Preparation for H

I expected some fallout. It's not like you can expect to push a baby out of your hoo-ha and everything will just be hunky dorey down there right away (or ever). And it's not like I haven't heard a million stories of the potential lovely side effects of this need to breed (varicose veins in your labia anyone? rectal incontinence?). And though I am insanely lucky to be as well as I am, I thought dealing with a 2nd degree tear that tore again a week later, added to nipple issues of various sorts was enough. I just wasn't prepared for hemorrhoids people. Maybe constipation, I mean it's par for the course. I had been lucky not to have had that prior to birth. But there is nothing quite like the hemorrhoidy sensation of impaling yourself on a big, bristly hair brush, trying to move off it but managing to wedge it deeper.  Especially when you're sitting, and gosh don't babies need to eat a lot (I sit more than sanity allows these days). I have waged a full scale attack in response, herbal sitz baths, homeopathis, toxic steroid cream, witch hazel pads, suppositories (made with cocoa butter; and you thought nothing could ruin the smell of chocolate), and now foam. Oh, and stool softeners and bran flakes. But that's it. I refuse to go into further diet changes because that would lead to depression, no thanks! [Speak to me again in a week or so]. I think it's all helping, but it's a lot to stay on top of! Props to all the ladies and trans dudes out there having bio-children. It's one heck of a ride on a hair brush.

NB: Daniel is 7 weeks old already, yikes! He melts my heart. Totally worth it.

E

Stiches in the dark

There is a lot going on these days with having a new baby. Layers of feeling are being peeled back as the days go by. Today I am awash in the knowledge that someone sewed up my vagina. Crude to write, I know, but there it is. That’s the truth: someone made a little quilt out of the doorway to Daniel’s sweet life. And it may be too much information to share, but this week that doorway has been sore… I have shed a tear or two today of self-pity. I am so grateful for all the things that went right for me in my pregnancy and birth, and the grace in Daniel’s wee life so far. So it’s tough to balance that gratitude when the more “negative” feelings suddenly strike, armed with juicy hormones, and I start to feel the genuine shock and emotion of it all. I have always been late to process things, so I am not that surprised. Since the birth I have been in a kind of suspended animation, between the worlds, in some other place than the present. I feel it like a cocoon of protection around Daniel and me. The outside world seems so overwhelming, so many sounds and people and germs (I am no germaphobe… and I LIKE people). My days are full with just learning to feed my beautiful, ravenous baby without crying from tender nipples. I assume it’s “all normal”, that old cliché, which in a way is irritating. How could any of this be normal?? But every one of the 7 billion + people alive were born one way or another. Birth is so commonplace, a daily event everywhere, paired with the inevitable accompanying recovery, that how can a girl have an original experience? Maybe that’s the beauty of it, that connection with women through time and across the world. The shared agony and bliss. I have joined a large red tent in which millions of ears and arms and hearts know, truly know, what it’s like and “mm-hmm” in sympathy, remembering their own joys and sorrows. I wonder if this recent recurrence of soreness in my stitched parts is my body’s way of saying “wake up!”, step through the haze and be here with what happened, with what is still happening. Of telling me to reach out and join the team, to embrace this new self. I need to come out of the labyrinth, slowly but surely, my spiritual discoveries unfolding with each step.

E

 

A mother of a journey

March 17, 13

As I sit, my roots borrowing deep into the earth, my chest cavity fit to burst with feeling, images flash before my closed eyes. Two ambulances, my mother’s purple sweater, a seventh attempt to enter weak hand veins which keep blowing out, the warm light of an old cottage lamp, the dark blue of A’s eyes, worried and loving, the white institutional cotton/poly blend sheets, his dark naked body carried carefully to the NICU table. Sensations flood me, like the bliss from the pot of boiled water emptied nearby as it washed towards me in the pool taking away the pain, the strong rhythmic pressure of a good friend’s hands on my aching back, the cool blue plastic under my chest as I hang over the edge of the pool, the grip of a hand in my hand, the feel of a needle and thread through tender skin, the warm, incomparable feeling of my baby on my heaving chest. The actual contractions and pushing and vacuum extraction have all been wiped from my memory already (truly), but the rest remains. The visions of me, on a charging black stallion, thundering through the woods of each wave of contractions, hitting bull’s eye targets in the trees with the fierce focus of my bow. The sound of my low mama moan, throat hoarse. The wonderful release of my bag of waters at 10cm dilation followed by the agony and slumped shoulders all around from finding it impure with meconium (baby’s poo in utero). My boy was not to be born in that small blue sea. A graceful acceptance of the truth, of movement, of choosing to flow with the changing tide. Singing, singing, humming, moaning, focused, not going to push him out into an ambulance. “Baby Beluga” coming to my lips on repeat, over and over (why don’t we listen to anything but Raffi??). Goddess chants come too, drumming an inner beat. Then so much pushing, feeling so tired, losing faith, seeing a cascade of interventions laid before me, or lurking like a demon in the shadows, waiting, waiting… “Why run away from the places that scare me, when fleeing just feeds the fear? Boldly choose openness and love” (a Soulful Song by Wendy). Finally, 3 hours of pushing later, I welcome the vacuum, beg for it to release me and my boy from our unmedicated travails. We are strong and proud, but strong enough also to ask for help. We are already in love and yearn for each other’s company in this world. We are ready to begin this next journey, together.

Blessed be the introduction of baby Daniel into the world, and into our family. He’s been a long time coming. Welcome baby D. Thank you for choosing me to bring you here. Sweet one, it is my honor to feed you, nurture you and raise you to be whomever you are. We’ll love you forever.

E (Maman)

Bending forward

Part 1: Jan.31, 2013

How do I feel? The best answer is PREGNANT! I know, such a blessing. How can I complain? Five years to get pregnant (not trying the whole time), and such a sweet pregnancy so far. I give deep, abiding props to all my friends and ladies out there who have known it to be rough (including A, nauseous for 9 months). Oh there have been symptoms, and I was hella moody for the first trimester! But it’s been a dream overall. This last week however marks the beginning of the end, and to celebrate, my pelvis has decided to throw a belated party! I feel like I’ve been doing the splits for 6 straight hours while being pummeled throughout the area by a swarm of angry imps bent on bruising me! I know they are the same imps that are helping me get ready for labour… But fellas, labour standards in Canada demand regular breaks! Arnica and baths are helping for sure. And thank Hindus for yoga! I love my prenatal class. Can't see my toes of course. Most of the time I feel like an geriatric hippo every time I move from sitting or lying to standing, grabbing my sides with accompanying “ugh” sounds and then limping lamely off to, you guessed it, the toilet. Again. I either laugh or whimper, sometimes both, because it’s so absurd looking. And they mean it when they say to slow down. I did too much yesterday (though I felt fabulously productive at the time), and ended up burning my arm on the frying pan, biting my unsuspecting spouses’ head off, and almost weeping from the sound of the hungry cats meowing their dinner requests while weaving around my legs and tripping me! NB: my good friend gave me an extraordinary osteopathic treatment which reconnected the energy flowing through my spine (and essential self) down to my pelvis, which I had diverted unnecessarily to the babe. My pelvis has felt pretty fab since (all things considered).

