gearhead mama

A dream I had last night …

A class was being held in my basement, and I went downstairs to check on it as I felt that something was not going well. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights went off and the room sank into darkness. I was seized with fear. I vaulted up the stairs and huddled in the corner of my kitchen. A man came up and walked past me. In the near dark, I could see that he was tall and trim. I was very afraid, but when he came near me I decided to go on the offensive and attack. I lunged at him and started swinging. I punched him over and over, but soon noticed my blows were not having much effect. My fists would sink into his face, but then pop back out as if he were a rubber doll.

I felt a voice rise from deep within me. “He is a part of you. Stop trying to kill him.” I reluctantly dropped my fists and cringed, waiting for the blows to fall. But he didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do next, but felt I needed to look him in the eyes. I grabbed his hands in mine and we stood facing each other, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze, looking down and away, anywhere but at me. I twisted and turned, pulling at his hands, trying to get my eyes in front of his, to no avail.

After a few moments he dropped to the floor. I still held his hands but he was pulling away from me, curling into a fetal position. I felt that he was slipping away, that I was losing him and this opportunity to know him. I started to panic. Suddenly I knew what to do. I stopped trying to make him do what I wanted and instead gently placed my hands on his body and said, “I accept you,” as my heart filled with love and compassion. “I accept you exactly the way you are.”

In an instant I was looking into his clear, hazel eyes. My eyes. They gazed at me and I stared back, hypnotized. They were full of wordless wisdom and a deep, soulful gratitude.

I sensed that someone was coming. Someone who did not know of or understand these things. I touched him gently and said, “I have to go now, but I will see you again.”

And then I was awake in bed, heart thudding in my chest, wondering what part of me I had just welcomed home.

Dear M,

How is it that more than a year has passed since I last wrote an update for you? I know the technical answer to this – I became pregnant shortly after your second birthday, and now have a 3 month old baby. Life has been busy. But I do deeply regret not finding the time or energy to do a better job of documenting your life. I am always amazed when I go back and read these updates at how many little details I’ve already forgotten. It saddens me that an entire year has slipped away unnoted, but such is life. Now … where to begin?

Today is your third birthday and you are not a toddler anymore, that is for sure. You are a little girl, with long arms and legs, tan skin, tousled hair and sinewy muscles. You are fiery and aren’t afraid to show it … three is looking like it’s going to be a tempestuous year. There have been a lot of changes in your life recently – most notably the addition of your little sister – and you have taken a while to adjust. Add in the challenges that seem to go with this age and the fact that you often don’t seem to get enough sleep, and the last few months have been, um … interesting. But it appears we have weathered the storm and are finding a rhythm again. A bumpy rhythm sometimes, but a rhythm nonetheless.

All of this is challenging me to grow and change as a parent, forcing me to find new tools to supplement the ones that don’t seem to work anymore. I admit I am not always pleased about this, no doubt due to extreme sleep deprivation and the difficulties of splitting my attention between you and your sister, but I’m starting to figure things out. It is a potent reminder that parenting is not static and there is no resting on your laurels on this job. You are going to do a lot of changing in the coming years, and I will need to change as well. If nothing else, it keeps life interesting.

Although you weaned with some encouragement early on in my pregnancy, you still liked to briefly latch on here and there, and now that my milk is back you have resumed nursing. At first it was pretty intermittent, but now you are up to about once a day, which is okay with me. I was always ambivalent about the circumstances of your weaning, since I had wanted it to happen on your terms. So I am actually pleased (most of the time) that you are nursing again. I find it is a good way for us to reconnect, and I can’t complain about the nutrition and antibodies I’m passing to you. We’ll see how I feel about it if you’re still nursing in a year, though.

You are a devoted older sister, showering Sophie with hugs and kisses and giving her toys to play with and food to eat (thankfully you seem to understand that it shouldn’t actually go in her mouth). It delights you to no end when I narrate your activities to her, and you will tell me what I should be telling her (“Tell Sophie that I jumped off the couch, mama!”). I know that you aren’t always happy that she’s here – I still occasionally hear “Put Sophie down and hold me!” or “No! I want to nurse!” – but overall you are remarkably tolerant of her presence and all of the attention she receives. Not that your anger and frustration don’t leak out in other ways, but I am grateful you don’t take it out directly on her. I would much rather have you lash out at me than hit her or throw things at her head. Although I admit I get annoyed at having to constantly manage your interactions with other younger children, since you have started taking pleasure in dominating them. Part of it is your age, but I think part of it is your frustration as well. I try to remember how you must feel and empathize with you (sometimes this means digging pretty deep).

You are incredibly strong and active. You’ve mastered practically everything on the playground, and are determined to conquer the monkey bars, insisting that I help support your weight as you struggle from bar to bar. A few weeks ago I looked up just in time to see you swing your lithe body out to the fireman’s pole and slide down, a look of triumph on your face. There is no slide too tall or swing too high as far as you’re concerned. You are a true daredevil.

Your hair is wild and crazy (doesn’t help that it only gets washed and brushed once a week), and you are getting a second growth, so it looks like you have bangs even though scissors have never touched your head. I also can’t figure out if your hair is going to be curly or not. The ends have curls, but I’m afraid they’ll be lost forever with your first haircut. But the hair growing in has some curl too. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

You never stop talking and sometimes I really wish you had a mute button. You have not started asking “why?” yet, but your favorite question is undoubtedly along the lines of, “What did X say when Y?” As in,
“What did Sophie say when I kissed her?”
”What did the pasta say when it went to the party in my stomach?”
“What does the meerkat say when I eat him?”
“What do the birds say when I eat the cookie?”
“What does the truck say when I go by it?”
“What do the neighbors say when we smell the flowers?”
“What did the ant say when I squished it?”
“What does the road say when I ride my tricycle on it?”
And on and on and on and on. And on.

Speaking of riding your tricycle, you have finally mastered this skill. You’ve known how to pedal for a while, but only recently decided to do it consistently. You took your papa by surprise with this change, yelling out, “Look Papa! I’m pedaling!” just in time for him to glance up and see you and the trike tumbling head over heels down the hill in the backyard. Thankfully he was right there and grabbed you before you made it very far, and aside from a bump to the chest, you were okay. You’ve dumped it a few times going around the block too, as sometimes steering and pedaling at the same time is a little more than you can handle. Combine this with the small hills in the neighborhood and you get up some speed, realize you’re heading for someone’s lawn, turn the wheel sharply, and over you go. We’ve started making you wear a helmet.

