Josh Turns One

Today was Josh's first birthday party.  How is it even possible that an entire year has gone by since I gave birth to him?

I remember this time last year, waiting for him to come, wondering what it would be like to add another child to our household. I remember savoring the last few days before his birth, playing in the backyard with Abby, getting her a special playhouse to celebrate becoming a big sister. I wondered how much life would change once our baby was born.

I remember the first few days after we brought him home. I'd rock Abby in the glider before bedtime, barely able to get through our nightly song without breaking into sobs. I had a whole mix of emotions. Joyful to have my new baby, but feeling so guilty about taking attention away from my firstborn, and so unsure of what the "new normal" was going to be like.

I remember feeling nervous about bonding with my new baby. How could I possibly love him as much as I loved Abby? For two and a half years my heart had belonged only to her. We hadn't known if we were having a boy or a girl before he was born. I wondered if loving a boy was as easy as loving a girl?

And here we are, a year later. It's impossible to capture that year in one blog post. I wish I could find a way to communicate how full my heart is. I can honestly say that every single day I have at least one moment where I look at my children and wonder how in the world I could be so blessed.

This year has been harder than I expected. But more rewarding than I could have imagined. Abby has grown into a caring, compassionate, generous, and loving big sister. She doesn't mind when her brother pulls her hair with all his might. She just laughs and says "Oh Joshie" as she delicately removes his hand. I catch her whispering to him when she thinks I'm not listening "Joshie, you're my best friend."   But she's also struggled with sharing attention, toys, and time. Sharing is no easy task for a three year old, and sharing with a "grabby" baby who doesn't understand taking turns is even harder.  It often feels like there's not enough of me to go around. The kids inevitably need fed, changed, or bathed at the exact same time. Or there are the times they both throw a show-stopping tantrum together, and it's like a chorus of wailing, and I just want to lock myself in the bathroom.   But then, moments later, they both crawl into my lap and we all cuddle, and the whole world is perfect for those few minutes.

Josh has grown so much this year. I wasn't sure what it would be like to have a son. Now I know it's the most wonderful thing in the world. Now that he is a year old we're starting to catch glimpses of his incredible personality. He's a fierce little man. We call him "the tiger" because he's always growling at something or someone. He often has a "thoughtful" look on his face, his brows furrowed. I think he is going to be my thinker. His hair is totally out of control. It stands up on end like he's stuck his hand in a socket. He's not afraid of much, and chases me around the room as I vacuum trying to catch it. He's vocal about what he likes and doesn't like, and he loves his sister with a depth that you'd be surprised at. His whole body smiles when she comes into a room, and he's noticeably mellow when she's away. Their bond is something I never expected, and yet it's probably one of the things that has brought me the most joy since he was born. When I watch the two of them, I worry less about their future, because I know they'll always have each other.

As my children grow up, I always have mixed feelings about birthdays. I am filled with such joy at the people they are becoming. And yet I always have a twinge of sadness that the time is flying by so quickly. I have to always remind myself that they are only mine for a time, and to try and soak up every minute that I have.

Happy birthday Little Man. I never knew I could love you as deeply as I do. When I look into those deep blue eyes, my heart belongs to you. Your laughter fills our home and brings me unspeakable joy. Watching you learn and grow is a privilege that I try never to take for granted. I love who you are and who you are becoming.

Faith Like a Child

My three year old daughter has been asking me a lot of questions lately.  From questions about the reason we have weather to questions about how flowers grow.  It's as though when she turned three she woke up and realized that there are reasons behind everything, and she needs to understand all of it right now.

"Mommy, why is it raining?"

"Mommy,  why is the sunshine still up when I go to bed?"

And just the other day, "Mommy... how do babies get inside your belly?"

That one took some quick thinking. Thankfully,  answering "God tells us when the right time is for a baby to be in there" with some additional muttering and changing of the subject was enough to satisfy her.

But it's her questions about faith that have been surprising and challenging me the most.  Ben and I have been taking Abby to church since she was born, and we read the Bible to her every night before bed. We've taught her some praise songs and how to say some simple prayers. But lately, she has been much more interested in the songs and stories, and really wants to understand what it's all about.

Just last week Abby and I made a new calendar for the month of April. We do this every month, using a large piece of paper from a sketchbook, and we draw out a new calendar. This year April is special for two reasons. Her little brother is turning one, and Easter also falls in April this year. As we started to mark the special days Abby asked me, "Mommy, what's Easter?"

I answered her, "It's when we celebrate that Jesus died and rose again."

"Mommy, what's died?"

Ok. That's a hard one.  See, three year olds have no concept of death. The only way that Abby understands death right now is when she sees a dead bug on the ground and we call them "goners." So explaining to her about death and resurrection is well... complicated.

Then she asked me, "Why did the people hurt Jesus? Why did they rip his shirt? Were they bad people? Where did Jesus go when he died?"