I couldn't resist painting my 38-week belly; it is a swirling ocean with an oroboros snake (wholeness of the universe) surrounding a bright golden light. Baby and I are both "snakes" in Chinese astrology.

Part 2: March 3, 2013

I am a day away from D-date. Wow. Currently I am sipping the Gatorade I bought for labour and eating saltines since the stomach bug that went around our house finally got me. Let me tell you, it is not comfortable to reach the toilet preggers! Talk about timing too. A has been frantically Googling early labour signs since many flu symptoms comply but really it is an honest to goodness bug. Thankfully our midwife said women don’t tend to go into labour sick as a self-preservation thing. I would be a mess. I am also currently listening to my fabulous birth mix, which could be called a dance party at an Ashram (holy community retreats). I hope I get to use it! Who knows what we’ll ever want or need in labour, but I know that chanting and a good beat keep me positive and focused and get me to move. We have inflated the birth pool. Well, actually our donor and friend came over with this massive air compressor thing, we put concert grade ear muffs on Ben, and he inflated the whole thing in what felt like 5 minutes. Oh the things we’ll remember! I hope I get to use the pool too. At this point everyone is anxious, A can’t sleep, Ben’s bedtimes have been a gong show because he can feel the tension. I am trying to stay relaxed and remember that this quiet time is short lived, that due dates are so approximate as to be ridiculous, and that one way or another, babies come out! I am scared though, not terrified, more apprehensive. I worry about back labour, meconium, Mercury Retrograde's influence (though I think it could be good), hospital transfers, c-births (after much processing I have come to accept internally that they remain births, and it's nicer to call them so than "sections") and of course the baby’s wellness. I worry about making myself proud. It’s odd to just be going through my days knowing the most intense thing to ever happen to me is coming any minute. As much of a mind trip as feeling feet and toes through tummy skin! We are very excited to meet their owner! Wish us luck!

E

Good children

For reasons unknown to me, and perhaps surprising to those who know me as an optimist, I have been really drawn to post-apocalyptic fiction of late. I just finished, All Good Children by Catherine Austen, which details an American town some time hence built and run by a chemical company. They opt to drug all the school aged children and teens to make them well behaved and essentially mindless. It was a good read, chilling, sometimes funny, and its “hero” manages to avoid the “vaccination”. A key quote from it, which resonates for me in my darker sleep training moments, is “Living with hope is like rubbing up against a cheese grater. It keeps taking slices off you until there's so little left, you just crumble.” The book made me think a lot about how much we all claim to want “good” children, good sleepers, good students, and how much we complain about misbehaviour. The book’s simple message is that we are richer and happier when we freely feel the full range of human emotion and maintain our capacity for critical thought and rebellion. I am sure we all agree. I challenge myself to remember this and bring the fullness of what it means into my parenting. Ben and his soon to be little brother will and should test us, test themselves, create (however messy), even destroy, complain, exclaim, protest. They must be given the freedom to fail, to fall, to break. We cannot save them from everything, nor I think, should we. I know A and I are blessed with the sweetest little boy, a sensitive spirit whom we are going to yearn to shelter. Though he has his challenging moments more and more, as a thoughtful two year old on a mission, we daily come back to the simple beauty of him. To our deep gratitude to him and for him. I cherish each morning of snuggles, each dance party to Indian beats, each carrot-ginger muffin making session, every one of his fabulous new expressions (snow tractor coming!). I love what a goof he can be too, like how he was romping around wearing A’s padded bra swimming suit this morning!

Ben, forgive us this impending massive change in your life. Remember that you are our Benni forever, the one and only, our first. And not only do we love you, but we really LIKE you. Be brave, be strong, and remember that we know it won’t always be easy to share us, to be the big brother. “I love you forever, I like you for always, for as long as I am living, my baby you’ll be” (Munsch).

E 

Belly blessing

I feel so lucky. I have been given the incredible gift in this lifetime of deep friendships with women, women to cry and sweat and laugh, commiserate and celebrate with. Women to surround me with their words of wisdom like the sturdy curtains of the red tents of times past. Mothers, some brand new, others seasons, gathered last night on the new moon in our home. They circled around on soft cushions in the room I hope to birth our next son into, filling it and me with warmth and courage for the labour and baby #2 journey that could come to me now at any moment (I am 37 weeks today). No rush, birth fairy. I am happy in this liminal space, in the unknown before the wonderful storm. I have my worries, some for me, some for baby, for A, for Ben, for the dynamic of our family. I know anything can happen. It's exciting and terrifying and a complete leap of faith. I feel ready in spirit though since I am filled up with the love and support of those around me, and of Life. I know Life can be cruel and challenge us; I also know Life can be full of beauty and grace. Hard and soft, it is the only way forward.

E

Beau bye-bye

Hortense breastfeeding Paul - Cezanne

Today a landmark shift happened in the lives of Ben, A and our family in general. Ben and his Mummy shared their last breastfeeding moment snuggled together in bed this morning, Ben in his “wee-oo” (firetruck) pajamas and A bleary eyed from a later night getting ready for her first big trip away from him. It was tender and warm and sweet. And I am pretty sure I heard him say, "tank oo Mummy". We have called nursing “beau-beau” as a more discreet form of “boob” to hear across a busy restaurant, and it means beautiful or nice in French. Nursing took some getting used to for both parties when Ben was an infant, but both have enjoyed the relationship and bonding since. Why stop now? He just turned two, we anticipate our next son’s arrival in 4.5 weeks, A is away for five days, and it just seemed like it was time. A also had a rough go on their England trip where nursing was the only thing that would get him to sleep, and didn't always work, and was accompanied by pinching, patting and smacking on his part. It’s been much better since then but he is also less interested, more willing to move on when A has said “no beau-beau right now”, is happy with his cup of almond milk and seems ready enough for this big shift. We've also been weaning slowing, reducing feeds over the last month or so.

But it is bittersweet.

My heart aches for A, since it has meant so much to her to be his food and comfort these two years. That sweet little hand will no longer rub her arm incessantly. Nor will Ben say “udder side pease!” again. He will still have morning snuggles with moms, and lots and lots and lots of hugs and books of course. But I honor this passage for them both, Ben stepping out of “baby” into “boy” and A from “nursing mother” into, well, that’s the rub! We are pretty sure this morning was her last time nursing, though nothing is ever 100%. Who is she now? “Co-parent”, one of two moms who can equally tend to Ben’s needs? I suspect those two will always have a special bond though, no matter what is next on the adventure road of our family. Her hug will always be just a little more comforting…

A, my love, thank you for being there for him all this time in that special way, especially in the middle of the dark nights, in the hospital waiting rooms, on planes, or when it’s hurt or been hard. Thank you for nurturing our precious boy’s sense of connection and self, of safety and unity. Thank you for being the “you are what you eat” for him, your cells, your love, you immunity, your beauty filling him up. He is a lucky boy. 

