like I changed the sheets or duvet cover).  Does all of this sound like a silly pain in the ass?  It was!  

And we did all this so we could poison ourselves!

The thought of Sloan ever seeing me smoke filled me with dread.

And then it hit me (while reading the book).  As Oprah would say, I had an “aha” moment.  The only way to guarantee Sloan never saw me smoke was to never smoke again.  Obvious, right?  Well, until I looked at it that exact way, quitting seemed impossible.  That’s why the “Easy Way” book really helped me.  I won’t go into the details of the book.  All I can say is if you want to quit smoking (and let’s be honest, EVERY smoker wants to quit smoking), read it.  Open your mind to it.  I will share with you the one thing I took away from the book that I find the most helpful.  Every time you think about having a cigarette, and that sense of dread comes over you when you remember that you’ve quit, rejoice in the fact that you will NOT have that cigarette.  That you are now free of them.  FREE of them!  It sounds quite simple, and that’s because it is.  I am done.  I am a non-smoker.  And saying that feels better than that poison ever did.

Tonight will be my third night smoke-free.  The past two nights, when I’ve gone in to soothe Sloan or cuddle her (she got my cold L), I’ve smiled to myself knowing I am clean.  There is no smoke on my clothes, or in my hair or on my breath.  She is smelling mommy, pure and simple.  This morning, when I brought her into my bed, with our nice clean sheets, I let her wrap herself up in my blankets, and rest her head on my pillow (same one I used last night) and smiled to myself knowing it was all clean.  And it felt glorious.

Right Now

I have not taken the time to write this blog as I had planned or expected.  I honestly thought that having a baby provided more free time, not less.  I thought I would spend my year off enjoying each moment with my child, and also taking the time to consider what it is I really want to do in this life.  Where I want my career to go, where my unexplored interests will take me.  I thought I would write more, maybe even start a book (ha!).  But the truth is, I haven’t done much of that at all.

I read an interesting article online that someone had posted, written by a mom who rushes through life, and was blessed with a child who takes the time to smell the roses (read it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rachel-macy-stafford/the-day-i-stopped-saying-hurry-up_b_3624798.html).  She realized she was repeating a constant loop of some form of “hurry up” to her little girl, who really did not get what the rush was all about.  It really made me think.  I already am doing the same.  I am constantly looking to the next chunk of time, to my next chore, to my next errand, and all the while skimming through the moments as they happen. 

My job, as manager of my mom’s small business, had me running off my feet for almost 8 years.  Everything had to be done right now, the next thing had to be done right now, the thing after that, and after that…it all had to be done right now.  It ingrained into my psyche (and quite honestly was a great fit for my controlling personality).  There was no time to ponder, every decision had to be quick.  Questions had to be answered, people needed direction…all right now.  It’s the “nature of the business” and it really is.  We produce products.  We have deadlines.  We love our customers and they love us, because we value right now.  So when I stopped working, and Sloan came along, the gears didn't suddenly just change.  I still find myself, as I am settling her down for a nap, thinking in my head “hurry up and go to sleep!  I need a shower, I need to pay a bill, I need to fold the laundry, I need to fill out paperwork, I need to send an email, a text…I need to do something right now!” 

How unfair is that?

How ultimately sad is that?

I already know that before I know it she will be big.  She won’t fit in my arms, she won’t stay there contentedly as I rock her to sleep.  Moments pass, and moments become days, become months, become years.  Here I go with the clichés again, but now that I have a child I truly understand that time really does fly...and time needs to be cherished.   Rushing my mind through each moment doesn’t change the fact that that moment still takes the same amount of time to happen.  It does not speed it up, allowing me to move on to the next (and would I really want it to? Of course not!)  All it does is take my mind away from the present.  I miss things.  For nothing.

Interestingly though, the other night I was lying in bed with Jaime, and we were talking (as usual) about how incredible Sloan is.  I suddenly felt a rush of realization – I am happy.  And I said so.  “I am so happy.  So happy.”  I have never in my life said those words in that way.   They never came to me the way they did that night.  And I will always look back on that moment and remember the magnitude and significance of that feeling.  Once Sloan is asleep I always run through the day, finding myself missing her while she is sleeping.  I find myself thinking back to moments when I suddenly snapped out of my iPhone trance, or laundry folding zone, or any other mundane task and there she was, looking at me, waiting patiently for me to focus on her again.  I know it’s time to slow down.  I know it’s time to lose the distractions and relish the moments.  Because before I know it, they will be gone.

