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motherhood

The Story

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The doctor looked at me. “I know this isn’t what you want, but I can’t watch this anymore. Your baby is telling us she needs to come out. Now.”

I burst into tears.

Pregnancy was not something I enjoyed. And I have a lot of sadness and guilt about that. But while I loved that I WAS pregnant, I hated actually physically being pregnant. I muddled my way through, despite the pain that made walking, rolling over, or standing hurt starting at 13 weeks, despite the contractions that began at 15 weeks, despite the month of insomnia that made me feel crazy and delirious.

One Saturday in early November, Maya got sick. She threw up all day, had a fever, and just wanted to snuggle with me the whole day. That night we finally got her to bed, and within an hour I wasn’t feeling well.

“I’m nauseous,” I told Jeremy.

“It’s been a long, stressful day. Let’s go to bed.” He passed out immediately and within an hour I was shaking him awake.

“I can’t stop shaking. I’m freezing and hot. I have a fever and I am so so nauseous.”

And thus it began.

For the next two weeks, I barely got out of bed. I had a fever for 9 days and no appetite. I stopped eating and barely drank. I had no energy. I didn’t go to work. I called the doctor constantly and they reassured me that it was a virus, made worse by being pregnant, and to do my best to eat and stay hydrated. I went for a flu swab: negative. After a week my mom drove me to the doctor where they ran a million labs, which showed that I was super dehydrated and my body was hungry, but there was no clear cause of what was going on. A virus, they said. They gave an IV of fluid and promised it would help. I didn’t feel any better after. I just wanted to sleep and I wanted the fever to go away and I didn’t even care about missing work, or what Jeremy was feeding Maya for dinner, or that I hadn’t been able to play with her or talk to him in days. It took all the energy I had to get to the car and back into bed. I barely slept for more than an hour at a time because the fever and chills and sweats woke me up.

After 2 weeks, the fever abated. I wasn’t really better, but had to get back to work. I couldn’t make it through a full day without falling asleep at my desk. My mom had to come over after work so I could get into bed and sleep.

On a Wednesday after working a few hours and leaving, exhausted, I went to the doctor because I was having some cramping.

“You’re not dilated, and the baby sounds great. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, because you’ve had cramping and other symptoms throughout the pregnancy. Plus, you’re still recovering from being sick which could be the cause,” she told me.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to stomach pains. I sat in the bathroom with GI discomfort for a while, but told Jeremy that yes, he could get up early to go to the gym and I would be fine. By the time he got to the gym, I called him.

“We need to get this checked out,” I told him.

“Do I need to come home?” he asked. I couldn’t decide and finally told him, yes.

By the time he got home, I was having contractions every 5 minutes. I was 35 weeks along.

“I called the doctor, they said we can go straight to the hospital to be evaluated,” I told him. He looked at my hospital bag I had ready by the door.

“You’re bringing that? Really?” he half-laughed.

I looked him dead in the eye. “You might want to pack a bag.”

On the way to the hospital I threw up. By the time we got there and checked in, and got hooked up, my contractions were intense and every 2 minutes. They ran a million tests, took a zillion vials of blood, and put me on an IV.

“Let’s see what’s going on,” they said. “You might be dehydrated which could be the cause of this, and we’ll see if we can slow down the contractions. Or it could be appendicitis. Let’s give it some time.”

We waited.

I asked a zillion questions about what could be going on, what would happen if it didn’t resolve.

After a while, some of the blood tests had come back with no real information, but I started running a fever. Around that time, the contractions intensified and the baby’s heart rate got way too high.

“We’re going to watch it for a little,” the doctor told me, “But I want you to know that babies cannot sustain heart rates that high for too long. We might need to talk about changing our plan.”

I started to panic.

After being checked multiple times over the next hour, they determined that I was only 1 cm dilated and the baby’s heart rate was still in a danger zone.

“I know your birth plan outlines something entirely different,” the doctor told me. “But something is wrong, and I can’t watch this anymore. We need to get the baby out now. She can’t sustain this in the time it would take to wait and see or induce you.”

I burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” I said. “My older daughter’s birth was so traumatic and this time is supposed to be different, this is not what’s supposed to happen.”

I asked a few questions, but it was clear to Jeremy and me that there was no option. Our baby was in distress and they needed to protect her.

Things moved fast. They immediately began prepping for surgery, bumping out someone who was a non-emergent c-section. They collaborated and got dressed while answering my millions of questions.

“I can’t even have blood drawn without laying down and panicking,” I shook. “I can’t have a spinal, I can’t survive surgery, I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

I left my body and saw myself dial my mom’s number. “I’m okay,” I said tearfully, “But the baby has to come out. I’m going in for an emergency c-section now.”

My mom cried too, but said, “If this is what has to happen, then I’m glad they’re doing it. You are both going to be just fine. I love you and will talk to you after.”

The midwife I had been working with told me she would stay with me the whole time while the doctors operated.

In a surreal fog, they got me into the OR, got me on the table. Erica, the midwife, held my hands while they gave me the anesthesia and held on tight when I panicked that I was numb, panicked about nausea, panicked about the baby, panicked about it all.

Erica talked to me the whole time, and finally I heard the doctor say, “she’s out, and she’s beautiful.”

“Go!” I burst into tears and told Jeremy. “Please, go see her.” After a few moments I heard her cry.

“She’s breathing! She’s okay!” the NICU doctors called over.

“Maggie,” I bawled. “Her name is Maggie.”

They took her right up to the NICU and I made Jeremy go with her. The thought of her being alone caused so much emotional pain.

“This isn’t what’s supposed to be happening,” I sobbed to Erica, as they stitched me up and I lay there without my baby.

When they wheeled me into recovery, I had texts from Jeremy. “She’s okay,” they said.

Moments later, I felt hunger and thirst for the first time since I had gotten sick weeks ago. I begged the nurses for food, and devoured ice chips and cereal and crackers.

The doctor came to talk to me. “There is nothing conclusive that explains your virus or why you started having contractions. We ran a ton of tests and none give an explanation. But what I can tell you is that our bodies are incredible. And babies are incredible. And your body and your baby knew that something was very wrong, and she needed to get out so you could both be okay.”

The neonatologist came in, and I only heard pieces of what she said. Baby okay….breathing support….feeding tube….35 weeks….several weeks in the NICU…..not with you in the room….while before going home….

I began to cry again.

Maggie was in the NICU for 17 days, and I cried for the bulk of those 17 days. I don’t think there’s a way to convey the pain of not having your baby with you in the hospital, or leaving the hospital each day without your baby (let alone trying to recover from major surgery, trying to keep things normal for your toddler you have barely seen in weeks, and pumping every 3 hours round the clock to have milk for the feeding tube). The NICU experience is a whole post in itself that I’ll write some day but I think I am plenty drained for now.

She’s now this perfect, thriving 3 month old baby, who as her pediatrician says, “doesn’t even know she was born early.”

My sickness and her birth and the NICU weeks seem like yesterday and also like a surreal other lifetime.

It was hugely traumatic, but I’m healing better from it than with Maya’s birth (which I still haven’t written about), largely because I know this time that I need to write about it and talk about it. And I’m able to be so traumatized and yet so thankful. She knew she had to come out. And it happened the complete opposite in every possible way from what we wanted – but she’s here. She’s fine. She’s great.

Thankful doesn’t even begin to cover it.

A list

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Things I didn’t know when Maya was a newborn that I knew with Maggie (in no particular order or importance):

  • I can survive even when I’m exhausted. I am superwoman.
  • There are other ways to soothe first before nursing every time she fusses at night
  • If she cries for a minute, she’s okay
  • Other people can hold her or do things for her and she’ll be okay
  • Swaddle as long as possible
  • Find other mothers to talk to who are In It also
  • Sound machine is a necessity from day one
  • It’s okay (and good) to not nurse on a perfect every 3 hour schedule
  • I am not neglecting her if I don’t talk to her every second of every day
  • If blowouts happen it could be a diaper sizing issue
  • Managing my postpartum (and regular) anxiety is crucial and worth it
  • I am a great mother
  • It’s okay to not love every minute of every day. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my daughter.
  • Every single mother has some level of a hard time even if they don’t talk about

What do you know now, that you wish you knew then?