Wow! I had no idea she had been listening that closely! But, I have to be honest, sometimes it's hard to find ways to answer her. Were the people who hurt Jesus bad? Well, yes and no. They shouldn't have hurt him, but they're no worse than the rest of us. Where did he go? Well, the creed says he descended into hell and then rose again... how do I put that in three-year-old terms?

 I have to take what she knows, and then explain a concept that people have struggled to understand for thousands of years in a way that she is able to grasp. I talked to her about how we all make bad choices, and how just like when she makes a bad choice at home and I have to give her a time out, that when she makes bad choices God also has to give her a time out, but that instead Jesus took the time out for her. She understands the concept of making a bad choice and receiving a punishment, but the idea of someone taking a punishment FOR her is difficult to grasp.

I don't always satisfy her with my answers. Sometimes she looks at me doubtfully, clearly wondering if I know what I'm talking about. But, just when I think she's getting discouraged,  she asks another question. "Mommy, is Jesus alive right now?"

That's the part that impresses me the most. Even when she doesn't get an answer that she completely understand, she still keeps listening and thinking and wondering. She keeps trusting me to tell her the truth.

And when I look at her, I think I finally start to understand what childlike faith is. What Jesus was getting at when he said, "I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it." (Luke 18:17)

I've heard lots of sermons on this verse. Messages about how we should be as trusting as a small child, simply believing blindly the way that a child does. But I don't think it has anything to do with a blind or overly simplified faith.   My daughter isn't blindly believing anything. She's listening,  processing, and asking questions. She believes that there are answers, even if she doesn't understand them fully right now. She trusts that I will tell her the truth. And she never lets a complicated answer deter her from asking her next question.

And her pursuit of the truth has me looking in the mirror at my own faith.  Hers is the kind of faith that I want to have. I think that's the kind of faith that God wants me to have. He wants me to ask the tough questions, even when I don't like or don't understand the answer. He wants me to come to him and ask him why children get cancer, why mothers lose their babies, why tragedy is allowed to happen despite the prayers of thousands.  

See, that's where my faith struggle has been lately. I've taken it on faith my whole life that God is good. But then I read about a four year old boy, diagnosed with brain cancer just a few weeks ago, given no hope for a cure. Or about a baby girl born with a heart condition, waiting on a transplant, and despite the prayers of thousands, passing away before she ever received that new heart. And I start to ask, is God really good? If he is, why does he allow these tragedies? 

My gut reaction as an adult is to turn away from Him. To pretend that I don't have those kind of questions. I find myself skipping my devotion time and avoiding prayers. Instead of drawing closer to God, I put distance between us. I worry that maybe there aren't answers to the kind of questions that I have. 

But that's not the faith of a child. That's not what my three year old daughter would do. When she wants to know or understand something, she just keeps asking. Over and over. For as long as it takes to get an answer. 

I think that's the kind of faith I need. 

I may not always understand His answer. I may not always agree with His answer. But I have to keep asking. I have to keep turning to the One who made me, who knew me before I was born and who laid the foundations of the earth. The kingdom of heaven belongs to those with the faith of a child. A faith that asks the hard questions, seeks to understand, and trusts the One who has the answers. 

Set the bar low

Just before Ben and I got married, I remember his Uncle John pulling him aside to give him a piece of relationship advice.

"Ben, set the bar low."

Now, you have to understand, Uncle John is the youngest of three siblings, and a dad to four kids of his own. If anyone knows how to instigate, it's him. And he takes the job of giving bad advice to Ben very seriously. After all, what's an uncle for if it's not to get his nephew in a little trouble?

"No, really Ben. You've gotta set the bar low. You think you need to get her flowers and candy on your first Valentine's Day? Forget it! Don't even mention that it's Valentine's Day.  You think you need to take her out for a nice birthday dinner? No way. Get her a card if she's lucky. It would be even better if you just ignored her birthday all together.  Trust me. Years down the road, you'll see it start to pay off. After all those years of disappointment, she'll be thrilled just to have you remember the day. If you start off too big, you're just setting yourself up for failure."

I remember Ben telling me about this "advice" shortly before our wedding. I rolled my eyes and told Ben, "You'd better not even THINK about following that advice." I knew it was only a joke, but I was still annoyed. 

Set the bar low. At the time it sounded like the worst advice I'd ever heard.

Then I had kids.

There's that old cliche "having a baby changes everything." Well, to say that that's true doesn't even do justice to just HOW much EVERYTHING changes. I remember when Ben and I first got married, we moved into a little one bedroom apartment in West Chester. 900 square feet all to ourselves. I used to have Mondays off from work, and would spend the day cleaning our apartment from top to bottom. All it took was an afternoon, and all of the laundry, vacuuming, and organizing was finished. I remember feeling a distinct peacefulness settle over me once everything was clean and in its place.

