belly monster

Good brain/bad brain

2011-06-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

The brain is an efficient organ. No response from a particular set of neurons and it ceases it's synaptic attempts at communication---if only we could be so bold with our dysfunctional relationships.
At this point you're probably thinking: yaay brain. My daughter's cataract has me feeling otherwise...
A cataract is when the proteins of the lens of the eye stick together. It's really quite common in the elderly, but only 1/10,000 births are babies diagnosed with what's called congenital cataract.
An elderly person has their lens removed to correct their vision. They see clearly, but will need corrective lenses. So when I tell people my three month old daughter has a cataract people assume it's the same as for an adult. No big whoop right?
Well it's quite different. Again I want to acknowledge that I am so, so grateful that she is a healthy baby girl, but this is serious stuff. The ability of her vision to develop properly is entirely dependent on the quality of the image that her eye is able to produce. So unlike a grownup who has had a lifetime of clear vision and then develops a cataract, my daughter's brain will stop sending signals to the affected eye if she isn't seeing clearly enough through it.
Grrrrrrr brain!

The ophthalmologist at Children's Hospital was amazing. He explained that her cataract is only partial, that it's size is such that light might still pass through it, and that we might be able to train her eye to see around it. Therefore the surgery should be deferred as long as her visual acuity holds up. Ideally it will be past her first birthday so she can be fitted with an artificial lens at the same time. I could throw up as I'm writing this. Unfortunately because of where it is in her lens (at the back and central) it is only a question of when she gets the surgery not if.
Soooo we patch. We put drops in her affected eye 3 times a day to dilate her pupil and let in more light around the eye and we patch her "good" eye for two hours a day. We follow up.
Yaay brain.
I go home. Read everything I can about cataracts and the need for removal as early as possible. Freak out. Call the ophthalmologist back. Miraculously he actually calls back and reassures me that this is a partial cataract and therefore waiting and managing conservatively is ok. I stop reading and checking her eye all the time.

Letting go is so hard. If only I could train my own brain to see around the worry and see the light...

After pains/ after thoughts

2011-06-01T19:48:00.000-07:00

The birth of a second baby can be easier than the first. The receptors in the uterine walls are well established, supposedly the muscles know how to move in synchronicity and the cervix dilates---they've done it before. Then the curve ball was the after pains were more painful this time. 100's of births aloud me to imagine what another baby might mean to my body, but being a mother to a second baby doesn't somehow become half as difficult. While things feel more relaxed;I haven't listened to her hear with my stethoscope and I am pretty sure her arching back flips are gas and not hypertonia, my nipples haven't quite fallen off from breastfeeding. There are new challenges to learn from.

For one how to help my two year old son through this transition. I recommend a book called : "Siblings Without Rivalry". This book has helped us immensely. It describes the arrival of a new sibling as being similar to your partner sitting you down one day and telling you that because they love you so much they will be getting a new husband/wife. this one will be younger and smaller than you. Imagine the rage you might feel. The jealousy. Now imagine you are two and don't have the words to express it. Aha! This is why he says he loves his sister with an openhanded slap to the face, why our toilet trained son has started "fire-manning" the leather couch, and getting our cat Magoo into a full-nelson prior to jettisoning him over our gate. We 've learned to acknowledge his anger and frustrations, ask him to use his words and ask him not to rip the blinds off the wall. All this while being utterly sleep deprived and learning the fine art of dodging said toddler while breastfeeding---I am beginning to feel that my breasts are destined to be caught in my toes one day not because of breastfeeding itself, but the fact that I am often running around with a feeding baby swinging from them. Ahh the perfection of chaos. (Not sure if that is arms waving in terror Ahh, or a gentle sigh of contentment ahh.
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The latest challenge is with our daughter herself. Our little girl has two different colored eyes. Not the Husky/ Australian Shepard different, but different that I noticed one brown and one blue within a few days of her birth. It's called heterochromia and it's not a big deal on it's own. Recently our pediatrician felt it was likely an isolated anomaly, but had us go to an ophthalmologist just to ensure everything was healthy with her eyes. During our visit on Friday the doctor busily rolled her chair from our daughter to her dictation machine. Simultaneously examining and dictating her findings of our daughters right eye. Then she examined the left. The dictations stopped and the machine came out.
"I just want to have a closer look at something I found in her left eye"
What?
"She has a congenital cataract and will need to go to Children's hospital and be put under general for further examination of her eye."
What?
"If the cataract is large enough she will have her lens removed and will have a prosthetic put in it's place so that her vision will properly develop.They should call you soon"

At this point I acknowledge that things could be a lot worse. I have seen a lot worse. But the idea of my little 12 week old being put under general anesthetic and having to have any surgery was a shock to me. I wanted to throw up. To run away with her. To ask for a second opinion...

I cried.
Tears in the office and a boohoo in the hallway. My husband's way of coping usually involves some poorly landing jokes. He hugged me and we had a walk and talk before heading back home to our son.

My way of dealing is to spin my wheels with all of the "what if"s, research like crazy. My external locus of control.
Labour is a beautiful metaphor for life--stay present and just go with whatever challenge presents itself.
Now we wait for a phone call.

Welcome baby girl.

2011-06-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

My little girl was born on March 13, 2011 at home in the bed she was conceived in. The two midwives in attendance were colleagues and, I'd like to think, friends. They were amazing. Coddled me when I felt discouraged, and were very firm with me when I stubbornly wouldn't let them help me to get the baby out faster. The romantic image of the woman looking inwardly, sighing gracefully and having her dewy glowing face sponged by her birth attendants, while she labours---sooooo not me.
I scream:
"Snip, snip" to my partner while making stabbing scissor gestures at his groin.
"Kill me now. F$#%k the 'code word' (Pomeranian) take me to the hospital I want drugs."
"I f@$^ing hate this. Get this out of me."
"Don't f#&*ing tell me I'm 'almost there'. I am a midwife I know you're lying to me"
Hard things to reconcile with the typical midwifery rhetoric of "birth is normal" and "women are made to do this". There were times, I know that I only ended up with a homebirth because of the mental fortitude of my husband and midwives to withstand a barrage of screaming and insults and because of their ability to ignore my pleas for mercy: "Honey go to the shed and get the ax."

How on earth someone who has been paid to be the paragon of calm and together could become such a raving madwoman in labour? These things are so clear to me, perhaps because they are so visceral, so extraordinary. These are the moments where in the name of pushing another person into being the superficial trappings of my own judgments of myself are cast off and I am left naked. Disarmed. Forced to be present. Surfing the wave of each contraction and falling off in a panic that leaves me terrified and screaming that I can't do this....