E

Waking open

http://www.flickr.com/photos/galleryjuana/

Something new is happening to me. It feels somewhere between waking up and breaking open. Something between being newborn and fresh in the morning, and feeling a warmth spilling out of a cracked open casing.  It is a pleasant, tingly sensation that I can feel everywhere, like a dam is continuously and gently bursting, sending rivulets around my core and limbs. It’s not entirely comfortable though, since with it comes the light of truth. I think I have been sleep walking through these last two years as a parent and have missed irreplaceable treasures. Not the sleep walking of the new parent rocking their infant incessantly, nor the existential trip of new identities and lifestyles. Those have been true too of course. It’s something deeper, like I wasn't entirely there. My heart breaks to think of it, of what I have missed. I know I was partially there, and that it’s not 100% true. But A has said more than once that she has noticed a subtle energetic absence from me, a holding back, especially the first year of Ben's life. It is partially based in the embarrassing admittance of resenting her physical relationship with Ben, the pregnancy, everything I couldn't have or do. It is also sadly based on occasionally resenting having a child and the immense giving of self needed to which A dutifully engaged immediately and without question. It's like I was a robot, changing diapers, going through the motions. I may just be having a mood these days, being 29 weeks pregnant, and be seeing things askew. But I know in my gut that it’s partially true because I know how different it feels in my body now to love Ben, and to love A as a co-parent.

So what happened? I can’t say for sure. But A and Ben went on a big trip for over a week without me and I had a lot of space to reflect and sleep in. Although I also had fun while they were away, when they left I wept miserably and lived to see Ben’s face each day on Skype. I made his year two baby album and edited together the home videos of his life up until now. Listening to his baby gurgles each day that week, something about the innocence, his beauty, they wormed their way through some barrier. I was also highly attuned to A’s daily traumatic sleep stories of our not-so-great-wee-traveler. I also received a very intense osteopathic treatment (which deserves its whole own post, apparently I am an osteopathic anomaly, darn red heads!) which focused in part on some energetic damage in my rib cage and back around my heart. When they got home, I held and held Ben. I looked him in the eyes. I feel like we met again, silently agreed on something. Like I made a hushed promise even I couldn't hear to be fully present from now on to his humanity, to his astounding self.

I think every parent mourns the passing of time, even when times are tough. Pictures and videos help, and are precious. Thank you technology. But we can never get our babies back, their firsts, the moments slipping by unnoticed amidst the meal planning and sleep training (yet another bout of which I managed post-trip, but with a gentleness, ease and sense of faith unlike any I've felt before). The best we can do is to be as fully present as possible in each moment, to really pay attention to our kids. Especially in the face of all that threatens to hurt them, our family, or our time together.

I am waking up, and breaking open. I am waking open, and the bitter sweetness that threatens to overwhelm me is also my salvation as Ben’s and this next baby boy’s loving Maman. 

E

The power of language

I am finding it so delicious watching Ben develop into a person, especially with language and communication. His ability to share his world with us and his awakening to the power of speech and sign is tremendous to watch. His frustration at being a wee lad in a big world is so often mitigated now by at least being heard, if not actually getting his desires met. He has always been very observant, widely taking it all in, but now those deep brown eyes positively light up with joy at accomplishing a task or communicating a thought. I love it... so much! I suspected I would, but I didn't know to what degree it would delight and satisfy me. I was raised in a family with a profound love and appreciation for words and learning in general. I still buy my father cool etymology books, or books of words from other languages which express concepts so much more precisely than English (eg. Mensch, Yiddish for an honorable, good, kind man). Both of my parents are teachers professionally and at heart, and I am helpless to resist the same urge with my offspring. 

Although I speak with Ben in French, he is surrounded by English and most of his words are in English. I do think however that there is a good chance of him saying his letters and numbers in French first since he and I love to pour over those books together and I seem to want to emphasize how cool they are. He is fascinated by words on a page and watches my lips form the sounds. Since he doesn't speak much French yet, A and I are floored by his comprehension of long and complex French phrases, such as asking him to get the socks in the front hall basket and bring them to me in the kitchen since we would be leaving soon [he goes and gets them and also perhaps a hat or coat]. He can process his world in two languages and act accordingly. It’s fascinating! His brain would be so interesting to watch if we could, all the neurons dancing and forming. He is so elastic, like all children, so absorbent. I know it’s developmental, but I can’t help but wonder how great it would be for adults to be so curious, so determined to grow and learn, so engaged and present in everything they do. Marvelous.

E

It's not okay

Boom! My child is on the floor from tripping over a hastily stashed bag of veggies and is upset. I go over to see if he’s alright. Or he is angry and loud, coming to tears because of some change in routine or unwanted activity. Or he looks stricken watching another child shrieking. In all these situations it is my instinct and it would seem that of most people I know to say “It’s okay!” Especially if we know it’s not really a big deal ultimately, such as a small fall or a brief separation. Lately I have been musing on the fact that for Ben, truly, it is NOT okay. He may be unhappy, confused, uncomfortable, hurt, angry or frustrated and things are definitely not okay in those moments. I think that what we’ll all trying to convey is our lifetime of wisdom of knowing which things will BE okay, or perhaps which we think SHOULD be okay. Possibly it’s a culturally based comforting phrase that just pops out of us? Or maybe we are uncomfortable with the upset child and want to smooth it over, make the discomfort (his and ours) end. 

Lately, as an experiment, A and I have been trying to name his feelings instead of jumping to “It’s okay”, saying things like, “Oh Ben, you went boom, did that hurt?” [along with trying to teach the sign for “ouch”] or “Yes, I know you’re angry, Ben is frustrated, I know…” [followed by a redirect if possible]. When he’s sad, we try and acknowledge that it’s hard to be a kid, hard not to get what we want, and hard when people leave sometimes. Hugs are offered. This new approach is hopefully not done in a clingy way, mind, nor from micro-management. I’m also not running to him in a panic when he falls. I am just walking over and being present, available to name what happened, how he feels and how I’m there if he needs anything. In a way, I think it honors his humanity better not to try and superficially smooth things over when his discretion is so undeveloped and his life experience so raw and present-centered. What do you think?

E

A brother for Ben

Yes folks, we know. And now you know! A baby boy is growing and moving and dancing a lively jig against my bowels. The ultrasound was last week and he looks good to our untrained eye, no extra limbs or anything, lots of spunk. He may, we think, even have been sucking his thumb, which we desperately tried and failed to convince Ben was a suitable form of self-soothing. He was a true “need-to-suck” baby, and is still pretty orally fixated. But no thumb! He thankfully seems to be, at 21 months, finally moving away from putting everything he picks up on the ground into his gullet! Of course now that I’ve written that, he might take a sudden fancy to those yummy looking cigarette butts everywhere.