Slow, sweet summer.

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I hate slowing down. I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be as busy as possible. I always had a pit in my stomach on Fridays, knowing I had two full weekend days that were going to be slower and more relaxed, without work/school/schedules to keep me busy and occupied. For 9 summers I finished the school year, had one week off, worked full time all summer, and one week before school started again. Everyone told me I was crazy. I loved it. Those interim weeks were the hardest ones of the whole year.

Clearly there’s a lot to unpack there. Namely, a realization about which I am doing some soul-searching: maybe my love for being busy isn’t just a personality trait, but was a long-standing avoidance technique. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about difficult things, feel difficult emotions, etc.

Two summers ago was the first one I wasn’t working, but I had a newborn and I was a mess, and everything was a mess, and the days just passed somehow. Last summer was HARD. Maya was at a tough age. 14 months wasn’t young enough to just do anything (though she was never that type of baby) but not old enough to do a lot of things. She woke most days at 5:15 for the day, and despite my best efforts, napped once for 45 minutes. The days were long, I was so bored and so lonely, I cried a lot, and I was elated to go back to work at the end of August (let’s not even get into the guilt I felt about that).

This summer, I was fully prepared that it might be difficult again. But it has been nothing short of GLORIOUS. Maya is at the most wonderful age. We’ve slowed down and I’m enjoying it so much. She sleeps until a reasonable hour, we chat over a long breakfast, we have conversations and jokes, we cook together and run errands together and go places together, and it’s FUN. (Note: don’t get me wrong, you know I’m not the type to sugarcoat. There are moments I’m exhausted and feel like I’m going to lose my mind, but I’m talking overall here). She is an active little girl and we usually do something in the morning or afternoon, but during the opposite half of the day we often just end up outside, because that’s where she wants to be, running around our driveway, watering the flowers, going for a walk around the block, splashing in the water table, finding bugs.

“Yook at that, Mama!!!!!” she says all day long, pointing at things and telling me what she notices.

It is so different from when she was younger. She will now play alone for stretches of time, she actually takes naps (most days!), she doesn’t scream if I’m not holding her, meal times are long and leisurely, and I begin each day excited rather than filled with a sense of dread (being honest here. If you’re a new mom and feel that way – I freaking get it. All babies are cute but not all babies are easy. More on this another day).

And for the first time ever, when I looked at my calendar and realized that in 2.5 short weeks I’ll be back at work, I felt so sad. Time is rushing by and I just want it to slow down. And I was shocked. I have NEVER felt that way. I usually count down until the days the craziness starts again. But man has this summer been wonderful.

I think I’ll always default to loving being busy, because that’s how I’m wired, and plus, who doesn’t like to avoid other life stressors and difficult emotions? But I have learned that I CAN slow down, I CAN love it, and this time with my daughter has been more special than I ever imagined.

Postpartum anxiety

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Okay, it’s time that postpartum anxiety is talked about. In fact, it’s way overdue, but better late than never.

First of all, it isn’t even really a thing. Which is absurd. There’s no test for it, no evaluations for it. We kind of have to be aware of it and self-diagnose it to then even know to reach out for support.

Postpartum psychosis is fairly easy to diagnose – yes, I’m having thoughts of hurting my baby and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind: that’s not normal.

