Author Archives: welcometothemotherhood

Heated arguments, drug pushers, soulmates finding each other. No, it’s not a show on the CW. It’s your birth story.

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Dear baby girl,

You were born on a Saturday but your story begins on a Wednesday.  Your brother came down with an ugly stomach virus.  He threw up all night long.  Every hour, I nursed him to health one tablespoon of Vitamin Water at a time.

Thursday:  By morning he was fine.  And then I got this ugly stomach virus.  Liquids spewing out both ends.  10 months pregnant.  It wasn’t pretty.  I nursed myself with Vitamin Water all night long.

Friday:  By morning I was fine.  And then your daddy got it.

That’s when shit got hectic.

Saturday

1am.  I wake to hear your daddy covering the entirety of our four square foot bathroom with puke.  As I wonder who is going to clean that up, I notice that in the 5 minutes I have been awake I have had 5 contractions.  Seriously.  But they aren’t strong, so I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.  Good luck with that one.

3am.  I call the doctor.  Thankfully the midwife is on call.  We speak for 10 minutes, debating what to do.  Clearly I am not in much pain but the contractions are coming regularly, one minute apart, and second babies come quick.  I insist I want to stay home as long as I can.  Your daddy is still locked in the bathroom.

5am.  The contractions are farther apart, but stronger.  I call the doctor again.  Three minutes apart.  Yes I can still talk, but they stop me in my tracks.  Get ready, she says, and call soon.  I know that your dad can’t accompany me to the hospital in the shape he is in, so I call your eagerly waiting nana.  She lives two hours away.  I ask her to leave now.

7am.  Stepping over the mess that was my bathroom floor I shower and pack a bag.  The contractions are getting stronger.  I know I am in labor.  It feels oddly calming.

8am.  Your nana arrives.  She isn’t sure what to make of my calm so she freaks out.  I insist that I will walk to the hospital.  This only elevates her freak out level.  She pictures you being born in a puddle of Starbucks, dog urine and late night pizza scraps on the corner of 31st and 2nd.

815am.  We leave the building to make the half mile trek.  And then I remember, “oh, I need a bagel and juice!  They won’t let me eat at the hospital!”  Your nana’s eyes bulge out of her head.  We have to go!  I ignore her and walk in to our regular bagel shop.  My friend behind the counter asks when the baby is coming but he doesn’t expect me to say “right now” as I double over with a contraction.  We make our way out.  There are almost no cars on the road.  It is a quiet Saturday morning.  It isn’t cold for February, but it is so windy.  The contractions are getting stronger.  I feel you moving down.

840am.  We arrive at NYU reception.  They take one look at me, how calm and relatively pain-free I am and send me to triage.  “You aren’t ready to be admitted but we’ll have your doctor check you.”  I go to triage where they hook me up to the fetal monitor.  Every moment of sitting is sheer pain.  Stabbing feeling in my abdomen.  My doctor comes in.  The one who saved my life (but that’s a story for later).  She checks me.  5 centimeters.  She knows I want more than anything to do this with no medication, no intervention.

9am.  “Walk around the hallways.  Do not leave.  I will check you again in two hours.”

Elated that I don’t have to be admitted yet, I jump up to walk around.  As soon as I pop up, a gush.  My water breaks.  And so does my calm.  In a split second I am S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G my head off.  THE PAIN.  I DEMAND an epidural.  I cry about how tired I am from the events before, I haven’t slept in three nights.  The sickness left me drained.  I stand, I jump, I shush everyone.  I squeeze my eyes shut.  My toes curl.  The pain.

910am.  WHERE IS THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST??  I screech.  A 12 year old boy who swears he isn’t Doogie Howser and that he is old enough to have completed med school comes in.  He barks some legal mumbo jumbo.  I say yes, yes, yes, whatever you need, just BRING IT NOW.

My doctor hears my screams and wants to know what happened.  “Her water broke,”  Doogie explains.  She checks me.  “Carinn, you are 10 centimeters”.  Oh God, what?  I’m still in triage!

915am.  My doctor, two nurses and the jilted anesthesiologist beg me to sit in the wheelchair but I am busy swaying and jumping and doubling over and curling my toes.  It’s not an option to walk so I climb on like a petulant child who won’t sit in his stroller facing you and instead faces the wrong way, kneeling and grabbing the back of the seat.  But I am not smiling, only wincing and writhing with pain.  One of the nurses finally notices the pad that was discarded.  The one I was sitting on as my water broke.  “MECONIUM” she screams.

