Next Steps

 They say a journey begins with a single step. The scariest part of any journey is starting--even just making the decision to start. Knowing you have a choice and making the choice to do the scary thing. Infinite trees and paths and possibilities ahead and a shady past behind. Where the winding road and forks will create more fear and choice and possibility. How the possibility can become something exciting and spontaneous but still scary, but you still take a step towards it. And another. And another. 

But what if?

What if I get lost?

What if I can't find myself again?

What if my legs don't work anymore and I am left in a heap in the middle of nowhere?

What if I am alone?

What if I can never find my way back?

What if the darkness and unknown is too scary and I can't go forward?

What if a giant branch falls on my head?

What if I can't do it?

But then...

What if I find shimmers of light in the trees?

What if I hear new things and smell new things and they make me feel good and happy and calm?

What if my heart feels bigger and my soul feels fuller?

What if people find me and I find people and we understand together who we really are and who we need to be now?

What if I make it through the darkness?

What if I CAN do it?

I'm ready to feel again. I'm ready to cry and seep love from my pores. I'm ready to own the poetry in my life and understand where it comes from and where it went and to feel comfortable feeling uncomfortable so that the poetry can come back into me.

I'm ready to be inspired.

Here is one foot moving. Then the other.

All the Mothers are Gone: A Poem for my Oma

 When you suddenly feel it... the expanse of ridiculous gaping hole, now infinite. There are no more mothers. You were the last. The Matriarch. The Glue that held my family history together. The Center. And now there is just Space where you used to be.

Your artist soul carries through space and time and genetics! We are surrounded by the beauty and always will be. If only a painting could hug.

The inspiration of your life story must be a lesson to the rest of us. To survive what you survived to tell the story so many others couldn't. Your love story, the genesis of all of us. What an honor to come from you. How many stories were left untold?

I never called. You never called. We were the ones who didn't call. But I know you loved us immensely and you knew we loved you the same. I do have regrets, but there is no purpose there, just a hole. I have a lifetime of memories and love from you.

The things that linger with us--sensory things. Smells and sights and flashes of insignificant yet so significant memories. Childhood parties when all the people still lived and came. Relentless, unyielding optimism and sheer force of will for life at the forefront of it all; the model for us all. Your carpet, your couch, your smell, the coffee maker, the orchids on the fireplace, the hot tub, a drink in the backyard before it got too cold to stay outside. Sleeping over the night before an early flight or during a conference in SF. Painting with the children. Piano recitals.

The humor! How we used to lead you astray mid-conversation just for entertainment! Such an effective story-teller--captivating no matter the topic. You never lost your laugh, no matter how hard life was for you. May we never lose our laughter.

What do we do now? We mothers who remain... With everything
in our blood and bones from you? How can we carry on in your image? How do you live on in our hearts and minds? In the art, and the smells, and the flashes of memories, and the spirit of life-to-be-lived that you embodied. Every day. Forever.

I love you Oma.

To My Colleagues at MDUSD: A Reflection on 14 Years of Service

 In my time here, I have learned when to lead, when to follow, when to walk side-by-side,

and now

when to walk away.

In this office, with the empty boxes waiting to contain the last of my professional belongings, again, 

I let the bittersweet tears fall away. These are the last of many tears I have spent in the last year.

Last year at this time, I had different empty boxes in a different office where I spent a decade of my life

devoted,

passionate,

striving for humility and maybe not finding it

until I was broken.

For a year I have rebuilt--my confidence, my stamina for change, my courage, and finally

a really big decision.

Words (so many words, always with the words) echo in my head as memories:

"One of my favorite people"

"Biggest honor of my career"

"What is the ethical thing to do?"

"What is the third option?"

"They did WHAT now??"

and with all the words came work and effort and labor and struggle and challenges and

SUCCESS.

14 years of building stellar, highly desirable programs.

14 years of an amazing, all-star team of behavior analysts.

14 years of Superintendents and Directors of SpEd and Assistant Superintendents.

14 years of budget cuts.

14 years of incredible colleagues who inspired me to keep going and to stay even when things seemed impossible.

14 years of other people believing I was worth something in this work.

This work I believe in with all my being.

My biggest fear--the undoing of all the doing I did in this work.

If there is a legacy, let it be this:

May all our students truly have the opportunity to be included.

May all our families feel confidence and trust in the human people doing the work.

May we always be looking for a better way.

With gratitude for all I've learned and all I've lost, I pack these boxes, again.

I walk away.

I look back with fondness.

Most Years at this Time

Most years at this time, my shoulders are starting to tan from days on the pool deck.
This year my shoulders are tan from the endless, countless walks around the neighborhood and the solo runs that sometimes serve as my only time alone in a day.

Most years at this time, we are preparing to take a deep breath as everything comes to an end. Ballet recitals, piano recitals, the end of baseball season, and of course school finishing up.
This year everything ended on March 16.

Most years at this time, we are looking forward to camping, or flying somewhere, or planning side-trips.
This year we are waiting with baited breath to hear whether state parks will even reopen, and hoping we get to use our months-ago-purchased Disneyland tickets sometime before 2022.

Most years at this time, the hot weather and warm cement are welcome, and the cool reprieve of the mall, or a movie theater, or a store of any kind really, become the hallmarks of the transition to summer.
This year, I have felt the cement daily on my feet, changing from cold, to wet, to warm, to too hot, all while walking circles in my yard on work phone calls just to take a break from the table.

Most years at this time, we'd be planning a rare date-night. A movie, a beautiful dinner, a stroll downtown in the warm evening air.
This year, we are doing dishes at least 5 times per day, exhausted from cooking, and desperate to be allowed to have a babysitter over and somewhere to go.

Most years at this time, the children are ramped up with the excitement about the end of school, the beginning of summer freedom, and the excitement of summer camp with their old friends.
This year, we are faced with deciding whether to continue the current arrangement (all of us, here) or allow the kids their confined (and not essential) summer camp/childcare experience, using money we may not have soon. A choice of a relief for all of our mental health versus exposure to this monster.

Most years at this time, we are spending more time at the pool than in our house.
This year, we have no pool. We have only house.

Most years at this time, I'm grateful for the slow-down and the change in tempo of life that summer brings, on all fronts.
This year, I'm lethargic from moving so slowly.
This year, I'm tired from doing nothing.
This year, I would like nothing more than to feel the extreme highs and lows of NORMAL life, even on a smaller scale.
This year, I'm craving MORE.

I Guess I'm Not Meant to Take a Bath

Three out of three bathtubs in my life are useless. Which makes me think that maybe I'm just not meant to be a person who takes baths. I never wanted to take baths, in all those years of having a functional bathtub. Now I want to take a bath and no bathtub will have me.