Fast forward five years, and now I've got two kids ages three and one. My house is a wreck. Everywhere I go I'm tripping on baby dolls, crayons, princess dresses and pacifiers. As soon as I clean up one room, I go to the next and the kids are already in the process of taking out every single toy they own and throwing it haphazardly around the floor.  Or, I'll take out a load of clean laundry, and as I start to fold it my one year old will dutifully take every folded piece out of the hamper as I put it in, gleefully flinging it over his shoulder.

I can't win. For the first couple of years, I tried to fight against it. If vacuuming made my daughter cry, I'd hold her on one hip for a half an hour getting the vacuuming done till my arm ached and my back was out of joint. Even if I'd had little to no sleep the night before, I'd drink an extra coffee during nap time so that I could clean the dirty bathrooms. Ben would tell me I was crazy, and that I needed to go easier on myself. But I couldn't. I'd go to play dates where the houses were immaculate, and it looked like no child ever left a toy laying out. I'd work like a slave the night before hosting friends, making sure no trace of our real life was left out by the time the doorbell rang.

And I found myself unsatisfied. Unsatisfied with our house. Unsatisfied with how much Ben pitched in. Wishing I had money for a maid. Wishing the kids would just stop playing with all these toys so my house could look put together!

And then... one day... out of nowhere.... Uncle John's words came back to me.

Set the bar low.  

Suddenly, the advice didn't sound so bad. I decided to give it a try. Over the next few weeks and months, I just simply started to clean less. I didn't pick up all of the toys every night before bed. I didn't hang up all of the kids laundry in perfectly matching outfits in the closet. I'll admit, sometimes I went more than two weeks without turning on the vacuum. The other morning I came downstairs and our dinner was still sitting on the dining room table, with half eaten food on the plates.  It wasn't my proudest moment... but you know what? I didn't really feel that bad about it.

I realized that all that time spent cleaning and worrying and making my house look "just right" was time and energy wasted, when I could have been spending it actually living my life and enjoying the people that I love best.

Most days, if you drop by my house, it will look like a hurricane came through and tossed every single item that I own onto the floor. There are laundry piles, and sticky floors, and a messy kitchen. But... I'm not yelling at my husband anymore. I'm not yelling at my kids over toy messes anymore. I'm a lot happier.

I've set the bar low. If I have a few minutes and enough energy during nap time, sometimes I'll clean the bathroom. But if I don't... who cares? The world will not come to an end over a dirty bathroom.

Now, understand... I still wish my house were clean. When I get a room totally cleaned up, I still get that wonderful sense of peace that settles on me and makes me feel good deep down in my soul. But... I've set the bar low. If the room stays that way for 30 seconds, that's a good day. If I can actually walk out of the room and back into it, and it is still semi-clean... that's an even better day. But  I'm no longer expecting to actually live in a clean house. So when disaster strikes in the form of an overzealous toddler, I shrug my shoulders and join in the fun.

I recently bought a new piece of art for my wall to help remind myself of whats really important. I look at it every single day and read it like a mantra:

Someday my house will be clean. And there will be no toys to trip over. And my floors won't be sticky or muddy. My fridge won't be covered in artwork and fingerprints.

And that's the day that I will miss my kids with all my heart and wish that their childhood hadn't flown by so fast.

So for now, I'm setting the bar low. I'm expecting just a little, but receiving so much more. I wouldn't trade this part of my life for anything.

So thanks, Uncle John. I actually think you had it right. Aside from the whole forgetting my birthday and anniversary thing...

Paradox

Today my college professor posted a link to his Facebook. It was a YouTube video of a young college student participating in a poetry slam. She used her words to describe life with her mother, as she watched her mother deprive herself of food in an effort to be thin, and as she saw herself doing the same. The words were poignant, well chosen, delivered with impact.

I watched the video while bouncing my fussing 6 month old on my hip. But I hardly heard his whimpering. The words MOVED me. My 2 year old daughter came in the front door, slamming it behind her, cheeks red from the cold. "MOMMY!" as she proceeded to tell me about her adventures. But I couldn't hear her. I was hanging on the words of the poet. And it wasn't even so much what she was saying as it was the way that she said it, the feeling behind it; the way she twisted and molded the words to have meaning and beauty and depth.

"MOMMY WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!!!" my toddler impatiently asks, tugging on my shirt. "Who knows what mommy's doing?" I heard my husband say.

And it's funny, because neither of them would understand if I told them. My husband's an engineer, and poetry isn't exactly his thing. And my daughter... well she doesn't know me as anything but "mommy". She doesn't know that I was an English major in college... that I've loved reading and dissecting and ruminating on words since I was a child. Or that this same college professor who posted this link told me when I graduated college that I had a real knack for literature and that if I wanted to be I had what it took to be a literature professor someday. Or that deep in my soul I have always wanted to write. To her, I'm just "mommy".