Then I do it.
She is here. She is beautifully plump and wrinkled and slippery. Cradled to my heart it beats to her: your are mine, my love for you is endless.
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I am currently doing the one handed type that is familiar only to new mothers with sleeping babies on their laps and perhaps dirty old men watching internet porn (not sure how there can be space for both of those in my mind).

My daughter is perfect right now. Maybe it's because I am still perfect to her. She has yet to roll her eyes in disdain of my corny jokes or tell me how much she hates me because she is a teenager and it will be her job to rid my hair of all of its pesky melanin and break my heart.

I love my life right now.

Hot in the Kitchen

2011-01-19T21:38:00.000-08:00

Homemade Pad Thai is not without it's risks. Bellies beware! My evershrinking arms could scarcely reach the wok enough to stir the contents. Naturally the wok came to lean on my belly (did I mention I'm eight months pregnant?????). I couldn't understand how the kitchen had gotten so hot suddenly when I looked down to see my lobster belly poking out of the bottom of my shirt. Just like the cartoon wolf suddenly realizing that that burning smell was his proverbial rear end, I hoped out of the way in surprise and let my husband command the wok and noodles. I've often worried about trying not to get my toddler killed from freak accidents on a daily basis, it hadn't occurred to me to start worrying about this in utero.

We had another mishap in the kitchen too. My son is more or less toilet trained--usually he tells us when he has to pee. So I am cutting up green peas for dinner and he says: "Pea please" so I hand him a pea. Then again a little louder: "Pea Mama" so I hand him a pea. Then he starts taking his pants off and I look down and sure enough he took a pee on the floor. Yup--one of my bright moments.

I keep telling my husband that this is why I am only still have my white belt in mothering. The stumbling mistakes I make when trying to do the best possible for my child(ren), are so frustrating. How some mothers come to the beach with food and extra pants for their kids, look perfectly put together for play dates and manage not to harm themselves bodily in the kitchen while preparing a meal for their families still eludes me sometimes. Fortunately, I am off work now so I have some time to explore these mysteries. Maybe I will be up to a yellow belt before I go back to work.

From My Sick Bed

2010-11-30T14:47:00.000-08:00

The parade floats and feasts of overstuffed birds, this time of year makes me feel quite at home with my ever-increasing girth. Being pregnant the second time around is such an entirely different experience. Whereas with my son I felt remarkably "in touch" with my body, went on 7 mile hikes, walked at least two hours a day--hit all the pregnancy terms and conditions one is meant to feel and do while incubating a new person. This time I struggle to have time to remember that I am even pregnant save for my decided lack of feet when I look down. I ache, I am exhausted. Like somehow the process of getting pregnant has transported me into the body of a 94 year old woman who would just be content to eat and watch Dancing With the Stars. Here I jest I am not sure what kind of long term effects on the fetus there might be from prolonged exposure to the celebration of mediocre talent and sequins. No official studies have been done, but I am not chancing giving birth to a baby with that much self delusion set on bedazzling everything in our house.

I work, I play with my son, I play with my husband, but I am just pooped. My friend offered sage advice. She felt that I am probably carrying a girl as she is sucking the life essence out of me. Hmmm... I thought they did that once they were teenagers. The old wives tale says that if you are carrying a boy you only get more beautiful in pregnancy, but a girl robs you of your beauty---I must be carrying one gorgeous girl. To say that my appearance is comparable to that of a bus lady is to insult the fine people who drive buses. However there is a disheveled woman on South Park whose catch phrase is "Sit down and shut up" that my freakish mop seems to evoke

Bringing back to the time of year and to the underlying current of what's wonderful in my life. The big picture if you will. Of course there is gratitude. My son continues to delight me more and more everyday. Although this weekend we were all sick with bronchitis and feeling terrible, he was of course toddlering despite all this and we briefly flirted with the idea of breaking our "No TV till your 4" rule (read the most recent literature from the Canadian Pediatric Association before you poopoo me) to just get some rest. It was challenging, but we made it through although at times he was channeling demon energy that left our cat feeling abused and applesauce in places we hadn't imagined a sauce could go. Sorry Mr Magoo.

MY husband has actually stepped up today and has taken him so I could get some blogging---I mean rest. My mother always mentioned how she never got a day off with 5 kids. Admittedly I didn't really get what she meant until having one of my own. After looking after my son with the croupe, my husband, two days of clinic and a birth (not mine) to 3 am, I sound like a reject from a tranny phone sex line and have a cough that might make me pee a little. So I have some solid time to myself.

Funny this notion of "time to myself". My friend down island and I were going to have a girl's night. My first totally away from my boys, other than when at a birth, and I got sick the day I was meant to leave. So sick that here I am, in bed, by myself. Perhaps it's just the universes way of ensuring my time away from my family is self reflective and monk like as opposed to consumer driven and girly??? Really we weren't going to hit that many craft fairs.

In the interest of convalescence I am signing off.

Laundryroom Lust

2010-10-07T13:48:00.000-07:00

My husband came home from work yesterday and yelled to me in the bathroom: "So I had a sexy encounter today."
"Go on." I yell from the sink that I am wiping of toddler schmutz. Glamorous as I might be elbow deep in sink, I am not feeling threatened at this moment. Merely intrigued.
"Well I was in the tool room which is in the laundry room at one of the buildings I manage and there was a hot girl there doing her laundry."
"Uhh Huhh" I yell back waiting for the story to actually get interesting.
"She walked by me on her way out and dropped her underwear for me."
"Really?" I knew someone I'd like to drop.
"Then she actually asked me to pick them up for her because they were her favorite cute panties. She actually said "cute panties"!" My husband at this point blushing.
"So what did you do?" I said knowing full well that the desired "run screaming out of the building" answer was unlikely.
"Uh I just handed them to her with my ring finger hand and told her I had to get back to work. Then I left. Isn't that crazy? Normally I don't pick up on those things, but I couldn't believe how obvious that was."
I refrained from responding that he would have to be in a coma to not notice that.
Clearly this woman was thinking "Dear Pent House Letters..." with a lewd baseline thumping at my husband. EWWW.

Funnily the desire to seek out this woman's apartment, wait there with a sharp object then leap at her flying squirrel style while gouging out her eyes, barely occurred to me. So I did what most neurotic women do--I internalized it. It really made me consider the disparity in perceived sexuality of hetero fathers and mothers. I am not getting on my feminist soap box here---so keep your panties on (or at least away from my husband).

