My Story Today - Where I Am Meant to Be

By Sue

This past weekend I participated in a workshop. This wasn't a professional workshop like the one I wrote about here. It was of a personal interest of mine. 

I am going through a transition, as are many of my friends. Things are shifting in my life and I am trying to stay positive and open to the journey. It is not always easy. The workshop happened to be on the topic of stories we tell ourselves and what we can learn from them. I wasn't sure what to expect, but knew it would be therapeutic. 

We started by writing about our favorite scar. That's right. My favorite scar. Think about that for a moment. The scar that hurt us and changed us and helped us learn something. I debated a couple of scars that I have - the one from the skateboarding accident weeks after I got my first pair of glasses and the doctors in the ER were sure that someone had beat me. To this day we can't quite figure out how I was so bruised or how the glasses got so scratched that the lenses had to be replaced. Note to self - don't let PJ lie face down on a skateboard with her head toward the flipped up edge while riding across bumpy sidewalks. Or the time I fell down the flight of stairs wearing 3 inch heels on my way to opening night. I spent the next year repeating the mantra, "Respect the stairs" before taking a step down. This is probably why I still carry PJ down the 3 flights of stairs every day. 

I landed on my experience giving birth. Not surprising. How could I not? I was a bit self conscious bringing up the mom card in a room full of creative people who, when asked what made them feel alive stated things like singing, acting, and dancing. I know that those things make me feel alive too. So does seeing the world through PJ's eyes. So I left out a few details and just went for the major points. I was hurt badly (I almost bled out), I woke up and knew I had to heal myself, and I am so much stronger than I ever realized. When asked how that changed me, I also talked about my desire to share my story, as well as having other moms join me and share their stories, through this blog. 

A couple of interesting things happened as I was sharing my story and in the few days since. 

First, I met someone else who had a very similar birth experience. I had never met someone who had a retained placenta. Someone who could relate to the feeling of euphoria of having given birth, only to have to face the fact that she could have died. We connected in a way that I could never have imagined. Right there in that room. I was in the place I was supposed to be. I was open and vulnerable about my scar and found someone else who was too. Synchronicity. 

Then, I was reminded why I started this blog in the first place. I was surrounded by wonderful, knowledgable women through out my pregnancy and first year as a mom. I also had a very large network of moms via Facebook. That group was my saving grace during middle of the night feedings and endless pumping sessions. There were women all over the world contributing by asking questions and giving advice. They had a wealth of experiences to draw upon and share their successes and failures. I remember our Lamaze teacher saying, "If you want 99 opinions on how to parent, ask 99 parents."  

This group was very special to me until recently. Perhaps it is just a function of size, perhaps it is that there are moms who are in a different place from where I am. Not just physically, but emotionally too. In any case, it does not seem to be the safe and supportive place it once was. And as I have made slight changes to my Facebook account, unsubscribing from notifications, unfollowing the group unless it is a friend of mine who is posting, the group feels less a part of me.   And as friends have left the group, I too feel the urge to leave and move on. 

As I was contemplating that decision, I also was struck by the thought "this is why you started the blog to begin with." I started this blog as a way to share my stories. To give other moms perspective about the journey of motherhood. To have moms write and share and be open. To tell their stories. To create a community where moms could read about alternative ways to approach this parenting gig. To help us all feel less alone.

I am not exactly sure of the point of this post. I AM more sure that I am where I need to be right now. That this journey I am on, with all its uncomfortable transitions, is woven together with many other people's journeys. That I am doing the best I can. That I am enough. That if one person reads this post and feels less lonely in the world, I have helped to make this world a nicer place to be. 

That is the story I am telling myself today. 

Trust

By Sue

Today during my workout I swam about a half mile. This is my longest distance to date. I started barely able to get across the 25 yard pool and am now comfortably swimming 50s. I even swam a 75 today. As I continued to swim, my arms started to tire. My hips were sinking. I was breathing with every other stroke (as opposed to every 4). I was spent. And the thought crossed my mind. "Trust that you can do this."

I have a mantra in the pool. It is simple - don't die. I say that not because I am seriously scared of dying. There are plenty of lifeguards around to save me if I am in real danger. I say it because I need to remember to do as much as I can. I push myself, like today, but only as far as I feel comfortable going. I can't possibly keep up with the swimmers who can push through 300 yards with no issues. I can't (quite) do butterfly. But I can swim. I can do it. I can make it across the pool a few (or a lot of) times. 

Today I also am contemplating major life decisions. The kind that make you stop and ponder every scenario possible which can then cripple you with enough fear to do nothing at all. And as I was thinking, it came to me again. "Trust."

Trust is hard for me. I am a Capricorn after all. I trust very few people. I like to know exactly what is coming and how to plan for it. Knowing this about myself, it shouldn't surprise me that PJ is tentative in new situations. I remember being in the Caribbean on a family vacation as a child. We were snorkeling and every one was raving about the coral reef off the coast. I was too scared to swim out there. I didn't trust the life vest. My mom took my hand and swam with me. We squeezed hands to point out beautiful fish. Until I let go and swam by myself. 

I remind myself of that day often as I see PJ holding my hand in new places. She needs me until she feels comfortable. She needs me until she doesn't. 

But I also am reminded of that day today. As I dive in, swim, and trust that I can support myself this time. And every time. 

Solitaire

By Sue

It's been awhile. I know. I wish I could say I was up to something cool, but really I've been a bit lazy. I've started multiple posts and typed one (almost).  What I have been doing is playing a lot of solitaire.

