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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.

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...

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.

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.

 

WTTM Beyonce!

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Welcome to the world Blue Ivy!  The baby, not the florist in Chattanooga, TN.  Or the event planner in Boston, Mass who hit the jackpot and is now inundated with calls and emails from TMZ (I guess they forgot to google their baby’s name prior to announcing it).

I mean the one and only B.I.C – Blue Ivy Carter, daughter of Beyonce and Sean Carter (“Jay-Z”).

Blue Ivy is an interesting name you say?  Wondering how they came up with it?  Me too.  So here’s what I found:

“Sources and fans suggest the couple chose the name “Ivy” because of the number 4 or Roman numeral IV, which is significant in Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s relationship. Beyoncé’s birthday is Sept. 4, while Jay-Z’s is Dec. 4; they married on 4/4/08; they reportedly have matching “IV” tattoos on their wedding fingers; and Beyoncé named her latest album 4.  And the significance of the baby’s first name, Blue? Well, Jay-Z has three albums with the word “blueprint” in their titles: The Blueprint was released in 2001; The Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curse, in 2002; and The Blueprint 3, in 2009.”

Though Jay-Z’s lyrics led us astray (“if we had a daughter, guess what I’m a call her Brooklyn Carter”), these two are no strangers to having names that mean something to them.  Jay chose his famous moniker after the subway line he grew up on – the Brooklyn bound J and Z.  Beyonce rose to fame in the group named after a page that fell open in the Bible as her mother pondered the perfect name for the girl group.  We should have expected something uber-symbolic from these two and they delivered.

Plus, I think “We-have-47-Grammys-between-us Carter” was probably too long.

Welcome to the Motherhood Beyonce!

Read em and sweep

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After a week traveling around the tri-state area for the holidays, we arrived home yesterday.  By “home” I mean our tiny ‘sure-its-1000-square-feet-Mr.-Broker’, 2 bedroom apartment.  And by “we” I mean me, my husband, two kids, three suitcases and 47,000 bags of groceries, Christmas gifts and WHAT-THE-EFF-IS-IN-ALL-THESE-STUPID-BAGS-ANYWAY????

I am not known for being the most organized of people, but motherhood really helps with that.  I guess when you know you can’t get rid of your kids, you start skimming some of the stuff you actually care about.  Pre-kids, those bags might have sat there for weeks.  Definitely the suitcases.  But with Chloe on the move we need all the space we can clear.  As it is she can only crawl for 5 seconds without revealing yet another child endangering situation.

So I got to work while Ian distracted the kids.  I reorganized the cabinets to make space for all the new food.  I opened all the mail and sorted through bills, christmas cards and Val-Paks with frightening precision.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I rearranged furniture to accommodate my kids new kitchen set.  I have no idea what came over me.  Everywhere I looked I saw opportunity for space.  I dominated de-cluttering.

And after that I cooked ordered dinner, bathed my kids and read to both of them - individually! - before bed (in light of this amazing tale, you will surely forgive me for putting Chloe back into the same clothes from before her bath — she was only wearing them for a few hours).

Tomorrow my paralysis in the face large tasks will likely return.  By morning light I will once again fail to even notice the 3-4 amazon boxes that have permanent residence in the corner of our entryway.  And yes, I will continue to be suspicious of any one who dusts the corners of their apartment.  But today, today, I was a good mom.

2012 scoreboard — Me – 1, Apartment – ZERO

This could be a name changer

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I have been known to come up with some pretty insane ideas.  I seem to yank them out of thin air and use them to clobber Ian over the head.

They range from the mundane “I need to get out of this house right now.  Pack up the kids and your old person armor, we are going out to dinner at a nice restaurant (so what if it’s 430pm),” to the fantastic “Do you want to go to Hawaii…yes?  Great, we leave in 6 days.”  Some of them require a lot of faith, “I am going to open a yoga studio with all of the money I have ever saved,” and some of them he knows will never ever happen, “I want to throw away my entire wardrobe.”

After seven years of marriage, I have learned two things.

1) despite how well these ideas always turn out (not a single regret in the lot), my husband doesn’t like them.  They are drastic, spontaneous and generally cause a lot of chaos.  Ian, the even keeled, consistent and drama free only child, requires a lot of thought, planning and research to even consider a new idea, and even then, if it is going to require that much work, shouldn’t we just sit on the couch and watch football? “It’s Sunday for chrissake,” is what his face always says to me.

and 2) I am nuts.

#2 became evident to me only when I presented Ian with my latest idea.  “We need to change Gavin’s middle name.”

The fact that he didn’t laugh or explode with rage at the idea that we need to legally change the name of our 2 and 1/2 year old tells me that he has also learned a lot over seven years of marriage.  Instead, he begins peppering me with questions.

“Doesn’t that requiring going in front of a judge?”

Ok, doctors, the idea is alive.  Work fast!

“It will give me the opportunity to pretend I am a real lawyer.”

Gug-gong
 

“What about his fancy Pottery Barn chair?”

“I’ll get a new slipcover.”

Heart rate increasing.  Gug-gong, gug-gong.

 

“Won’t our family think we are crazy?”

“We won’t tell them, it’s just his middle name.”  Eye roll.

Oh no, I’m losing him.  Hurry, think of something good.

“Your grandparents changed your mom’s middle name after she was born.”

Genius.  And true.  Gug-gong, gug-gong.


Now I know what question is coming next and I tense just a little.  My own heartrate picks up.”What are we going to change it to?”

“Jagger”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.  Flatline.

Time of death 4:39pm.

Whisper to a scream

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My perfect angel of a daughter.  The one who smiles at everything and everyone.  The one who sleeps an appropriate amount of time without protest or procrastination.  The one who loves nothing more than to just be held – especially by her mama.  Oh my sweet baby girl.

Someone stole her.

In her place they have left someone that looks a lot like my Chloe.  Except she screams when you pick her up (she demands complete freedom to work on her cruising).  If somehow she has allowed you to hold her, she screams if you put her down.  Especially in a play pen, high chair, walker or anything that limits her range of motion (and consequently might keep her safe).  And she LAUGHS when you say things like “NO! Do not stick your finger in that electrical socket.”  Laughs.  I’m not kidding.

Today we were coming home from Chloe’s 10 month check-up on the subway.  Somewhere around Union Square she decided that the 15 minute subway ride WAS FAR TOO LONG TO BE STRAPPED TO MOMMY and she just started screaming.  Not temper tantrum screaming (clearly fake), not whining, not crying.

We are talking blood. curdling. screams.

Everyone in the subway car turned to see what was going on.  As far as they could judge she was not dangling over the tracks and I didn’t appear to be sticking a sharp object in her eye.  They looked away.  AND SHE SCREAMED AGAIN.  This time she added a convulsion like dance where she stood on my thighs, launched herself out of the baby carrier seat and threw her head back, arching, you know, to really let the scream fly.

Everyone was looking at me, expecting me to remedy the situation.  I laughed and called her BossyPants, evoking my best loveable-doofus-Tina-Fey-esq face.  This did nothing to end the screaming.

I took my cue from her arched back and tickled her exposed neck.  She laughed hysterically and uncontrollably.  My fellow subway riders went back to their business, probably feeling bad for me and Sybil-baby.

I hear what you are saying Chloe, terrible twos start now…