We are in a lovely Airbnb, booked without knowledge of the existence of a bathtub, known lack of hot tub, and upon arrival discovered that (lo and behold!) there is a bathtub. Husband lovingly encourages night-bathing but I abstained, to allow the lingering, lovely anticipation to last until morning. Filling the bathtub did seem to take a bit longer than expected, and once in, the warmth and soothing smell overtook me. Then that fateful sound. The draining. It was happening yet again. So there I sat in a bubble-filled, Lorien-sized bathtub with book and coffee at my side, and the fucking thing is draining. I put my hand over the drain to confirm but as a person-not-meant-to-bathe, I'm quite familiar with the sound. So my lovely bath lasted a total of 45 seconds. I tried to refill the drained part, thinking, it's raining, there's no drought, maybe I can last a minute and a half! Alas, no. There was no more hot water.

So that was the end of that. On a positive note, the bathroom has its own heater, so you can stay warm while sitting in your cold-water, draining bath. And the fluffiest towel I've ever seen to dry the still fresh bubbles off your body. Small pleasures.

Frantically Groping for Inspiration

I haven't written in a while.

I think it's been a devastating lack of inspiration, or an adept suppression of any unnecessary thought patterns. Which under normal circumstance is a healthy coping mechanism, until all of a sudden, like the breaking of a dam, my thoughts start taking over again. And then the only things I can do to stop them is high intensity cardio or writing. So here I am. All Orange-Theoried and blogging.

It's been a school year of questioning my purpose, and my success at achieving my purpose over the last 11 years (and the last, say, 60 years of American history). The statement that every day feels like a battle doesn't really fully describe the magnitude of the problem I have on my hands at the moment.

I think I've been talking too much. I don't know how to stop, though. I feel like every person I can retain as an audience needs to hear the message. But the ones who listen to me already agree. How do you unify a fundamentally inequitable system? How do we recover from the fundamental lack of understanding that people with disabilities are PEOPLE and to participate in the world the way non-disabled people can requires stuff. And stuff requires effort. I feel like it's 1953 and we are on the verge of another civil rights movement right here in MDUSD. But its fucking 2018. What the fuck.

Just Eat the Damn Pizza: A Small Woman's Perspective on Body Image Issues

So I saw a movie the other night. "Embrace" is the story of one amazing woman's journey through the roller coaster of self-image. It was thoroughly inspiring and insightful and I enjoyed every minute of it. But it reminded me of something that hangs over my head every single day.

I'm small. Petite. Athletic. Fit. Slim. Whatever you want to call it. And that means I'm not allowed to participate in conversations about body image.

Seriously.

Any comments about size or image or fat or bodies around other women is met with glares, eye rolling, heavy sighs, and general auras of resentment. My feelings and experience immediately become negated and I stop participating.

So since I can't talk to most other women about any of this without feeling stupid and insulting to them, I'm going to write about it here. This is MY perspective. I understand the importance of having other peoples' perspectives, and that does help to keep things under control, but it doesn't detract from my personal struggle which is real, and I think, noteworthy, even if no one else does.

I've spent the last 26 years of my life struggling with body image issues. Since I was 12 years old and the doctor told me I had high cholesterol, I started scrutinizing product labels, cutting out fatty food from my diet, living in a constant state of stress that I was making poor food choices. Granted, I was literally a toothpick at that stage in my life, winning physical fitness awards at school and dancing competitively. Ridiculous, right???? Well that was only the start of it.

Being a dancer is a generally bad idea for most women. It causes so many irreconcilable body issues, with the never-ending glances in the mirror, the constant badgering to "tuck your tail under" (I can't, that's my frickin' ass and yes it sticks out behind me), comparisons to the other anorexic ballerinas you spend so much time with, the measurement of your body and costume-sizing..... and on and on. I love dancing more than basically anything in the world (besides my family of course) but I have spent 32 years looking at myself in that damn mirror.

Then there was Grandma, Rest in Peace. The first time she saw me when I came home from Freshman year of college at Thanksgiving, the first words out of her mouth were, "Oh! Did your butt get bigger?" No joke. Yes, Grandma, my butt got bigger. It's called the Freshman 15. It's called, I'm a normal woman and look I even kind of have boobs now. It's called leave me the fuck alone I'm actually happy right now. And there I went again. I went back to college and learned how to use the weight machines and treadmills and elliptical machines at the gym. Oh and I was still dancing 3 days per week. Grandma didn't mean any harm, I don't think, but these statements in women's formative years and times of life literally fucks them up for, well, 20 years or so.

Then there was my stint as a vegetarian. In grad school, having made a staunch decision years before to never weigh myself but to attempt to gauge my fitness by how I felt and generally looked, I realized I was buying clothes that were bigger than before. So I decided to become a vegetarian to solve that problem. I didn't really care about meat anyways. And I lost probably 10 pounds that way, landing at about 2 pounds more than I weigh right now. I was ok with that and I decided that my "happy" weight was 125. Now I know it's more around 117-119 but that comes later. My year in grad school was amazing, inspiring, and life-altering. I discovered Buddhism, my purpose in life (compassion and service to people with disabilities), I lived alone for the first time, and I made the insane decision to move back to Australia to snag back that cute Aussie boy I'd been with 2 years before (happy ending there!). And it was the year I weighed the most I ever have (aside from pregnancy).

Speed forward 5 years. I wanted a baby. Husband wasn't ready. I decided to exert control over my life in the only way I knew how: by obsessively counting calories. I had never counted calories before, but there were neat websites who would do it for you if you just entered your intake and output. It was awesome. That is until I started telling myself to ignore that nauseous feeling I get when I'm hungry and just keep going. I called it, "Practicing hunger." How fucked up is that??? I would set goals for myself of how few calories I would have in a day. Don't worry, the lowest I ever consumed in a day was 1100. But I was also exercising 6/7 days in the week. I bought new pants and was showing them off to a friend who then said, "Where's your butt?" I had a strange combined sense of pride and fear. What was I doing????? It's VERY easy to see how quickly things can get out of control.

Then one morning husband was ready to start baby-making. Hallelujah. And I knew from obsessive research that super skinny people had a harder time getting pregnant. So I started eating full-fat yogurt and using more olive oil. After 8 months of trying and nothing happening, my mom got diagnosed with cancer. Well stress really does a number on one's body. So I was eating ok but in a constant state of fight or flight, which I believe suppressed whatever hormones are required for making someone get/stay pregnant. Finally I'm eating right and then this cancer shit comes along. Mommy passed away 4 months later and I got pregnant less than one month after that. I think deep down I blame my body issues for the fact that my mother never got to meet a grandchild. That sucks.