I have fond memories of playing solitaire as a child. I remember my adopted grandmother teaching me. I remember trying to cheat and getting scolded. I remember how I love to shuffle cards and how I always want the aces to be in this order - hearts, spades, diamonds, clubs.

You don't get that on an iPhone. But it does help me pass the time on my hour long commute home.

Yesterday (or maybe the day before, I can't remember, they all blend together) I got a notice that I have played 1,000 games. I'm not proud of this fact. Well, sorta. 1,000 is a lot of games. And I've learned a few things from playing that many games.

1. Sometimes you have to take a break, look away, and come back. Then you can see the moves. A change of perspective helps.

2. Ummmm...That's all I got.

I'll try to post again soon.

Signs I’m a Mom

By Sara A.

Obvious signs I'm a mom...

I like inventories.  They are fun to read, fun to write and a great way to concisely organize my thoughts. You can expect them from me often.  To start with, I thought I'd document the many obvious signs that I'm a mom.  The idea came to me this morning as I was drying my hair with a toddler clinging to my leg, while trying to drink my coffee and send a text at the same time.  "Only a mom has to deal with this" I thought.  This sent my mind reeling thinking of all the other obvious signs I am a mom, which have now been documented here for your delight.  Some are silly, some are serious...all, I hope, are relatable.

1. I can multitask like a pro.
2. I know what it means to love unconditionally.
3. I have snacks on my person or in my bag at all times.
4. I've been peed and pooped on more times than I can count....and managed to find it charming.
5. I know exactly where to kiss boo-boo's and owies to make them feel better.
6. I've mastered "the look."
7. I drive a mini-van.  And I love it.
8. I no longer swear out loud.  Just in my head.  And I do so liberally.
9. I'm scarier when I whisper than when I yell.
10. I love my husband more now that I ever believed possible when I married him.  And we were head over heels then.
11. I can function on 3 hours sleep on a consistent basis.
12. I sometimes put the milk in the pantry and my keys in the freezer.
13. I've left a load of laundry in the washing machine over night and forgot to move it to the dryer.....more times that I'd like to admit.
14. I am chronically late.
15. I regularly find spills or stains on my clothes that I KNOW weren't there when I got dressed in the morning.  They usually appear on my legs below my knees or around the neck of my shirts.
16. I know the difference between an Ergo, a Bjorn and a Moby.  And I have strong opinions on each.
17. I've memorized Goodnight Moon, The Sleepy Little Alphabet and Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom and can be relied upon to recite these on the fly in any situation.
18. Mary Poppins is in the CD player in my van.
19. I've been to more Recess Monkey's performances than any other band.
20. There are toys on my bathroom floor at all times.  I regularly step on them but can't be bothered to move them, as they will instantly reappear.
21. The majority of movies and shows recommended to me by Netflix are meant for children.
22. I haven't slept past 8:00 am on a weekend in 4 years.
23. Solitary trips to Target and Costco are considered "me time."
24. There is always sand somewhere.  Always.
25. Anything important or valuable in my home is stored or displayed at a height above 5 feet.
26. Happy Hour is the one hour between the time my kids go to bed and me passing out on the couch.
27. I own 5 car seats, 4 strollers and 3 baby carriers.
28. I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss tiny toes and to rub my face against baby skin.  I get giddy over that "baby smell."
29. I've been known to sway while standing in line to pay for my groceries.
30. Nothing makes me more content than walking in the sun with a sticky hand holding mine.
31. I'm used to repeating myself.
32. I am asked "why" at least 50 times a day.  Often more.  I usually have an answer.
33. I look at Zulily daily.
34. Whenever I see a mom nursing her child I smile and want to give her a high-five.
35. I can't listen to stories about bad things happening to kids.  I refuse watch the news because it's so stressful.  
36. I have an entire drawer in my kitchen devoted to sippy cups.
37. I am never bored.  Seriously, never.
38. I have multiple boards dedicated to various "kid" topics on Pinterest.
39. When I say my family I no longer mean my mom, dad and sister.
40. I have stretch marks.  
41. There are bulk boxes of Annie's mac & cheese in my pantry.
42. Organic fruit/veggie squeeze pouches are considered a treat in my home.
43. I now understand just how much my mom loves me.  I no longer find it weird (or not AS weird) that the first thing she wants to do when she hasn't seen me in a while is smell me.
44. I will punch you if you ring my doorbell during nap time.  Especially if I have managed to get both my children to sleep at the same time.
45. A ridiculous amount of my income goes to paying for childcare.
46. I know that my dog really isn't a surrogate child.  She doesn't even come close.
47. I consider what schools are in a given neighborhood to be a better indicator of it's desirability than what restaurants it has.
48. The faintest of whimpers will wake me from a dead sleep and I am instantly on high alert.
49. My boobs are shrunken and saggy.
50. I know that my life is more complete, more joyous and more meaningful than I ever could have imagined.

The Arts & Parenting

By Sue



Several months ago I attended the NYC Arts in Education Roundtable Face to Face Conference. I looked forward to this conference all year, because I knew I would be in the company of fellow arts educators (and selfishly around my former colleagues who I still miss). (There I am in an art workshop led by the education team at the Queens Museum of Art.) The conference plenary session was titled The Arts and Early Childhood Education, which is a timely topic given the NYC new universal pre-k. While PJ isn’t quite ready for pre-k, I listened, trying to soak up any information I could. Eventually, I noticed my mind wandering to this question:

How has my experience as an arts educator/administrator shaped my parenting style?

I don’t remember anything from the session after that question entered my thoughts.