(FYI – this blog post was written over two of Sloan’s naptimes.  No babies were ignored in the writing of this post J)

The Warrior Has Arrived

Six and a half weeks ago I had a baby. 

I simply can’t believe how quickly the past few weeks have gone.  There’s cliché #1 that has proven to be true (“time flies”), along with pretty much every single other one: everything “they” say about becoming a mom.  I love this child more than life itself and I did so instantly.  I am exhausted but can’t imagine a world without her.  I somehow have no time to do anything, yet all I do is feed, burp, change, hold and rock my baby.  Getting a glass of water has proven to be a challenge (I joke that I need one of those hats that has bottles attached to the sides with straws that lead down into the mouth so I can have water whenever I need it, but honestly I am considering seeking one out).   The fear I had of becoming a mom is still there, but yet I know I can do it.  No matter how you feel about other people’s kids, you will love your own so unconditionally it’s ridiculous.

And the biggest truth is that it really didn't matter in the end how she came into this world.  It seemed perfectly orchestrated to result in the moment when a big (9lbs!) beautiful baby girl was placed on my chest, bobbing her head around looking for food…before I knew it, Sloan had arrived.

On Friday, March 8^th Jaime and I checked in at Southlake hospital where I was examined to determine whether I needed Cervadil or not – a drug that softens the cervix.  To my surprise, I was 1 cm dilated!  I was sent home and told to come back at 7:30am the following morning. This was wonderful news – perhaps I would get my home birth after all!  I was 1 cm dilated – maybe overnight I would go into labour.  Call it wishful thinking, but I believed that night I was going into labour.  So much so that at 6:30 on Saturday morning I called my midwife telling her I thought I was in active labour, and perhaps I didn’t need to go to the hospital after all.  I was laughing and happy, and talking no problem – all signs, she said, that I was definitely NOT in active labour (and which I later felt like an idiot for even thinking once the real drama began).  I gave it a few more hours, and to my dismay everything stopped.  So off to the hospital we went. 

When I arrived I was in a mood let me tell you.  I had a bag full of comfy nighties to wear, I had my exercise ball and was armed with all kinds of pain management movement techniques and homeopathic remedies that I was planning to utilize once labour began.  And then I found out I likely couldn’t use any of them (except the homeopathy).  With Pitocin, you are on IV constantly, and you are also attached to the fetal monitor constantly.  I mean, I had to call the nurse when I had to go pee, so she could detach me from everything.  So rolling around on the exercise ball was out of the question – so was walking around.  I was basically confined to bed.  And I was told I couldn’t even wear my own nightie!  I fought for that though and the sweet nurse finally agreed.  However, I was furious and grumpy.   Now my ENTIRE plan was completely gone. 

And then the Pitocin kicked in.

Pitocin is no joke.  Within 45 minutes I went from feeling no contractions whatsoever to being in full active labour – intense contractions a minute apart, each lasting for 60-90 seconds.  I was caught off guard and terrified.  My doula arrived and helped me breathe through them, but they were so intense that the “break” in between didn’t feel like a break at all – I felt like I was still contracting, only not quite as intensely as the actual contractions.  I was in constant pain.  The only thing getting me through was the hope that this was dilating me quickly and I would have my baby soon.  Well, 5 hours, a lot of vomit and many contractions later, I was checked and was only 3 cms dilated.  I was so discouraged.  I was also told that the Pitocin was going to be increased to help speed things up, because if it didn’t increase there was a chance labour could actually stop.  I found out I was only on the first level of intensity of Pitocin.  I still had a long way to go.  Finally, by hour six, I decided to get an epidural.  I just knew I was going to have a very long labour, and the nurse assured me it was going to get much, much worse.  Plus, she added, the anaesthetist was right outside my room, and would be unavailable for the next 5 or 6 hours so if I was considering an epidural, now was the time to get it.  How can you turn that away?