Fast forward to baby #2: extreme postpartum anxiety (that's a thing, who knew?). I went back to barely being able to eat. I lost the baby weight very quickly, which of course led to an inundation of, "Oh my gosh how did you lose the weight so fast?" and "wow you look amazing!" No one knew (and I wasn't allowed to say) that I would literally gag when I tried to eat and my insides were all twisted up from anxiety about parenting 2 tiny children. And that's why I got skinny that time. I dealt with it and got better. For a while.

Fast forward 17 months. Little dude is at the tail end of nursing and the girl child is finally over her daily unbelievable tantrums. And I started dry-heaving every. single. morning. I spent every morning in bed before I had to get up spinning mentally out of control. I would struggle to breathe and calm myself down while in the shower. And by the time I had to eat breakfast, if I could eat at all, I was choking it down and then promptly throwing it up. I knew this was anxiety. And this time is was serious. I got down to my lowest adult weight--111, which was very skinny for me. And yet, I would still look in the mirror and examine my sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones and think, "Well at least I'm skinny." What the fuck?!? I could barely function at home or at work and the bright side of my life was that I was skinny. Anyways. Medication, therapy, blah blah blah and it has all been worked out.

So now I'm as fine as I've ever been since age 12 when the food paranoia/obsession started. I still have a love/hate relationship with food (mostly hate, honestly), but I have systems now to keep things under control. And I don't have time to spend obsessing about anything except preparing everything for the next day. My job is extremely stressful, my kids are extremely amazing, my husband is extremely loving, my house is extremely beautiful, and my body is extremely amazing. And I don't look at my entire naked body in the mirror. Ever. My measure of pride is what my body can DO. I made 2 incredible children and delivered them both without any drugs. I can do some awesome yoga tricks. I can run pretty fast, for a person who hates running. I can dance and do the splits and jump and turn and exude emotion through all of it. My body is STRONG. And I am actually grateful for it. Finally.

That's a long story. I've never told any human on earth all of this. Because I never felt like I was justified in doing so. But I've been through a lot. Just because I have this fit body doesn't mean I can't share the body issues that bigger women speak about. And don't assume that I haven't struggled as much as the next person to get and keep this body. Yes I have good metabolism, and good genes, and I naturally enjoy exercise. But it's taken this whole story for me to get to this point in my life of "as close to acceptance as I'm going to be" of my imperfect beautiful body.

Body image conversations need to include ALL bodies. Just sayin'.

And now back to this pizza.

For Marin's Mother, One Year Later

I'll never forget the phone call for the rest of my life. I knew something was horribly horribly wrong. As I answered, my heart sank into my stomach. Somehow I knew what you were going to say. With some kind of inhuman strength, you told me you had to decide to let go of your sweet baby Marin. After 13 days of fighting like a champion, she couldn't hold on any more. I had no words of consolation. What do you say to a mother about to lose their only child? There's nothing to say. There's no consolation. Only empathy, or at least sympathy. When we hung up, I wept and wept and Addy brought me the Oma Judy angel necklace and I believed, for a minute, again, in something spiritual and beyond us. To have something to hold onto that represented my mother's spirit, and could somehow connect to Marin's spirit was so powerful, and to come from my own daughter was perfection.

For those 12 days, we saw you frequently. We did laundry, we watched you eat, we watched you make milk for your baby. Every day I wished there was more I could do. No amount of chicken or detergent could solve the problem you had. It is hard to feel helpless when your best friend's heart is breaking. I didn't meet Marin in person, but I felt like I knew her. I still do. Seeing you those days made me love her deeply, because you did. You do.

Then the worst day. I waited for the news, wishing I could do something, anything, to ease the pain or make this nightmare end. When the text came from Paul, I began weeping. Stepping out into the busy hallway of the first day of school, I cried out for our friend. I told her what happened. We embraced in this hallway, amid naive high-schoolers. I didn't stop crying for a long time. I shared the message with our team, who so passionately worried about you, and Mike, for whom we were all passionately worrying. The moments passed in surreality. No way this could be true. But it was. It is.

The last year has been tumultuous to say the least. I am nothing but proud of your strength and courage every day of your life. I'm in awe of your self-analysis and the extreme dedication to healing. Very few can understand what you are actually feeling through this, both then and now, but I feel like this has been an immense year of growth and self-discovery. And I feel privileged to be here next to you as you wade slowly through it.

I have visions of you. And there's a baby. And she's yours. The images are so vivid and so real that I know they are true. She's not Marin. No one will ever be. But there is a baby. And she's also yours. I can't predict the future, and I'm not trying to. The feeling is very convincing though. The faith is strong. The spirituality is strong. No God, no Jesus. But there is Oma Judy. And there is Marin. And there is Grandma. And now there is Grandpa. In whatever realm of reality they exist, they are never far away, when we think of them and mourn them and mostly, when we celebrate them.

Hold on, my friend. Though the days shall, as they say, pass, this will not. It must not. We hold Marin so close in our hearts in everything we do; for what she taught us (love, gratitude, fragility, mortality), what she continues to teach us (inspiration, hope), and what the future holds (sister, brother). She taught you what love feels like. And the most excruciating loneliness on earth. And you keep going. You keep learning. You keep evolving. Every day you are stronger. Every day I learn from you.

My eyes are wet with tears, of course. No words can actually express the depth of emotion here. It's enough just to say her name. And feel it echo in your head and in your heart..... forever...... Marin......

A Mother to Me

Mother's Day has been a day of mixed emotions for the last five years. In the same year I mourned my own mother's passing, I celebrated the life of my own child growing inside me. There was never a year without mothering of some sort. It has only been recently that I've been burdened by the question, "But who mothers me when I need a mommy?" What I've realized over these years is that in the absence of my own physical mother, so many others are working to fill the hole.

I've always had a few people at work who I think of as my "work mommy"--someone who I consider a mentor, a confidant, and who I know genuinely cares about me and has my back. I still have someone at work like that, and I'm grateful for her every day. This is mothering to me.

The obvious mothers in my life are my own family.  My Auntie, my Oma, my cousin Mari, my mother-in-law. Though I don't have daily or even really regular contact with these amazing women, they are all there for me when I need them, unconditionally. This is mothering to me.

In a different way, my strong female friends fill the mother hole for me. So many of them who understand me the way my mom did, and who have known me for so long and through so much, who have listened to me blabber and cry and question and contemplate. These women who mother alongside me and reassure me of my own mothering capabilities when I doubt myself and have no mother to go to for reassurance or guidance. We mother together. We are the village of the future, raising amazing people together through strong powerful motherhood. This is mothering to me.