In addition to all of your outdoor activities, you love to play pretend and will “pick” food out of a book to eat it and feed it to me. “Do you want some cake mama?” as you pinch the pretend cake off the page and lift it to my lips? “How about a sip of tea?” We also do this with your play food, concocting elaborate meals with lots and lots of condiments. You love condiments (both pretend and real). You definitely inherited your father’s taste for mustard.

But you know where to draw the line. The other day your papa was making Grover eat a fish, and you were very upset about this, insisting over and over that he was not to eat the fish. Your papa – who loves to antagonize you – just kept right at it, with Grover plaintively crying that he was starving and he needed to eat. Finally you brought your nose up to Grover’s, stared him in the eyes, and said, “You’re a doll.” Duh. Dolls don’t need to eat.

We baked cookies for the first time the other day, another thing I’m very ambivalent about. I recently made the decision to allow sweets to enter your life and not surprisingly, you can’t get enough of them. But I figure if you’re going to be eating them, the least I can do is make them myself and try to ensure they are as healthy as possible. So when I saw this recipe for chocolate chip cookies, using almond flour and agave nectar, I decided to try it (FYI, they fail to mention an oven temperature … I cooked them at 350 and that seemed to work well). You were a little confused by this process, asking repeatedly as we left the grocery store where your cookies were and not at all grasping the concept of this nebulous thing called “ingredients”. And then it was time for lunch and a much needed nap. When you woke from your nap I went in to get you. You greeted me with a huge smile and said, “Are we going to make cookies now?” And indeed we did, a process which thoroughly delighted you. You had “just a little more batter” about 50 times, but I figure that is part of the joy of baking cookies.

You will cup your hands together to tell me how small something is, or fling your arms wide to show me how big … or how big you think it ought to be. You are also always telling me what your “fravrite” color is (there’s a Brett Favre joke in there somewhere, I just can’t figure it out). First it’s red, then blue, then purple, then yellow, and so on. I used to laugh at your indecisiveness but then I realized that each time you said this you were speaking your truth. I have come to see this as a lesson for me … a reminder that nothing in life is static, and it is okay to go with the ebb and flow, to embrace change instead of always clinging to the same thing.

But change can be hard, too. You are still a certified binky addict, something which causes me some anxiety especially now that our (very holistic) dentist has warned me that it’s causing a cross-bite and needs to go. You have not slept without a binky in your mouth for nearly 3 years, and I’m not quite sure how we’re going to go about this. I think it is too soon after Sophie’s birth to take away something that gives you so much comfort, but I am not looking forward to the process.

Another thing I’m loathe to change is your sleeping arrangements. You still sleep in your crib, even though you are very adept at climbing in and out of it. Only twice have you climbed out after you’ve been put to bed for the night, and I’m very nervous about what you might do when we transition you to a regular bed. Especially since sleep is still such a precarious thing for you. You fight it with every fiber in your being, insisting right up to the last minute that you are not tired and you don’t want to sleep. Sometimes you fall asleep in my arms as you are screaming those very words. You awake during the night and start screaming immediately – something that takes about a year off my life every time you do it. The shrieks you emit make my hair stand on end, and I’m surprised you haven’t broken any of our glasses (thankfully your sister has so far slept through these episodes, although I’m not entirely sure how). This middle-of-the-night screaming has been very difficult for me, wresting me from my bed, bleary-eyed and confused. I don’t always rise to the occasion, and I am still trying to figure out a better way to handle things.

You have become such a big girl that I sometimes forget you are still a child, not operating at the rational level of an adult. You recently developed a fear of thunder, and you cower and cling to me, insisting that I pick you up. I tried explaining that it’s just the clouds bumping into each other, but you are not having it. The worst is when it happens at night, when you cry out in terror, and will not be left alone. A few weeks ago, in a desperate attempt to get some sleep during a middle of the night thunderstorm, I dragged you into my bed. Although we co-slept for the first 9 months of your life, you have not slept in my bed since. Not for lack of trying on my part, as I have invited you there when you are sick or upset or just won’t sleep for whatever godforsaken reason. But it always devolves into a wrestling match, with you jumping up and down and flinging yourself onto me. Lying down and sleeping? Nah, not so much. But we hadn’t tried it in a while, and a mama has got to sleep. So I carried you to my room after administering many warnings about having to lie down and be quiet and close your eyes and sleep. And you know what? You did it. It took about an hour, but you were quiet (mostly) and still (mostly) and we laid together and cuddled, and by the light of my nighttime nursing nightlight I watched your eyes get heavy and finally close, your thick, dark lashes dusting the beautiful curve of your cheek.

It is hard for me to believe that you used to be small enough to fit inside my body. My lap barely contains you now, and when you nurse it’s all arms and legs tangled up and spilling over. You are independent, opinionated, wild, loud, energetic and always on the go go go. Your language constantly amazes me, and I have come to expect that you will always be capable of expressing yourself, forgetting that there are still so many things that are unknown to you. Never mind the fact that feelings can be hard to name, even for an adult. But when I watched you that night, sleeping peacefully in my bed, it reminded me just how little you really are. You are still my baby … and always will be.

Happy Birthday sweetheart. I love you.

Love,
mama

There’s a fire living inside of me. It crackles up my spine, sets my hair ablaze and destroys everything in its path. It’s my anger.

I was not allowed to get mad as a child. Instead I learned to squelch, squash, and suppress. My role models were my father – a squelcher – and my mother – someone who spewed her anger with vitriol, not caring upon who it fell. Quite frankly, I don’t know how to be mad in a non-pathological manner.

Well-managed forests (or those that are truly left to Mother Nature) burn periodically. Slowly and methodically. It clears the garbage out, but leaves the trees intact, tall and majestic. Some trees even need fire to open their pine cones and allow new growth. Forests need fire, just like humans need anger. It is possible to do this in a healthy way.