Holy! A boy, another boy. The grandparents are verklempt (choked up), since knowing the sex is making it so much more real for them. A boy! I worry on the one hand that being of the same sex, but sharing only half their genes, the brothers will compare themselves more directly (think body size; chance of balding!). Perhaps it will be the opposite! I am sure temperament has more to do with it than genes anyway, since brothers take all forms and relate in all kinds of way. I have a brother, so I don’t know much about bro-bro relations, nor does A. Everyone says it’s so good for a boy to have a brother to play with. Who knows? My brother liked to play my games but he was also smaller and I was bossy! We think Ben’ll make a great big brother! He is a fairly cautious kid, and seems to genuinely care when his friends are sad. The Sanskrit name he was given is even Balarama who is the wonderful big bro to Krishna.

Anyway, after a moment of feeling the loss of a potential daughter, since two kids is probably it for now or ever, I have launched into the happy/crazy world of boy names. Wow, is it ever harder to name a boy. You can really get away with more for girls, and the options are so much vaster. We still have a few girl names, since my parents were told I was a boy. But this wee baby’s, um, boy parts were pretty clear! A boy. Wow. This is really happening…

E

Bio bits

Thirteen days until we find out whether Ben will be a big brother to a little girl or boy. I guess we’re telling everyone this time eh? I know the surprise can make labour worth it, but I think the baby itself will make labour worth it (plus the delicious oxytocin/endorphin rush), and darn it, I don’t want to wait to know! I normally like to look at gifts, all beautifully wrapped, for AGES longer than an anxious child would. Somehow, this is different. It is certainly a gift, though its impact is so much larger. Should it be? I wish I wasn’t mired in the sex preference game, thinking it would be fun to have a daughter next. Sex and gender have been the media darlings this past year or so with baby Storm being born. Many good questions are being discussed. I have every reason to be an enlightened mama in this area. But folks, this goes deep, way beyond reason.

Ben looks truly fabulous in pink, especially dark rose, though men are thankfully reclaiming the pink spectrum. When we put him in girlie onesies though, you know, the ones with frills, or cutesy pictures on them, it was like working out a muscle not to think I was holding my baby girl. And vice versa about truck tees, or so moms of girls tell me. It’s a crap-shoot. The truth is we are having a human child, a precious piece of the Mystery, with all the potential of the universe within them. All the hugs and lullabies and pureed carrots will be the same. The yummy baby smell, the little fingers grasping ours, the awesome aubergine stroller for two. What this child will become is unknown, regardless of their bio-bits. The best we can hope for is to provide balanced opportunities and to nurture the soul that happens to come through me with reverence and commitment. Do I love me some red corduroy dresses with rainbows on them? I won’t deny it. But the same in overall form would be adorable. And some sparkly magenta leg warmers? Some boys I know are rocking those… Why this pull for mothers to have daughters? Is it just media hype and “chicken soup for the soul” sentimentality? Don’t many daughter/mothers combos clash? Don’t boys stay devoted to their moms? Don’t boys often bond better as brothers, than bro and sis? It’s physical in one sense, being able to relate to similar bodies, and spiritual in another sense, the passing on of womanly mysteries down the maternal line. But perhaps it’s time to open up our too frequently woman-only spiritual spaces, embrace the vulnerability that invites and launch with courage into the world of gods and green men. I bet we’ll come out the richer for it! Either way, baby boy or girl, we win. Either way, I am on my knees in gratitude as this wonder. Bring on the ultrasound! I think I’m ready.

E

Rainy day

I kinda hate afternoons sometimes. Like now. I don’t actually hate anything, I just feel shades of blue (maybe it’s that I’m wearing blue jeans with a blue top). I feel a deep, tired, UGH. Can’t be bothered about anything un-fun or hard. Mildly sad about whatever there is to be sad about. Discouraged, but not in any specific way. I really think it’s the fact that I ate lunch, and my metabolism is like a slow ass slug taking its sweet ass time processing everything with these new hormones. Hence me turning somewhat catatonic. I even ate chocolate! Oh well, I am just rolling with it these days, taking the motivation when it comes and riding it hard, letting things go when it’s gone.  But it’s gone a lot! Come back friend! It’s the second trimester, hello!?!

E 

OMG!

I’m all a-flutter sitting here typing this, I can’t sit still. Not being very effective at work. Nothing matters here amidst databases and deadlines, nothing is as important as my big secret! I have gone inward, and also outward (from work anyway), preferring to connect with people on line, thinking about family and home rather than targets and follow-ups. I have had this secret for 8 weeks now, 8 weeks of being somewhat here, somewhat elsewhere, daydreaming, clumsy and forgetful. Content and full of quiet hope. No fear. Is it really possible that I’m 12 weeks pregnant?? The evidence seems to be conclusive, as there have been no periods, three positive pee sticks, sore body parts, random emotional outbursts, and best of all, as of yesterday, au audible heartbeat, strong and steady. A little baby in the making. I don’t know the mechanics of miracles, but it sure feels like one. Thirteenth try it was, lucky 13. I had not been trying since 4 months before Ben was conceived in 2010. My first try was Sept. 2007. Our donor only gave us one dose this successful cycle too, since his folks were in town. We did not think it would work. We had no precedent to even believe it possible. Why now? Why this time? I wish I could answer that conclusively. I have my list of potential contenders; you can choose which one(s) you think helped:

2    * Going vegan for six months prior to it working (eating really healthy, possible reduction in inflammation, dealing with unknown allergies, less exposure to certain hormone-ladden products).

* Having a baby in the house already (hormone soup).

3     * The planet Venus doing her once-every-8-years fly-by transit right around insemination time. The goddess Venus is known for her powers of manifestation in the realms of fertility and love.

*      * Manifestation map (a collage of the desired quantities in my life, especially related to pregnancy, family etc). I meditated on it nightly, its colorful images and encouraging words flooding my mind and inevitably my subconscious.

       * A total attitude shift from it being all about me, my spiritual journey, my failing body, my personal issues, to it being about wanting to increase our family and to be the conduit for more joy.

       * Lastly, and likely most potently, our donor has super-sperm. Seriously. We’ve had several donors (fresh and frozen). But the first time we tried him, A produced Ben. Second try with him worked for me. And I’m pretty sure I was preggers the first try but then we all got a wicked case of the stomach flu and everything was flushed. He is clearly the right guy for our family making plans!

