Back when I was in the trenches, doubting that I'd ever have a child, an online friend who'd had multiple miscarriages posted a photo of herself and her infant on her blog, with a single word: Joy.
The look on her face was irresistible. I still sometimes go back and look at that photo and cry. It gave me hope then; now, I know what she was feeling when that picture was taken and I weep with gratitude.
After all the pain and disappointment that I went through before life sent Gabby my way, I want more than anything to offer hope to my friends who are still struggling and suffering, the way that others extended their hands to me.
Suffering, I think, has the potential to expand our vision -- it makes us able to see others in a different light, to see what they see. That, I guess, is the definition of empathy, and empathy is a quality I value highly. At its most basic level, it's what keeps us from killing each other; at its highest, it's what makes of us saints and poets.
That's why it's so difficult for me to contemplate that perhaps my joy has clouded my vision. Now that I have what I so dearly wanted for so long, I risk becoming smug, prescriptive, self-satisfied. I risk losing sight of the suffering that connects me to people who have not yet made it to Normalville. This loss of vision struck me twice recently in the form of difficult conversations with friends who are struggling to have children, both prompted by something I said that was decidedly NOT helpful.
One conversation involved my attempts to reassure a friend that she would eventually have a child. I remember hating it when I felt people were shining me on with empty promises, minimizing my pain and fears for the future. Why did I turn around and do the same thing?
The other incident was even worse. In response to a casual "how are you?" I glibly remarked that I couldn't be better -- I have a baby and I'm on maternity leave! Ouch. Talk about rubbing it in.
I could claim sleep deprivation, or the way that an infant monopolizes one's attention, or just my relief and joy at finally having a child as reasons/excuses, but I'm not sure that's the whole of it. I fear that there's a part of me that wants to reside permanently in Normalville and shake the dust of Heartbreak Town off my feet forever. Who, me? No, I've never felt like a barren hag, never! I'm a regular Fertile Myrtle, I am, yes, a bona fide member of the Cute Moms' Club. We discuss sleep and poops and the relative merits of Ergo carriers and ring slings, and oh my, I could never even imagine injecting myself with fertility drugs in a public restroom like some junkie - never!
Am I delighted beyond belief to be past the despair and worry and obsession with my estradiol levels and waking temperatures? Well, of course. But the fact is, I used to own real estate in Heartbreak Town, and I will forever be marked by that experience. The little heart we saw beating in January '06 will never beat again, and nothing will ever change that, not even our little miracle girl. That stuff happened, and damn it, if I cannot undo it, I can at least honor that experience by keeping my eyes open and not losing sight of the suffering of others.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Blog For Choice Day 2008
This year, on the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I am blogging because I have a whole new reason to be pro-choice -- my month-old daughter.
While Gabby was growing in my womb, her own tiny womb was developing inside her. She has milk ducts in what will someday be her breasts, and more than a million eggs in her ovaries. This reality came home to me in an immediate way shortly after her birth. Apparently it's common for newborn girls to bleed a little bit -- it's a result of sharing hormones with their mamas. Our pediatrician commented, "That's good! We know she has a uterus, and it's working!"
Holy @&$. My daughter has a uterus. I mean, of course she does, but wow. She's going to be a sexual being some day.
My daughter has a uterus, and it should be up to her to decide what grows there.
I have had the benefit of reproductive choice. Had I not, my life would have been very different, and Gabby would not exist. I want my daughter to have the same freedom, the same basic right to bodily integrity, the same ability to shape her own life. And I will fight for those rights with a ferocity far beyond that which I would bring to the defense of my own rights.
While Gabby was growing in my womb, her own tiny womb was developing inside her. She has milk ducts in what will someday be her breasts, and more than a million eggs in her ovaries. This reality came home to me in an immediate way shortly after her birth. Apparently it's common for newborn girls to bleed a little bit -- it's a result of sharing hormones with their mamas. Our pediatrician commented, "That's good! We know she has a uterus, and it's working!"
Holy @&$. My daughter has a uterus. I mean, of course she does, but wow. She's going to be a sexual being some day.
My daughter has a uterus, and it should be up to her to decide what grows there.
I have had the benefit of reproductive choice. Had I not, my life would have been very different, and Gabby would not exist. I want my daughter to have the same freedom, the same basic right to bodily integrity, the same ability to shape her own life. And I will fight for those rights with a ferocity far beyond that which I would bring to the defense of my own rights.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Parental Pop Quiz
1. After a sleepless night and a fussy morning, the Munchkin is finally asleep. What do you do?
(a) Take a super-efficient power nap and emerge energized and ready to face the next onslaught;
(b) Leap joyously into the bathroom for your first shower in days!