But I am a forest choked with undergrowth, grown wild and riotous after years of fire suppression. I am a raging inferno waiting to happen. And happen it does. In the blink of an eye I’m engulfed in flames, they consume me and go looking for new fuel, scorching the ones I love.

I have not yet learned how to make this fire my friend, how to make it work for me and bring health and new growth. Instead I am still seeking to control, suppress. It’s the only way I know and most of the time I’m successful. I fail when I’m tired, when it’s the middle of the night, when I’ve had 3 hours of sleep.

M bears the brunt. Sophie isn’t even 3 months old yet. Of course she’s supposed to wake up during the night, although she sleeps remarkably well for her age (not sleeping through the night at the moment, but I’m hoping that’s due to the 3 month growth spurt and she returns to it shortly). M, on the other hand … well, let’s just say I’m not nearly so magnanimous with her. She’s almost 3 years old. She has always fought sleep, but has gone for long stretches where she sleeps through the night 95% of the time. That is not happening now and I have no idea why. At least half the time she wakes in the middle of the night and starts screaming. It is not night terrors, although she may have had a bad dream. One time, after a lot of detective work on my part, I deduced that her hand had likely fallen asleep. She is unable or unwilling to tell me why she is awake, why she is screaming, why she sometimes won’t stop screaming, why, once she has stopped, she often resumes again whenever I or Mr. Gearhead try to go back to bed. And the screaming, jesus christ the screaming. It makes my hair stand on end, my heartbeat quicken, the adrenaline start to pump. It is positively crazed and I’ve never heard anything like it before. It sounds like someone is trying to kill her.

I don’t like this screaming. I don’t like it one bit. And I especially don’t like it now that I have a baby who I’m trying to keep asleep. It is the spark that sets off the inferno. I squeeze her shoulders with my hands and whisper through clenched teeth for her to stop screaming. I shake her a little and say it louder. Soon I’m screaming that she has to stop screaming. And I am horrified to admit that on two occasions I have spanked her because she wouldn’t stop screaming. Something I swore I would never, ever, ever do, under any circumstance.

When I am in the clutches of this fire, I am not myself. I don’t know myself. I look at myself and what I see is my mother. I see the rage in her eyes and the absolute need to bend me to her will at any cost. That is what I see in myself and it makes me sick.

The one difference is that I apologize, admit my fault, tell her I was wrong. Not that this makes it okay … far from it. But I still make myself do it. It’s something my mother never did. When she hit me it was because I had done something wrong, because I deserved it. That is what she taught me.

The last time this happened I sat and held M and thought of how I felt when my mother dominated me, forced me to conform to her wishes, using physical force when necessary. I remembered how powerless I felt, and how much I hated her in those moments. I thought of what I had just done and it hurt my heart to think M might be feeling that way about me. I knew that I would not, could not, walk the same path as my mother, no matter how angry I was. Especially in those moments of anger. So I made a promise to myself and to M that I would never hit her again. Ever. I had to sit there and think about it for a while before I opened my mouth and spoke. I was actually reluctant to make this promise, because I was not certain I would be able to keep it. In fact, I technically broke it just the other day when she smacked me hard with a wooden spoon (after telling me she was going to do so, and I told her not to), and I snatched the spoon out of her hand and smacked her right back. In the blink of an eye, the inferno was unleashed, consuming me before my brain could even take a breath and realize what the hell was going on.

How fucked up is all of this? I taught her how to hit, and now I’m hitting her to teach her not to? I am at a loss. Truly at a loss. All I know is that this cannot go on. It is absolutely, positively unacceptable. But I don’t know what to do with my anger. Suppressing the fire is not the answer, it’s how I got here in the first place. I’m certain there is another way, but I am currently in the dark, waving my hands around, stumbling face first into one wall after another, unable to find the door that will lead me into the light of understanding.

I trust that I will get there. I just hope it happens soon.

What a different child Sophie is. M is nearly three years old and we are still battling over sleep. My heart spasms with fear when M wakes during the night, wondering if she will settle in ten minutes or two hours. She hates sleeping. Hates it. For naps she sometimes falls asleep in my arms screaming that she doesn’t want to sleep. When she wakes up two hours later she picks up right where she left off, as if she had never slept at all. Sleeping is admitting defeat.

But Sophie. My dear, sweet Sophie. Sleep comes to her like a calm, quiet fog rolling off the water. She welcomes it, embraces it. In the early days she would sleep anytime, anywhere. Then things got tricky for a while, especially in the evening. She wouldn’t sleep between the hours of 6 PM and midnight unless she was in someone’s arms. That finally started to ease up a little, and then naps went out the window. She didn’t stay asleep if I set her down. Okay, no biggie, I just wore her for naps, trusting that it would get easier. And even then it was easy, comparatively speaking. Getting M down for a nap at this age was an ordeal. I would put her in the Moby and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk. She refused to lay her head on my chest, looking all around and eventually dropping her head backwards and staring straight up, struggling to keep her eyes open. She would finally succumb, her head flopped away from me, and still I had to walk, waiting and biding my time before I dared to gently, so gently, lift her head up and onto me. And heaven forbid if I didn’t leap to my feet and bounce if she stirred, or else I risked the wrath of her roaring to wakefulness, tired and cranky and pissed off that she had been tricked into sleeping. And set her down? HA. HA. HA.

With Sophie I just put her in my new wrap and went about my business, doing dishes, tidying the house, taking M for a walk. Sleep came effortlessly and noiselessly; she cuddled against me and let it take her.

Almost two weeks ago she started sleeping through the night. Going down between 9 and 10 PM and waking between 6 and 7 AM. Nurse and then back to bed for another 3 hours. Astonishing, simply astonishing. I still get slack-jawed when I really think about it (although you wouldn’t believe how cranky I got on the one night she deviated … how quickly we become spoiled).

Over the weekend I emerged from my twice-weekly bath to find Mr. Gearhead sans Sophie. “Where is she?” I asked. “Well, she seemed really calm and quiet, so I put her in the Kanoe and left.” “You did what?” I sputtered, my mouth agape at his audacity. “I dunno,” he shrugged, “I haven’t heard anything out of her.” I stood there stunned while he walked down the hall and poked his head through the door of her room. He returned to me. “She’s out like a light.”