First and foremost, I value the arts. All of them. Visual. Dance. Theatre. And especially music. I see art everywhere, not just in museums. I admire great design. I enjoy observing art in the theater or at a dance performance. And I love to listen to music live or on a recording. I believe that art serves a very special purpose in this world, even if I don’t have the words to explain what that purpose is. My definition of the arts centers somewhere around the idea of reflecting beauty back to us. Obviously, I love the arts as evident from my career choice. And if it’s not yet already obvious, I want to raise PJ to appreciate (and hopefully participate in) the arts. Why? I thought you’d never ask!

Flexibility to Try New Things

Some of my earliest memories are of singing, performing, learning to embroider (my big sister was learning, so obviously I wanted to also). Both my parents are creative people. Not in a formal way - neither studied an art form. That did not stop them from creating beautiful oriental rugs (mom) or creating the character of Dr. Von Speckle Bottom (dad) who entertained at parties. These early experiences with my parents’ creative outlets gave me aspirations to try new things and stretch myself. 

As I’ve grown older, I have come to recognize this as flexibility, a willingness to try, and - John’s favorite rule from improv - say “Yes, and….” Tina Fey and Rachel Dratch both describe this better than I ever can in their respective memoirs. But here goes - When improvising a scene, always say, “Yes, and…” If your fellow improviser/actor/comedian/partner says, “Can you believe the rain today?” Respond with something like, “Yes, and the thunder is so loud…” It helps to move the story forward. The alternative is saying no and stopping the forward motion of the scene, and essentially communicating, “Your idea is no good, my idea is better, I’m more important…” John and I wrote “Yes, and…” into our wedding vows.

As an elementary age student, my family was very involved with the Boy Scouts. I spent the summers attending the day camp which my mom was the director of (I was a member of the Pixies, the daughters of the moms who worked camp). We made crafts. We performed skits. We learned hundreds of songs. All of this was just what we did. It wasn’t because it was educational, although sometimes it was. It was fun. It was a chance to do new things. To play. 

Those general art experiences set me up for a lifetime of trying new things - performing, crafting, creating. While I studied music formally in college, have had the chance to perform professionally, worked with professional artists on a variety of cool projects, and consider myself an artist, I know there will always be someone doing these same things in a more formal capacity - creating art for museums, practicing for the concert stage, writing the next Pulitzer Prize novel. And yet, I continue to stretch myself. Because it makes my life more enjoyable. That's what I want for PJ. 

By providing opportunities to explore the arts, to be confident, to be comfortable being silly in front of a group of kids, to dance when she feels the need, and to write poetry. I learned this from my parents, developed flexibility through my training, and want to share it with her. 

Creative Problem Solving

Another skill I learned from the arts is creative problem solving. As a student trying to master an aria for one of my juries, I would not have called it that. I would have referred to the process as practicing. It would be years before I would come to recognize this process for what it was - solving a problem. In the case of my singing, the problem was memorizing the music and words, along with giving an artistic performance using the best vocal technique possible. The way I memorize music works for me. No two people learn the same way, so the exercises I used were individualized for me. One of the greatest skills a teacher can possess is the ability to be able to identify how best to communicate with each student. You have to be able to reflect on what you are doing (or not) and make adjustments. It's basic problem solving. And the great thing is there is no right answer to how you approach the problem.

This reminds me of PJ and of all toddlers. As she explores her world and tries to figure out problems (How do I open this? Where is Bunny? How do I put my shoes on?), there is no one right way to solve her predicament. *This does not mean there is not a more efficient way that John and I can assist with, nor does it mean that we are always so patient... She will figure it out, the way she is meant to. As her parent, it’s my job to get out of the way and let her do it. To step aside, be patient, and encourage her to figure it out. During the process, she might learn something else. And more importantly, she will learn to persist, to make mistakes, maybe even fail (GASP!), and continue to try again. And that’s where she will grow and develop the most. 

It’s not easy for parents (and teachers) to get out of the way for this learning to happen. But I do my best. 

Community

Several years ago, a report released by Chorus America brought to light information choral singers already know - we are community minded. This is not surprising given the type of music we perform. A choir will meet regularly (weekly in my most recent experiences, or even daily in the case of my college experience) to rehearse as a group. There are four main groups of singers (Sopranos, Altos, Tenors and Basses) and there may be some divisions of these groups (Soprano I, Soprano II, Alto I, Alto II, etc.). We rehearse as a group. We learn the music as a group. We aim to blend our voices so there is a unified sound. We are part of a community. 

In college, it is easy to feel part of a community. Remember leaving notes on the whiteboard of your friends’ rooms (pre-cell phone obviously)? Afterwards, it takes effort. I was warned by a wise alumnus to find a choir after graduation. She said, “You will need it. You will miss it.” And I did. I felt a loneliness that was/is only filled by music being sung by a choir. 

2010 was a year to remember. John and I were planning our wedding. I was working on having an article published in a book. And I had the opportunity to join a choir, something I had been meaning to do, but was having a hard time finding the time and finding the right group to join. A well-meaning colleague advised against joining the choir, citing all of my other obligations. Yet that night, when I went to audition and heard the choir sing, I knew it was the right thing to do. I needed to sing, as much as I needed to be surrounded with others who love to sing. 

Parenting, for me, is much like singing. Both John and I recognize we are part of a community, a club now. And I thrive on the relationships I have developed from being a mom, sharing my experiences, and learning from others. This blog is evidence of that. 