When our son was a few days old a wonderful local photographer came to our house and took pictures. Many of them featuring our drooling, lump of cute pink goo, the rest featured a shirtless husband and said lump. One photo included me. Yes just one of the woman who had just run the three day marathon and had the deflated body of a Dr Seuss character. The point is not so much that I was left out, but more so that when the his and her photos are viewed comments on my husband range from the "Oh I love a man with a baby" to the "Wow, I didn't know your husband was so sexy." My photo: "wow you look so much younger in person" to "You must have been so tired." Ultimately the image of a man with a baby women leads most women to fantasize about said gent, while the same photo of a woman with her kid leads people to comment on her beauty in spite of the fact she has a baby. How many men lust for a woman with a toddler on her hip, food stains on her shirt and baby number two swelling her belly? I am not seeing a lot of random underwear dropping in my future.

This isn't a boohoo resignation to the asexuality of panel pants or jeans pulled up to my armpits for the rest of my life. At 31 I hardly lament the truth-or-dare, guess-where-my new-piercing-is, promiscuous days of my twenties. My hope is that there is room for sexy in motherhood without resorting to being a big old laundry room hooch---no really. I'm fine.

Morality and Mothering (or what I watched last night)

2010-10-05T23:39:00.000-07:00

11:30. Ha ha. Beat my time yesterday and I am actually blogging instead of blah-ing in front of the television---a miracle. Maybe the real miracle will be whether I will have anything left to say blogging two days in a row. Ooooh let's dig deep.

There was something on "The Daily Show" this evening---yes the very same marital aid blogged yesterday. The guest was an scientist/author of a book called: "The moral landscape". The book maintains that there is a scientific explanation for the basis of morality. By answering the question: "Is this for the betterment of the human species?" we can weigh in on what is right or wrong. The subjectivity of his argument was illustrated in the example he gave about the scientific basis by which he felt that the wearing of burkhas is wrong. What I wonder is whether our ethical questions would be oversimplified by asking a question that is so broad in scope. Breaking it down to the most basic level, wouldn't we be better served to ask : " How are these actions taking into account that we're all someone's baby?

Maybe this only conveys my ignorance about the nature of ethics in that I am bringing into an ethical debate something of an emotional level, but I can't help but feel that science has it's limitations and confounders and is subjective in it's application. Perhaps I am not fully grasping the difference between morals and ethics. Bringing humanity out of a lab and into the realm of the universality of motherhood makes the question somewhat more relate-able. Complex yes, but accessible. The question then expands beyond: are burkhas wrong, but what is it doing to a group of our children to have their practices so scrutinized? How would we feel if our children had mandatory dress codes or the flipside were told they couldn't wear clothing of their choice? How does one extract empathy from morality?

I think there is a reason why there are groups like MADD, why prohibition was largely instigated by women. It's because the basis of what we do is valuing another person as we value ourselves, that motherhood at it's best is the root of empathy. My mother always maintained that if there was a female president we wouldn't have wars--although Robin Williams maintains there would be very intense negotiations every 28 days. We are meant to shape the moral fiber of individual children on the basis of wanting to do what right for them what if we expanded this notion of motherhood so that it included the world??? Ok before I go into Time Outs for North Korea and groundings for the Congo. How is it that we have lost touch with our humanity to such an extent that we would need to quantify the decision to treat people properly through stats and tests instead of finding the answers in our hearts.

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"*&%^$! My Dad Says" was also online. I didn't make it through the whole thing as William Shatner wasn't nearly as prolific or thought provoking.

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I really have to laugh at my husband and I. For years now we have maintained that "We don't have TV", Perhaps we even tilted our heads back with such an utterance, hoping to more effectively look down our noses at those that do. Yes a big spiritual pat on the back for us. And while our son has never watched TV (see a recent study by the CAnadian pediatric society and what it says about TV and the neurological development of kids under four and then judge us) we have a projector for movies and we watch TV online. Such hypocrites.

Midnight Mumblings of Mama Zombie

2010-09-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Where to begin? Do I start with the fact that I am pregnant? Yes after months of quibbling over siblings we find ourselves reproductively destined to agree on two kids. This has been an interesting pregnancy to say the least. Not merely on the level that I believe all maternity care providers experience pregnancy as if they were observing human behavior from the safety of their home planet of "Know it All", but on this whole other level that has really surprised me. Inasmuch as I hear a very common remark from second time mothers in my clinic "It's not like it was with our other child's pregnancy" and I often reply that every pregnancy is different, I somehow decided that all of my clinical suggestions and observations do not apply to me. How surprised I was to be worshiping at the "big white altar", eating so voraciously, and crowned zombie queen, when last pregnancy I went on 7 mile hikes and worked two jobs in 2 different cities??
How do you make the space in your brain to be ecstatic, to want to beatifically gestate and let the world blissfully melt away while I seep into a sacchrine induced mommy coma or moma, then also feel like: "hey I need some space and time to myself, people."

I could draw such a bold divide between this pregnancy and the last one. Last pregnancy: sex good. This pregnancy: "the Daily Show" is better.etc,I can make definitive choices for the acute health of mamas and babes, but when it comes to the boundaries of myself and the wants and needs of others that decisiveness is lost. Prioritizing my little old hobby of writing is so easy to excuse away. I'm not complaining just merely letting the weeks of unexpressed fleeting thoughts purge from my soul or maybe I'm just having a little stream of consciousness.

Agggh. I wonder if anyone else agonizes over the content of their blog? Sometimes I sit here and the words flow through me like I'm a conduit for some great creative force in this universe and other times I feel like I am having an affair with my delete button. It feels so good to be using the non-medical, non life/death decision making, non household budget balancing side of my brain right now. Yet I had to wait to 1230 at night to do it? Let me put it out there to anyone who still, after weeks of stagnation, reads my blog---how do you keep inspired? How do you manage the time?
The zombie queen must rest. The creative must wait.

Ranty rant rant

2010-08-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

Soooo about that vow to write every week.... Hmmm... I guess I better get on that. The excuses never stop. I could talk about the 6 births I was at for my clinic this month. Somehow I would be absolved of responsibility for my own personal creativity because I was involved in a more ultimate or divine form of the creative--bringing life into the world. That excuse doesn't get me out of doing the dishes let alone ignoring my personal development. The most honest reason is that I'm scared. What if what I write isn't prolific? What if it's just boring? What if I actually committed the time to fulfilling my dream of writing a novel and it was crap? It wouldn't so much be a dream than just something I sucked at once. Is it easier to live in the continual fantasy of this unfulfilled potential, in having all of this creative kinetic energy stored up, than to release it and for a moment of potential disappointment. Hmmm... Maybe I need a therapist not a blog.