And today is one of those hard days. Where even though I have chosen this path of full-time stay at home mom, I feel some sadness that I'm not chasing all of those dreams. I have this part of my soul that loves art and literature and creating beauty. But that part of me is holding it's breath while I change another diaper and kiss another boo boo.

Tonight I looked down at my chubby baby boy, sitting naked in his bath in the kitchen sink. He looked up at me with his bright blue eyes and flashed me his incredible smile. I realized in that moment that motherhood is full of paradoxes.  I don't regret where I am for even a second, and yet I often long for what will never be. If I'm not careful guilt begins to creep in, and I feel bad for acknowledging those feelings. But there they are. I want my children to know that part of me someday. I want them to know that I have dreams to be more than just their mommy, and yet am more satisfied in my soul being their mother than doing anything else in the world.

Josh's Birth Story

Next week my baby boy turns 6 months old! I can't believe it! I realized a few weeks ago that I haven't written his birth story yet, and so I want to do it before the details start to fade.

As many of you know from my earlier postings I don't have the easiest pregnancies. There are many women out there who have it harder than me, but overall both my pregnancies have definitely had their challenges. Josh's birth story isn't the typical "my contractions started getting closer together" or "my water broke" type of birth story. His story really begins when I started having complications, so I'll give you some background.

Beginning at week 30 the doctors found out that my blood pressure was starting to get into an unhealthy range, and so I was put on medication (Labetelol) that I had to take twice a day. I also had to go in every week for an ultrasound/biophysical profile to check my fluid levels and the growth of the baby. It was really special for me to get to see my baby on ultrasound every week, especially because we didn't know what we were having. Every week I got to see the baby sucking his thumb, stubbornly staying in the "head up" breech position, and even got to see his little foot kicking me! After my ultrasounds I would get my blood pressure checked, and then head home.  I was so blessed that Ben's mom, Jeanne, would come over every week to watch Abby for me during my appointments so that I didn't have to worry about bringing her with me to the doctor every time.

Since I began the medication at 30 weeks my blood pressures were pretty well controlled. The doctors like it to stay under 140/90, because any higher than that and it can begin to negatively affect the baby.  And if it gets too high, then the mother is at risk of seizures. Most weeks my blood pressures were about 130/80, which the doctor was satisfied with. So for me the weekly visits began to feel fairly routine. I felt a huge sense of relief that the medication was working and that the doctor considered me to have a totally normal pregnancy otherwise.

My due date was April 28, but because of the complications that can potentially arise at the end of a pregnancy where there is high blood pressure present, the doctor planned to deliver me at the end of my 38th week. Because Josh was breech, that meant scheduling a c-section.  Although I wasn't happy about the impending surgery, I felt like at least I would get to have some control over when to schedule the birth! Ben and I were hoping for a Friday, so that the majority of his days off would be at home with us, rather than in the hospital during the week.  We got lucky and found out that my doctor does most of his c-sections on Fridays, and so the nurse said "So, does April 26 sound like a good day to have a baby?" At that point I was as big as a whale, so ANY day would have sounded like a good day to have a baby.

I was really nervous about the upcoming surgery. I'd never been hospitalized before (aside from Abby's birth), and had never had surgery. I was terrified of laying on a table in the operating room, and the more I thought about it and pictured it the more anxious I became. So I told Ben, "Look, I don't want to sit here and wait around to be cut open. We've got 3 weeks before this baby is coming, let's do something fun." So I asked him to get us Phillies tickets. I just wanted one last night out doing something special. Ben was a little skeptical that I would be able to make it through the whole game... but I insisted that it was what I wanted to do more than anything. So he bought us the tickets for Thursday, April 18. We lined up a babysitter, and I counted down the days before our last date night.

The next couple of weeks were uneventful. We finished washing all the baby clothes, getting the bassinet ready, and spent time with Abby. I continued going to my regular Tuesday doctor appointments.

One of the things I had to be careful about was watching for signs of preeclampsia. The specialist that I saw told me that I had a 50% chance of getting it again, and so I needed to watch out for the symptoms, like blurred vision, headaches, or suddenly swollen hands/feet. Preeclampsia is so serious that if you do develop it, and the baby is close enough to term, they will deliver the baby immediately. But so far I didn't have any symptoms, and for that I was thankful.

Then, on Sunday, April 14, during church, I remember feeling a pain on my left ring finger. I looked down and my hands had swollen to the point that my ring was starting to cut off my circulation. I was able to get it off, but in my gut I knew something wasn't quite right. I went home and immediately took my blood pressure. It was high, over 140/90, but I had just huffed and puffed my way up the stairs to take it, so I decided to lay down for a few minutes and take it again. Looking back now, I think I should have called the doctor at that point, but I had become a little desensitized to the high blood pressures, so I decided to wait it out. About 15 minutes later my pressure came down, and I knew I had a doctor's appointment coming up on Tuesday, so I could wait until then to talk to the doctor about my symptoms.