MECONIUM they echo.  PEDS (short for pediatrics)!  PEDS, PEDS PEDS they yell to reception as we race by.  There was meconium in the water.  WE NEED PEDS HERE NOW.  I swear they were only yelling so loud to drown out my screaming.  My primal, guttural, indescribable shouting.

920am.  There were no delivery rooms available.  They are quite literally wiping blood off the floor of one as they wheel me in, still kneeling, still hollering.  They push me in and the team disburses.  Doogie leaves with his unsigned waiver.  I have a moment of “holy shit I am really going to do this without any meds, all on my own, not even hooked up to a freaking monitor.”

One nurse scrubs in while another grabs instruments and another gets the baby blankets ready.  My doctor scrubs in.  All this activity fades as I realize an important piece of business that needs to be taken care of before we get on to delivering this baby.  I’m in my head trying to figure out how I can ask this at such a tenuous and inconvenient time.

“Can I please go to the bathroom real quick?  Bathroom?  Please?” I say to no one in particular.

“Um, I HAVE TO POOP!”  A little louder this time.  “Can someone help me to the bathroom?”

It’s like I have never seen 80,000 a few episodes of TLC’s A Baby Story.  I truly believe I need to go #2.  My doctor explains that is the baby making me feel that way and if I was a little less delirious from the pain I would have shot her a dirty look for saying you are making me feel like shit.

Lightbulb.  Oh.  The baby is coming!

925am.  The nurses are still getting ready but I climb up from the wheelchair on to the hospital bed, still kneeling, and begin to push.  Completely unattended.  The nurses take time from their busy work to notice my silence and signal to each other.

“Somebody better get her, she is pushing,” their masked mouths whisper.

I finally realize I don’t know where your nana has gone.  Wait – she’s in the corner on the phone.  Really?  I see her hang up and put her coat on.  REALLY??  Not sure this is the time for a coffee break.

She explains.  “Ian and I are going to switch off.  He has stopped throwing up.  I am going to go home to watch the baby (your brother was the baby right up until the minute you were born).  Ian will come now.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  This baby is coming RIGHT NOW!”  I shriek.

Not that I blame her.  Last time I pushed for 4 hours.  She thinks she has time.  But I know you are coming now.  I know you will not wait.  Not for your brother to feel better, not for your daddy to arrive, not for anyone for anything.  This is your time baby girl.  Your time, your terms.

935am.  I ROAR.  This is not an exaggeration.  I ROAR and your perfect little head peeks into the world for the very first time.

939am.  You are born.  Small and pink with bright blue eyes.  You make your presence known instantly with your strong baby lungs.  Flailing and agitated, you don’t settle until they put you back in my arms.  Physically, you look nothing like me, but the connection we have is deeper.  It’s evident in the way we stare at each other in silence and awe.  It’s in our DNA.

Welcome to the world my beautiful daughter.

Epilogue

940am.  I feel more amazing and alive than I have ever felt.

I am a self-professed adrenaline junkie and this feeling surpasses any other.  I feel more vitalized than I did after swimming with sharks in Tahiti.  More exhilarated than after jumping off a 30 ft. cliff in Maui.  More inspired than when I finished writing my screenplay.  It’s like I can actually feel life coursing through my veins.

It’s transcendental.  Pure euphoria.

I call your daddy before they even cut the cord.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t wait!”

“It’s ok, I’m coming now.”

“She is amazing, Ian.  A real force to be reckoned with!”

——————————————————————————————————————

The natural high eventually faded, but in that moment it brought me real clarity.  Because one year later, those words I uttered just minutes after your arrival, they never felt truer.

This is what a real force to be reckoned with looks like on her birthday.

This ain’t the Boy Scouts. You will be prepared for nothing.

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I just overheard this conversation:

Man 1: are you going to Florida with the guys next weekend?
Man 2: (regretfully) No.  My wife is very pregnant and I am trying to limit the number of nights out of the house.

Clearly their first baby.

Six google-able words in that one simple sentence but three bold face lies.

Lie: my wife is very pregnant.  Truth: she is due in 7 weeks.  Which means she’ll deliver in 9.  An entire season of Survivor will begin and end before that baby comes.