The last few weeks have put me in a much better space. Being busy has somehow necessitated that I be present as my time has been limited with my son to snuggles between naps and play between getting paged. I think I saw my partner somewhere in there too. The pace confirmed that I can rise to the occasion at my work, that it is soulfully fulfilling, that there are aspects I genuinely enjoy. And yet...
I know being on call affords me many a day where I am not called away, where I luxuriate in hours spent with my son that many a parent would kill for during the work day. Then I am up all night at a birth. Most people would think "Oh lovely. A life brought into this world, so what if you miss a few hours of sleep?" However to understand the whole picture, consider this---a page early in the evening means I miss putting my kid to bed, I am at the birth until the morning so he doesn't wake with me either, then the next day I spend sleeping because I have been up all night. We hang out for the afternoon before I am paged again that night. This is not typical in the schedule of a midwife, but it often happens when I'm on call. The potential for this means that am either absent literally or figuratively as "zombie-mom" for a few days at a time. What does this mean for parenting when all the advice out there preaches the gospel of consistency above all else ?Are these just the woes of a middle class white chick who has never had to work three jobs to keep her family afloat? Is it that I am just out of touch with economic necessity or is the reality of a world where a parent no longer has the choice to stay at home with their children unless they belong to the uber rich slightly problematic? I think this is deeper than I am capable of delving. I am feeling the call of the horizontal. Remember when you were single and horizontal could have had all sorts of sexual cogitations? Sleep is a sweet thing.

Write now or Yaay me. (Whichever seems less self indulgent)

2010-07-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

After cumulative hours of online "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" I was in dire need of a little nudge back to the key pad. I have to give a big thanks to CJ of Killing Superwoman blogfame for this. If you do get the chance, her blog (http://killsuperwoman.blogspot.com/) is worth checking out for witty, frank and very lucidly written insights into family, life and everything else.

Here I sit, half eaten bar of Green and Black's chocolate, ripped jeans and old nursing tank top ( what a milfy picture that paints) and way too late at night for while I'm on call, but I am compelled to write because of being validated that someone out there really does like me. What's most surprising, and maybe this is more the zing from eating way too much chocolate as opposed to connecting to the creative power, I forgot how much fun this is. Beyond the concern that what I write might resonate with, offend or tickle another person it's so great to just reconnect with the idea of writing for writing's sake--a tough sell when my schedule often feels to tight or maybe tightly bound to a 17 month old that doing things like private trips to the bathroom where I don't have to explain why mommy doesn't have a penis, showers without several rounds of "row, row, row your boat", free time without the pangs of guilt that I should be more productive, seem like luxuries. The bottom line is, while I've striven for greater insight in motherhood, work and life through writing the bottom line is that I just love to do this.

Besides my psychic told me I should do this. No really. And I know I've lost half of you now who have just swept me under the "freak rug" if not for first being a midwife, but secondly for indulging in the fun of having my cards read. It was a gag gift for Christmas. I get that tarot cards are not the secret to my life's path inasmuch as I get that lottery tickets are not a sound means of retirement planning, but interestingly a card came up for the creative. I think it was the "King of Rods" indicating this very strong creative force in my past that was having or should have a resurgence. Ding, ding, ding instantly I thought: "Writing. I have to stay connected to this."

So despite years of writing dull academic papers that surely sucked any creative inspiration, and amidst a crazy midwife/life schedule I am going to try to write at least every week. If for nothing else then to appease the psychic overlords--no I'm messing with you. I think each of us owes it to the little girl in us who dreamed of epic stories, kept a diary, wanted to save the day and who is now old enough to put her voice into words.

Real Mothers Have Fat Asses

2010-05-14T21:43:00.000-07:00

I was putting my son down in the room adjacent to the bathroom when I overheard a discussion between my five year old nephew and another one of his aunties.
"So I saw a hooker the other day." he paused midtooth, brush in mouth.
Attempting to contain my reams of laughter, I listened to see what my sister who has yet to have her own kids would say.
"Oh I see and what do you think about that?"Score auntie--good deflection.
"I know what one is--a hooker"Ouch this is a tough one.
"And what's that?" She walks into that one.
"Someone you can pay to do whatever you want to their bodies." He spits into the sink. "I would pay to punch someone in the crotch!!"
Ok keep it together auntie.
"I think it's time for bed."says my sister.
"She was smoking too. You know there are patches for smoking, but I don't think she knew about that. Maybe someone should tell her."

This little exchange left me thinking how spontaneous, funny and surprising kids can be and how we as there parents really have to be prepared for anything even when we're at our wit's end.

My sixteen month old is obsessed with bottles and pouring, he also enjoys such activities as opening up and taking out. Recently, after placing his carefully folded clothing into the dresser in his room, I turned around to see that my son had been exploring my husband's bedside table. After opening the translucent bottle he was in the midst of pouring personal lubricant all over his bare legs. When I dashed to into the room while attempting to contain my amusement her proceeded to attempt a crawl to escape. Drat to be foiled by his overly slippery legs and pool of goo, he basically did the crawling version of the running man in place for a few minutes before I could stop laughing long enough to help him out.

What in life would have ever prepared me for this? Hilarious, touching, challenging. What amazes me more is that despite the myriad of experiences that parents have to share we're so much more inclined to use the differences in our children as further notches on the "good mother " stick we insist on beating ourselves over the head with. How can we transform the: "My kid never does that" "yours isn't doing this yet?""I never do that with mine?" comments into a community of supportive parents who celebrate differences.

Maybe that's living life on a Disneyland ride, but I would like to embrace more sharing with other parents. Especially those times when you have had it. Where things aren't funny. A friend of mine once told me that in her darkest moments with her toddler she thought about leaving him on the Lionsgate Bridge and then she burst into tears. She was so ashamed and felt her feelings of being overwhelmed made her a bad mother.
"Of course it doesn't, " I said,"Only if you left him there without any bus fare." We laughed. Dark humour perhaps not shared by those who don't have children, but often giggled at by women who have asked their two year old 26 times not to climb on the table, or perform exploratory surgical proctology on the cat with his toothbrush.
Another friend confided that she was having a hard time with the stringent expectations that her child's alternative school were placing on parents--no plastics, organic only, no TV. What were meant as guidelines to foster and protect a sense of wonder within the children ended up becoming unreachable benchmarks of "the good mother". We started talking about the arbitrary measures of "the good mother": the immaculate house, the beautifully prepared dinner served on time by a perfectly quaffed woman in puke free clothes showing just the slightest hint of cleavage and neglige. Who the f#&$% are we kidding? Why are we holding ourselves to such high standards. Our kids aren't perfect, why should we be?
My confession: I eat a piece and honestly sometimes a bar of dark chocolate daily when I have been up all night with my son or at a birth. I use it quite medically. It's my treat after my son goes down and I don't like the cheap stuff. Perhaps this contributes to my body looking like someone opened the door too early on a souffle they were baking, but it's my splurge. My friend and I joked that maybe if all women could eat chocolate they would be less inclined to want to leave their kids on bridges. Maybe the new good mom archetype should involve having a big butt from enjoying the finer (read chocolate) things in life.