Tuesday (April 16) rolled around, and I got myself and Abby up and ready for Grandma (Jeanne) to come over so I could go to my doctor's appointment. I remember running late that morning trying to get Abby dressed and ready, and so I unintentionally skipped breakfast. My appointment was at 11am, and I figured I could run and grab some lunch afterwards on my way home. Jeanne came over, and I hugged and kissed Abby goodbye. I promised her that when I got home we could go outside to play, and that I wouldn't be gone long. I remember that morning that although Abby had become used to our Tuesday routine, she was more stressed than usual that morning. She cried when I was leaving, which was unusual, and as I left I remember thinking I couldn't wait to get home to her. I knew the new baby was coming in just 10 days, and I was really trying to soak up every minute of my time alone with her before everything would change.

My usual routine for Tuesdays was first to go upstairs to the ultrasound office to have my biophysical profile, and then afterwards head downstairs to see my doctor. I went upstairs, and said hello to the office staff, who knew me well by this point. Another woman was in there, showing off her new week-old baby to the nurse. She asked when I was due, and I told her it was 10 days away.  She said "don't be so sure, I thought I had two weeks left, and this one surprised me by coming early." I remember rolling my eyes and thinking "there is no way this baby is coming early..." I went in and had my ultrasound, confirmed my little stinker was still breech, and joked with the ultrasound tech that she only had to see me twice more before my surgery. She said "well, unless he comes early!" Yeah, right.

I was 38 weeks along, and so at that point I was seeing my doctor every week. This particular week his schedule was so full they couldn't fit me in to see him.  I was told I would need to see a different doctor in the practice. When I walked into the appointment the nurse handed me a pamphlet on what to expect during and after my c-section. I didn't have time to look at it before I was called back into the exam room to see the doctor.  I was a little annoyed that I was seeing someone different in the practice... I had a lot of questions and anxieties about my upcoming c-section, and I really wanted to talk it over with my doctor. But I didn't get to think much about it when they started my appointment by taking my blood pressure. It was 140/90. The nurse frowned, and left to get the doctor. The doctor came back in, a young woman in her 30's who had just had a baby herself a few months before. She took my blood pressure a second time... this time it was 150/92. She told me that she was concerned by those numbers, but she wanted to give me a little time to lie down and rest, to see what would happen. She said she needed to run over to the hospital to do a delivery, and to rest while she was gone. She came back about 20 minutes later (wow, that was a quick delivery!), and rechecked me. It had gone back down to 140/90, but the doctor said that she was concerned that I was heading in the wrong direction, and she would feel better if I went to triage to be observed for a couple of hours to see exactly what my BP was doing over a longer period of time. I asked her if I needed to call my husband, and she said "No, I think it is ok to wait. It might turn out to be nothing, and you might get to go home. Go ahead and check into the hospital, and then we will let you know in plenty of time if something changes and we need to deliver you."

I stepped out into the waiting room, and visions of Abby's birth began coming back to me. I remember going in at 37 weeks with her, and getting similar BP at my checkup and going to the hospital for observation. I was induced that night and delivered her the next day. I wondered if today would be the day that I would meet this baby. I called Jeanne as I left the office, and told her that I wouldn't be home for a few hours, and needed to be observed in the hospital. She sounded worried, but I tried to downplay everything, hoping that if I could convince her it was no big deal that I could convince myself too. I felt guilty that I wouldn't be home in time to play with Abby like I had promised. Funny the little things we worry about as big things are happening.

I walked out to my car and called Ben. By then it was about 12:30pm. I was really hungry, because I had skipped breakfast, but I had no time to stop for lunch. I explained to Ben what was going on, and that I was headed over to the hospital (which is right next door to my doctor's office) to be observed. He asked me if I wanted him to come, and I told him that I could handle it by myself for now, and didn't want him to have to leave work for no reason. I told him that I would just be laying there on the monitors, and would call if I needed him. He sounded unsure... I don't think he wanted me to be alone. I remember feeling a sense of calm as I was walking towards the hospital. I didn't know what was ahead, and I was a little bit nervous, but I sensed God's presence with me, and I knew that no matter what was about to happen He was right there. And so it was like a supernatural confidence that kept me calm as I headed into the hospital.