In the last few days, Adelaide has started saying things like she can't wait to be the one to do things for me. She wants to cook for me and do the laundry. She has been commenting on how much I do for everyone. At this moment she is orchestrating a bacon-smelling extravaganza, in true mother fashion. She is already a caregiver for Joseph, and for all of us. It amazes me how much her spirit is my mother's. When she was conceived mere weeks after my mother died, I knew her spirit was in this child. But now that she is growing into this person, I know it for a fact.

The full circle is being drawn and I am in the center of it. Surrounded by the love and spirit of the mothers and mother-spirits in my life. Safe, and protected. Looked-after with compassion and concern. I am not without a mother. I am the mother. We are all mother. Today I will not mourn the absent. I will celebrate the mother-ness and completeness of my amazing life.

Thank you my beautiful women.

In Memory of Mike Kullman

Colleague, Friend, Behavior Analyst

Mike passed this morning at 4am in peace, Kathy said. Just a few months ago he was in the office complaining of indigestion and fatigue. Two useless rounds of chemo later, the cancer metastasized all over his body. Within a week he couldn’t walk. That was three weeks ago. There’s no rhyme or reason to why bad things happen to good people, and everyone who knows Mike knows he is nothing if not “good people.” I’m writing in tribute to him, to never forget his purpose, his legacy, and to somehow keep a place-holder in this ridiculous gaping hole that is now left in our amazing team.

Sitting in a coffee shop, Mike’s favorite place to get stuff done (he couldn’t stand the chaos and drama of the office and preferred his book closet at Gregory Gardens, or a cozy coffee shop), I remember his favorite drink: medium (grande) coffee with skim milk. He never deviated from that (except on his birthday when he would splurge with a mocha). We frequently met at the Starbucks near Sun Terrace, to catch up on the issues around his caseload, to ponder questions of supervision and behavior analysis, and to lean on each other for support.

He gave me a run for my money as a supervisor. He taught me to stand up for myself. He taught me that you have to say what you think unapologetically when you feel strongly about it. And he felt strongly about many things, most of all, doing the RIGHT thing for CHILDREN. At the root of his passion was his drive to serve kids ethically. As much as we bickered about caseload minutia, he motivated me to be a more compassionate and thoughtful supervisor, but also how to hold the line even through complaint. Through this relationship, we both felt mutual respect. He told me on many occasions that he has stayed longer in this job than any job he has ever had. Because of me. He told other behaviorists, if it weren’t for me, he would have split. He spoke often of retirement. I would see him in my mind’s eye spending all of his time riding the Harley, fixing up his cars, and maybe consulting with us from time to time to solve our most challenging behavior-analytic issues. His time was cut short. He retired on Monday. He died on Thursday.

Mike will always be remembered at the preschools for his annual appearance as Santa Claus. He relished this more than anything. And that’s saying a lot for a Jewish guy. In my second-to-last visit with him, we shared pictures of his preschoolers on his knee as Santa, and he was moved to tears. It was too much. Mike’s love for the children was always evident. Who knew a big hairy biker hippy could be such a softy? (All of us did.)

Mike’s treasured program was CEP at Sun Terrace. He felt at home in the mental health world. He felt he could go back to his roots in counseling and bring the support of behavior analysis to this world. Our next project together was going to be to “breech” the entire MDUSD Mental Health Collaborative. He was ready and excited to take it on, and the sites literally asked, “When can he start!?” Sadly, Mike never got the chance to embark on this journey with us. Our team will carry on that goal as we move forward, in his spirit and his honor.

Mike and I shared many things: a love of coffee, being a nonconformist/hippy at heart, being sorta Jewish (though he never did bring me those famous potato pancakes), a passion for clinically-sound behavior analysis, and most of all, DATA. His nickname was GraphMan, dubbed so by a sarcastic principal, but the nickname stuck, and suited him well. Mr. Mike, GraphMan. Always could be counted on for some STIP data, or a collaborator in the interpretation of your ABC data. He reminded us all to always be behavior-analytic, even in the face of sarcasm. And to wear the labels with pride, knowing every second he was doing the right thing for the children.

Every time we go to Diggers Diner, we will see Mike and have a spot for him at our table. Gregory Gardens will always have a room where he did his best work. Sun Terrace has a chair for him at their meeting table. Our behaviorist office hasn’t housed him for several years, but his absence is devastating. We will fill our space with his books and the knowledge he kept on paper. There will be no replacement for the knowledge, wisdom, and experience Mike had to share, and that is what we will miss the most. He made us all better behavior analysts. He made me a better supervisor. He made teachers better. He made children smile. He improved the quality of life of everyone he touched.

And yesterday, in his last hours, he held my hand so tight and looked me in the eye, and I know he knew it was me, and I know he was happy. Kathy said in his ear, “Mike, you have done everything you can do now. Lorien will take care of everything else now. You have done your work for the children.” I think closure was achieved for her and for him. Now it’s my job to fulfill the expectation and to carry on the legacy in our department. Literally big biker boots to fill with my little size 7’s. But I’m going to give it my darndest. And with the impressive team standing beside me, we’ve got this made.

Dead-Head, gearhead, bikey, hippy,teddy bear, Santa, GraphMan, Mr. Mike, Educational Consultation and Behavior Management Specialist, professor, friend, mentor, father, husband, brother, son….. Mike was many things to many people. What an honor to have known him.

Rest in Peace Mr. Mike

Today I aimed for joy

In yoga, you begin every practice by setting an intention. In the past weeks since I have been regularly practicing again, I have chosen things like "patience," "calm," "peace," "strength," etc. So today I chose joy. Because I wondered if I am capable of reaching that. In my previous practices, I have achieved those intentions, but did I achieve joy today? Do I even remember what actual joy feels like?

Since my episode last year with anxiety, I have been so focused on just being "ok" and "just keeping going" and "just getting through it." I think I've achieved and surpassed the ability to just be ok with just being ok. Now I want more. This month of "no grumping" has been so eye-opening. I've mastered the art of keeping the grump at bay, making room for new feelings, beyond just coping and fighting the grump. It's time for joy! I can find joy through gratitude, but it seems different to just think thoughts of joy without actual feeling the difference. Not being grumpy and just being ok is a very stagnant feeling.  I do believe that there must be downs in order to appreciate the ups, but can I just be up now? Or can the downs be things unrelated to stress or grumpiness? I don't know. 