Happy Birthday to Me.

2010-04-24T19:47:00.000-07:00

I have no qualms about telling anyone my age. I am thirty one year's old as of yesterday and I love my birthdays. More than just a time to gorge myself on cake, chocolate, wine and more chocolate. My birthday is a time when I like to reflect on the things I am grateful for in my life. The timing couldn't be more perfect in the midst of this enormous shift. Yep I'm about to get all Pollyanna on your ass (remember the Disney movie about a girl who was an incurable optimist). Husband check, baby check, house next to sprawling beach on the ocean--check. Yaay.

Right now it feels like a bit of a double edged sword. The scariest thing about considering a huge career shift is precisely because there is so much at stake. Putting away neurotic things, I will just eat cake. Lots of it.
Hmm maybe I'll just eat my weight in chocolate and pass out in a sugar induced coma by 8pm. Excellent. We "trigenarians" know how to party.

Throwing It All Away.

2010-04-14T01:52:00.000-07:00

My 17 year old sister comes to mind when I hear a statement that dramatic or a vague memory of myself at that age, seething, spit flying, rage emanating from my body as I toss my boyfriend's clothes out my bedroom window. In the current space of now it feels a lot scarier. Something happened over the weekend and for new mothers and soon to be mothers I caution you before continuing to read this post. My job is a double edged sword--possibly the most rewarding and sublimely loving job one could have bringing life into this world, but, and this is the side that cuts, birth and death aren't always separated by a lifetime. Two dots with the long line of many years can suddenly occupy the same space. This is humbling and beautiful, but it keeps me up at night the thought of that space in my hands.
***
After 1.5 hours of pushing, lady B (of course I can't use her real name) is on all fours propped up against the back of the hospital bed. Present are myself, two nurses, her partner, friend and mother and a family doctor. There are more people present than usual at a midwifery client's birth, but the baby has had it's first bowel movement, called meconium, and there is a risk of it breathing it in at birth. The extra help is a precaution.
" Lady B, you're amazing" I say "just a few more pushes and we'll be ready to meet this little one." Excitement, elation, relief as the baby's head begins it's emergence from the birth canal. Then it does something it isn't supposed to. In maternity we call this "turtling" the way a turtles head can pop out then be brought back in again. A baby's head does this if it's shoulder gets stuck under the pubic bone (very rarely does this happen). When a shoulder gets stuck its a medical emergency as the lack of circulation to and pressure on the head needs to be resolved in at most 7 minutes. Time.....stands....still.
Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. My hands know exactly where to go. Will it be enough?
"Push as hard as you can."
First maneuver.
"I need you to push hard"
Flip her onto her back--another maneuver.
It's still not coming. Another maneuver.
Four separate attempts to get the baby out and the family doctor asks:
" Would you like me to try?"
"Of course" I love the seamless way in which we can switch. No hint of ego or hierarchy in the midst of an emergency.
The baby comes out.
A beautiful baby girl.
Mother and baby are both doing exceedingly well.
I am not.
Despite all the feedback from the nurses and doctors in the room at what a good job I did. I am shaken. All I can think is: "I QUIT." Were life that simple.
******
Having a birth that is shaky is a statistical probability if you do this long enough, I know. NO matter how much training, how good the facilities or healthy the woman in labour is there are just those things that are out of our control. Before having my own baby I happily swept all of those concerns under the carpet of acceptance.

As midwifery students a lot of us were sent to birth numbers exceeding double or in my case triple the typical caseload of a normal midwife. Sleep was an illusive stranger and midwifery a jealous mistress. Many a partner, child, hobby, sense of self were lost in the wake of sacrifices made to achieve our goal. Truthfully we loved every gut aching, adrenaline fueled, blissful moment of it. Over beers in our off call times we joked about what intensity junkies we all were, traded stories from the trenches and boasted that a woman's arm would have to spontaneously explode to get a rise out of us. Somehow the bravado has been lost.

Perhaps that invisible cloak between woman and health care worker was lifted when I had my son, leaving me vulnerable to experience the birth from the perspective of the one who has everything to lose. My own birth was a beautiful home water birth—well I always have to qualify this. It was a beautiful homebirth until my own son's shoulders were stuck. The midwives responded competently and quickly. He is absolutely fine. However, for a few brief moments I was completely terrified and felt panicked at the helplessness to prevent the potential damage that could have been done to him. Aftershocks felt months later at someone else's beautiful birth.

There is more to life than feelings about work. There is how it puts food on the table for your family, that almost a decade of my life has been dedicated to it, and that I have practice partners and a hospital I am dedicated to. There is also the social perception that being a university educated woman in her thirties, in a well paid profession, means I would be throwing it all away to even contemplate a career change. My first priority is always the health and safety of women and their babies, beyond that I have a lot to think about.

Return from otherland

2010-03-24T18:41:00.001-07:00

A vampire on a day pass--my resilience from sleep deprivation is waning. Grocery Lists in writing are not my thing, but I want to share:
1) Thursday --full day workshop at the hospital.We're trying to implement a new program for all of maternity that will mean better teamwork, better communication and ultimately better care for women and their families.
2) Friday--full day workshop at the hospital part 2 and on call in the evening
3) Saturday--birth in the wee hours of the morning: a beautiful baby girl. Home visits.
4) Sunday: Two births, one home visits. A boy and girl came into the world--lovely
5) Day with my son and to catch up on sleep. We go to the library and have a breakfast date. He babbles over a smoothy and a muffin. Life is good.
6)Tuesday full day of clinic
7)Wednesday--administrative stuff, business meeting, meet with local doulas
8)home visits, write article for local paper

Tomorrow is my last day on call for a while. My son has just started sleeping through the night. I'm elated. Relieved. I thought his waking at night had been due to my pager going off at all hours. This week has been good for us both. He has had some solid, long overdue daddy time and I have realized how I can be, albeit temporarily, fully immersed in my other world and he'll be ok.

Secret Questions of a Midwife Mamma

2010-03-14T09:33:00.000-07:00

Going to a party as a midwife used to mean I was confronted with questions. From the audacious: "Then what kind of witch are you?" (no offense to my wiccan sisters); to the suspicious: "don't you think birth should be left up to medical professionals?---like I attend births with nothing but some incense, a crystal and some fortune telling bones; to the romanticized: "Wow you are soooo lucky, your work must be so beautiful and fulfilling all the time." In certain circles it was instant currency. My profession provided my audience with the notion that I did something worthwhile and subversive. Part health care provider, part activist for women's health, part advocate for the women under my care, being a midwife was my life's path. Then my path took me on the unexpected course of motherhood and I am left to struggle with how best to fuse these two roles of my life.