I got checked in, and a nurse brought me into a small room to take my blood pressure. It had risen to about 160/100. She raised her eyebrows as she looked at the numbers. And then she leaned over and whispered "I'm no doctor, so don't quote me.... but I've been here a long time... and you're having a baby today." I remember feeling a huge mixture of emotions come over me... excitement, nervousness, a little fear, and some disbelief that this was really happening. They took me into a room, I got changed into a gown, and was hooked up to all kinds of monitors. I fidgeted as we awaited the official word from the doctor. I called my mom to tell her what was going on, and within minutes she was in the car headed to the hospital.  Just a few minutes later the nurse came back in and said "We got word from the doctor! Today is a great day to have a baby! Call your husband!" I called Ben and told him the news. Turns out he had ignored me when I told him I could handle being monitored alone and was already on his way to come and be with me. He asked if he had time to turn around and go home for my hospital bag and our camera. I remember feeling so overwhelmed by the idea that I was actually going to have my baby that day... have SURGERY that day... that I couldn't even answer him. I wanted him with me that very second... but I didn't have anything with me! My whole hospital bag was at home, patiently waiting for April 26. I told him yes, to turn around and get our stuff. After what seemed like an eternity (but was only about 30 minutes) Ben arrived and I could tell he was in a state of disbelief too. We were both trying to wrap our heads around the fact that the baby was coming TODAY. We called Jeanne and told her to go upstairs to our room to find the list I had written out of all the things that Abby needed packed in order to go to Jeanne's house (sometimes being Type-A is a wonderful thing). And then we realized that if the baby was coming today that meant we were going to miss the Phillies game later that week! My date night had gone out the window... but I was going to meet my baby, and that was MUCH better than any date night :)

The nurses and doctors came in and out, asking me lots of different questions, and doing another ultrasound to confirm baby was still breech.  After determining that yes, baby was still head up, and that I would need a c-section, they asked me when the last time was that I had eaten, because I would need to wait at least 12 hours after my last meal to have my surgery. Well, I told them, ironically enough I ran out of time to eat breakfast today, and I never made it to lunch, so I haven't eaten since 9pm last night. They were happy to hear that, as my blood pressure was continuing to climb and they needed to get the baby out quickly. They scheduled my c-section for 5pm.  And that's when I started to see that verse that says "And God works all things together for the good of those who love him..." really start to play out. Had I eaten breakfast that day I would have had to wait until 9 or 10:00 for my surgery, all the while trying to control dangerous blood pressure. And then I got some more good news. My doctor (the one whose schedule had been too full for me to see that day), was the doctor on call in the OR doing all the c-sections that day! Isn't it funny how God works? Here I was frustrated I didn't get to see him in the office earlier... but God knew I was going to have my baby that day. And He knew it would be an emergency c-section. And He knew I would feel most at ease with my own doctor doing the surgery. And He knew I shouldn't have breakfast that day. And there He was, despite all my annoyances over missing breakfast and lunch and not seeing my doctor, working out EVERYTHING for my good.

I went upstairs to the pre-op area (the same place I had gone for my version 10 days before). I remember it was the day after the Boston Marathon bombings, and so the news was replaying the images over and over. I asked Ben to turn off the tv... I was so nervous about my surgery I just needed to stay in a positive frame of mind. The nurse came in and gave Ben a set of scrubs, and then attached some strange wrap sort of devices to my legs. She told me it would help with my circulation after surgery and prevent blood clots. Then the anesthesiologist came in and talked about the spinal that I would get to make me numb, and then the resident OB came in to introduce himself and explain that he would be doing my surgery along with my doctor. I don't remember much else that they told me.. I was getting more nervous by the second. After I was all prepped and ready, Ben and I headed to the OR.

Ben was told he had to wait outside while I went in and was given my spinal. After I was completely numb he would be allowed inside. I was terrified. All that warm-fuzzy supernatural confidence I had felt in the parking lot earlier was gone. I was facing surgery... I was about to be CUT OPEN... people were going to see my INSIDES... MY GUTS... and I was TOTALLY FREAKING OUT. I was wheeled on a stretcher over to the operating table. It was my first time in an operating room. It was huge! A lot bigger than I had imagined it would be. There were bright lights everywhere, and it was really really cold in there. I had to shimmy my way from the stretcher onto the table. The nurse anesthetist came over and introduced himself. I forget his name, but I will never forget his kindness. He explained exactly what would happen as the doctor put the needle into my back.  He smiled and reassured me, "Everything is going to be 100% ok." I told him "I'll believe you after this is all over." The spinal went into my back, and within minutes I was numb. They laid me gently down onto the table, and put up a big blue curtain in front of my face. I could see their reflection a little in the lights over my head, so I refused to look up there for fear I might see my guts hanging out of my body. Then a nurse came over and moved my arms out to the sides next to me. Typically they tie your hands down so you don't have any sudden movements while they are working on you. I told the nurse anesthetist that I was afraid of having my hands tied down. He whispered that he would just make it look like they were tied, but leave the strings totally loose so that if I got nervous I could lift them at any time. It would be our secret.

Ben was allowed in and he came and sat down on my left, up by my head. The nurse anesthetist said "someone will always be near your head in case you need anything." I said, "Will it be you?"... he looked around. I could tell it wasn't his usual job... but then he looked at me... and I think he must have sensed the terror I was feeling and so he gently said "Yup! It will be me. I promise I won't leave your side." It's funny, I had just met him 5 minutes ago, but hearing him say that brought me more comfort than anything else. He reminded me everything would be ok... and I reminded him that I would not believe him until after it was over.