       * Ok, lastly, lastly, there is the ephemeral, ineffable quality of mystery.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me over the years. We have developed a wonderful community from becoming parents, and also from shared trials. I love you all! And I am loving this little human bean that has magically germinated, impossibly choosing my womb as its fertile earth. I can’t believe it, but I must! It’s really happening…

E

Barometric pressure

Do you see hippos on my shoulders? It feels like it’s taking everything in me to keep myself upright. My feet feel like they are walking through mud. It’s raining, which is a blissful change during this drought, but I think only my mind and imagination appreciate it. I think my body harbors different feelings, heavy, humid, headachy feelings exacerbated by Ben’s streak of early risings (4-5am) and lots of visiting and people and busyness. It just feels like the world is hard to hold up tonight. And I got stuck in traffic today for the first time since moving to this town five years ago. We (Ben and I) were at an almost standstill for 30 some minutes without food, without being able to get Ben out of his chair. I held it together mostly, and Ben did well given the circumstances (we had to count a lot of trees to get through it, he is always calmed by counting). I had a rueful giggle thinking about people with road rage, and what they would do if a hungry, cranky toddler was added to the mix, one who was chanting “Caca, Caca!” during the thick of it (French for “Maman, I had a poo!”). Maybe they would melt and realize that it’s only traffic, that this little boy is so damn sweet to be able to tell us when he’s pooped. He has so many new words and signs, and it just feels like his brain is on warp speed! I am loving that. Books take on a whole new level of pleasure as he makes the fishy mouth pucker when he sees fish or can point out the animals you ask him to find. He is more clear about his needs (signs for “more food”, “all-done”) and it has given him agency. He is marveling at everything; this week it’s boats since my relatives have rented a summer home for a week on the St. Lawrence River. He points and exclaims “Wawa!” and some garbled version of “Dez a bo!” (there’s a boat). He is so delicious. It makes it all worthwhile.

E

Are you there God? It's me, E.

July 16, 2012

Several people, including some very close to me, claim they have lost faith. Not so much in a god, although that’s part of it. It’s like the news played another story of children drowning and it broke the camel’s back.  No joy or pleasure seems to make up for their ultimate premise that life sucks, people suffer and then die. Please don’t misunderstand me, God, I don’t feel this way. I don’t really know who or what you are, or whether you are just a figment of my rife imagination. I don’t care either. I am certainly not going to fight any wars on your behalf, except perhaps internal ones against doubt, fear and worst of all to me, loss of faith.

There was a long string of months a few years back when I was trying to get pregnant where I came close to losing faith. Faith in myself, my body, the “plan”, the Earth, everything. I had an idea of my relationship with you, with the Mystery, the Goddess, where you pulsed through me and lit me up, where I was a medium for your creative powers. I thought I could manifest anything I put my mind to, and that in the end, sperm meets egg and voila! Luckily, thought a little cell-splitting, mini-baby didn’t start in me back then, I somehow managed to keep my then threadbare sense of faith intact. I think meeting Ben made all the difference. Instead of becoming suddenly aware of all the dangers of life, and how I could lose him, I just marveled at the magic of two cells making such a perfect being. Despite it being a tough year, I learned a whole new kind of love, became more resilient, and decided that for Ben to be Ben, he needed to be born exactly when he was, exactly how he was, through my partner A. I don’t make the rules. I certainly don’t think anyone is sitting up there keeping tabs on things or mapping our fates (no offense). It is my chosen belief that Ben came the right way for us, and that belief makes all the difference. As they say to pregnant women in Hebrew, besha'ah tovah - all in the right time.

I remember sitting around on the ground with some cool Unitarian teens talking about Life, and asking them what was important to them. When it was my turn, in addition to those I love, it really came down to my faith. I don’t think I could live without it. I don’t know how people do. I know there is suffering and death. It’s everywhere, including in our homes and hearts. I know there are genocides and pedophiles. I know I live a blessed life compared to so many, so who am I to talk? Despite these things, I hope to take it to the grave that life is still wonderful and worth living, whatever the circumstances. I know it’s an imperfect logic, with pockmarks marring its shine. I know it’s rare for people like Viktor Frankl to survive horrific things like holocausts with their sense of self, their feelings of love and hope still alive. But I know people are happy in all kinds of situations in the world, even if only in moments. The smile of their child, the kind offer from a neighbour, the ladybug making a funny pattern as it walks across their hand. It’s a matter of our lens, what we notice. I think people are also mostly good, even without laws making us civilized. Everyday you see it, if you’re looking for it. Someone offering their seat to the 8 month pregnant woman, the old grumpy neighbour giving out chocolate on Halloween, the bus driver who stops his bus full of people and walks the very elderly woman not only off the bus, but across the street (true story). Most people don’t really want to hurt anyone.

I think life is complicated and interesting, and that everything carries light and dark within. Sometimes things are great, sometimes they aren’t. Yin, yang, the wheel turns. It’s not a bad wheel, it just is. We chose to see what we see, and act how we act. Without turning a blind eye to what we can do to alleviate others’ suffering, I am in favor of us choosing to focus on what’s still good in life and take action accordingly. When we’re on top, share. When we aren’t, take comfort in the little things like the miracle of our breath, the one person who smiled at us walking by, the warm night on the street. No matter how bad it gets, like Viktor wrote, the one thing people can’t take from us is our attitude. It’s our choice. Make lemonade and all that.

I don’t know if prayers do anything but focus my own mind. But God, if you’re listening (and by “you” I mean the cosmic mystery, not an anthropomorphic entity), here is my prayer: May those I love, and anyone else who is suffering from loss of faith, find a thread to hold onto and follow that thread all the way back to the Source. May they find a blanket that comforts but does not smother nor hide away. May they sense love suffuse their bodies, the one thing that keeps most of us going, and may it gently carry away grief and fear of loss and dark thoughts. May they wake up tomorrow and see the beauty peppered throughout this imperfect, perfect life. As Coach Taylor says, “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.”

E

Here and now

Wherever you go, there you are. That is one of my go-to catch phrases when I’m in need of a little one-stop wisdom shopping. I am prone to escapism (thankfully without an addictive personality), going deeply into novels or within the powerful boundaries of my own mind. When I want to, I can avoid unpleasant things like nobody’s business. There is a silver lining to that attribute, a skill that focuses on possibility and positivity and rainbows and such when life provides lemons (like a $4000 tax bill for A being on parental leave, boo!). It’s a mixed blessing, being an escapism prone optimist. Sometimes things get done, sometimes they don’t.  Anyway, it means that I am attracted to the idea that going somewhere else (physically or metaphorically) might fix things. As we all know, our invisible luggage lags behind whether we like it or not. I guess I thought that having a child would blow my heart so permanently wide open that I would become a saintly person, driven by tidal waves of love and generosity of spirit. I would never yell or feel hateful again. I would take care of everyone. I would feel so present to each astounding moment that I would not need to hide in my cave. No one would ever be angry with me because I would be so good. Hmph. I wish.