There is also a sense of community in my neighborhood. There is Tommy from across the street with the black dog named Phoenix. And the gas station attendant we pass each day. And there are all the kids (and parents) at daycare and at the park. NYC is a much smaller place with this community. I’ve been in this neighborhood for 8 years, and it wasn’t until PJ was part of our lives that we really started to invest in our life here. I remember the sense of community I felt growing up. And now I know that PJ does too. 

Understanding My World

The last (for now) artistic benefit that has shaped my parenting style is how the arts have helped me make sense of this world. I don’t know how to say that without being wordy. Let me try to explain. 

One of the traits exhibited by all artists is reflection. Artists constantly look back at their work and find ways to improve. They also use life as inspiration to create, reflecting what they experience into something entirely different. For me, art helps me process my own experiences. In moments of joy, in hours of darkness, music has helped me understand my emotions. 

I think back to my birth story and know that music helped me stay strong and focused during labor. And the first song I heard after PJ was born will forever be linked to her. Or when faced with death, how Brahms gave me strength to carry on, finding peace in the knowledge that the final resting place, is indeed lovely. 

And while these particular moments are profound and carry deep meaning for me, PJ’s experience with music is very different. For now, she is learning her routines through the songs that we sing and accompany her every day activities, like the catchy ditties “It’s Bathtime” or “PJ Time for PJ.” And you can’t forget the other classics like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” “Old MacDonald,” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” all of which have helped her learn new words, patterns and how to express herself. 

Come the end of a long day, PJ and I often snuggle and I sting to her. Sometimes it’s a version of “Dirait-on” with made up words. Most nights, I sing to her “In the Bleak Midwinter.” I’m not sure why. It’s a tune I’ve always loved. And I remember singing it that first summer when she was just a few months old. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that the room would be cold enough to sleep comfortably. Now I ask her sometimes as we are snuggling, “Should I sing In the Bleak Midwinter?” and I feel her nod against my shoulder. This is the song that brings her comfort. This tune has meaning for her.

When I read Willa Cather’s “A Wagner Matinee” in high school, I remember crying. I knew my life would be in the arts. It was a calling that can only be compared to my calling to be a mom. My life in music has opened me up to many fascinating opportunities, both to make music and to observe art in the world. Because of that, I have been changed for the better. If I can call upon these experiences to help PJ understand her world and grow to be the best person she can be, I will know I have done my best.

You Only Fail If You Don’t Try

By Jenny

A fact or circumstance bringing disgrace or regret. That is the definition of shame as I relate to it and as I see it and as how I felt when I wrote about my laboring experience for my previous entry here. When I first wrote that other blog entry I was writing under a pen name I had manufactured for the great American novel I am still attempting to write (random brilliant thoughts on post-it notes scattered throughout the house don’t count, do they?). After I sent the entry to the editor I requested that my “name” on the page change to my real name, Jenny. It felt dishonest to write something so open and truthful while hiding behind another name. I was still fooling myself, however. The blog entry was posted on a blog that had not been widely publicized or shared outside of the group of mama contributors. My first name the only used. And my accompanying picture one of me walking away. I was still able to hide. Until the editor posted my blog entry on her main Facebook page with a leading line of “For Those Mamas Who Delivered Via C-Section.” With 72 mutual friends I had no place to hide.

That night over dinner the conversation went something like this:

Me: So … Sue posted my c-section shame story on Facebook.

Hubby: Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

I might have coughed.

Hubby: Did you want her to post it on Facebook?

Me: No.

The sociologist Brené Brown has a brilliant talk on Ted Talks in which she speaks of shame and vulnerability. Toward the end of her talk she states “if you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” I was existing beautifully in this dish unbeknownst to me until my come-to-Jesus moment in that obstetrician’s office. Foolishly I believed that writing about the experience, the feelings of failure—of being one—would be enough to help guide me outside of the reach of that clutching Jungian shadow. Subconsciously, I must have known I was still being safe. The pit in my stomach when I not only saw the post on Facebook but then saw it tagged by another friend (now there really was no hiding) was enough proof for me to know my subconscious was still in control and had no intention of letting me out of that dark place; leaving me foolish until my next birth experience with all of its undealt with fears at the helm. And one of the worst things one can have at a second attempt to not repeat past mistakes is all of the baggage that comes with those mistakes.

Brown goes on to state “if you put the same amount of shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.” I didn’t plan to put myself out there in such a way; in a way where people I work with would now know something so intimate about me. Where friends, or rather acquaintances, were now basically invited in to my home, the door opened by another visitor and not by me. I didn’t want the attention because I feared the attention. I feared it all. I was in for a big surprise.

Some of the comments that I received:

The only one that failed was that doctor. You did the best you could with the circumstances you were given.

I deeply hope that you will have a next birth that you are satisfied and at peace with.

You were dealt a whole lot of crappy conditions … and yet you still managed to come out the other end with a beautiful, healthy baby and the courage to even discuss doing it again.

Great post, Jenny. It’s always nice to know that we all had things we wish we could have done differently.

That made me cry.

I cry when I read the comments. I still do. Days later.

I passive aggressively removed silence from that shameful Petri dish. Sue removed that and secrecy quickly and without pause. The judgment, I realized, was all my own. I secretly feared others would judge me for my weakness, for my lack of resolve. And I never wanted verification that my own self-judgment was to be mirrored and echoed by those around me. The comments I received proved otherwise.

I am far from being in a place where shame no longer exists. And I would be foolish to think that one blog post and one set of positive comments is going to change any of that. It will take some time until I can look back at my laboring experience and feel any of the strength I owned before contractions began. After all, I was the woman in my Lamaze class who proudly proclaimed that I was birthing my child; that the doctor was merely assisting. Somewhere in me that woman still exists; the woman who looked at the Monty Python labor sketch and vowed to not be the woman who was unqualified to give birth to my child.