(c) Throw in a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, write out a few thank-you notes, feed the cats, fold, sort, and put your maternity clothes in bins, and start dinner;
(d) Strap the wee one in a carrier and go for a power walk -- gotta get serious about losing that pregnancy weight;
(e) Break out the breast pump -- it's never too early to start laying in an emergency supply;
(f) Sit around grinning moronically at your sleeping darling while half-assedly updating your blog.
2. As you gaze at your three-week old daughter and stroke her face, she suddenly locks eyes with you and spreads the corners of her mouth wide. What do you make of this?
(a) You believe the parenting books, your friends, family, and all the experts in the world when they tell you it's just a random movement of facial muscles, devoid of any emotional content;
(b) You're convinced that your child is a prodigy, that she loves her mama deeply and has just bestowed upon you a heartfelt and authentic smile.
3. Your "prodigy" has a blowout on the changing table. How do you react?
(a) Move in with clean diapers and ninjalike swiftness to contain the damage;
(b) Calmly proceed to change the diaper, clothing, and changing pad cover while patiently explaining to your little one that Everyone Poops;
(c) Stand by and giggle helplessly while your grumpy husband wipes down the walls, the furniture, the baseboard heater . . .
4. Your sanity requires that you leave the house and get some fresh air. It's 55 degrees and mostly sunny outside. How do you dress your newborn for this jaunt?
(a) Pants, shirt, socks, and bear cub fleece with hood and feet;
(b) Same as above plus an undershirt and a hat;
(c) Footie pajamas and a swaddle blanket;
(d) Depends on whether she's traveling by stroller or sling;
(e) Whatever's cutest/has the least amount of spit-up on it.
Scoring: Give yourself five points for each answer, no matter which one you choose. Bonus points if you're wearing underwear, and if said underwear is clean, you are officially Ruler of the Universe and I bow to you.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Magic of the Mundane
Our lives have become a sort of twilight haze. One day runs into the next. I figure I'll know when it's Sunday because that's when the fat newspaper arrives.
The numbers on the clock tell me how long Gabby's been nursing, but not whether it's day or night.
Gabby eats, poops, sleeps, spits up rather spectacularly, and cries. Sometimes she cries for what seems like hours, impervious to our manic and often comical attempts to comfort her. Sometimes I cry, too, out of frustration, exhaustion, joy, or a combination of all three. It's a good thing I don't have anywhere in particular to go, because the few clothes that fit me (mostly pajamas) have milk, spitup, and lanolin stains all over them, despite my mother's heroic attempts to keep up with the mountain of laundry.
"Normal" life seems like a distant memory. What did I used to do with my time? Work? Sleep? No idea. It all seems irrelevant now.
Meanwhile, our little one is changing and growing every day. She's already an ounce heavier and an inch taller than when she was born. She's grown an extra chin and chubby cheeks. She inexplicably smells like sugar cookies. When she's asleep, she looks like a cherub. When she's awake, she grunts and makes all sorts of faces. Sometimes she looks like an elf. Sometimes she looks like Robert DeNiro.
She's a pretty funny kid for someone who can't talk.
She's a ton of work. She's a miracle. She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us.
The numbers on the clock tell me how long Gabby's been nursing, but not whether it's day or night.
Gabby eats, poops, sleeps, spits up rather spectacularly, and cries. Sometimes she cries for what seems like hours, impervious to our manic and often comical attempts to comfort her. Sometimes I cry, too, out of frustration, exhaustion, joy, or a combination of all three. It's a good thing I don't have anywhere in particular to go, because the few clothes that fit me (mostly pajamas) have milk, spitup, and lanolin stains all over them, despite my mother's heroic attempts to keep up with the mountain of laundry.
"Normal" life seems like a distant memory. What did I used to do with my time? Work? Sleep? No idea. It all seems irrelevant now.
Meanwhile, our little one is changing and growing every day. She's already an ounce heavier and an inch taller than when she was born. She's grown an extra chin and chubby cheeks. She inexplicably smells like sugar cookies. When she's asleep, she looks like a cherub. When she's awake, she grunts and makes all sorts of faces. Sometimes she looks like an elf. Sometimes she looks like Robert DeNiro.
She's a pretty funny kid for someone who can't talk.
She's a ton of work. She's a miracle. She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us.
Friday, December 28, 2007
A New Kind of Intimacy
The relationship between a mother and child is one of intense physical intimacy. In a way, that intimacy is a mirror image and counterpart to the intimacy of lovers that (well, aside from the doctors and the needles and the tubes and gizmos, I mean, in an idealized, blurry-edged fantasy world where fertile people live) brings the child into being.
Where lovers start as strangers and gradually discover each other, at times merging into a single being, the child and mother start as a single entity and slowly become physically and emotionally separate. And in both relationships, there is an unbridled delight in one's own and the other's physical being. Nowhere else in life can you revel in and explore another's body with such abandon, tracing each curve of the earlobe, nibbling on fingers and knees, caressing tummies and napes of necks.