Throughout the 6 hours that I was in epidural-free active labour at the hospital, I tried very hard to push the thought of an epidural away every time it entered into my mind (which was a LOT).  I wanted to hold onto something natural.  But I was reminded time and time again that the experience I was having was nowhere near “natural”.    And as it went on, I started to care less and less about my plan.  I needed to focus on delivering my baby, and my instincts were telling me (along with the nurse!) that if I continued this way I would soon be so exhausted that pushing would be even more challenging, if not impossible. This tapped into my C-Section fear (which at this point bordered on a phobia).  Plus, I must admit, I just wanted the pain to go away!  I had already vomited twice from the pain, and not being able to do many of the things that I planned to do to manage the pain made it much worse – even if it was just psychological (only downside – I now had no choice but to put on the crunchy hospital gown). 

Once I got the epidural, I felt relief like I have never felt before.  The nurse advised I sleep if I could, to “rest up to push”.  Well I took that advice and ran with it…or should I say cuddled up to it.  I went to sleep at 8pm, only waking when the nurse would come in to check me.  As the night wore on, my progress continued to be slow.  By 2am I was only 7cms dilated, but with very intense contractions that were lasting for 2-3 minutes each.  That’s when the nurse had me push to help dilate me – within an hour I was 10 cms and the real pushing began.  My labour was progressing so slowly, that the Pitocin was even beginning to tire out.  I had reached the maximum drip allowed, and my contractions started slowing down.  Towards the end, they were 4 to 5 minutes apart...but lasting 4 to 5 minutes each (now imagine that without an epidural!  I simply could not have done it).  My amazing nurse came to my head and said "Pretty soon, the doctor is going to come in, and she is NOT going to be happy with how long you've been pushing.  I know you want this baby out your way, so you have to give it all you've got.  I am off at 7:30.  We are having this baby before then".  I could have kissed her.  I looked at the clock.  I'd been pushing for three and a half hours by this point.  I was exhausted.  But her words motivated me something fierce.

Sloan was big.  And I am small.  The pushing was the hardest work I have ever done, but by far the most awesome.  My epidural was so good, I could feel everything.  I could feel my legs, I could feel the contractions, I could feel when to push, and most amazing of all, I could feel her moving down my birth canal and eventually I felt her come out.  I just didn’t feel pain, which 20 hours of active labour later, I was so grateful for.

A total of four intense hours of pushing later, out came the baby.  The relief was indescribable, only trumped by the excitement to see my baby.  I looked at Jaime who had a dream-like, intense, teary-eyed look on his face.  “What is it?” I asked?  “It’s a….it’s a girl”.  I was in shock.  I was completely convinced I was having a boy.  I referred to my baby as a “he” the entire time she was in my belly.  When buying stuff for the baby while I was pregnant I would always navigate towards the blue stuff.  However, I oddly always dreamed I was having a girl.  And here’s some real honesty: I really wanted a girl.  I want a boy too…but I really wanted a girl first.  So when Jaime said those words, I was overcome with an excitement and a joy so profound it felt like an out of body experience. 

Suddenly she was in my arms, on my chest, her little perfect, slimy body wiggling around – rooting for the breast, knowing exactly what to do.  In an instant everything was worth it, and I honestly would have had 20 C-Sections to have her.  My plan no longer mattered; in fact it seemed trivial just like everyone said it would.   My midwife later told me that I would have most likely been transferred to the hospital by ambulance if I was at home.  I pushed for far too long by most standards (but since baby was fine, I was up for it, and had THE MOST amazing nurse ever – Fahima – I was able to do it without further intervention).  Plus, Sloan had shoulder dystocia, which is when the baby gets stuck after the head has come out.  Very quick thinking and a very skilled and fast delivery needs to happen in order to ensure the baby comes out safely.  The OB (since I was induced, it was a “transfer of care” meaning the on-call OB had to catch my baby, not the midwife) was incredible.  She gave me a quick episiotomy, jumped on the bed, reached in with both hands and twisted and pulled Sloan out safely (again, thank goodness for that epidural).  This is not to say that my midwife wouldn’t have handled it so well…but you never know. 

All I know is, my experience was beautiful – hospital, drugs, crunchy nightgown and all.  I had the man I love by my side cheering me on (and who later said that the 2 days in the hospital were the best of his life), and in the end we got to finally meet the most precious, gorgeous little girl who has made us ooze love in a way that we never thought possible.