The word midwife is actually German for "with women". This meaning reflects the total dedication it takes to be present and with a woman from the onset of her labour until a few hours after the birth of her child. It's amazing to catch babies and witness a a woman's evolution from me to we. However, there is so much more to this job than "with women".The politics involved in being a part of a relatively new profession in a medical system that is at times unsure of where we fit into the doctor/nurse hierarchy can be very challenging. Letting go of a birth that, after 24 hours of being away from home, away from my baby, doesn't go the way the woman had hoped for is hard. My gripe isn't that I am shy of a challenge. Its the page at 2 in the morning, I bend down and lightly kiss goodbye the forehead of my dreaming 14 month old and feel he was an answer to my heart's question I wasn't even aware of asking.

The questions I am now confronted with are now ones I ask myself: How do I leave not knowing how long it will be until I am back? How to I remain "with woman" while missing him? How do I contend with some of the hard parts of my job when being a mother is so comparatively easy? How did I go to hundreds of births and not think that I would somehow be changed by my own?Creating the mental space to contend with the home/work dichotomy seems to be the behemoth obstacle of a lot of working mothers. To you all out there I applaud you. To anyone who has taken a business call on speaker phone while changing a poopy diaper or brought your kids to work on a weekend "just for a minute", or answered emails while breastfeeding, you are my heroes today. I hope I can join the club of the women who have found the home/work balance and the answers to being working mothers with happy kids.

The Army of Mediocre Warriors

2010-03-08T23:43:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to create "togetherness time" other than the long sought after horizontal "Togetherness time" that somehow has come to include the presence of a baby monitor (not my sex toy of choice), I signed my husband and I up for karate last spring. Please stop giggling--although I'm sure the thought of us waxing/on/off in matching leisure suits to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger" is hard to pass up. The initial image went a little more like this: my husband--tall, athletic, nimble and quickly absorbing each move and me--Ninja cow. This is not a comment on postbaby weight, but more on the fact that I spent 90% of my postpartum nursing a baby and partaking in things of a domestic nature. A slow and quiet nature. Suddenly I am thrust into a 1/2 hour private lesson of gouging eyes, dismembering, and breaking bones and it's a bit intense. Kenpo is pretty intense. Quitting felt like the best thing to do. Going back to my field and chewing my cud felt more comfortable. Except I was forgetting someone. My husband was really enjoying himself. Enjoying the 1/2 hour of babyless time each week we got to do something. Though I hate to "Doogie Howser" my readers with yet another big lesson, I have to mention how compelled I was by his need for time together, even if I had to kick ass to do it.

After almost a year and almost our orange belt I have a new perspective. I get it. Karate is a part of the postbaby us. Comfort level be damned. I go every week as if to say: "hey dude I care about you in a way that has totally evolved since having a baby. Now watch me rip this guys throat out". Life outside of baby is pretty good too. Instead of merely collapsing on the couch for some quick and cheap escape to the land of television, we practice.Then we flop onto the couch.

When a friend googled us to find our phone number, he actually found us on a list of people with their yellow belts. I joked: "What? In case they need to amass an army of mediocre warriors?" Ninja cow no more.

Travel Babble

2010-02-15T00:36:00.000-08:00

Confession time. Before mamahood, I would scan a crowd of fellow boarding passengers to get a sense of the type of flight I had in store. Specifically how many screaming brats might be on the plane. Pinpointing these individuals I would cross my fingers until they found their seats a good distance away. I glared defiantly at any snot nosed tot that would dare interrupt my heaven of complimentary semi-defrosted sandwich and second rate flick with a scream or a whimper.
Cut to last week---with husband, friends and tots in tow we boarded our Hawaiian flight for Maui. Suddenly I had crossed enemy line and felt each penetrative glare from each non-kiddied-up, well groomed (ie. missing the requisite poop or mystery stains of motherhood on their belongings) and well rested person on our flight. We sat and settled ourselves while sheepishly apologizing with knowing glances acknowledging the mayhem that might be. Instantly I regretted my dismissal of the box of complimentary earplugs I planned to treat my fellow passengers to for the flight. Fingers crossed and eyes wincing we took off......Surprise, surprise. The kids were awesome!! This truly became the unofficial theme for our trip: travel isn't the same as it was in the before time, in the long long ago before kids, but my expectations of my kid were far exceeded.
Our 13 month old swam in the ocean, happily endured the road to Hana, enjoyed many mouthfuls of white sandy beach,sat in the Banyan tree in Lahaina and ended up with a case of the croupe and his first fever on the way back--he couldn't have been happier. His parents meanwhile, were learning the difference between now and then. "Then" we paddled to wherever we wanted to be and jumped out to explore the open waters, snorkelled with dolphins and mantas, get up close with humpbacks. "Now" a mental safety tether keeps me in the kayak in openwater and I enjoy the creatures from the boat. "Then" party to wee hours of the night and pass out in friend's "coconut suite" (matress in the garage). "Now" rent actual condos with friends and stay up to 11pm, feel old, go to bed vowing to get to sleep earlier tomorrow. "Then" spend month camping in Hawaii and exploring. "Now" whole family gets snotty head cold and goes home after a week. Adventures are different colors these days. The hues are so much richer for the presence of my son.
It was beautiful. Maui with kids: snorkel. Visit Haleakala National park: camp, hike, see the sunrise from the crater.Breasfeed while on said hike--no really. Go to Paia; eat at Flatbread (amazing Pizza), Cafes Des Amies (amazing Crepes), Freshmint (amazing veggie fodder). Shop at Mana Foods. Rent a kayak. Get Lilikoi gilato. Eat a lilikoi. Drive to Hana. Get jungle chicken fried rice and coconut shrimp outside of Hana. Travel the dirt road back from Hana (watch out for moos).
As my grandfather used to say when he was in awe of life: "ahh the vastness of it all". When I was little I thought he meant that the mountains were big.

Banger's Remorse: Somewhere between Spinal Tap and Betty Page

2010-01-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

Somewhere between the superficial realization that I was tired of the same old good-girl-part-it-down-the-middle-younger-than-I-look hair and having it pulled for the bazillionth time (you would know if you were MENSA material), I hauled my butt to the salon and subjected myself to an hour of idle chit chat and a decent hair-do. I asked for bangs. I have bangs. I might regret this. In the turmoil of what I am now coining "banger's remorse" I see that my bangs are too short to be 1980's hair band--which of course every new mother and recently 30 year old woman wants to evoke, but too shaggy to be 1950's pin up. Oh god it's just hair I'm going to bed. The disgrace of being so white middle-class and privileged. Booo and goodnight.