Then there’s postpartum depression – no, I have no enjoyment in anything, I feel hopeless, I’ve withdrawn from family and friends. But that is sometimes hard – because, after you’ve had a baby, of course there are times you feel hopeless. Will I ever sleep again? Will I ever stop bleeding? Will she ever stop crying? Of course you don’t enjoy anything – you don’t DO anything other than feed, change diapers, soothe. And of course you’ve withdrawn from family and friends- there’s no TIME to connect or maintain relationships. Consequently, I think too many people get told “Yep – totally normal, it’ll get easier as she gets older!” (Which IS true, but it’s only helpful if what the person is experiencing is typical and not pathological. Also, don’t get me started on the lack of postpartum care – both physical and mental, and how there is ONE screening for PPD at your ONE postpartum physical.)

And then postpartum anxiety – a whole other ball game. Postpartum anxiety gets normalized. It’s also a really fine line, because it is NORMAL to be anxious as a new parent – but there’s no method for rating/qualifying just how intense the anxiety is, and just where normal ends and pathological begins. Do you have constant worry? Of course you do. You’re a new mom. Moms worry about everything. Do you worry something bad is going to happen? Of course. You’re responsible for this tiny human.

You see?

When you have (undiagnosed) postpartum anxiety (and/or OCD – I’ll lump them together per my own experience), it goes multiple steps further.

People talk about giving birth and kind of laugh it off – “Yup, gooooood times,” they joke. Oh. So it must be normal that I can’t stop replaying my horrific labor experience in my mind, that I can’t stop thinking about all those days in pain, that my body still feels it happening, that I know I will never in my entire life not recall every awful moment of it.

“Oh yes, I definitely obsessed over how much my baby was eating!” they say. Well, I check and recheck that her bottles are filled with EXACTLY 4oz of my pumped milk – not a speck over or under. Is that normal too? She eats every 3 hours, so I tell day care that they need to feed her at 9:05 exactly, and then 12:05 exactly. Um…that’s also normal….right?

“Yep, the days can definitely be long,” they say. So is it normal that I burst into tears every Friday afternoon because I’m afraid of how we are going to get through the weekend, just us in our house? It’s better at day care, she’s happier at day care, every other baby is happy at home….something is wrong with me.

Others joke about how complicated it can be to get a baby out of the house. I agree. That’s why I never, ever take her anywhere other than to and from day care and to and from my parents’ house. It’s just too much. The world is too unsafe and it’s better to just stay in our own little bubble. Right?

Some mothers talk about making sure their babies are warm enough. Oh, good. So it must be normal to open the hourly weather forecast every five seconds and then wonder if I should put her in a long-sleeved shirt with an undershirt underneath or a long-sleeved shirt with a sweater over it. What if one way she’s too hot or one way she’s too cold? What if it ends up being 70 degrees in the day care room instead of 71? What about when she sleeps at night? What if the temperature in her room rises from 72 to 73? Will she overheat?

They talk about making sure their babies are safe in their cribs. You wonder if that means it’s “normal” to reach over to feel your newborn’s chest and make sure it’s rising and falling, multiple times every night, to the point where it interferes with your own limited sleep. You wonder about the times you wake up gasping, frantically searching the sheets, because you know you fell asleep nursing her and now she’s going to be dead in the sheets – but then you reach over and she’s actually in her bassinet, because of course you put her back, you always do. And by the time your breath slows and the sweat dries, she needs to nurse again and it starts all over.

You wonder about how you can never nap while she naps because you just know that if you aren’t awake listening to the monitor and watching her breathe, she will die, and it will be your fault. I’ll just check one more time. Just one more time. Just. one. more. time.

But every parent worries, right?

—

Look, I had a physically hard pregnancy, a unimaginably hard labor and delivery, and an even more long, awful recovery. I had panic, anxiety, and OCD prior to pregnancy – it’s no wonder I developed it all postpartum also. But the point is, it’s so often a fine line. It’s easy to question the normalcy of our thoughts and behaviors, even if we are primed for it and are expecting it. We second-guess ourselves. I was primed for it and I didn’t even realize what it was.

And not nearly enough focus is placed on the mental health of postpartum mothers. And I’m not just talking when they’re infants – this can take hold and not go away, even into toddlerhood. Trust me.