As I’ve noted before, no one can go through having a child and remain unchanged, mostly for the best. Change is the way of life, says the Buddha; or what makes it so interesting, says his wonderful student Pema Chodron. I was so ready to ride the change wave when Ben arrived, Hawaiwan print surfing clothes, tan (ha!) and everything. I guess I just expected to become a better person automatically, without effort. Herein lies the crux of it then. Like in marriage, regardless of having found the One who makes our heart sing, we don’t get the good stuff without work. Relationships and children are definitely the best schools and masters if we let them be. Most of us just complain about the tough parts (not me though, never J); we try harder some days and flake out the rest. Where is the gratitude? What more are we asking for? I have always wished for a spiritual teacher to kick the existential sh*t out of me. I expected a wizened octogenarian monk in robes perhaps, chanting, or a middle aged / New aged Jewish woman with curls who sings while making latkes, or maybe a Gospel preacher. I don’t know. Someone obvious. Someone loving and tough. Someone who demands the best and then picks me up when I stumble. Wherever you go, there you are, they say. Oh woman, just turn around on the spot and look before you. They are right there, looking at me, a beautiful, complicated woman and a little boy with his Duckie, their arms open, ready to teach me the only really important lessons in life. Goddess may I endeavor to deserve these amazing teachers and wake up to how ridiculously lucky I am to be here and now.

E

NB: The above image is original art by Katie Daisy, please see http://www.etsy.com/listing/66633318/here-and-now

Eggpectations

Spring is a joyful, messy business isn't it? All the grey and rain, the longer days warming the earth and pushing up bulbs. All the revelations from melted snow, some treasures like an afore unknown iris growing, some less so like the gifts of a season of dogs. And all the mating! It’s a heady season, spring; so many senses engaged at once. I like to watch the flock of starlings outside my window. I think people really underestimate these unassuming black birds. The lads are really such goofy romantics, fluffing up their feathers, which shine emerald and violet in the sun, raising up their wings and ending the dance with an astounding squawk. Now I know ‘tis the season, but I've observed these hopefuls at it all summer! And they have such sweet faces and kind looking eyes. The speckled ladies are all busy building nests now and although we really need to prune that tree from which the massive flock sits and poops on our car all day, I fervently wish them to build their nests there. I like to imagine the lady starlings feeling the egg(s) forming in their bodies, growing, the hard exterior pushing at their hearts, setting off an ageless, primal need to make it a soft, welcoming home.

So many of our friends are pregnant right now. It must be such an intimate experience to be so in tune with nature. Women are lucky of course to have the oft-maligned privilege of cycling with the moon. This is different though, birds don’t menstruate, nor bugs, nor snakes. Every species feels the call of Life that must be answered, even if to say “no thank you,” as only humans can. I am choosing between two paths now, to throw myself at the mercy of Life’s whims again and answer Her call, or to gracefully step back and decline the honor for this lifetime. We do have an already tried and true baby container in this relationship, and there are scores of unwanted children to scoop up and love.  I am still unsure of where I stand with my body, whether we’re talking again. When I was trying before, it would upset me to hear of pregnancies. Now I don’t feel anything really, besides happy for those who are pregnant. Maybe it’s a good sign, that rather than being disconnected from body or emotions like I suspected, maybe I have changed for the better. I know trying and then becoming a parent have been humbling. I’d like to think I haven’t lost faith, haven’t given up, and in fact have just softened. That I’m letting it all happen as it’s meant to. If only I could just wait, rocking gently in that monthly moon’s tide, for a baby to appear in my uterus. There’s no getting around it, no sperm is getting to my eggs from my just being more relaxed. I have agency here, and Life and A demand an answer.

What would it feel like to be that starling, bringing forth new little singers because that’s just what she does? Oh to be able to turn off that blessed/cursed brain. Spring is definitely in my veins though, and I do feel the sap starting to flow. I feel a certain yearning to join the hoards of joyful messy beasts in the dance. In fact, A and I have just started a couples’ ballroom dance class, and I am definitely leading…

Happy spring to all and to all a good nest.

E

Forgive me (Feb.28, 2012)

I just watched a show in which the characters were celebrating Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement. It’s also the day of forgiveness. I know February is nowhere near the Yom Kippur season, but something about the episode is rattling around me like a desperate bird. I am thinking about family, in all its forms. I hate the way my parents can be so critical of each other sometimes, not really listening or connecting. I know that there is deep love there; I just wish, and have wished for decades, that they could turn on the spot and see each other and the world with different eyes. That they could drop their need to be right, their need to control the situation (overtly or covertly), their need to appear intelligent or perfect or beautiful or superior.  I’m so tired of how it spreads to us, their children, and affects the relationship I've chosen for life. I see it when I want to be right, when I want to look smart and perfect and when I hate being out of control and my temper flares. I detest more than anything A being mad at me, like I do my parents or brother being mad at me. And because I can’t seem to get past these patterns yet, not with daily meditation and yoga, not with therapy, here we are, emulating them for the next generation. I refuse to stand by and watch. Perhaps a better approach is to befriend this shadow side of mine (and all of ours), to understand its triggers and hungers, thank it for its wisdom and lessons. I think I need to stop filtering my parents’ issues like a wrinkled old kidney and step aside. Give them some space. Give me some space.

I wish I hadn't yelled so much at my dad as a kid. I wish I hadn't criticized my brother so much as a teen, and now I wish I wasn't so hard on my mom. Mostly I wish I could forgive A for getting pregnant when I couldn't for carrying our son, for being absent for a while. Somewhere along the way I've broken, and I think it has actually been cathartic. Since successfully crossing the Year-1 line as parents, I feel fantastic and fresh, hopeful. We are eating better, spending more time together. I am still raw and sore, but new skin is forming, strong, flexible skin, my own skin. It bears the marks of life like tattoos imprinted, but wears them proudly as if to say “here is my story, and what I have overcome”. This new skin is powerful, peaceful, and looser (and not just because I’m turning 35). It covers a more integrated body beneath it. My eyes and arms are wide open. Forgive me, all of you, for being honest, for hurting you, for resenting you. I love you forever. 

E

image from http://www.tibetanbuddhistaltar.org/2010/12/how-does-one-learn-to-forgive/

A poem (Feb.28, 2012)

My skin cracked and bleeding, raw tissue like a broken day

When will you really marry me? Not when you say the words

You already have. You say them everyday

Maybe the issue is really, when will I really marry you?

Not the fantasy in my head, not the companion of my days, but you

The real, anxious, neurotic, over-protective, worried, precious you

When will I stop acting like my progenitors’ dialysis machine and wake up

Really wake up to the blessings before me? To my potential, to our potential

Like the cuckoo bird, I act nonchalant when I leave those behind to manage

Like it doesn’t matter what gets thrown out and dies

Maybe I’m the unknowing mother left behind, raising another’s egg as my own

I know I need to forgive you to move on, to let things soften

For new skin, supple and strong to spread over these burns

Where will I find that courage? 