Breastfeeding has been an absolute revelation for me. It's incredible that it happens at all, more so when you think about all the complex processes that surround that one simple act. Somehow, my body knows exactly what type of milk to produce, how much of it, and when. Gabby's sucking not only satisfies her hunger, it releases hormones that shrink my uterus back to its normal size (and make us both happy and sleepy). According to some promising new research, breastmilk may even have curative effects for people suffering from HIV and cancer.
And even crazier is how much I love feeding her this way. I love getting all snuggled up with her, skin to skin, having that connection and sharing the flood of hormones and responses. It's our own special little world, where we still share physical space and an intimate bond.
Where lovers start as strangers and gradually discover each other, at times merging into a single being, the child and mother start as a single entity and slowly become physically and emotionally separate. And in both relationships, there is an unbridled delight in one's own and the other's physical being. Nowhere else in life can you revel in and explore another's body with such abandon, tracing each curve of the earlobe, nibbling on fingers and knees, caressing tummies and napes of necks.
Breastfeeding has been an absolute revelation for me. It's incredible that it happens at all, more so when you think about all the complex processes that surround that one simple act. Somehow, my body knows exactly what type of milk to produce, how much of it, and when. Gabby's sucking not only satisfies her hunger, it releases hormones that shrink my uterus back to its normal size (and make us both happy and sleepy). According to some promising new research, breastmilk may even have curative effects for people suffering from HIV and cancer.
And even crazier is how much I love feeding her this way. I love getting all snuggled up with her, skin to skin, having that connection and sharing the flood of hormones and responses. It's our own special little world, where we still share physical space and an intimate bond.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Miracles Happen
Gabriella Elizabeth Hislast, born December 23, 2007. 6 lbs, 11 oz, 19 inches long. I never knew I could feel this way about anyone. She's a dream come true.Friday, December 21, 2007
D-Day
It's today. Today is Pebbles' due date. Not that she seems much interested in that fact. She's doing pretty much the same thing she's been doing for weeks and weeks -- splashing around in her amniotic spa, practicing breathing (seriously -- I had no idea that they do that until I saw it on the ultrasound), and kicking around.
Overall, it's been a wonderful pregnancy. I feel so honored to have been able to carry this little baby so close, so safe and tucked up inside me. I'm excited to see her, to look at her beautiful little face and hear her yowl and taste her tiny little toes, but there's a part of me that doesn't want to be separated from her just yet.
I think I'm also still terrified of the impending c-section. We found out a few weeks ago that our little girl is breech, and in typical Binky fashion I attacked the problem on all fronts. Two acupuncturists, a chiropractor, a hypnotherapist and three physicians all performed their version of the Magic Ugga Bugga Dance, and all were equally unsuccessful in persuading my little princess to flip over.
We did our homework as well: Acupuncture - The Home Game involved burning pea-sized blobs of moxa on my little toes. And then there was the Waterboarding. That entailed getting me upside down on an ironing board propped against the couch, with a bag of frozen peas right on top of Pebbles' head and a heating pad, soft music, and the soothing voice of her daddy down where we wanted her head to be.*
All for naught. The little peanut's butt remains firmly wedged in my pelvis. Hence, the c-section. We're giving her until the 26th to start the process on her own. If she's not out by then, we're going in after her.
*The Attorney General has refused to opine whether this practice constitutes a violation of the Geneva Conventions. However, he stated that if it is, in fact, occurring, then it is definitionally Not Torture. So you can all rest easy.
Overall, it's been a wonderful pregnancy. I feel so honored to have been able to carry this little baby so close, so safe and tucked up inside me. I'm excited to see her, to look at her beautiful little face and hear her yowl and taste her tiny little toes, but there's a part of me that doesn't want to be separated from her just yet.
I think I'm also still terrified of the impending c-section. We found out a few weeks ago that our little girl is breech, and in typical Binky fashion I attacked the problem on all fronts. Two acupuncturists, a chiropractor, a hypnotherapist and three physicians all performed their version of the Magic Ugga Bugga Dance, and all were equally unsuccessful in persuading my little princess to flip over.
We did our homework as well: Acupuncture - The Home Game involved burning pea-sized blobs of moxa on my little toes. And then there was the Waterboarding. That entailed getting me upside down on an ironing board propped against the couch, with a bag of frozen peas right on top of Pebbles' head and a heating pad, soft music, and the soothing voice of her daddy down where we wanted her head to be.*
All for naught. The little peanut's butt remains firmly wedged in my pelvis. Hence, the c-section. We're giving her until the 26th to start the process on her own. If she's not out by then, we're going in after her.
*The Attorney General has refused to opine whether this practice constitutes a violation of the Geneva Conventions. However, he stated that if it is, in fact, occurring, then it is definitionally Not Torture. So you can all rest easy.
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