In the early months of Henry’s life I liked to joke that he was my “test” baby. Whether you like the phrase or not, the truth is your first child—if you plan to have more—truly is your test baby. He is the baby you buy everything for (read Cristin’s brilliant chart for more on the difference here), the one you read every book for, the one you try every method for—CIO, baby-led weaning, etc. Part of my reclaiming of my strength, my warrior woman, is to see my first laboring experience as the test experience. That was my first trial and I will go in fighting with the next one. I might not win the fight—in the sense that I successfully have a VBAC—but I know I will win if I will give it my absolute all, to have every breath that passes my lips be in effort to have the experience I want. I will only fail again if I fail to try.

Sue's Birth Story

By Sue

In keeping with the birth and labor stories of Jenny and Aliya, I wanted to share my story. I always enjoyed reading other women’s stories - that is after I had my own experience. Before PJ, I didn’t truly understand. I wasn’t a mom then.

When I tell my story in person, I usually say a couple of things.
1. Our birth plan was to get over the 59th Street Bridge.
2. It was a natural birth.
3. Surgery was a bitch….

In honor of PJ’s 2nd birthday, I present my birth story.

The Birth Plan

I only half joke about our birth plan. I didn’t have anything elaborate and almost didn’t even consider having a plan. Maybe I’m naive, or maybe I recognized that all birth plans change in the moment. What I did have was a mantra that I’ve heard my mom repeat many times over the years - Fear causes tension. Tension causes pain. Pain causes fear…. And the baby is going to come out one way or another.

John and I joked that as long as we could get over the 59th Street Bridge, we were set. Of course, if I went into labor during the day, I could just walk to the hospital. (My dear friend Erica was my designated chaperone until John could reach me. At which point, she may have been sent to the apartment for the bag, yada yada yada…) I was more concerned about the night. Rush hour traffic on the bridge is horrible. And this was also around the time of Obama campaigning for the 2012 reelection. If I went into labor when he was in town, I was pretty sure I would be stuck at home or at a second rate hospital in Queens. So every day I would talk to the baby. Not today...Obama’s in town. If I get home to Queens, I’m not getting back into Manhattan. Even so, we took Lamaze class at the hospital. We were limited to this particular class due to our crazy schedules of performing and my tickets to the Wagner Ring Cycle at the Metropolitan Opera (I had purchased the tickets long before I was pregnant).

During those classes, I realized how much I DID NOT KNOW about labor and delivery. This is also where I met my dear friends who helped me prepare for my labor and become the mom I am today. Before I knew their names they were affectionately known as “Swedish Couple,” “Walk to the Hospital Couple,” “Quiet Couple,” “Indian Couple,” “Clark Kent and his Wife,” and “Forrest Hills Couple.” (This is was not in any way meant to be racist, nor were we the only ones who had nicknames for each other.) We bonded in our funny cohort and kept each other laughing through the anxiety of what was to come. And I started to understand that some people have very elaborate birth plans. For us, it was all about getting across the bridge.

The Labor and Birth

I was convinced that he (yup) would come early. No real reason, just that the few moms I knew delivered had early. (As for why I thought I was having a boy...I think I was just preparing for the possibility. John was convinced, rightly so, that we were having a girl.) As my due date approached, I worried it would happen before I finished working. I said I would work until Friday and I did. I had made a lot of deals with the baby to not come (much like my Obama request) on specific days when I had important work obligations and when John had tickets to Game 2 of the Stanley Cup in Newark, which I had called the arena to get direct phone numbers to the closest customer service person in case John’s cell wasn’t getting reception. So I remember leaving that last Friday and thinking “I might not be back for a while…”

Saturday was my due date. I got my nails done.

Sunday was my cousin’s son’s first birthday party. It was also the final concert for work. I told my colleagues that if I hadn’t had the baby, I would be at the concert. I emailed midday to say I had the tickets. It was a very hot day. We took the train into Manhattan and walked to the party. I was going quite slowly and John was anxious to get into the air conditioning. When we arrived, there were so many of my extended family present. There were kids running around and lots of food to eat. John put on a 40lb. empathy belly and remarked, “Wow. This is heavy. My back hurts.” Ya think?!?! (The party was at the Museum of Motherhood, hence the random empathy belly available. My family is weird, but not weird enough to travel with 40lb. empathy bellies at birthday parties). Here is a photo proof:



As we made our way downtown for the concert, we hailed a cab. I was too tired to walk. I remember not eating much at the concert. And I remember hearing this version of In My Life. John and I sang that all night (or I should say we attempted, but couldn’t remember most of the words). We were home and in bed by about 10PM.

Several minutes before 2AM, I felt my water break. At first I thought I had peed myself, but I hadn’t had any issues with incontinence, so it didn’t make sense that it would start now. I went to the bathroom and assessed the situation. I thought that perhaps the contractions were regular, but wanted to track them to be sure. When I went back into the bedroom, John asked if all was OK - his usual inquiry after my mid-night pees. “I think my water broke.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wake up so fast! He remembers waking, hearing me announce that my water had broke, and then thinking, “I’m going to be a dad...The Devils are going to lose the Stanley Cup tonight.” It was game 6...He was right.