Lie: I.  Truth: my wife.

Lie: limiting the number of nights out of the house.  Truth: my wife insists I suffer through every moment of this with her.

Bless his expectant dad heart, I know he is trying to do the right thing.  I wish someone could tell him “get out of the house as much as possible now because it will be entirely unacceptable for a year minimum after the baby is actually born”

I also wish I could hug his little first time pregnant wife.  I know pregnancy is hard.  Even an “easy pregnancy” involves, oh how do you describe it, CREATING LIFE.  It’s hard on your body, your back aches, you can’t sleep.  I’ve been there sister.  You know the only thing harder than creating life in your body for 10 months?  SUSTAINING it OUTSIDE your body for the next 12 months.

As you approach parenthood, you spend so much time reading books, creating a nursery, buying baby “gear” – all in an effort to prepare for the un-preparable.  And by 36 weeks you think you know – no – you are sure you know.  You know how you feel about breastfeeding, you know how you feel about co-sleeping, you know how you feel about pacifiers, crib bumpers, tummy time, TV, strollers, slings, solid food and swaddling.

But you don’t know.

You don’t know that all of that knowledge could fit in the thumbnail of the body that is shaking with fright over this new chapter in your life.  You don’t know how it is going to feel to see your baby, to hold your baby, to care for your baby.  You don’t know what it’s like to actually BE a parent, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I can say all this because in hindsight I know how sure I thought I was and how clueless (read: scared) I ended up feeling.

With Gavin turning 3 this month and Chloe turning one, I am in a groove, a comfort zone.

But thanks to this amazing post, I now have foresight of how clueless (read: scared shirtless) I will be once again.

If a mother ran the Boy Scouts of America they would change their motto from ‘Be Prepared’ to ‘Always Be Armed with Snacks’.  It’s really the best you can do.

Tantrum diverted only by throwing an entire box of snacks her way

 

What day is it? Tuesday?

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It’s Valentines Day!

An array of Valentine's Day-connotated candy d...

While I loathe the holiday (but for the candy of course), I thought I would celebrate the day with two things I love — lists and my husband.

Did you think I was going to say my two kids?  Oh yeah, them too.

Why I adore my Valentine:

1.  He is an above average dancer.

2.  The “Jagger” incident (and all those before and after).

3.  For our very first Valentines Day he bought me a dress.  No candy, no jewelry — a dress.  And not a Pretty Woman dress, something I could wear and love and it was even the right size.  How thoughtful is that?

4.  We travel the world together.

5.  My daughter’s blue eyes.

 But the most important reason I love Ian (drumroll please!)

 He chose me and I chose him.  It’s as simple, difficult, rewarding and challenging as that.

that day, this day and every day...

Are they sick? Are they French? Or are they just sick of the French?

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Yesterday, Ian and I watched not one but two movies without interruption while the kids played by themselves for hours and slept through the night.

They played for hours without a peep...or medication, I swear!!

I thought they were sick but maybe they are just French.

In any event, these bebes have birthdays later this month so I am throwing them a joint birthday party.

What’s that? How efficient you say? (shyly) I know.

You want me to share my event planning skills? I’m blushing.

Here ya go –

Five easy steps to throwing an awesome birthday party for your kids:

1. Give birth to each in the same month, preferably only a few days apart. {February 20-something, 2009 and 2011 — check!}

2. Have your husband work in a great open loft space perfect for throwing parties. {Check! And it’s close to home – Bonus points!}

3. Design and order joint party invitations. {Check!}

4. Buy adorable outfits for both children to wear on this special day. {Check!}

5. Show up on the day of the party — looking fantastic — without having hired the entertainment promised by said invitations, prepared food and cupcakes also promised by said invitations, obtained balloons, decorations, drinks, paper products or compiled favor bags. Enjoy!

That’s it! Right? Why do you have that look on your face?

Is she kidding??

You mean I actually have to DO something to make this party come together (other than Shutterfly and shopping?). Je ne comprends pas.

A tale of two Superbowls

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Superbowl XXXI (1997):  My 7 college roommates and 8 other friends threw an all girl Superbowl party – football fans need not attend.

We spent the night rotating through ‘Would you rather?’ variations involving the quarterbacks Tom Brady and Brett Favre (pre-junk texting scandal this was a win-win proposition, no matter how gross the details got).  The only time we stopped dancing to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe’ was to check out the commercials.