So I think I am a step (or vinyasa) closer to finding actual joy. I'm not there yet. I wonder if Zoloft has something to do with it. I have relied so heavily on it to just stay sane and deal with life, but am I now at the point of compromising other emotions and feelings in favor of maintaining that controlled calm? What is the trade-off? I feel happy. I feel content. I feel satisfied. But is there joy? I don't know. Perhaps joy isn't a feeling that can just be summoned. Perhaps I need to let the feelings of contentedness and gratitude grow into joy. Perhaps the things I have been feeling content and grateful for can become things that make me joyful. 

Maybe my new mantra and intention every day in life is not just to find gratitude. I think joy begins with gratitude. So now I've mastered gratitude. Now I'm aiming for joy. On we go....

A Letter to the Parents Hanging Around at Drop-Off

I don't know you. But I'm not gonna lie--I'm jealous of you. Standing around chatting in your yoga pants after dropping your children off at school while I scurry back to my mom-van to rush, yet again, to my stress-case of a job. After spending every waking moment of my with-children time rushing to and fro and fro and to and back again, all I want is a stretch of time, uninterrupted by necessities, BY MYSELF. Like you. Standing around in my yoga pants, talking to adults about whatever fanciful, meaningless thing might pop into one's head. And even as I sit writing this, when I am supposed to be writing a report for my stress-case job, I feel guilty for daring to take work-day morning time to vent something for my own mental health.

But I implore you, parents hanging around at drop-off, don't look at me with pity, as the line between my eyebrow deepens with intensifying fret. Because my mom-van takes me places where I can change the world. Not just for myself, but for EVERYONE who lives in it. And though I'm not wearing yoga pants, I'm bending over backwards to incite change in this unfair world; to advocate for the under-dog, stand up for those who cannot stand, and to speak words of love and justice on behalf of those who cannot speak. While you stand around chatting about your next girls' spa weekend, I am creating the future for all of our children, including the ones you just dropped off at school.

So I'm ok with that. Jealous and all.

Now back to work.

Marin

She taught us how to love. Whatever the purpose of her short life, she gave us that. No moments taken for granted in our own lives. The fear of losing is real. Loss is real and unbearable. And what's left? Wondering, wishing, regretting.... What is the purpose? Why would so small a person be brought onto the earth just to live and die? Why should they have to live through this torture? Is it better to have known her at all, just to lose her? What is the purpose. The purpose is love. To know love and to appreciate love and to move forward with a different love in your heart. The love that was lost. Better to have loved and lost.... And what's next? Hope? Why? Sadness. Abundant. Resilience. Necessary. Impossible? Maybe. Survival. More practical. Marin's life, as short and precious as it has been, is not for naught. She taught them love.  She taught us how to exist in love. Keep moving forward................

Rest in peace beautiful girl. Oma Judy is yours now. 

On Being A "Mother"

September 19, 2013

I never envisioned myself as a mother.  I never dreamed of being a mommy or felt any attachment to that concept.  Oddly, I’ve spent three years as a mother and only just realized this fact.  I recognize that I am a mother, cognitively.  Emotionally, I’m not sure what it’s supposed to feel like.  I think I maybe felt like a mother to Addy before Joseph was born—that feeling of overwhelming and all-consuming love—I think that’s the feeling that would equal “mother.”  But it went away when I had Joseph.  Instead of my heart growing, it went cold.  I’ve spent the last month trying to reconnect and rediscover the pleasure of being a mother.  It’s been nearly impossible.  I know I love my children.  I know I’m responsible for them and that I would do anything for them.  But to identify myself, appreciatively, as the incessant “mommy” that I’m labeled as by this small person, there’s a disconnect.  I don’t love being called “mommy.”  I realize that’s the most appropriate thing for my children to call me, but I don’t think of myself with that word.  I can’t remember if I ever did.  Maybe it’s because I can only associate that word with my own (lack of) mother.  I’m sure I’ll need to explore that topic some other time.

I think all this is closely related to my anxiety.  Until last weekend, on my own with the 2 kids (and the dog, and her fleas), I had absolutely no concept that I could actually handle my own children.  I had been faking it, with a constant sinking putrid feeling in the pit of my stomach, but not connecting myself with any of it.  By the end of the weekend I felt so good about myself.  So confident!  So connected to my parenting abilities!  I suddenly realized that I have spent 3 years raising an amazing (if challenging) child who most people enjoy and think is cool so I must be doing something right.  And I have done this “baby” thing before, though I don’t think I really enjoyed it that much the first time around.  I think I eventually started enjoying it.  I don’t know when, but I’m definitely holding out for the enjoyment factor.  Right now, I still feel like I’m in survival mode.  I have sneak peeks of pleasure, but nothing lasting and tangible enough to make me 100% sure I understand why people have (multiple) children.

I’m not sad anymore, and I’m not particularly anxious anymore.  I know I’m on the “upswing” from where I’ve been.  However, I am definitely coming into many realizations about myself, being a parent, and how these massive choices I’ve made are going to stay with me forever.  I can’t ever go back to a carefree life of my own.  There are moments each day that I still long for that life.  I’d like to point out moments where I feel gratitude and adoration for parenthood, but I can’t at this point.  I’m still partly faking it, but at least it’s getting easier…

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Renewal (Still in Progress)

September 4, 2013

For the third day in a row, I feel GOOD.  Not just ok.  GOOD.  GREAT even, in moments.  On Sunday after Vanessa and Gretchen left, and Luke was “late” cooking dinner, I had a moment of weakness, then marched back into the kitchen, babe-in-arms, and apologized to Luke.  After that, the lamb he cooked me tasted so GOOD.  I felt like I could breathe again.  The night went well and in the morning I felt GOOD.  Barely a trace of nausea and any small waves of nausea quickly turned into adrenaline and a straightening of the spine, a deeper breath, and a small smile.  My body has decided to cope with this now.  Hopefully my brain will continue to follow suit.

Whether it was the probiotic I started a few days before, the talk therapy, consecutive days with mommy friends and venting, a settling of hormones, or just the passage of time, I went from my worst moment to feeling like a revelation of myself again.  I looked into Joseph’s eyes and felt as though I was seeing him for the first time.  Touched, moved to tears for a very appropriate and loving emotion.  Playing with Addy because I wanted to and because it FELT GOOD not out of a feeling of obligation or responsibility, but because it was making me happy.  And in making me happy, I felt her become happier.  No more Sad Mommy.  And if Sad Mommy comes back, I have to shelve-it or take a moment alone—she doesn’t need to experience that.  It’s not her job to provide comfort to me.  When the tears are gone and the only trace on my face is a smile, then I can reach for her. 

I have a renewed sense of confidence, and though I still get little waves of anxiety, not accompanied by nausea, and no crying for 3 days, I think I’m going to be fine.  No, I KNOW I’m going to be fine.