Guilty Pleasures

2010-01-25T11:52:00.001-08:00

Amongst droves of Maria's, nuns, warm woolen mittens and brown paper packages, a group of friends and I sat down to watch/heckle/cheer "Sing Along Sound of Music"--a similar, activity to "the Rocky Horror Picture Show", but squeaky clean. In the midst of contemplating the death of the mother of seven children, Mrs. Von Trapp--from exhaustion??? I recognized the distinct absence of a very familiar feeling I've had whenever I ventured out without my son.
Guilt.
My son was at home hanging out with Dad and hopefully sleeping. For once I didn't feel like I should somehow be home trying to be a good mother. I was out with friends booing, singing and hooting at this musical which was a big part of my growing up and relishing every second of adult time. My only anxiety, being midwifery related, was the fact that I was on call and we have several women who are due or overdue to have their babies. It was great to have just a little piece of me even if it was just a movie.
Personal time is a rare commodity as a mother. It's something that, as a mother of five, my own mother was somehow remiss to take. Although since having my own I am wondering how she would have had the time. So I am issuing a challenge for my self and any other mothers who might be reading this. I'll call it the " Don't fall into the Von Trapp" challenge. Find meaningful ways every week to celebrate yourselves (yes I said it greeting cards and Dove soap campaigns be damned). Don't be the Mrs. Von Trapp who gave everything to her children and died only to live on in some vague martyred obscurity, only to have some frisky vixen of a nanny take over and sell the movie rights to her life. Be the star of your own life if only for a half hour bath in the week where you won't be interrupted to wipe a bum, answer a question, kiss an injury, answer the phone, a pager, ward off your partner's sexual advances, or attract them. Just do something for yourselves. It feels pretty good and our kids will be better off for having mothers who have put some energy and inspiration back into their own lives. We have to put something back into that account we keep withdrawing from--we don't want to end up like Mrs. VonTrapp.

Above are the real VonTrapps. Since the movie has been accused of sugar coating their lives I thought I would include a little bit of reality.

Dog for Dog's Sake

2010-01-24T22:41:00.000-08:00

Hmmm Dog for dog's sake?? Maybe there is wisdom to making log entries before the wee hours of the morning. Regardless of the somewhat desperate grasp at writing material, there maybe a larger theme that my zombified, sleep deprived brain could only grasp a day later. It relates back to my lesson in acceptance in motherhood. There is such freedom in shedding reality from the constraints of what you think it could be. This means that my son, who learned to crawl at 10 months, is just exactly where he should be. His hair pulling and pinching is a developmental stage as opposed to early signs that we'll one day end up on Jerry Springer while my son throws a chair at us at age 20. There is a lot less worry about what it all means in just being with what is right now. So Jynx--my dog, I thank you for being the dog that you are and not the criminal mastermind I've felt you to be. Sorry for plotting your death all this time.

Lessons from My Pomeranian--no really.

2010-01-21T23:41:00.001-08:00

Our dog Jynx--and I use the term dog loosely here as I would sooner liken him to a neurotic over sized squirrel, is a Pomeranian. Our pom/squirrel has the remarkable ability to hear the moment my eyelids touch with the promise of a few winks of uninterrupted sleep and to bark at this very same moment for a variety of reasons. Sometimes he wants to be let out, sometimes the neighbors down the street have arrived home, other times the wind is blowing too loudly for him off the water. This redeeming quality aside he has also found his way into the hearts of our neighbors who tenderly refer to him as "hey look that dog that rifles through our garbage is here". In a personal ad Jynx might advertise that he: "likes long walks along to beach to find bits of decay and luxuriates in rolling in them."
Today is a bit squirrel/pom focused because he taught me something yesterday. Yesterday was the day that my son dropped nail clippers into the toilet and then pooped on them, that our potted plant fell over and covered our bedroom floor in dirt. Finally it was the day my pom/squirrel barked to be let in. Upon opening the door Jynx leaped with pride to show off the new crimson color he had picked up off of something from the beach.

"How nice to bathe a blood covered dog." I thought, eye twitching, vein throbbing and "Old Yeller" reference flashing briefly. Realizing that I wouldn't come up with a convincing excuse his sudden absense in time for my husband (it's his dog) imminent arrival, I resigned myself to washing our repulsive furry friend. Yesterday, Jynx thought he should live and I agreed to disagree.

The lesson came when I found out that our neighbor likes to leave her old Christmas gingerbread houses out in the rain to break them down so she can more easily dispose of them. She told this to my husband and in addition to knowing that Jynx had been getting into them she also remarked that the birds were eating them. Perhaps she feels crows need more red dye number 5. My husband had a similar eye twitching moment with our neighbor. "How could she leave that kind of food out doesn't she know dogs will be dogs?" It hit me. My dog is just a dog. He has no capacity to care about my sleep, my need to not bathe him, my need to not have his electric defebrillating bark ring through my house, or the 29 piles of vomit after his chocolate hunt last Easter don't even register with him. If I'm truly honest with myself the moments when I have been most aggravated with him have been moments when I've somehow loaded his action with a layer of judgement. When somehow he would have known and cared about how his actions would make me feel. Right. So I am just trying to be with him, and appreciate dog for dog's sake.

Motherhood: scatterbrained and astral projection

2009-09-21T15:50:00.000-07:00

I was holding my son the other day while stirring a pot on the stove, and putting something into the fridge with my foot, and talking to my sister on speaker phone. With a spare neuron I decided: "this is nuts!" What compels us as mothers to feel like we have to master being in all corners of the universe at once?? Somehow the value of just being with our kids has gotten lost in this hopeless attempt at astral projection. My absence from my blog over the last few months can be attributed to my attempt to do just that---be everywhere at once. Though I love my work and am so ecstatic to be helping women and their families grow, it has been a very steep learning curve for me to balance the mommy/midwife dichotomy. The challenge of "What to do with the baby during a 2 am feed when my pager goes off?" or "If I have the baby nights and the days I am not working and I go to births at night, when do I sleep?" I have been very lucky to have an excellent support man. My husband and I sat down and devised a wickedly brilliant plan to keep our son out of daycare. We cleverly planned it so that he was home while I work and I was home when he worked---so smart, right? Supposing we no longer enjoy each other's company this might have been the case. However, since I would like him to be more than just someone I used to date whom I now run a day care with, we're learning that family togetherness time might be a good idea.
Over the course of the last few months I think the biggest lesson for me has been acceptance. I truly struggle with the pull in the direction of my work and home life, particularly since being on call is a 24 hour endeavor. My underlying insecurity, as I'm sure most women's are, is that neither aspects of my life are being done particularly well. Acceptance has meant understanding that perhaps I am a better midwife for having made the very journey into motherhood that I guide women through. Perhaps I will be a better mother because my work is fulfilling and rife with rich and wonderful experiences to share with my son. Maybe astral projection is something I can handle intellectually. Still, my heart might need to catch up.
There. My next post is done. I dedicate it to you, Catherine, for inspiring me to get off my butt.