And so he has given me courage. I see her yawn (usually about an hour and a half after getting up), scoop her up, change her diaper, stick the binky in, drop her in the Kanoe, bounce it for a minute and walk out. As in, I leave the room. And then … she goes to sleep. She usually wakes 30-40 minutes later. I go back in the room, re-bink her, bounce the Kanoe and leave again. And she goes back to sleep, usually for an hour or more. Sometimes I can repeat this and get another hour.

Astonishing. Simply astonishing.

At first I would tense whenever she stirred or if I did something to wake her. I would feel that anxiety in my heart, my chest tight and unyielding. But now I am learning I don’t need to have that fear. She doesn’t hate or fear sleep … she welcomes it, wants it, and is grateful when I provide the opportunity to do it. It is such a simple thing, really, and I still don’t understand why it’s so damn hard with M. My baby sleeps when she is tired and is awake when she isn’t. In fact, in the course of writing this post I have tended to her three times. The last time she wouldn’t settle, so I picked her up and changed her diaper. She fussed a bit and farted a few times. I picked her up off the changing table and she rested her head on my chest and fell back to sleep. After a few minutes I set her back in the Kanoe, and here I am, typing again - with two hands! But I know oh so well that it isn’t always like this. That it often isn’t like this.

It is such a relief to let that fear and anxiety slide away, for my life not to be ruled by the constant need to get my baby asleep and keep her that way. Especially since I have a toddler to care for as well. I cannot imagine the stress of parenting a baby like M and a toddler like M, all at the same time.

I don’t know who or what made Sophie this way. I just wanted to thank the Universe for it. I am eternally grateful.

As in, I’m getting it! Overall things have been going well with Sophie, but she’s gassy just like her sister. It’s not like she spends hours screaming in pain, but it’s just bad enough to disturb her sleep and therefore mine. Add in my own long-standing insomnia issues, and some nights I was only getting 2 or 3 hours of sleep. If I got 5 I felt lucky.

This was mind-numbingly painful for me, and my days were pretty fucking miserable. I was also an awful parent, constantly butting heads with M and resorting to tactics I really don’t agree with (punishment, bribes, coercion).

I tried everything I could think of to help Sophie – craniosacral therapy, chiropractic, homeopathy, NAET and the dreaded elimination diet (which thankfully resolved the reflux, but not the gas). I finally just quit trying. My healer thinks the universe is trying to teach me that not everything is my responsibility, that it’s not my job to “fix” things, that I can stop trying to figure everything out, stop trying to be perfect, and just be. I have to say I agree with her, but when trying to manage an infant and almost 3-year-old on 2 hours of sleep, I really didn’t give a flying fuck about lessons from the universe. I just wanted less gas and more sleep!

But I did decide to quit doing everything. I stopped making appointments and ceaselessly searching for a way to “solve” this “problem”. And about 2 weeks ago I stopped using the homeopathics because they didn’t seem to be helping anyway. I even started venturing off the elimination diet. But then I was rewarded with about 5 really hard nights. Again I started wondering what I had done “wrong” and how I could “fix” things. I know this is not a healthy mindset, but it did occur to me that the bad nights started around the time I stopped the homeopathics. Hmmmm. I started them up again, and huh, maybe they were helping after all. And things started to get better. And then things got really good, and now it seems like the gas is essentially gone, and – get this – for the last three nights, Sophie, at almost 12 weeks old, has slept for 6-8 hours straight. No waking, no nursing, just fussing once or twice, which is quickly resolved by re-binking. (Yeah, I swore I wouldn’t go that route again, but you gotta do what you gotta do.)

No way have I even started to make up all the sleep I’ve lost in the last few months, but jesus does it feel good to get 7 straight hours of sleep. I don’t think M slept 4 straight hours until she was over a year old. This? This feels decadent. Luxurious. Practically criminal.

I don’t know if it will continue, although I have to admit I desperately hope it does. With sleep like that, I can do this. I can manage, function, not dissolve into the evil screaming mother with three heads (one of which spins 360 degrees while spewing fire). It still isn’t easy, but it’s at least doable.

(Although everything is on hold while I wait for the dust to settle after my huge dietary transgressions yesterday … I ate three basil, tomato, mozzarella sandwiches (first wheat and dairy in two months) and I also had a chocolate cupcake (first chocolate and eggs in two months). Sophie seemed unusually uncomfortable about 24 hours later, although it seemed to pass (ha ha) fairly quickly. So I am crossing my fingers and holding my breath that it was an isolated incident and not related to the food. I can’t tell you how badly I want to be able to eat again.)

And I have to thank mb as well, for her mention of the Kanoe hammock on her blog. I have been eyeing hammocks since I was pregnant, but couldn’t decide what to get. With her endorsement, I made the plunge and bought a Kanoe, and I think it is also part of the reason for these long stretches of sleep. I heartily recommend it.

Now. If I could just figure out how to get her to take her naps in it, I would be happy. Right? Isn’t that how life is? I just need “this” (fill in the blank) and then I’ll be happy. Heh heh. One of these days I’ll figure out how to just be. Maybe.

And while we wait (for hell to freeze over) here are some recent pictures.

She has the most awesome smile, and we have been seeing a lot of it these days. She’s a very happy baby.

Peace man.

In my opinion, the only thing more beautiful than a nursing baby …

Is one who is sleeping on the b o o b (sorry for the spacing, but I get tired of whackos finding my site whenever I use a word like that) …