A Postpartum Journaling Effort

August 9, 2013

            So I decided that the best thing to do when I can’t control my thoughts, to the point where they are interfering with my body functioning, is to write, like in the good old days.  Since having Addy, I have all but stopped writing completely and I think that’s tragic, but logical.  Our lives since her have been documented in photographs.

            This whole 2 children thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  I realize Joseph is only 5 weeks old and we have a helluva long way to go before we reap the “benefit” of having multiple children, but this is crazier than I could have imagined.  And it’s not even the baby that’s crazy.  He’s pretty much perfect (even the doctor thinks so).  It’s ME that’s grossly imperfect, on so many levels.

            Let’s start with the boobs.  In the first 3 days of the child’s life, mommy was laid up feeling like she’d been hit by a truck, aka, mastitis.  Talk about feeling like a bad parent on top of feeling awful!  I loved him the instant he was born, which was different than Addy, but those first days at home were tainted by the boob issues.  Even after antibiotics, I still felt like crap.  Thank God for all the help from Luke, Mum, and Dad. Then, hallelujah, I felt human again!  For like, a week.  Then the impending departure of Mum and Dad took over and the nausea and lethargy came creeping back.  I tried to feign enthusiasm for basic things, but when I could barely stomach a smoothie, cracking a smile was exhausting.  I had no idea at the time what was wrong, but started feeling very paranoid about the boobs again, since some ducts had gotten plugged since the antibiotics ran out.  I took care of that, so I couldn’t figure out why I felt so awful.

            Then it hit me.  The moment Mum and Dad walked out the door, I felt like I could take a breath all my own.  I felt a sense of independence I hadn’t felt in 5 weeks.  Granted, Addy was sick, and I had her plus a 3 week old baby all to myself for a few hours in the night, but I realized my “illness” had been related to the huge transition of Mum and Dad leaving.  That night was awful.  The baby took 2 hours to get to sleep.  Halfway through that the sickie poltergeist made her appearance, ready for meds.  And me still drained and ill-ish, dealing with them both at the same time.  Finally the baby got to sleep and Luke arrived with (goddess) Laura in tow.  I gave her the biggest hug ever.  We all went to bed and hoped for the best…

            Starting shortly after I got Joseph back down from his early feed (4am-ish), Addy began her cavorting.  Every 15 minutes from about 4:30am until time to get up (6:30ish), she crept back into our room or the hallway.  So needless to say, it was the most sleepless night I’ve had since my one-nighter in the hospital.

            The next day, I felt like a big turd but there were 2 children to care for (Addy, still sick, couldn’t go to school).  The nausea came back and Laura and I tried to figure out why.  Once I realized that every wave of nausea was accompanied by butterflies and a feeling of nervous dread, I decided to call this “Postpartum Anxiety” which is actually a thing.  I texted my lactation consultant friend about a boob issue, and mentioned it.  She shared with me some of her own struggle with postpartum depression and how important it is to get treatment.  She told me my ginger tea can also help with anxiety.  I also kept recalling the wise words of my NP who said, “Make yourself eat, even if you’re nauseous.” Eventually, after a couple of days, the feeling of anxiety dissipated, the nausea dissipated, and I started to enjoy my life again.  For a minute.

            Now, every now and then I get a wave of anxiety, accompanied by the nausea, and with all the illness that has been in the household (Addy, then Luke, now Laura, and I’m just waiting my turn), no wonder I’ve felt stressed out.  I’ve felt like I somehow have to take care of everyone.  And as soon as the thought of, “Will everyone sleep tonight?” comes into my head, that old familiar dread comes back.  I constantly remind myself:

            --there will be sleep again someday

            --keep eating

            --I am ok

            --there are people here to help (when they’re not sick)

            --I don’t have to do this alone

            --I AM enough mother for both of them (that’s the big one)

            I’m in my head too much.  I don’t have enough other things to think about so I spend every minute scrutinizing what the baby is doing or how inadequate I feel for Addy, or how to juggle eating, sleeping, nursing (oh god all the nursing), and ME time.  I have wished for this period of time to be fast-forwarded, but I know it can’t be and I know I’ll look back and appreciate this soon enough.  Perhaps I’ll even feel proud and triumphant.  For now, I feel like I’m barely breathing.  Keeping my nose just above the water.  And waiting with those baited shallow breaths for the next time the baby wakes up…

            Another confession—I don’t know how long I’m going to last breastfeeding Joseph.  I was so proud of myself for making it one year with Addy that it feels like anything less for Joseph wouldn’t be fair; would be bad for him.  How selfish would I be to just give up?  Do I need to set a goal?  My goal with Addy with 6 months, but it never crossed my mind to give it up until my body eventually did it for me.  It’s very early to be having these thoughts, but when every other sentence I say to my daughter when he’s awake is, “Can you wait until I’m done feeding brother?”  or, “I can’t right now, I’m feeding brother.”  Or, “Please go ask Daddy, I’m feeding brother right now.”  UGH.  Commence tantrum.  Although she is getting WAY better at understanding this now and I’m getting way better at trying to pay more attention to her and offer more choices for while I’m feeding him (one can always watch the Lion King for the 100^th time while nursing after all).  I know she won’t hate me for the time I feel like I’m stolen from her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself just a little for not being enough me for everyone at the same time.  One blessing (of many, actually), is that Joseph is a killer nurser.  I just wish he’d speed it up a little!         Man that boy loves his boobies.  Yes, they are his right now, not mine. 

            With all the recent company, it makes sense that Luke (aka Jason Bourne), feels a little lost.  I think with Laura’s illness, he has been able to reclaim his role in the household and try his hand at managing children among many other things (sometimes all at the same time!).  I am the luckiest woman in the world to have him.  Without even thinking for a moment of himself, he leaps at the opportunity to “father” and “husband” us.  Every moment he is here I feel more at ease.  Unfortunately, every moment he is gone, the anxiety is tempted to return, though it doesn’t always!  I keep telling myself, when I feel good, I can handle anything!  And then I don’t feel good and I’m useless and get anxiety about getting anxiety.  It’s a seemingly endless cycle. 

            My mission is to keep talking about it to people who understand (aka Laura, Hilary, Denise, Noelle, Jenifer, oh the solidarity!) and write it down if for no other purpose than to get all the nastiness out of my poor little head.  And immediately, stop feeling sorry for myself.