2009-09-06T21:52:00.001-07:00

Out with a bang.

2009-07-31T17:18:00.000-07:00

My grandmother liked to smoke in bed. No wait. There is more. She liked to smoke in bed with her oxygen on. We used to joke about the explosion. Silly comments about fireworks, northern lights or fiery hell on earth. Sadly none of us would stay with her when we went to visit for fear of it. I was even reluctant to bring my baby to the thick blue air of her house. Fortunately, we had some beautiful weather the last time I was in my hometown and I was able to spend some time with her outside on the patio. For an unprecedented few consecutive hours she was able to keep a cigarette out of her mouth long enough to meet her most recent great grandchild. My son couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Maybe it was because he sensed she was not long for this world. Maybe because her face wore the dehydrated apple appearance of a woman who was now mainly comprised of nicotine and tar. Maybe because she had a voice like Tom Waits inside her tiny 82 year old British lady's body. Whatever the reason I am so grateful they had a chance to clap eyes on one another as he grasped her finger before trying to bite it.

My phone rang before 6 yesterday morning. I heard it through the chuffing white noise of the fan in our room and turned to my husband: "Maybe we should get it. It could be a family emergency." Looking at the call display we saw that my mother had actually called 5 times prior. Something was definitely wrong. She phoned back in the midst of our morbid contemplation. Sitting on the news of my grandmother's death all night, she couldn't wait any longer to share it. The selfish sleep deprived part of my brain wished she could have sat on it until 8am as this was the first night in six months that my baby had actually slept for more than 5 hours. I answered the phone with my eyes closed and issued a tentatively sympathetic sounding hello. This was answered by an extended silence and a gasping sigh---I will always marvel at my mother's dramatic flair.
"There was a fire last night at your grandmother's house and she is dead." My mother was barely able to utter the words. Amazing for someone who lives 30 minutes from my grandmother's house and has barely seen her in the last few years, how could she be so overcome? I went numb and immediately into caretaker role. "I am so sorry mum. Are you ok?"

Death is so humbling and grief such a huge feeling. The implications for our own mortality and the looming feeling that, no matter how heartfelt, the words we utter to console our loved ones are somehow inadequate. Worse. That ultimately we're inadequate in the finite spanse of heartbeat and breath we have on this planet. The variety of ways we come to terms with this is staggering.

There is a member of my family who can't see past her own pain, picture an imploding nebulus of narcissistic crisis. The rest of us are left wit the job helping her like bright ribbons of sunshine reaching through the dark, our own feelings eclipsed by this dynamic. This is maybe why I feel so numb. This is maybe why the first words out of my mouth once I was off the phone were a joke about "going out with a bang" instead of crying about the fact that I will never see her again.

The memorial is this Saturday and my whole family will be there. My anticipation of this event is rife with anxiety. An old friend greets me at the threshold of this weekend. She is the one who was constant confidante to my parents never ending fights, she took care of my sisters when we were young, she waded through the myre of teen crisis and angst. I forgot what it felt like to be her. How easily we slip into old habits.

******
The quaint country church was neatly painted a dull grey with white trim. My family gathered in the first two rows of chairs clutching Kleenexes and gently acknowledging eachother's grief with a nod or a comforting pat on the back. We sang hymns, listened to psalms and stared at the overly blown up photo of my grandmother---a rare thing as she avoided having her photo taken insisting she was hideous. I felt no closer to her through this process, though I did cry to see my very restrained macho uncle lose it while giving his tribute.

Later we went to the woods behind her house and spread her ashes. In a clearing, on a hilltop, sits my grandfather's bench which overlooks the mountains across Kooteney Lake. On the plate put there at the time of his death it reads: "The Vastness of It All." Each with our hands full of our grandmother, we spread her ashes and were comforted to think of her finally being with my grandfather, fighting over how much beer he puts in his soup. Still I didn't feel like I had let her go.

Where I finally felt her presence and what I think is the most fitting tribute is when I was curled up in a hotel bed nursing my son chatting with three of my sisters while they ate cheesecake, chicken wings and onion rings. My happiest memories with my grandmother were moments like these. Unremarkable in their place in history, but simple, kind and full of laughter and food. I am so grateful for my sisters for giving me that moment. I know in addition to her love of smoking, she adored her grandkids.

Blogamama

2009-07-29T23:55:00.000-07:00

I have been mulling over the irony that the blog of a new mom, presumably the place to find my voice and write for kicks, is named after the nickname my husband and I gave our son in utero. Ugh part of my inability to commit a first posting has been fear of being that mom. The one that has alienated herself from dinner parties by discussing her children's poop in texture and color. I have started the first line of my first post so many times. Even now I am tempted to delete my potential blogstar failure. To keep it a secret just between me and my backspace key (well and my unfulfilled fantasies of receiving accolades for and then retiring off of the earnings of my blogging success.) Why has this been so hard? The longer I wait, the more pressure I keep putting on myself:"This has got to be mindblowing. You have months of a blank page to make up for." As with most of the recent shortcomings, bad decisions and brain farts in my life, I would like to blame my kid.
No really.
I love my little baby. He's beautiful, wonderful. I have all the expected stereotypical mamabear, throw-myself-under-a-train for, connectedness, protectiveness and love for this giggling, gurgling, smiling, pooping, feeding, pink person. What has surprised me is that there is no way to intellectually prepare for this event. Being at over 200 births as a registered midwife didn't help me in this respect. Perhaps because, more than anything else, it isn't an intellectual activity. Being with my kid from his birth to present, even during the pregnancy itself, has been an exercise in learning to be present. Believe me it's not like I'm all Zen and the Art of Motherhood or One with Poo. There is just something so meditative in the process. Not peaceful, but meditative. Learning to anticipate and fulfill the needs of someone who has no sense of time. No "I just need one more minute of sleep". No "just a sec, I gotta finish this email, phone call, meal, conversation, orgasm in the other room with your dad". They know "I need" and " now". There is no layer of judgement, no expectation, no disappointment to it. They just simply are. My hunch is that the more I can understand and emulate that ability to " just be" as a mother, the better job I can do to have the patience and understanding to take care of him. Who said anything about a bodhi tree--enlightenment amongst piles of poopy diapers.

The blame I have for my son is twofold. On the one hand I have spent so much time being present with him that blogging was previously a forgotten fantasy. Mostly, he's been the catalyst to my own realization that in order to be that selflessly present I need to put some time into a space just for me. So here is the not-so-brilliant, but absolutely necessary first post to my blog. Ok hands off the delete button.