We tracked the contractions until I had a better understanding of how far apart they really were. Somewhere around 4AM I called my OB, who was on call, but was clearly sleeping. While I waited for her to call back, John took the opportunity to grab a shower, and to start cleaning the shower drain with some much needed Drano, just in case we had company in the next few days and they needed to shower. Seriously? When my OB called back, she suggested staying home a bit longer, but not waiting until rush hour to get to the hospital (there’s the bridge again…). When I vomited, I knew it was time. That was the moment when John really believed I was in labor. We packed up sometime around 5AM. Much to my dismay, I did not have the song In My Life on any of the 3 ipods we have. Again, we made up our own words. There was no traffic on the bridge. When we made it Manhattan, we cheered. WE DID IT! Birth plan completed!

As we parked the car, the parking lot attendant asked me, “How long will you be?” I gestured to my belly, “As long as it takes.” When I entered through Emergency (at that time of morning the front door is locked), the security guard said, “You know where you’re going…” “Not really.” “Through those doors, take the elevator to 11. Good luck!”

When I was taken into triage, I explained that my water broke. The nurses didn’t believe me. I vomited again. The contractions were definitely getting worse. They asked me about some tests that were run in my first trimester, which I had all but forgotten about. Finally someone announced that I lost my mucous plug and that I was in labor. (NEWSFLASH!) I was moved into my room and I remember seeing the sun rising.

Around that time, John excused himself to go to the restroom. He felt faint and sick. I told him to go and to get back as soon as he could. He later told me he splashed water on his face and slapped himself. I believe his pep talk went something like this, “GET IT TOGETHER!”

I don’t remember a lot of the details on the labor. Here’s what I do remember:

• Telling John to go look for a nurse, then yelling at him as soon as he left the room. He stood by me through the entire labor, holding my hand, coaching my breathing. He was the only thing I needed during those 12 hours.
• Not wanting to move around. I tried various positions, but I was most comfortable lying on my back in bed.
• John asking if I wanted an epidural and I just kept breathing through the contractions. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just knew that I wasn’t overwhelmed by the contractions yet. 
• The amazing Australian nurse who came in and coached me periodically. When she learned I was laboring without drugs, she invited me up to the Birthing Center for my next baby. John remembers her saying things like, “You’re beautiful and strong” and he thought, “Why can’t I say things like that?” Probably because seeing me in that kind of pain was too much for him to take. The Australian nurse also identified when I was at 10 cm - The 10cm Chuck - she called it when I got sick the last time.
• The moment after a difficult contraction when John called me a Battle Axe. He had been reading Game of Thrones.
• The music playing. Playlist after playlist of songs I love, providing me with musical interludes.
• The feeling of the baby turning in the birth canal and imagining it turning and making its way into the world. This is a sensation I will never forget.
• The last push when the shoulders cleared and it was like the baby just dropped from me. I won’t ever forget that either. 
• And as I collapsed against the pillow, I heard John say, “It’s a girl! It’s a GIRL!” and I knew I had my PJ!
• The moment I held her and looked into her eyes and cried!

It was almost 2PM, about 12 hours from when my water broke. Amidst the calls to our parents and friends, my doctor went about stitching me up and watching the clock for the placenta to release. When 20 minutes later, it hadn’t released and I started to push, things went downhill. I started to bleed out. The next thing I remember was John asking, “That’s not normal, is it?” The doctor (one from my practice, but not my OB) apologized. “I’m sorry to do this after you delivered with no drugs, but I have to take you in for emergency surgery...If you had an epidural, I might be able to do this in here. We’re going to take you in for a D&C.” (Honestly, I still haven’t read about what happens in a D&C. In two years, I never wanted to, and I don’t think I’ll start now, but you can click the link if you’re interested.)
Doctors came in and told me the risks, such as nicking the uterus, to which I replied, “But you’re not going to do that, right? You won’t screw up, right?” I think I was most scared when they asked if I was an organ donor. This is not something you want to think about minutes after you bring life into the world. As they wheeled me into the OR, I was exclaiming, “I JUST HAD A BABY!” Everyone ignored me. John was left in the room holding PJ watching an orderly mop the blood off the floor. He was left thinking, “What the hell do I do now!?”
When I was moved from the L&D bed to the OR table, I lost more blood. The doctors decided to give me general anesthesia (originally they were planning to give me local). I was scared. So I did what I do when nervous or scared or generally uncomfortable. I talked about the Devils. And the Mets. About how I don’t watch basketball. If I had any energy, I would have been singing to calm myself. My last thought before the anesthesia took over was, “You gotta pull through this for John and PJ.”

After the Surgery

In a very groggy state, I awoke to hear the words “blood transfusion.” I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep. Some time later, I woke and began to comprehend what had happened. I had an IV in one arm and a bag of blood flowing into the other. I was hooked up to oxygen and to sensors and tubes. I could only focus out of one eye at a time. I could barely move. Little by little, I came back to life. John was right there standing by my side, complaining of hunger and sore feet (he wore slip on dress shoes...to make a good first impression on our child). I sent him out for food. PJ was comfortably resting in the nursery. John accompanied her for her bath and her first bottle. At that time, there was concern if I would be able to nurse in the first two weeks since I had lost so much blood. Everything was a little blurry….

Katie, the main nurse who helped deliver PJ, came by to see me. At that moment, my manners returned and I asked if she was a mom. Twice. How did I neglect to ask her that sooner? I should have known by how patient she was.

I stayed in recovery for hours. John and the nurses asked if I wanted to see PJ. Of course, but I was so beat up from labor and the surgery, that I wasn’t thinking. They brought her down to me. I sang to her Tupelo Honey and Feels Like Home. And probably any other song I could almost remember the lyrics to.