*It’s not a life or death situation.  It’s just a crying baby.*

August 22, 2013

            So I finally cried this morning.  Unfortunately it wasn’t for any particular reason.  I was a little on edge this morning but then all of a sudden I was crying.  I guess I was thinking about (and recently troubled by) the fact that I don’t think I have really felt much of anything these past 7 weeks except physical misery.  I don’t remember the last time I felt actual happiness, aside from the moment Joseph was placed in my arms.  I have been so dominated by feeling physically horrible that I haven’t let myself enjoy any of this.  I feel like I’m just going through the motions of motherhood—breastfeeding, sitting with Addy, making sure everyone has eaten, perhaps even playing a little with them, but there’s no joy in any of it.  Where has my happiness gone?  Sure I made a list of things I enjoy, but I don’t know that I’m feeling any true pleasure with any of it (it’s all trivial anyways).  I think I’m spending every moment anticipating the next instead of relishing what’s happening right this minute.  I enjoyed our impromptu dance party the other night.  I started feeling like I was myself again.  But ever nagged by “when will the baby wake up?” and “will I eat before he wakes up?” and “how late will Addy go to bed tonight?” In my very rational brain, I know these things will all be FINE.  No one is hurt by a later bedtime.  Luke is completely willing to deal with a crying baby so I can eat.  So WHY do I become dominated by these thoughts when I’m supposed to be experiencing something lovely and beautiful.  Last night too—Addy was on my lap (which she rarely ever is) and I was going through the motions of smelling her and kissing her and touching her soft skin, hoping to elicit ANY kind of emotion.  But nothing.  Except wondering when dinner would be ready and whether the baby would wake up (which he did and “miraculously” he sat in the swing while we ate).  How come I can’t enjoy my daughter?  Where’s the overwhelming feeling of love I used to feel just looking at her amazing face?  I spent my pregnancy worrying I wouldn’t have enough love for both of them, and now I feel like I have no love at all.  Good.  I’m crying.  Is feeling sadness better than feeling nothing?  Do I need to remember what it feels like at all to feel anything before I can find a place of feeling joy?

            And then I try to convince myself I’m fine.  That I’m strong enough to get over these stupid trivial issues/worries.  But am I?  Luke says I have been emotional.  I don’t think I have.  I think I’ve felt like general crap and not been a happy person because of it.  Is that why I’m sad today?  I haven’t felt sad until today.  I’ve felt anxious and nervous and worried and ill, but never sad.  I think I’m shocked by my realization that I’m thinking about the past 7 weeks and wondering where the hell I’ve been????  Where is the wonder and awe of getting to know my precious baby boy?  Where is the complete fulfillment and pride at seeing Addy so passionate about having Baby Brother read stories with her? 

            Maybe I’m coming down off having company and someone to talk to ALL the time.  Maybe I’m lonely.  Luke thinks I’m working myself up and that I have enjoyed things these past 7 weeks.  He says it’s still hormonal.  He says I’ve never been depressed.  I said I know I’ve never been anxious like that or depressed so this is all very unfamiliar to me.  I don’t know anymore what’s normal because I haven’t felt “normal” in so very long.  And normal is definitely different now.

            In my life, I have felt happiest and most comfortable with myself when dancing and exercising.  I did that today and it was nice but I didn’t really feel different or better afterwards.  How much endorphins do I need to get back to that happy place?  My body seems fine with it all now.  It’s my brain that’s fucked up.  I’m starting to understand and appreciate my dad’s struggle now.  Anxiety is a beast. Depression is like a never-ending downpour in the middle of the night.  Or a bad dream you can’t wake up from.  I’ve witnessed it, but never felt it like this.  Just writing about it and acknowledging it makes me feel better.

            And now to be positive.  I’ve identified the problem.  Now for some solutions.

--BE PRESENT in every moment.  Stop evil thoughts the moment they start and focus on what’s happening NOW.

--Cry when I feel like crying.

--Laugh more.  Find carefree moments.

--EXERCISE as much as possible.  Even if it’s going for a brisk walk with the baby Bjorned.

--Be proud of what you have survived and accomplished.  Adelaide is an astounding child.  Joseph is on his way to the same status.  I gave birth naturally to 2 children.  My little body produced these gorgeous creatures.  And look at my body now!!!  Like my yoga mantra—my body is amazing, look what my body can do.

--Put on makeup.  Wear clothes that make me feel happy, even if it means buying more.

--Leave the house.  Be with people.  Invite people over.  Talk to people.  People are good.

--Have things set up to look forward to (see above).

--Try to accomplish something every day (clean something, file something, sort something, wash something) but don’t freak out if it doesn’t happen or get finished.

--Be in the sun.

--Pet/cuddle Hazel.

--Look at all the pictures I’ve taken of the children in the last 7 weeks and remember those days/moments with fondness, even if I barfed that morning or couldn’t eat anything—at least I had the presence and desire to take pictures.

--Stop pretending like what I’ve been through was easy in any way.  Like Noelle said—it’s hard and it’s normal to have these thoughts, anxieties, feelings.

--And if I still feel sad by the time I go back to my OB in 2 weeks, I WILL ask for help.

NOW GO.  Begin again.

9-1-13

There is nothing poetic about this sadness.  There is nothing cathartic about this crying.  I cannot do it alone.  I want to raise a compassionate child but having her say, “Mommy is sad,” every day is not the way to do that.  This is beyond hormones and stomachaches and headaches.  This is “life-ache.”  Only moments each day feel ok.  Maybe even good for a moment.  But the morning is awful.  Every morning, the cold sweat feeling, light-headedness of wondering if I’ll be able to eat.  If I’ll be able to smile or laugh.  If I’ll be able to care for my children, or myself.

I’m thinking about my mother today.  Thinking about her Depression.  I remember she couldn’t get out of bed and she lost so much weight.  I remember as a child making her toast and bringing it to her in bed because I didn’t know how else to help her.  She was a Sad Mommy for a while (probably longer than I knew, and longer than I remember) but then she got better.  She got help.  I’m getting help.  I’m not dealing with this alone because I cannot be a Sad Mommy.  I miss myself.  I want ME back.  It’s ok to miss my Mother right now, but I want to use that as motivation, not to pull me down.  This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I feel like I’m carrying the weight of everything on me and all I want to do is run away.  But I don’t want to be alone.  Because if I’m alone I think it will only get worse.

I have to let the beautiful moments overtake me, not the sadness or anxiety.  I recognize the beautiful moments still.  I have to fake it for Addy’s sake.  For my sake.  I have to recall yesterday’s joke and crack it again and make her laugh.  Mommy is funny, not sad.  Fake it til you make it.  Stay engaged.  Don’t detach.  Don’t remove.  Don’t go back to bed.  Stay present.