Superbowl XLVI (last night):  Was the Superbowl last night?  Oh.

Ok, I knew it was happening but frankly I was too exhausted to watch.  We spent this weekend trapped inside our tiny cozy apartment as both kids attempted to raise their internal temperature to something closer to the surface of the sun (spoiler alert: Chloe won with a high of 104.1).

Like the Clint Eastwood movie, we experienced the good, bad and the ugly.

The Good

I know it’s wrong, but I enjoy don’t hate it when my kids are sick (so long as there is no vomit involved).  Here’s 3 reasons why:

  1. They are super cuddly.  Even when I can’t make it all better, they still want constant hugs and cuddles from mommy.  And I am only thrilled to oblige all the while knowing there will be a time when they won’t fit in my lap and they will wipe my kisses off their face in disgust.
  1. Sleep.  I am sure it’s part of my karma, but my kids don’t sleep.  Chloe is far more reasonable than her brother ever was but in Dr. Weissbluth’s spectrum of acceptable amounts of sleep she is still on the low side (Gavin just makes a mockery of it).

Except when they are sick.  There were naps, bedtimes without a peep of protest, and 12 hour stretches.  I know it’s wrong to rejoice but I did.

HALLELUJAH!

  1. Low energy.  I know its wrong to be happy about this too, but when they are sick these typically high maintenance, wired active kids take a break.  We watch a lot of TV (the HBO Classical Baby series to soothe the nerves) and read lots of books while cuddling on the couch.

The Bad

  1. The TV.  Once Classical Baby is over I am subjected to the same episodes of Team Umizoomi over and over until I quite literally begin to crazy shake.
  1. Whining.  Oh the whining.  I’m too hot.  My juice is too cold.  Pick me up.  Hug me closer.   It never ends.
  1. The pain.  Seeing my babies in pain, even if that pain is really only discomfort, is heart wrenching to me.  They look to me to make them feel better with every hug.  It is in your sick child’s eyes that you see the power and responsibility of being a mommy.

The Ugly

  1. Green snot.  Everywhere.  On shirt sleeves, pillowcases, my hands…oh yes and occasionally on a tissue.  Why do children hate having their noses wiped so much?  If I had cement quality green stuff hanging from my nose I would never dodge the person attempting to help.  Chloe is quick.  She ducks and leans all Neo-like.  And she’s never even seen the Matrix.  Gavin stands there and succumbs, but man does he cry and whine.
  1. Diarrhea.  Or as my son calls it “poopy juice”.  Yeah, I just wrote that.

The kids have a draw as to who is worse to deal with.  Gavin refuses to let me leave the room while he is on the potty.   The whole time.  A typical male, he could read Vanity Fair from cover to cover during a normal session.  It’s amazing I didn’t pass out from sustained exposure to the fumes.

Chloe usually goes off somewhere to be alone while she does her business, but then I am subjected to a UFC match to change her diaper.

And where does that smell come from???

  1. Did I mention the smells?  It’s worth another mention.

Superbowl XXXI Carinn and Superbowl XLVI Carinn might not agree on how to spend the night, but they do agree on one thing.  NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR VOGUE ANYMORE.  Ever.  Again.  Thanks Madonna.

Do you know the difference?

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My son has a real beef with the word ‘want’.  He doesn’t use it.  Instead, he uses the word ‘need’ exclusively.  Dramatic as he is, every request sounds like this ‘Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.’

‘I neeeeeed something from the frigerator’ is how he asks for meals.

Potty time?  ‘I neeeeeed to go poopy’ (and apparently I need to stand watch).

‘I neeeeed to go to school’  (that one is borderline but since I am not homeschooling, I let it slide).

Then yesterday morning he crossed a line.

We were running errands when he told me ‘I neeeeeeeed to go to the playground’.  (I promised him we could go, since, you know – it’s 60 degrees in February!!)

“Ok, we’ll go after we are done at the store.”

“No, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to go now!”  and proceeded to thrash around in his stroller like some lunatic being put in a straight jacket.

This little episode made me realize it was time to focus on the finer points of language, such as the proper uses of need and want.  Sort of a nuanced topic (even though he is exceptionally bright) so I thought hard about how to explain to him.  Then I remembered the best way to teach is to show by example.  Here are some of mine:

I want that hooded Montcler coat.  I need to stay warm in the cold winter.