E

Martyr me

I’m no Christian saint getting mauled by a lion in a Roman amphitheater, but lately I sure feel like I’m dying for a cause. No capital D, rather the little deaths that represent the pain of change. I feel that I’m generally pretty resilient as people go, but everyone has something which breaks them down. For me it seems to be sleep training. It’s taxing. Though we make progress, and he goes weeks doing pretty well, it’s apparently never-ending. Every life change  requires a re-set, for example this Real Life Scenario: it’s early December and baby catches a phlegmy cold which makes him breathe like a rabid wolf. Mummy and Maman (me) then catch it too, and Mummy’s weak lungs are working overtime so Maman goes and sleeps with baby. Add to this snotty, coughing mix that baby then catching a nasty stomach bug and prolific liquids begin erupting from both ends. You’d think it wouldn't phase us, having had a spit-uppy baby. It actually feels frightening and out of control. Mummy catches it too, of course, and gets it bad. She still has to breastfeed since baby won’t have anything else and is dehydrated, but she can’t keep much liquid down herself. The only solution for her is a couch, bowl, hot water bottle, ginger-ale and a “House” DVD marathon. Maman is now looking after two sickies, while coordinating a large fundraiser for her youth group the next day and the eventful final graduation/movie screening of her program at work. Boom, that night, she gets the bug too. A quick passing through, mercifully. A had to take care of Ben that night but could barely stand or breathe without coughing and feeling wretched herself.

How do single parents survive? It’s mind-boggling and every one of my hats is off to those of you out there. In either scenario, who takes care of the caretaker(s)? We were lucky to have some divine intervention (soup deliveries), and kind calls/emails, which saved us. Did I mention that both of us also got our periods that week-end (A for the first time since before conception)? Here’s the kicker, the day after I got sick marked the one-week deadline until we moved, yes MOVED, to a new house. Were we packed? Not even close. Our moms descended from opposite ends of the 401, and both promptly got the stomach bug too (after packing a substantial chunk thankfully). As did our friend and neighbour who  helped us pack. As did pretty much anyone who hung out for more than a minute. We wrote on our door “enter at your own risk, plague house”. We managed to move, by some miracle, and in reaction (we assume) Ben proceeded to begin screaming a whole new range of bloody murder when being put down to bed. And in the middle of the night. Like 1.5 hours from 3:30-5. For weeks. Wait, there’s more! We drove to each parent’s house (4/5hr trip x4) for the respective holiday gatherings, occasionally in freezing rain. And then Ben started daycare, and A started work. Need I say more?

I sometimes feel annoyed when I hear myself telling parts of this story, like I’m whining or saying “poor me”, or being a veritable martyr. I believe attitude counts, and instead I could have written about all the neat features of our new place, the lovely time with grandparents, the peaceful snowy afternoons. But aren't most parents entitled to claiming martyrdom from time to time? When they say parenthood requires service and sacrifice, they weren't kidding. When they say nothing prepares you for this, it’s the truth. When you think everything will change, you can’t know how tremendously much. It would all be bearable if it didn't also tax relationships to the edge of reason. A French writer penned a book listing 40 reasons not to have kids. I say there are only two: sleep and relationship stress. I miss sleep with every fiber of my being, like I've been ripped out from some safe hole and left to walk through a minefield. Leaving the warmth of duvet and body heat of partner to enter the cold shock of wintery nighttime, only to run into a wall of sound and fury, sometimes feels like the ultimate test. Finally, when I creep out of his room, careful to only walk on the non-squeaky parts of the old wooden floor, gently turning the door knob to avoid a rusty squeak, that’s usually it. Every so often though, once I've gotten comfortable, as the world is starting to go black … no… it can’t be. A sniff, a squawk and slowly but surely the crescendo of sound from the small person down the hall begins again. I would have said there is nothing to compare to the first nighttime crying session, but I amend that to say in earnest, that I would give up almost anything (including highly confidential political information) not to have to deal with the second nighttime cry (or 15^th as one unfortunate mother in our play group knows only too well). As for relationship stress, that’s a whole blog entry for another time. But people have children anyway and they are gorgeous and magical and irreplaceable. And we’ll survive, mostly intact, because we chose this. No one can say that lesbians came into this mess “by accident”. Pema Chodron aptly names it the “wisdom of no escape”, the power of being in the moment, of not resisting what is. I tried to explain this Buddhist theory to Ben one particularly tough night though I think it was largely lost on his 11-month-old self.

E

Nanny Nightmares

How do people do it? Leaving their most precious thing in life to a total stranger… And here we are partnering with another set of moms to find someone to look after our boys together. Sure it’s a smart idea to pair up with another family, cheaper and homier than daycare, less of a germ cesspool, and a good stop-gap until the boys are old enough for the day care programs that start at 18-months (which is most of them). We dutifully placed ads, screened the responses, met the women, weighed the pros and cons of each, and reluctantly need to chose the most competent. Do we go for a mommy replacement or more of a teacher? And just as dutifully we have each in our own way lost our shit, had meltdowns, thought drastic thoughts of quitting work and generally freaked out about this next step for our babies. Our BABIES. These days so many of their products are labeled “for toddlers” and both are crawling and eating and becoming little boys. It’s incredible the amnesia that sets in as things progress, how we can barely remember the joy of him as a “little” baby, nor the agony of former sleep issues.

I think at the crux of it all is the fear of letting go, which ultimately is what child rearing is all about. Right from the beginning, before you even conceive, you have lost control. Then you let go of how the pregnancy goes, and pretty much everything else from then on. Oh sure, we get illusions of control as we chose this food or that for them, this crib or that, this school or that. But we can’t stop him from growing, from moving forward, and we already feel left in the wake of his tremendous pace. What happened to our wee blob? He is feeding himself (mostly) and following his own interests now that he can move. Pretty soon he’ll be in school, then hit puberty, be dating, up all night writing papers and moving out. I know sometimes I question this whole parenting thing, and though I always love Ben, I may not always love the immense responsibility of him. But I also don’t want to miss anything, and these days you blink and boom, another tooth appears (his third one appeared this week). It’s happening too fast! In just over two months time, just before Ben’s first birthday, we will walk him over to his best bud’s house, kiss him as he struggles to get out of our arms and play (we hope!), and say “bye sweetie, I love you”, leaving the house and the boys in the care of??? It’s enough to stop your heart.