Visiting hours at the hospital officially end for new fathers around 9PM. I was still holed up in recovery waiting for the second transfusion to finish. I asked my doctor if John could stay. She suggested asking the nurses very nicely. There were some women who were very curt with the nurses and I knew that the nurses didn’t appreciate that. So I was very mindful of my manners. Please can you bring me some water? Please may I hold my daughter? Can my husband stay longer? Please? Thank you….

The nurses on the maternity floor must have felt sorry for me. It was close to midnight when I finally was moved. I was rolled into an empty room with a view of the Hudson River (and my old office building). I was ready to sleep. Again, both John and the nurses asked if I wanted to kiss PJ goodnight. I held her for a few minutes before I asked them to take her back to the nursery for the night. At that time, I couldn’t think of diapers and breastfeeding. I only knew I had to heal before I could focus on being a mom.

The next morning, the catheter was removed. The packing was removed. Someone helped me out of bed to the bathroom. PJ and I started to bond. A few friends came to visit. My vitals improved greatly. I got a nice roommate, who both she and John swear they knew each other even if they couldn’t place from where. John bumped into our Lamaze instructor who stopped by to get the scoop. It took more than a few days in the hospital to heal completely. It took us more than a few days to figure out what we were doing with breastfeeding. (You can read more about our adventures coming home here.)

Life as we (kinda) knew it continued and our new life began…

But first we had to get back over the bridge.

In Home Daycare - My Journey

By Sue

Choosing child care is never easy. There are always fears - too many to list. Things you never think of come up and freak you out and keep you up at night and then you start to question what you’re doing and… It’s safe to say it’s a downward spiral.

NYC is notorious for wait lists at schools and daycare centers. There are stories of needing to be on a list before you conceive. Awesome, right? One more joy of living in the city that never sleeps. So to start the process, I turned to friends.

First, I talked with friends about what to expect - what’s it like dropping off, how much does it cost - that sort of thing. Most of these friends lived in suburban areas so I knew it wasn’t going to be exactly the same. Next, I started talking to moms who lived near me, which is to say, I talked to one mom.

While NYC is vast and has everything you could ever possibly want - Broadway; the Yankees (or the Mets in our house); vegan fast food; Indian, Colombian, Korean food all within blocks of each other - and 24 hour public transportation. And accessibility is one of the reasons we choose to live here, daycare is something you want close to home. No one in their right mind WANTS to schlep a baby on the subway at rush hour. No one.

In my neighborhood, the options for daycare were limited to in home centers. This means the number of kids is small because the facility is in someone’s home. Yes, there are traditional centers (larger facility, more kids, organized by age) nearby, but none that would take a 3 month old AND were within walking distance of the apartment and the train. There was no way I was driving.

My friend recommended the daycare where all 3 of her kids had gone. She had been with the owner as the facility began and spoke highly of the care. We scheduled a tour and liked it. I was ready to sign the papers right then and there, but John had reservations. (I was tired and pregnant…) And this is where the number one rule comes in when choosing a daycare.

TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS

John was right. The woman was all smoke and mirrors, shady and greedy (babies and infants bring in more $ than toddlers). I won’t go into all the gory details, but will say this much: we learned a lot.

1. Look at the way the staff interacts. There should be a healthy working relationship. If you see something that makes you uncomfortable, chances are the staff feels it too. And that will trickle down to the kids.

2. Any time you have a question, the staff should be able to answer. If you know your child hasn’t been feeling well or eating well and you tell someone in the morning, when you arrive to pick up, the staff should know your concerns and be able to report on it.

3. Staff should never blame you for not cutting food small enough.

4. If you talk to friends about these types of things, and they assure you that they never have these issues, chances are something needs to change. And you might have to be the one to change daycares.

After 9 months, we pulled the plug. Coverage at the daycare in the morning during drop off was spotty at best. Staff was turning over frequently and we weren’t being notified. Things got to the point where we had to investigate our other options. 

One weekend, I searched the New York State Office of Children and Family Services website for daycares in our neighborhood. I placed calls to them all. Isabel called me right back and we arranged a tour. I remember picking up PJ from the old place and walking the mile to Isabel’s. It poured. I don’t think I had an umbrella (if I did, it was no use) and I was soaked by the time we got there. Isabel welcomed us into her home and business.

Something clicked for me. Isabel is kind and loving. She talked with me for a long time. She even gave PJ fresh berries to snack on. I was in heaven.

Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I scheduled a tour for John. He really liked it too.

I did a little more research on my local Meetup group. The daycare came highly recommended and the moms I spoke with talked about how happy their kids were there. Like they were going to a favorite Aunt’s house to visit. How Isabel prepared great, organic food. How everyone was like family.

As we made the transition, Isabel was responsive to my requests, such as having a daily sheet to share with us on how long PJ slept, what she ate and how many diaper changes she had. This is common at centers, but not necessarily at an in home facility. She regularly sends me photos or videos of PJ playing. She texts me reminders about needing diapers so that I don’t forget. Little things that make it easier on me to leave PJ there each day and not feel (too) guilty.

In turn, I have recommended her and her business to random strangers at the park and expecting friends.

PJ has been there for a year now. She has regular play dates with her friends. She is socializing with kids her own age and with kids who are older. I mention this because an unanticipated outcome has been the strides she has taken in learning new words, letters, colors, numbers, and songs. I’m not a Tiger Mom. I don’t need her studying Cantonese now, but it’s pretty cool to see her growing and learning by being with her peers.