Sophie is finally starting to wake up some. She spent most of the first 5 weeks sleeping, and I still can’t figure out why I’m so damn tired if all she did is sleep, but whatever. She still sleeps a lot, but finally has some alert periods. I got my first real smile a few days ago (she has been smiling in her sleep since the day she was born). She opened her mouth, crinkled her nose and smiled. It melted my heart. Sometimes in the haze of these early days where all of your time is spent meeting their needs, you forget there is an actual person in there. I am certainly looking forward to getting to know her better.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Random thoughts in no particular order:
* I’d forgotten how their hands get full of lint and fuzz, and it gets stuck between their fingers and toes.
* I really hate the smell of spit-up. Almost as much as I hate being covered in it.
* I am extremely tired of hearing M screech “Hold ME!!! Put Sophie down and HOLD ME!!!” every time someone besides me (and sometimes even me) picks Sophie up.
* The six week growth spurt is killing me (up every other hour last night to nurse).
* This child is the most awful burper on earth. I have to pat her, jiggle her, bounce her, put her on her stomach, on her back, bounce her on the birth ball, over and over and over. This is not fun at 3 AM. It also means that I’m usually up for an hour every time she nurses at night (between nursing, burping and getting her back to sleep). Oy. It’s a good thing she usually goes 4+ hours between nursing (except for this damn growth spurt).
* I am so grateful that she will sleep in the co-sleeper. Otherwise her gassy wiggliness would positively kill me.
* Block feeding has helped some with the gassiness. But she is still gassy. This is apparently the curse I pass on to my children. I suppose it could be worse.
* When I’m trying to burp her on my shoulder, she wiggles around and has head-butted me on more than one occasion. Neither of us is happy when this happens.
* When I take her off the tap to burp her, she puts her arms over her head and does a huge stretch. Every. Single. Time.
* Holding Sophie and bouncing on the birth ball resolves almost everything that ails her. As long as I keep bouncing.
* She loves looking at the books on our bookcases, but more than anything the child loves looking at the trees and the sky.
* She has outgrown the sleep anywhere, anytime phase. While I still consider her to be a good sleeper, I need about 15 minutes in an environment absent of screaming, yelling and foot stomping to get her down for a nap. Apparently, this is too much to ask an almost-3-year-old. I have no idea what to do with M during this time, and have resorted to locking her in her room or stranding her in her high chair while I retreat to my room to get Sophie asleep. This two kids thing is proving to be tricky …

Well, things are improving. I finally broke down and went on the evil elimination diet (nothing but turkey, lamb, rice, potatoes, millet (yuck), zucchini, summer squash and pears, sigh). It made a difference – a big difference. The reflux is essentially gone, although she is still pretty gassy. In addition to the diet, we are doing chiro, CST, homeopathy and NAET. NAET uses acupressure to tell the body on an energetic level that it does not need to react to a food (or other irritant, like pollen, etc.). A friend has had very good luck using it to treat her son’s allergies, so I thought I would give it a try. The practitioner simply puts a few drops of my breastmilk (expressed after one hellish day where I ate a little of everything I could find in my house) on Sophie’s skin, then does the acupressure. She is also treating her for common candida problems – inability to absorb minerals, B vitamins, etc. We go back next week to see if she has “cleared” for that milk, which theoretically means I could go back to eating anything I ate that day. I am hoping like hell it works. In the meantime, the weight is falling off, which is about the only good thing about that fucking diet.

I want like hell to do a monthly update for my girls, but M discovered today that she can climb out of her crib. I’ve figured that she was physically capable of doing this for quite some time, but it only just dawned on her to try it today. She only naps once every week or two, but we’ve been doing quiet time in the crib for mama’s sanity. I’ve got her in there now, but I don’t think it’s going to last for long. Thankfully Sophie is a good sleeper, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever find the time to do regular updates again.

In the meantime, here are a few recent pictures at least …

Sophie has reflux, bad. Think projectile vomiting from the mouth and nose, silent reflux, lots of crying, etc. I have cut dairy from my diet with no sign of improvement. I went the total elimination route with M and am not eager to try it again. I am also trying desperately to avoid medicating her. We have been doing an herbal tincture of slippery elm for the past week with decent results. The problem is it needs to be given on an empty stomach (roughly 1 hour before or after nursing her), and she can’t go longer than 4 hours between doses or things start to get out of control. It seems like it shouldn’t be that big a deal, but trying to meet those two criteria have proven to be next to impossible, especially at night. I am up feeding her, then up again (and waking her) to give a dose. I’ve gotten hardly any sleep the last few nights. Not to mention the fact that she positively hates the stuff, and it breaks my heart to give it to her.

So today I made an hour drive to our holistic pediatrician to get a homeopathic remedy (Unda #46, probably not available over the counter anywhere) in the hopes it will make things easier. I can give it to her topically, so that eliminates the problems with the taste and having to wake her. I started her on it a few hours ago and the jury is still out on the effectiveness. It has been nearly 4 hours since her last dose of slippery elm and she is not screaming her head off – good sign. She has nursed, burped and spit up a little, again with no screaming – good sign. But when I have things under control with the slippery elm, she doesn’t spit up at all. And I can usually set her down once she falls asleep and that is not going so well this afternoon. So I’m hesitant to sing the praises of the homeopathic just yet.

And to make things even more fun, I have birthed yet another gassy child. But right now, that is the least of my concerns.

The physical fatigue is very difficult, but even harder is seeing my beautiful, precious baby in pain and feeling very confused about what I should do for her. I finally broke down at 6 AM this morning and had a good cry. I feel like no matter what I do I’m doing the wrong thing. Do nothing and she suffers. Going with prescription medication feels so very terribly wrong to me. Use the slippery elm and it works, but sometimes I have to let her be hungry for 30+ minutes because I just gave a dose and know if I nurse her it won’t work. And the look on her face when I give it. Add in the fact that I’m not getting any sleep, and it just doesn’t seem like a feasible alternative. So that leaves the homeopathic for now. Needless to say, I am hoping with all my might that it works for us.

Things were going so smoothly for us in the beginning, and I really felt like I finally knew what it was like to have a baby instead of living a nightmare. And now the train is off the tracks again, and I feel like I’m right back where I was with M, albeit with different circumstances. But the same overwhelming exhaustion and constant questioning about what I’m doing are all there.

I can only pray we pull through this soon. Very, very soon.

No, you have not traveled back in time 2 months. It’s just that I finally received the CD with my maternity pictures (it got lost in the mail). It’s hard to believe that’s little Sophie in there. So much has changed in the last few weeks …

All pictures in today’s post were taken by the lovely and talented Teresa of Teresa Anne Photography (you can find her here and here, and yes, there are pictures of Sophie, and me and Sophie together on her flickr page (uploaded on 5/10 and 5/11) … more of those to come when I receive that CD!).