Joseph's Birth Story

Joseph Reid Quirk’s Arduous Arrival

After spending a week sweating in 100+ degree heat and 39-40 weeks pregnant, on the boy’s due date (July 3), I had one final prenatal appointment.  Not-my-usual-nurse-practitioner broke the news that we would go ahead and schedule an induction for one week later, in case I needed it.  When she left the room, I started crying.  She prescribed sex, walking, and the Preggo Pizza from Skippolini’s.  Well, I did one of the 3, at the mall, with Noelle.

That night, through my requested Mexican food dinner, I was having Braxton Hicks every 6 minutes.  The child had been moving viciously all afternoon, making the heat even more uncomfortable.  Those BH didn’t turn into anything, so we watched a movie (Liam Neeson’s The Grey).  I went to bed having a feeling that something was going to happen in the night but I didn’t tell anyone.

Around 12:30, I started recognizing painful contractions.  Looking at the clock, they appeared to vary between 10-12 minutes apart but they were already very painful.  I went to the bathroom and a big blob of something came out.  I called L&D and after being on hold for an eternity (not ok people!) the girl assured me (rudely) that my water had not broken and to call again when my contractions were 5 minutes apart for an hour.  After a few hours of contractions 10 minutes apart, Luke woke up and I told him I was having contractions but they were very painful and different than with Addy.  He got me a damp cloth which was a savior.  He also put a towel on the bed under me.  Just in case.  Around 5am, I started noticing the contractions coming a bit closer together, varying from 7-9 minutes apart.  At this point I was moaning and really struggling through them because they were all back labor.  It felt like my lower back and pelvis were being ripped apart.  Nothing like with Addy.  Nothing like menstrual cramps.  Nothing like I’ve ever felt before or had any preparation for.  Any time I got out of bed, I would have a contraction, regardless of whether I had just had one.  Luke started timing the contractions and they were averaging 7 minutes apart but still varied.  Around 6am I said, “We need to go.  This is not ok.  We need to go.”  So he woke up Mum so she could shower.  As he tried to get in the shower I blasted into the bathroom, dry heaving, and made it in time to barf in the toilet (sort of).  He was taken aback, but proceeded with his shower.  I crawled out of the bathroom where Mum greeted me and assured me Addy was being looked after by Papa.  Some how I got to standing and, with Mum’s support, retrieved the necessary belongings to go with us to the hospital.

Finally we got in the van, me with my water and damp cloth.  On the drive to Kaiser, my contractions came closer together (about 4 minutes, according to Mum) and were extremely painful.  Between contractions I apologized for being so noisy.  We got to Kaiser, got to the second floor, and when a lady came out to greet us, I was having a contraction and all I heard her say was, “We need a bed!”  In Triage I checked out at 7-8cm and 90% effaced so it’s a DARN good thing we left home when we did.  The Kiwi Triage nurse drove me in the bed to an L&D room where a nurse (Jennifer) and midwife (with the most beautiful eyes and freckly face and radiant smile) were waiting and smiling at me.  They were like angels because I was so happy to be there.  They got me into the bed, hooked up the stupid antibiotic IV, and I proceeded with contractions.  I was in transition at that point, and nothing anyone did could ease the excruciation of this back labor.  We tried different positions, massage, etc., but each was more painful than the last.  Finally they asked if I felt like pushing (when I was standing next to the bed with my head resting on pillows on the bed, my favorite prenatal pose), and I said maybe, so they put a pillow under me on the floor.  Somehow I ended up back in the bed and the new midwife/drill sergeant (shift-change=Christiana) wanted me to try a different position on the bed (kneeling facing the back of the bed with my arms up.  She thought I might like to push in this position.  Very nice and midwifey of her, but no.  I was so shaky and tired from laboring all night and being so hot and dehydrated for so long that I couldn’t stay like that for long.  I got into a more traditional position for pushing and they broke my water.  Shortly after, I was complete and they wanted me to push when I was ready.  I really relied on Luke’s counting and Mum and Luke helping hold my legs.  I wanted to do it the same as with Addy—the same “choreography.”  I pushed for about 15 minutes, not for one second thinking I could possibly finish this, and then I hear people saying, there’s the head (or something), and the nurse talking in my ear, telling me I can do this, to breathe, to use my energy for pushing instead of screaming, to listen to the midwife when she said to stop pushing so I didn’t tear.  I heeded her as best I could and out came my baby.  They put him on me immediately and I just sobbed, “My baby, my baby!” and kissed his dark hair.  He was so beautiful and I couldn’t believe it was done.  I just held him and looked at him while other people did who-knows-what.  I vaguely recall Luke cutting the cord and Joseph crying a bit, but mostly just his warm skin on my chest and his little breathing and his little beating heart and oh-my-god how grateful I was that that ridiculous labor was over and my little person was finally with me on the outside.

The midwife talked to me a bit, but was mostly focused on what mu placenta was going to do.  She offered some prodding to help it get a move on, but it stayed put.  She used a catheter to try to create space for it to come down, but that was just painful and didn’t work.  She decided to stitch me up first to give it time to come on its own.  Getting stitches was painful this time, though I’m not sure why because it was lesser tearing than with Addy.  After 30 minutes, my placenta still hadn’t come out, and the midwife got called to deliver another baby so she sent in the OB.  A lovely small young woman came in and worked her magic with her hands and out came the placenta (thank goodness nothing more invasive was needed), but they gave me pitocin to prevent bleeding (fine, whatever).

When all this was done, they gave me back Joseph and I fed him.  He was a champ from the get-go.  A serious boob-man.  That’s my boy.  That’s my love.

Born at 8:34am on Thursday July 4, 2013 after about 8 hours of total, natural labor.  He was 8lb 5 oz and 21 inches long (whoa!).

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A Sad List

As the "one-month until I go back to work" mark passed, I am thinking more and more about how on earth I am going to cope with not seeing my little baby girl all day. So I'm starting a couple of lists.

Reasons I don't want to go back to work:
-I am really enjoying my routine of gym, yoga, Day One, Kaiser
-I love seeing her wake up from every single nap
-I love breastfeeding her
-I love wearing workout clothes all day
-I love being woken up by her goo'ing and gaa'ing rather than an alarm
-I love watching movies, playing online games, and checking Facebook every 10 minutes
-I love seeing Luke so much
-I love not missing anything Addy does
-I love only having to think about baby stuff
-I love having the energy to do things like vacuum and clean toilets
-I am finally starting to feel like a mommy
-I am going to be jealous of Luke again, but for more reasons now

Reasons I want to go back to work:
-Money/benefits
-To not feel lazy
-The district needs me (I think)
-I miss my colleagues
-Remembering how to use my brain for something other than baby
-It will be good for Addy to be with other kids

To be continued...