My doctor came in (a graying man in his 60's) and said "hey kid! looks like we're having a baby today huh?" The resident leaned over and asked if I felt anything. I said no. He said "good, because I just pricked you pretty hard, so that must mean the spinal is working." I nodded, but was still secretly afraid that I would feel them cutting my belly open. I still wouldn't look up at those lights. I was NOT going to risk seeing my insides.

They began to cut me open, and literally within minutes they had the baby halfway out. He came out feet first, little butt sticking up in the air. Once he was partially out, they let Ben stand up and watch the rest of him being born. We kept asking "What is it? A boy or a girl? WHAT IS IT?!!" Ben couldn't see because the baby was breech, and his butt was blocking the view of his boyness or girlness. My doctor said to the resident "TELL THEM WHAT IT IS!!!"

"IT'S A BOY!"

Oh my gosh. It's a BOY! IT'S A BOY! I couldn't even wrap my head around it. A BOY. I turned to Ben, "We have a BOY! Can you believe it?!!!" They lifted him the rest of the way out and took him over to the incubator. We waited in silence as we watched the nurses and doctors work. He was having trouble breathing, and needed some extra help at first. But within minutes they had him stable and I got to watch from the table as they took his footprints and rubbed him till he was a pinky, rosy color.

A boy! Tears were streaming down my face. I just couldn't believe it. The doctor asked me what his name was. "Joshua David". My very own Joshua David. 6 lbs 12oz, 19 inches long, born at 5:03pm on April 16, 2013.

Soon a nurse came over, and asked if I felt ready to hold him. At this point I was still flat on my back, totally numb from the waist down, and not totally sewn up yet. But nothing was going to keep me from my baby. The nurse brought him over, and laid him on my chest, skin to skin. There is absolutely nothing in the world like meeting your child for the first time. There are no words to describe the emotions that come over you like a wave as you hold that tiny, warm body close to your chest, and look into their deep blue eyes. He was mine. All mine. I forgot about the fact that I was lying on an operating table with my belly cut wide open. It was just me and my Joshie. My little man. 

The nurse anesthetist asked Ben for our camera so he could take some pictures of us as family. He said we'd treasure this moment forever. He was right.  I told him that I believed him now. Everything would be 100% ok. 

They finished sewing me up, and a nurse took the baby to wrap him up. A large piece of machinery moved over top of the table, and the nurses hooked straps up to the blankets I was laying on. Then the machine lifted me up, sort of like in a big taco, and moved me over to a stretcher so I could be wheeled to the recovery area. The nurse handed me back the baby, and let me hold him all the way down the hall and into recovery where I was able to nurse him right away.  

I kind of wish the story ended there... with recovery going great and sunshine and roses. But things didn't exactly happen that way. And that's ok. It's my story, and I've got to own it. Nothing really happened like I had imagined it would, and recovery was no different.

Typically you are brought into recovery for 2 hours, and then moved down to your postpartum room. That's where your family comes to see you and you have your baby in your room with you, etc. Well, 2 hours turned into 4, and 4 hours turned into 6 in the recovery room. Our parents were able to visit us, and I was pretty happy from whatever magical drugs they had given me, so I didn't really notice that I was in the recovery area a lot longer than they had said I would be.  But about 11pm my doctor came back in. He said the reason they had delivered me was because it was the only way to get my blood pressure to go back to normal. But instead of going down, my blood pressure was still rising. It was about 170/115 when he came to talk to me at 11pm. My liver enzymes were high, and I was showing signs of developing eclampsia. Eclampsia is a life threatening situation that can cause seizures and even death to the mother if left untreated. I was told I would have to be put on a drug called magnesium sulfate for the next 24 hours to keep me from having a seizure. At the time I nodded, hearing what he was saying, but not really understanding what it all meant. 

They started the medication in my IV, and took me over to the labor and delivery floor where I would be monitored around the clock. I still hadn't been able to get out of the bed since my surgery. Typically women are practicing getting up out of bed within a couple of hours after a c-section. My pain medication was starting to wear off and I was in a lot of pain. I went down to the labor and delivery room, and the nurse explained that I was going to get very tired and weak from the magnesium sulfate. I was exhausted from my surgery and the late hour, and could barely lift my head up off the bed. I wanted to nurse my baby, but I honestly was afraid I would drop him if I held him. She asked if I wanted her to take him to the nursery overnight, and feed him a bottle. Even though I felt 1,000 pounds of guilt over it, I weakly nodded yes. I was starting to feel as sick as I really was. That night and the next day were some of the worst I've ever experienced. The magnesium sulfate works by slowing down everything in your body. I could barely hold my eyes open, and I felt drugged an unable to understand a lot of what was going on around me. I barely even remember our parents visiting us. I was seeing double because the medicine made one of my eyes go lazy, and I couldn't eat or drink anything while I was on the medication. That meant I hadn't eaten anything since late on April 15, and it was now mid-day on the 17th. I had a hard time bonding with Josh because I was so sick, exhausted, and drugged.