To my second daughter,

This is the story of your birth, but to really understand it you have to know about your older sister’s birth, too. M was born 2 years and 9 months ago, and it was sadly not an entirely pleasant experience. I was committed to a natural birth - and I got one - but it was very long and difficult for both of us (you can read all the details here, if you so desire). M’s birth taught me a lot about myself … lessons that were slowly revealed over time, that brought understanding and deep healing. I learned that it was okay to love and trust myself, to have faith in my body and heart instead of just my mind. Your sister taught me so many things, as did my journey through pregnancy with you, and I was determined to use this knowledge to make this birth better … for me and for you. I worked hard to ferret out, process and release any hidden fears or traumas that might interfere with things.

I was also determined to make the physical circumstances of your birth different. I made your experience of this pregnancy and birth my first priority. There were no ultrasounds or doppler waves to disturb the sanctity of your home. I hired a midwife and planned a home waterbirth. There would be no strangers, no bright lights, no injections or ointments. Just my hands, my arms, my chest. I wanted to make your transition from the womb to this world as peaceful as possible.

As the time drew near, I felt I had done everything I could; that I was so ready to welcome you into my arms. And then … I waited. Sometimes not very patiently, because my body was tired and my back hurt, but I knew you would come when you were ready.

My midwife had assured me that one thing we could know for sure was that this birth would be different. We didn’t know how it would be different, but it would definitely be different. And she was right. At around 12:15 PM on Wednesday April 30th, 2008 (2 days before your due date), I was lying in the recliner trying to take a nap when I felt a small gush. A tiny gush. Tiny enough that I convinced myself it was just a bit of pee, and there was no need to get up. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but to no avail. About 45 minutes later I was still in the chair, talking on the phone, when I felt another small gush. And another. I knew I would have to investigate, and as I stood the floodgates opened, and your water poured down my legs, drenching my clothing. I was startled, as this was not at all what I had expected. Breaking M’s water was the one and only intervention I had in her birth, and it occurred when I stalled at 8 cm. I had always assumed your bag would stay intact until well into our labor, but I was wrong.

I quickly learned that this is a difficult way to begin a birth. There were no contractions, yet I knew they were coming sometime soon … but when? Minutes? Hours? Days? It was like hearing the starting gun go off, but being told I couldn’t run yet. My midwife advised me to continue about my day as normally as possible, to get rest if I could. But the constant leaking made it hard to do anything, and I quickly felt irritated and unsettled. I called your father home from work so he could set up the birth tub and finish with last minute preparations. Then I sat in a chair and tried not to soak the few remaining clothes I owned that still fit me. And I wondered about what was coming.

Finally, around 2 PM, I felt a teeny, tiny contraction. I continued to have very mild contractions, but very sporadically … every half hour, or longer. Around 6:00 PM, I had several in a row that were closer together; maybe 7 minutes apart. Finally! We were getting somewhere. I even called my midwife. But then they petered out again and spaced back out to every half hour or so, with an occasional run at 5 or 10 minutes apart. They were still laughably easy (and finally the leaking had stopped) … I could walk and talk through them, play with your sister, carry on with my life.

I started to wonder if that was part of the problem, if it was time for me to turn my focus inward to really get things going. I spent some time with your sister before she went to bed, giving her my undivided attention as a mother of one for the last time. At 8:30 PM I retreated to our birth space in the basement, lit some candles, turned on some music, and turned my attention to the matter at hand. I sank deep into my body with each contraction, welcoming it, imagining your head and my uterus working in concert to soften, stretch and open my cervix, your portal to this world. I relaxed myself completely, let my tongue fall from the roof of my mouth, let my throat be loose, swiveled on the birth ball, stood and rotated my hips in figure eights. I felt no fear and no pain. I was ready to do this work. And still the contractions stayed short and sporadic. The work I was doing felt good, but I couldn’t be sure it was productive - it felt too easy. I started to fear that I was going through prodromal labor again, like I did with your sister. I had slept terribly the night before, and exhaustion was starting to set in. I didn’t sleep for many days during your sister’s birth, and repeating that was one of my greatest fears. I was starting to think I would be up all night with these piddly contractions, going nowhere. How could I know if they were even doing anything? Despite my best efforts, I was feeling discouraged … beginning to doubt. I read through the beautiful cards and poems my friends had gifted me during my mother blessing and felt some renewed faith, but it was hard to maintain. I called some friends, seeking encouragement. They told me to rest and relax, to try to sleep, maybe even have a glass of wine. That I had to let go and stop being afraid.

I dragged myself upstairs and poured a glass of wine. I would drink it and lie down in the recliner to see if I could sleep. I wasn’t hopeful - my experience with your sister told me these contractions were just irritating enough to keep me awake - but I felt I had to at least try. I settled into the chair around 10:30 PM, and as expected, being in a reclined position made the contractions more difficult to deal with. I desperately wanted to lie on my side in the bed, but I knew my hip and back pain made that impossible. I decided to stick with the recliner and tough it out for a bit to see if I could rest. After a few contractions, I realized they were coming closer together. I had steadfastly refused to do anything more than guess at the frequency of contractions up to this point, but I finally relented and started looking at my watch. I needed to prove to myself that something was actually happening. For an hour, contractions came every 10 minutes on the nose. Perhaps the wine relaxed me just enough to let go and allow things to proceed. But as predicted, sleep was impossible, and at about 11:45 PM I finally threw in the towel. I would return to the basement, return to my focus, and make the best of the situation. If that meant being up all night with easy, short contractions spaced at 10 minutes, well so be it. There was nothing I could do about it. I sat and talked with your father for a while, and then he went downstairs with me to help get me settled. At 12:30 AM, I sent him back upstairs to get some sleep.

I was trying to trust the process of this birth, but I couldn’t help but worry about your posterior position because I knew it could contribute to a pokey labor. My back was bothering me a little during contractions but not between, so I didn’t have classic back labor. But I decided maybe I should encourage you to turn anyway. I kneeled on some pillows and leaned forward on the birth ball, rocking lightly through contractions, which seemed to help a little with the back pain. It also dawned on me that they seemed to be more frequent, maybe lasting longer. Again I consulted my watch, and many of them were now 5 minutes apart, some lasting as long as a minute. But they were still very manageable. More intense than earlier, yes, but I was still able to relax and welcome them, sink into them and work with them. I did not feel that dealing with them was particularly challenging. Earlier, my midwife had told me that she would come whenever I felt I needed support, but that she definitely needed to know when the contractions became hard enough that I was having to “recover” in between them. I was feeling neither of these things, so I decided to just continue on, knowing this could last a long time. I didn’t want to bother anyone, and I was doing fine.