I want a Mason Pearson hairbrush.  I need to not look such a mess all the GD time.

I want privacy in the bathroom.  I need privacy in the kitchen (cause if you see me eating those Dutch Cocoa cookies, you are going to want one.  And mommy does NOT share her cookies).

They are subtle points, I know, but I am sure you can relate.

Whining about weaning

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Chloe turns one next month and I assume I will wean.  Only because I know how quickly it goes from ‘sweet’ while you provide the sustenance your child needs to survive to ‘awkward’ as you become a walk up buffet.

But I’m not happy about it.  Not that I am one of those irrational breastfeeding advocates.  I advocate doing what works – and that’s different for every mother.  I have found it’s also different for every child.

Is that a Hershey kiss and an 8-year-old? Not particularly helpful.

When Gavin was born I had high hopes of sailing right up to his first birthday nursing exclusively.  Oh boy did we get off to a rocky start!  I was about to throw in the towel one week in.  It was so much harder than anyone let on.

Proper latching? positioning? engorgement WHAT?  Other moms made it seem like you just stick the kids on and go.

Then there were the undesirables not mentioned in baby books — the constant leaking, special bras, certain “accessible” clothes (pull down to expose boob or pull up to expose postpartum belly?  Oh the choices!) – it was a lot for me to handle at once.

I was certain that if it was this hard, I must be doing it all wrong.

The logistics settled in a few weeks later, we got a routine and things got much easier…until they got much worse.  Yes, I suffered with the entire Nursing Mother’s Encyclopedia of breastfeeding problems.  You name it, I had it.  Clogged ducts, mastitis, thrush, more clogged ducts and the worst of the worst – Raynards of the breast.  Imagine someone stabbing you with a penknife 1000 times in the breast.  Not awesome.

With troubleshooting and a lot of Tylenol I managed to hang in there a little over 10 months.  When I was done nursing it was more of a relief than anything since the Raynards continued.

So when Chloe was born I wasn’t sure what to expect.  People say breastfeeding is easier the second time around.  My doctor had a homeopathic plan to fend off the Raynards.  I was optimistic.

Turns out, she was a dream.  Every moment nursing her was easy and natural.  Nursing her went beyond simply providing the best source of nutrition (which is all it ever was with Gavin).  It was the beautiful bonding experience that those 1970s hippie dippy books promised it would be.

And now, I am thinking of ending it.  The thought barely registers in my brain, like I can’t get my head around it.

What will it be like when it’s over?

Will she continue to plead mmmmmh, mmmmmh, mmmmmmh as she waives her wrists excitedly every time she is hungry?

When she is tired, will she dive for comfort in the crook of my arm?

Will she miss me rubbing her back and singing as much as I will miss her num-num-num-num noshing, watching her eyes get heavy?

Will I know how to soothe her any other way?

With Gavin I was so proud of him as he crossed off every milestone in the book.  With Chloe I am sad.  I just want it all to slow down.  First it’s weaning, then it’s walking, talking, toddler beds and toilet training.  This time where she relies on me for every one of life’s necessities (a time that is both precious and maddening) – it will all be over in the blink of her pretty blue eye.

Please share your thoughts/advice on weaning – I need it!

You win some, you lose some.

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The game of motherhood is no different.  Yesterday morning was a stellar one.  Let me recount how it went down, with a rating of how remarkable each event was (scale of 1-10, one being as common as meltdowns and ten being as rare as Hailey’s Comet):

I woke up feeling refreshed (8)
Chloe woke up happy (3)
Gavin woke up happy (12)
Gavin was hungry (5)
Chloe was hungry (1)
I was inspired to make french toast (7)


Gavin thought it was a great idea! and did NOT throw himself on the floor at the tragedy that I could even suggest something so horrible, and instead couldn’t he just have some yogurt? (10)
Gavin helped me cook while Ian played with Chloe (3)
Both kids ate ALL their french toast (6)
And asked for MORE (8)

We ate, we danced, we laughed.  It was a regular day in the Brady Bunch household.  I’m not going to lie, that kind of morning sets you on cloud 9 for the rest of the day (or at least until dinnertime).

Lest you worry that my family has been taken over by pods, I assure you, breakfast was back to normal today.