E

tick tock

That ol' biological clock is still gently doing her thing, ticking away like a constantly there sound that disappears. Similar to Ben's white noise CD or the soft static of the baby monitor. I am always hearing it, but I am not often listening. I am 34.5 years old. The pregnancy I would have, should it happen, would be called "geriatric" at this point (can you believe medical doctors actual use that as an official term for the preggers-over-35 set?). Although it would obviously affect Ben and A, this next step in our family journey feels like a really private, interior one. Between me and my gods, me and my body. There are heaps of muck to wade through, reconciliations to make, most of all with this earthy container of mine. I sometimes shook my fist at fate (which is fruitless, as I'm sure you've discovered), all those months of trying before. More so at first, when I experienced the earth shattering shock that egg+sperm does not =baby. I mean, for having been a lesbian all these years, you would think my body would positively throw down the welcome mat at its first chance at replicating our quirky species! Maybe slip into something more comfortable, turn on some nice music, make it a martini. Alas, my lady parts weren't up for playing hostess to suitors, nor zygotes. Spiritually, my faith was shaken in whatever powers I felt were guiding me. But I found ways to ask different questions and to make different prayers. Instead of a baby, I asked for grace or the strength to get through another cycle. I certainly wasn't anything like serene but I did find some peace eventually and a gentle surrendering to the mystery.

My relationship with my body on the other hand still suffers. I want to torture it with cleanses and special diets and crazy exercise (okay, a bit more exercise than none is probably not such a bad idea...). But I won't. I am seeing a new naturopath (for overall health), am going for some Reiki, and am back into yoga (definitely a major missing ingredient in my life since Ben's arrival). I am really trying not to make it a big deal, or focus too much energy on fertility. This body and me are stuck together until the end of this lifetime, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. I need to nurture that relationship, not take it for granted or wish it were anything other than the miracle that all of our bodies are. It's not easy though, and there are parts of me that I fear, or find difficult, or which I resent (like some genetic issues). There is also much to love and be grateful for. I guess where I am now is in a middle place, somewhere liminal like dusk or dawn. I am neither mired in the traumatic muck of the past, nor fully engaged in trying again. I am spending this time learning to feel good in the here and now. I want this body to feel like a good place to be; a good thing to be made of, to live in, and to come through. I still wonder if I have enough to offer, enough energy, enough nutrients, enough love, to still remain intact at the end of it. I guess that's not the point, really, since how can it be anything other than completely transformational? It's scary, and A is always so tired in such a deeper way than me. How do I explain to her, who has so gratifyingly experienced the mind-blowing, heart-exploding ability to create and sustain life, that I need more time to get there?

E

Sloughing Hearts (requiem for a pacifier)

I recently learned about a beautifully sad term, “heart sloughing” (Tracy Hogg, “Secrets of the Baby Whisperer”). It happens after you have cried out your full release of frustration and tears, and you are gently convulsing in little after-sobs. Like your heart is shedding layers, sloughing off dead skin, old habits, old fears. A finds it heart-breaking to hear from little Ben, but I have always thought it sounded restful, like waves coming in and washing away whatever is left to be cleansed. To me, he has already found his centre when that happens, and is resting.

Tonight, ladies and gentleman, I bring this up because we have turned a major page in Ben’s life and have officially pulled the soother plug. It’s the painful truth (for us all), but we know in our guts that it’s time. He’s ready, and he won’t learn how to sleep until we do it. It starts now, tonight. I just put him down (6:38pm). A left the building since she can’t bear to hear him cry like he does (Ben and I test drove the concept this morning with mixed success, but it was not easy for A to witness via baby-monitor). I think dads and other-moms might have an easier time with witnessing baby tears, since we are less physically connected. I won’t say I’m immune since I love our boy; it definitely gets to me as I’ve mentioned in other posts. Nobody feels good about a crying baby. But when we finally realized that our week of “pick-up, put-down” sleep training (à la Sleep Whisperer *see description below) was garnering only moderate results, we both came to the conclusion that the suce (Québécois for pacifier) was a hindering “prop”. He would not learn to self-soothe when waking in the night or alone during naps until we made him do so. There he lies now upstairs, after a decent but not terrible cry, his heart having long ago stopped sloughing off sighs, dreaming about his big boy achievement of going to sleep without his suce.

Ben was born in the Chinese year of the tiger, which should be interesting. I am especially fond of the fierce and tender animals, and I like to imagine divine tigers curled up all around him like on the cover of the book below, purring deep, resonate, tiger purrs, protecting and soothing him through the night. One of their soft, steady paws lying delicately over his chest, slipped on as I slipped mine off. No pacifier in sight. Blessed sleep, little one.

E

* NB: The aforementioned “Sleep Whisperer” is strongly disliked by A. She has an annoying habit of writing “luv” a lot in her books, as in “stop worrying luv”. But we have to hand it to her; she has tentatively won our loyalty. Her sleep training method is middle of the road (between CIO, or “cry-it-out” in mommy-blogging jargon, and long-term bed-sharing, nursing to sleep and feeding-on-demand). This forum writer summarizes "pick-up, put-down" http://www.babywhispererforums.com/index.php?topic=208990.0 but it’s worth getting the original book from your library or mommy-group pals. Just prepare to be annoyed. We like that we don’t leave him alone to cry, but also give him space to sort it out and learn to sleep on his own.

Mean girl

A colleague of mine, bless her, said she couldn’t imagine my being mean. It’s not to say I’m any kind of saint, but hell ya, I can be mean. Or at least, my mind can be mean. I can lay awake at 2am while my precious baby yells at a bone-shattering, heart-valve clenching octave and have dark thoughts. Apparently that’s normal, says the friendly dad I met on route to work today. His two children cried for 6 months straight when they were babies and he said, “You want to kill them or give them away, but so long as you don’t kill them or give them away, it doesn't make you a bad parent to want to sometimes.” It’s hard to complain when we've waited so long for our little guy. I will though, at least on this blog and in my mind at 2am. From what I understand about torture, like at Guantanamo Bay, intentional sleep deprivation is a key practice. A is additionally being kicked and pinched, not to mention depleted of her energy and vitamins though her milk. There is no getting around the fact that our sacred, dependent charge is also our jailer. I know he’s not happy about it either, like we’re all stuck in some crazy 60’s psychology prof’s idea of a good time.

I am normally not into swearing, but I am taking comfort in a certain “children’s” story of late called “Go the F**k to Sleep" (check out the audio book version http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bI6RrDveqm8). It hits the nail on the head about parental insecurities, frustrations and helplessness about sleep. Thank you Adam Mansbach for writing it. Thank you to all those parents who've gone before us, walking the deeply worn path on the rug of nighttime soothing. I will no doubt return to that Zen, Buddha-Mama place eventually, or at least occasionally. For now, the truth is that I hate the crying at night, the soft moans that mean the imminent increase to a crescendo of sound. My life-long heart palpitations issue has quadrupled since he was born, like the combination of intense love and nerve-jangling stress have knocked my internal rhythms off course. Our external ones are obviously shot, especially A’s, but it’s interesting to watch the body’s reaction and it’s not so subtle cues to dis-ease. I knew I’d have trouble with the absence of quiet in the house, but I did not anticipate what it would feel like to be so rattled. Love hurts.

E