A little after 1 AM, things kicked up another notch. The contractions were getting longer, although they were still mostly manageable except at the very peak. For those few seconds I started having thoughts like, “I think I’d like to get in the tub,” or “maybe I should get your father down here.” But then I would slide off the peak, feel immediate relief, and tell myself I would work through a few more before doing anything. He needed his sleep, and I was afraid I would slow things down by getting in the tub too early. I was still not convinced that things were really happening. I was making low, humming vocalizations and smelling my lavender oil to stay centered, but it still seemed too easy, especially compared to your sister’s birth. This couldn’t possibly be “real labor.” (Apparently, my benchmark was not a good one.)

By 1:30 AM, I still felt that I was handling things well, but I knew it would take your father a little while to top off the tub and I wanted to make sure it was ready by the time I needed it. I called him and asked him to come down and help me.

By 2 AM the tub was ready, and I made a final trip to the bathroom for a Hibiclens wash (I was GBS+). I was supposed to do them every 4 hours, and I wanted to make sure I could stay in the tub for as long as possible. I asked your father to note the time so I could tell the midwife when the last wash had been. I gingerly got one leg into the tub, and realized that it was far too hot. It was so hard for me to get in and out, though, that I went ahead and pulled my other leg in and stood in the scalding water, knowing I didn’t dare lower my body into it. I urged your father to hurry up and drain some water out and get things cooled down. I was definitely feeling the need for the water now. As he scurried about trying to get a siphon going, I leaned my hands on the side of the tub and swiveled my hips through contractions. They were starting to challenge me now, although I still felt like I was coping well.

The cold water was coming into the tub at a trickle, and I was mad at how long this was taking. I yelled at your father to turn it on full blast and he ran off to comply. It was still too hot, but I didn’t care. I lowered myself into the water and felt instant relief (this was most welcome, since the water had not helped me much during your sister’s birth). The contractions were still hard, but it took the edge off and I felt that I was handling things again. I was beginning to wonder if it was time to call the midwife, though. I still felt that I was coping well and not feeling that I had to “recover” in between contractions, but things were definitely picking up. I continued to be uncertain, so I asked your father to time contractions so that we could provide her with some additional information that would help us determine if it was time yet. I was hoping to get a good 20-30 minute stretch timed to make sure we were in a good pattern. But your father was still running around, trying to get hot water out of the tub, cold water into the tub, cold washclothes to place on my neck, and timing contractions on top of that proved to be too much. The few that he managed to get down told me they were now 3 minutes apart, and anywhere from 40 seconds to a minute and a half long. I was still coping well and not yet feeling like I had to recover in between. At 2:30 AM I asked him to call the midwife anyway, even though his sporadic timing meant I wasn’t satisfied that we had managed to show there was a consistent pattern. It would have to be good enough.

As he was dialing, I was suddenly gripped by a strong contraction, stronger than I had felt all labor. It left me panting and gasping, exactly the sort of “recovery” my midwife had spoken of earlier. I could hear him answering her questions, and was rocked by another hard contraction. I yelled out for him to tell her the last two were “doozies” … I was no longer wondering if it was too soon to call. He hung up. She was on her way.

Another contraction rolled over me. I was staying on top of things, but just barely. I moaned loudly and smelled my lavender. It dawned on me that this was finally the real deal, and it could still last for a very long time. I did not believe that the hours leading up to this had done much, and was sure that at best there were still hours of this ahead of me. I started to get afraid.

I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my stomach, and grabbed it with my hands. I was in between contractions, so that wasn’t it. I felt like I was being poked, kicked, and I wondered if you were changing position. In hindsight, I realize that whatever it is you did, it was in preparation for launch.

The next contraction was stronger still, and I felt that I was losing my ability to cope. My mouth opened and I started groaning, still trying to maintain a low pitch. I gasped out that if I had another one like that he was to call the midwife back and tell her to hurry. Another contraction came on, and did I? Was that downward pressure? Was I imagining things? My mind still questioned, but I opened my mouth anyway, “Call her back. Tell her to hurry.” I didn’t mention the pressure, afraid that I might be wrong. Your father secretly rolled his eyes, wondering how often our midwife must hear this line.

The next contraction came, and suddenly I was a tiny ship tossed into the maw of a giant hurricaine. I was lost, utterly lost. I threw the lavender to the floor, gripped the side of the tub and howled. The small part of me still controlled by my brain was consumed by utter terror. The rest of me was turned over to the primal power of birth. There was nothing to do but hold on for dear life. But the pain … oh the pain. I was rocked again, and yet again, with barely a moment to spare in between. I was upside down and inside out, I didn’t know how I could go on and didn’t know how to make it stop. A fourth contraction hit, and I knew, knew it was coming, could feel the freight train in the distance. I was completely terrified, but it didn’t matter. Halfway through the contraction my body took over and I suddenly felt my uterus turning inside out. I was screaming and growling and managed to yell out, “I’m puuuuuussssshhhhhiiiinnnngggg. CALL THE MIDWIIIIIIFE!!!!!” Your father had already dialed and had her on the phone. It was 2:38 AM. I’m fairly certain I went through transition in less than 8 minutes.