The love expressed by Isabel and her staff is evident every day. The learning that is happening, both structured through activities and what happens naturally and organically, puts me at ease. It makes it worth it.

Aliya's Birth Story

By Aliya

After an easy pregnancy I was shocked to learn at 35 weeks my son was breech. My doctor scheduled an external cephalic version at 37 weeks. In the two weeks before, I tried everything to get him to turn naturally. In my prenatal yoga class, the teacher was very helpful and showed me all types of positions to help with turning him. I felt silly being upside down hanging off my couch, but I was determined. I wanted a natural birth. Unfortunately, I would learn that he was too big at the time to turn and my pelvis was too small.

When I went in for the version, they did a stress test and it showed that the baby’s heart rate went down a few times. So they didn’t end up doing the version but they wanted to monitor the heart rate for a bit longer. I went in on September 14th for a third stress test. After two hours of waiting and having me turn side to side, one of my OBGYN’s partners came and explained to me that when I lie on one side the baby's head rested on the umbilical cord and the heartbeat was faint. She suggested I have him that night via c section. She told me that I might as well have him now rather than waiting and risking anything. My stomach flipped and I thought about how my dad was on a plane at that moment, back to Chicago. He was planning on coming back a week after the birth. I called my husband, Jerome, right away. Not only was my son going to be born two weeks early, but my regular doctor was away and could not deliver him. Another doctor would have to perform the section. They told me I could go home and get my bag and come back at 6pm to prepare for the section.

So I came home and cried as I felt totally unprepared. I remember being on the train coming back home in a daze. I saw one of my old bosses from my previous job on the subway but tried to avoid him seeing me as I was not in a state to socialize. I’m sure he would have been really happy for me but I didn’t feel like talking to anybody but Jerome at that moment.

When I got home, I told Jerome to take a picture of my last day pregnant. Overall, I enjoyed the pregnancy, feeling him kick and move, the energy I had, and of course, the wonderful attention from so many people that I will never have again. I packed a bag and then Jerome and I headed to the hospital. This was my last subway ride as a pregnant lady.

I was really nervous as we arrived at the hospital. I checked in and then they took me to a room and started an IV. My sister, Nadia, came shortly after and kept us company.

I went to use the restroom right before the IV was put in and I looked at my pregnant belly one last time in the mirror. It will probably be the last time I will ever be pregnant as Jerome does not want any more children. I felt a sense of loss for some reason and then left the restroom.

Nadia and Jerome stayed with me for awhile. It felt like hours before they finally took me into the operating room. The nurse asked me what I was having and then told me that so many boys were being born this month. She was making jokes to try and calm my nerves. It helped for the time being until I entered the operating room. There were so many instruments and machines, it looked like I was abducted by aliens, this was their spaceship and they were about to dissect me.

They placed me on the operating table and the doctor came in asking the nurses where the anesthesiologist was. He finally came in and told me to sit up. The nurse stood in front of me to hold my hand while he stuck a needle in my spine. It was the weirdest pain I have ever felt. It was almost like a Charlie horse in the spine but ten times worse. They laid me down and I gradually became numb from the waist down. My legs started to feel like giant tree trunks. I knew they were there but that was it.

After this it felt like forever before they started. I felt very much in a daze at this point and I was shaking. I was cold but also terrified. Not only was I terrified of the operation, but in a matter of 30 minutes I would meet my son and my life will be totally changed. They let Jerome in and he sat next to me to hold my hand. I wanted to cry but was too scared. The other nurse was talking to me and this comforted me a little. I needed a distraction. The doctor told me she was starting and I squeezed Jerome’s hand. Of course I didn’t feel anything. I told Jerome not to look, but I think he looked once. The doctor told me what she was doing and that he was almost out. I think it took only about 15 minutes to take him out. I was so drugged out my eyes were watering and I felt like I was high. I heard a coughing and then a cry. It was Benjamin! In my daze, I asked if that was him, and Jerome said it was and he got up to go see. I was disappointed I couldn’t see or hold him at this point. I kept asking what was happening. They were weighing him and cleaning him up. I heard the nurse yell, “He’s really cute Aliya!” At this point Jerome was taking pictures. I asked how much he weighed and they said he was 7 pound 2.8 ounces.

Finally Jerome brought him over and he was swaddled in blankets. He was beautiful and I couldn’t stop smiling. His little squished up face was peeking out of the bundle of blankets. I didn’t really know what to think, I couldn’t believe that this little person came out of me. At this point I didn’t care how he was born, as long as he was healthy and safe.

Jerome went with the baby and the nurse to the nursery. I wanted to see the baby again but they had to stitch me up and then let the anesthesia wear off enough so that I could go to recovery. They then rolled me into a dark, quiet room where I was told to sit until I could move my feet. This took hours. Nadia came and sat with me. Jerome came too with the baby and they took a picture with my phone. I sent the picture to a lot of people announcing Benjamin’s birth. The nurse gave me Benjamin’s foot prints.

After I could feel my feet, they took me to my recovery room in which I would meet my roommate the next day. Luckily I had the window and it was a nice view of Roosevelt Island and the East River. That night I got to sit with baby for awhile and Jerome took pictures but I really couldn’t move and was in a lot of pain so they had the baby in the nursery that night. I had decided to breastfeed so I tried to get the baby to latch on even though my milk had not come in. It was just to practice and trigger milk production. I never knew that this would be one of the biggest challenges I’ve ever had to face.

I stayed in the hospital for four nights and arrived home with our baby boy about to face the next test of life…breast feeding and surviving on little sleep.