I will always be an anxious mother. It’s in my wiring. I have my moments, but overall right now, at least for now, I’m not pathologically anxious or obsessive, and I am very aware of that line. I just am who I am, and who I am translates into parenthood. I am working on caring about the things I care about, and standing firm behind my beliefs as long as they are rooted in a healthy place, which nowadays, they are (even if other parents raise their children in different ways or have different beliefs – but that’s a post for another day).

But this – motherhood, postpartum experiences, labor, delivery, parenting, relationships after having a baby – it really needs to be talked about, so so much more. Better out than in, better to know than not know, better to have people to relate to than to feel alone, better to heal collectively than suffer silently.

(Seems that’s the case for everything, am I right?)

One.

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Dear Maya,

One year old. How is this possible? One year ago, after nearly 4 days in labor, 2 days in the hospital, and about 16 hours so entrenched in pain and exhaustion that I didn’t speak or open my eyes, I heard “4:07! 4:07!” I came to, realizing they were shouting the time. Because you were here. When they finally brought you over to me, I was so nervous. But I held you, and kissed you, weeping, terrified and madly in love.

We took time to get in a groove. Feeding was rough, sleeping was rough, it took me nearly a month to fully recover physically, and just as long emotionally. But once we clicked, oh, did we click. We are attached at the hip, you and me, and I couldn’t be happier.

I wanted so bad to be a mom, to have a baby. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would get a baby like you. You surpass everything I could’ve hoped for.

You’re hilarious. You crack yourself up and you crack me up. You know when you’re being funny. You growl and click your tongue and make silly noises. You devour your food, or you very deliberately toss it over the edge of your highchair when you’re not in the mood. You are walking all around, and while exploring you always toddle back for a hug. You self-entertain but you love coming over to give me a toy or have me join in. You love books. You love being outside. You wave hello to the tree in the parking lot where we park at school. You love day care. You love your family. You exclaim with delight when you see the cats. You say “all done” and clap.

I could go on and on.

I can’t believe it’s been a year. I worry I haven’t been present enough, cherished each moment enough but deep down I know I have. I just want infinite time with you.

Here’s what I know: if it continues on the same trajectory, our time together is just going to get better and better.

I am the luckiest. I don’t know why the universe decided I would get to be so lucky, but I am thankful every moment of every day.

You are my very best accomplishment, the best gift I have ever received.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

Love,
Mama

Solstice.

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I tried to write a new post. I really did. But I have nothing to say about Solstice that I don’t say every other year. (Previous years are here, here, here, and here.)

Last year’s post said:

Turns out that despite how much I love writing a new solstice post each year, my thoughts don’t change much.

Last year, I wrote:

The Winter Solstice is here.

Oh, how I love this day.

Today, after six long months of turning towards the darkness, we began to turn towards the light.

We gain a minute of light each day – and in a time where life can feel very dark, each minute makes a difference.

The earth begins to propel us towards the light, just as the waves in the ocean propel you to shore. We now ride the wave of the earth, as it cradles us and gently moves us towards hope, and energy, and life.

All of those are still truths I hold firmly in my heart.

And now, there are sunflowers too, in my head and on the wallpaper of my phone, reminding me that even before solstice, even before the world pushes us toward the light, we can move ourselves. We can stretch and grow so that even in our darkest moments we are always, always, always reaching for the sun and any light we can find.

This year, my beautiful baby has been my light. When darkness has surrounded me, in any manner, her smile, her laugh, her pure essence and existence has been all I needed. She isn’t bothered by the darkness. She just lives each moment in the here and now. If we are outside, she’s happy, but when it’s dark at 4pm, it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. It doesn’t stop her from playing with her toys, eating her solid food, giving me hugs, or trying to crawl and stand up. It’s funny – motherhood has simultaneously made me a crazier/busier, AND a more mindful person. We could all learn a lot from a 7-month-old.

Happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.