And oh, it hurt. Pushing your sister out had been a breeze compared to this. I’d had no urge to push, and while the contractions hurt like crazy, the rest was up to me. This … this was entirely different. I had another contraction and felt you barrel down my birth canal. I reached my hand down to feel your head as it landed on my perineum. “BABY IS COMING!” I yelled, and steeled myself for the next contraction. My mind was whirling, knowing the midwife would never make it, but my body told it to shut the hell up, there was work to do. I was on my knees, leaning forward onto the side of the tub. I held on for dear life with one hand, and kept my other hand on your head. The contraction hit and I felt the top of my uterus crush downward. There was no “breathing the baby out,” no panting and gentle easing to allow for stretching. You were coming. Now. I felt myself stretching, stretching, and your head grew bigger, bigger and bigger still in my hand. There was a brief pause and my uterus pressed down again. The burning was agonizing, and suddenly your head was filling my hand, my fingers were wrapping around it, and then the sweet relief of release. Your head was out, the contraction ended. I stroked your silky hair with my fingers, amazed at how soft you were. “The head is out.” There was stunned silence, and then, “Are you serious?” Your father, on the phone with the midwife, had no idea just how far things had gone. I knew you were coming on the next push. I knew how to handle a water birth, to not put you back under once your face had touched air, but your father didn’t. I was still on my knees, and worried what he would do. I had seconds until the next contraction. I screamed, “Ask her what to do! Ask her what to do!” The contraction started and I was instantly in agony. It felt like he had grabbed you and was pulling you upwards. “ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?!?! DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH MEEEE!!!!” He assured me he wasn’t, and I suddenly knew it was your shoulders as you spun inside me. My body pushed and you slid out. The next few seconds are a blur. I don’t know how I did it, but I must have hooked my fingers under your armpit. I pulled you down between my legs as I simultaneously came up on my knees, rotated and sat back against the wall of the pool. As a woman who has been crippled with back pain for several months, hobbling about like an invalid, I must say I admire the grace I mustered in that moment. It was 2:42 AM.

I knew you wouldn’t try to breathe until you felt the air touch your face, so it was safe to keep you under for a few moments. I wanted your transition from womb to this world to be as gentle as possible. I cradled your head in my hands and let you float under the water. I stared at your face and you opened your eyes and gazed back at me through the water. It was just for a moment, but felt like an eternity as I sank into your beautiful dark eyes. I will never forget it for the rest of my life. I slowly lifted you and let your face break through the water, letting your body stay under. You floated peacefully, but made no cry, no effort to breathe that I could tell. I lifted your limp body and realized the cord was wrapped loosely around your neck. It was a little short and I didn’t want to tug on the placenta, so your father helped me untangle it. I brought you into my arms and gently rubbed your back, saying, “Hi baby, breathe for your mama.” You finally let out a tiny cry and started to pink up. We had done it, Sophia, just you and me, our bodies entwined in an intricate, beautiful and intense dance that has been perfected over the milennia.

I could hardly believe it. It was only 12 minutes since I had decided contractions were getting hard and it was time to call the midwife. A harrowing 12 minutes to be sure, but I was in complete shock that I was actually holding you in my arms. After a few minutes, I realized we still didn’t know if you were a boy or a girl. I had been convinced even since before conception that you would be a boy. Almost every single person in my life felt the same way. I carefully moved the cord aside and could not believe my eyes when I saw you were a girl. I even called your father over for a second opinion, to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I was absolutely thrilled that I had given M a sister.

And that is the story of your birth, little one, although it wasn’t exactly what I had planned. I have always admired women who choose to birth unassisted although I have never felt personally comfortable with what I perceive to be the risks. But I’m guessing you - the baby who didn’t even like being listened to with a fetoscope - planned it this way all along. I have learned so much on this journey through pregnancy and birth with you. You reminded me over and over to trust myself, to listen to myself, to care for myself. You had faith in me even when I didn’t. There were moments of doubt during this birth, but in the end I followed my body and my heart, and they led me straight to you. I am so proud of myself. I worked so hard to prepare for this birth, but I could not forget how brutal your sister’s birth was … could not entirely let go of the fear that birth would be like that no matter what I did. That all of my healing and preparation would be rendered useless in the face of such an overwhelming force. But now I have learned the truth - birth does not have to be brutal. Was it painful? Yes. Were there moments of fear? Yes. Was it incredible and amazing and powerful and would I do it all again in a heartbeat? Yes, yes, yes!

I thank you for sharing this journey with me, my beautiful Sophia, and for all that you have taught me along the way. I am honored you have chosen me to be your mother, and I am so excited about the life we are starting together. Oh, and you were 8 lb 4 oz, and 20 3/4 inches long. Absolutely perfect.

Love,
mama

+++++

Some final notes …

Due to the speed of the birth, I had a decent tear and am on bedrest trying to get that healing started. I wanted to do a lying in period anyway, so this has forced me to take it easy and just spend my time falling in love with my new girl. Overall I am feeling really good, though, and more than 48 hours later still feeling an intense birth high. What an incredible difference compared to M’s birth, when all I could think was, “I don’t ever want to go through that again.” I cannot say how ecstatic I am that this birth was an enjoyable, empowering experience. It is very healing.

My milk came in last night and Sophia is nursing like a pro (no nipple pain either!). This is such a departure from my experience with M, and it’s a true pleasure to nurse a baby and not feel like I’m torturing her. I am feeling so much more confident this time around too … I didn’t realize until now that I lived in a certain amount of terror after having M (no doubt exacerbated by her birth trauma issues). It is the early days still, so all she does is eat and sleep, but that is fine with me. I love watching her face while she dreams … she purses her lips, wrinkles her forehead and smiles. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like she might have dimples. She already holds my heart in her hands.

M is a bit unsettled, which is to be expected, but she seems to be making the adjustment well. She loves to hug and kiss her little sister, but she’s not so keen on all the attention we give her. She insists that I put Sophia down and hold her instead, and whoever is slinging Sophia should be slinging her instead. I try to see beyond her behavior and focus on the feelings that are driving it. I put words to those feelings for her, asking her if she feels replaced, and talking about how hard it is to see her mama giving all her attention to someone else. I reassure her that we both still love her very much, but I know it will just take time for her to grow into her role as an older sister.

It melts my heart to watch Mr. Gearhead with his new daughter. He makes faces at her and tickles her nose. He whisks her away for diaper changes and I can hear him talking to her in the other room. I can practically see the love oozing out of his pores.

I look at Sophia and simply cannot believe she was inside my body just a few days ago. What a radical transformation for all of us, but I welcome this new stage of my life with open arms. I was sitting in the recliner with her yesterday and M crawled in to be with us. They laid, one on each side of me, and gazed at each other across my chest, M leaning over to kiss Sophia on the forehead, nose and eyes, and offering her a toy. I wrapped my arms around them and held my girls. My two girls. A new adventure has begun.