I know I was lucky to have such good medical care. My condition was really serious. I needed that medication to keep me from having a potentially life threatening seizure. But it wasn't easy.  I asked not to have any visitors outside of our parents for those first couple of days. I wanted to be able to enjoy seeing our family/friends, but I couldn't when I was stuck in bed with a catheter and a lazy eye.  Thankfully at 5pm on the 17th I was allowed to come off the medication, and slowly start walking around. 

Things got much better after that, and within a couple of days we were headed home with our Joshua. 

It wasn't the way I imagined it would go. But it's my story. Our story. And I've been blessed with the most precious son a mother could ever hope for. He is sweet and loving, slow to anger, and quick to cuddle. He loves his sister, and laughs every day. He reminds me of what's important, and to cherish every minute because he is growing way too fast. And I love him with my whole heart 100% forever and ever.  He was worth every second of what I had to go through for him to be born. I am so, so blessed. 

Blades of grass

As for man, his days are like grass-- he blooms like a flower of the field; when the wind passes over it, it vanishes, and its place is no longer known. Psalm 103:15-16

Today Ben and I took the kids up to see my grandparents in the Poconos. They hadn't had a chance to meet Joshua yet, and we were glad to be able to spend the day with them. I always enjoy getting to see them, as it brings back warm memories of childhood summers spent in the mountains baking brownies with my Grandma and riding tractors with my Pop Pop. And of course, listening to stories of the past, told in that special way only grandparents know how to do. 

Today, as I sat nursing my chubby baby boy, my grandma told me about the days when she was raising her four babies. She remarked at how different things are now, with the new nursing covers that allow women to nurse their babies discreetly in public. She said that in her day women were expected to nurse in private. She told me about a party she attended after having her first baby, and how she had to go into a back bedroom to feed him away from the other guests, and that at one point a small boy wandered into the room, about five or six years old, and couldn't believe what he saw! When he rejoined the party someone asked him what he had seen and he said, "That baby is eating Pat!" She laughed as she told the story, remembering it like it was yesterday instead of almost sixty years ago. As she looked at me holding my baby, it made her think back to the days when she had her babies, and I realized just how quickly time must have passed for her. 

When I was pregnant with Josh, many mothers told me how time passes so much more quickly with your second child than your first. I didn't know what they meant until Josh arrived. Now I've hardly blinked and he is already 3 months old. I suppose that's how my Grandma feels... she's hardly blinked now she's holding her great-grandson. 

I know it's unrealistic to cherish every moment, life just isn't that easy. But I do so wish I could capture and describe and forever remember the most precious moments with my babies. The way they look when they fall asleep, so peaceful, so beautiful. And the way their eyes crinkle when they smile. And the sound of the laughter that comes from deep in their bellies when I tickle them. And the sweetness of their smell when they fall asleep on my chest. And the softness of their skin when I kiss them goodnight. And how it feels when my tiny baby grabs my finger and squeezes hard, and how warm my hand feels when Abby slips hers in mine. 

I don't want to close my eyes for fear that I will blink too fast. I just want to cherish and remember all of it, so that sixty years from now, when my children are grown and the house is quiet, I can close my eyes and still hear the laughter and taste the sweetness. And if I'm lucky, I hope someday I can pass on this love in stories to my own great-grandchildren. 

The juggling act

Before Josh was born I remember a few people asking me if I was worried about how much life would change going from one to two kids. At the time I said no, I wasn't especially worried, I figured it would all sort itself out eventually. Besides, what's the point of worrying about the inevitable? I once heard someone say that change, even a welcome change, brings stress and difficulties. And I knew that having a second baby would be a welcome change, albeit a stressful one at times.

For the most part, it hasn't been so bad. I've already been through the baby stage once before, so I am less worried about getting everything right this time. I think what I didn't anticipate was the guilt I would feel when both kids need me at the exact same time, and I am not able to meet both of their needs right away. They say the love in your heart multiplies when you welcome a second child, but I think I needed my hands to multiply as well. Sometimes there is just not enough of me to go around.

Like when Abby wants to eat lunch, and Josh decides he needs to nurse at that exact moment too, and when they aren't fed IMMEDIATELY both end up screaming and crying and I run around like a maniac trying to satisfy everyone. Or when Abby wants to go outside and play and I need to get her shoes on and Josh needs a diaper change at the same time, and again, when either of them has to wait for even 3 seconds, they end up screaming.

I've had to just accept that at any given point in time one of my children is most certainly going to be crying and/or screaming and tell myself that I am doing the best I can.

But it makes for a long day.