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.

Family Meals - What It Means Now

By Sue

As long as John and I have been living together, we have tried to eat dinner together. From those early days, sitting on the futon using a single TV tray, to the days of eating at our upgraded hand-me-down coffee table, to our current situations where we have room enough for a small table and some chairs, we have made it a priority to eat together. Cooking came later.

My cooking ability began simply enough with a few Rachael Ray cookbooks. And little by little we got more adventurous. The year I joined a CSA things definitely changed. Eating fresh vegetables right from the farm is incredible. And I was lucky - John went along for the ride. 

Our menus were simple. Pasta, Mexican Monday (aka easy quesadillas), sauteed chicken with rice and broccoli, and then a mash-up of whatever vegetables came that week. And don’t forget Chinese take out (which for us is “order-in”). This continued until PJ arrived.

There was no time for me to cook anymore. As an infant, PJ could take up to 40 minutes to nurse. In the earliest days, she could finish and be hungry again in an hour. I was miserable until we figured out her latch and a schedule that worked for both of us. All this is to say that the burden of preparing all meals fell to John.

Here’s where I should mention that John was with me for my ENTIRE maternity leave. As a teacher, he had the summer off. Those three months were glorious. The three of us snuggling, napping, going for walks, playing. (It should be noted that we didn’t plan it this way, but I’ve been tempted to plan #2 to be born in May/June so we could do it again.) And John did everything - grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, errands, driving. And there were moments when he would hold up some unknown (to him) veggie and ask, “What do I do with this?”

Our entire food plan is dictated by NYC living, meaning there is no room for extra stuff. Our refrigerator is on the smaller side. We don’t have a pantry. In fact, up until a few months ago, we only had one work space about two feet long. And our kitchen is large compared to most!

 

We have to plan our meals. We buy the ingredients we need for the week, make the meals, and then plan for the next week. Rinse, lather, repeat…

The CSA veggies caused John, and to some extent me, some anxiety. Would we use it all before it goes bad? It also meant we couldn’t plan exactly what to buy since we never knew until Tuesday what veggies were coming. We ate a lot of sauteed greens…

As the end of the summer neared, and John was headed back to school, PJ to daycare, and me to work, we knew our leisurely meals were over. I started to freak out. When would the laundry be done? How would I be able to cook and watch PJ? Would I ever cook again if there was always a baby at my boob? And what about those nights when I had to pick up and make dinner and nurse and give her a bath and …

Somehow we ate. I’m pretty sure it was quesadillas and pasta every night. I guess with John training for a marathon and my incredible breastfeeding caloric consumption, we survived. And somewhere along the line, PJ started solids. At that point we all started eating better.

I took on the task of making all of her food from scratch. I loved it. We ate sweet potato and squash and green beans and all sorts of healthy things. I also would make her a meal that we all could eat. For me, this was the best. As soon as she outgrew purees and moved onto table foods, I was stressing again about what to eat and we ended up in a rut again.

There were two turning points for us. First, we joined a meat CSA. All of a sudden, we had to get creative with meat. We started trying recipes we wouldn’t otherwise make. We built menus around random cuts - pork belly anyone? We had a constant supply of bacon and steaks. John took to using the broiler, me to the crockpot. I think it’s safe to say I have never in my life ever eaten as much red meat as during this period of a few months!

The other turning point was meeting Jenny Rosenstrach of Dinner: A Love Story and reading her book. I heard her speak and felt a great weight lifted and perspective was gained. If you’re not familiar with her blog, please go check it out. Her philosophy is simple - good meals, as a family, chaotic and delicious. She helped me realize a couple of things.

1. Even though I am not cooking every meal, my planning and prepping contributes to the meal.
2. It’s unrealistic to have a family meal every night with schedules being what they are these days.
3. The fact that PJ eats most everything and sits with us is a major accomplishment. Not every kids will do that, nor should they. And for me it’s a small victory and something to raise a toast to!
4. She’s got some incredibly simple and tasty meals like porcupine meatballs and burrito bowls.

I now spend a good portion of my weekend researching recipes (and by researching, I really mean glancing briefly at a cookbook) and menu planning. I try to make the meals on the weekends and do more adventurous recipes. I have realized that grocery delivery is a necessity if I have PJ with me. That is some of the best $5 spent! I wish I was home earlier enough to make dinner every night, or at least to be there when John and PJ sit down to eat, but I know that this is only temporary. Knowing that I’m contributing has really changed my perspective towards the positive. 

This is what family meals (at least dinner) look like in our home. What do they look like in yours?

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.

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.

Sunrise, Sunset

By Sue

I sing. I went to school for music and I continue to sing in choirs. It has always been a great release for me. 

When PJ was born, I took a few months off. I tried to go back after I stopped nursing, but the guilt from being away from her was too great. Several months ago, I started singing with a new choir near the apartment. With rehearsals at 7PM just a few blocks away, I have been able to come home, see PJ, and eat dinner with the family before going back out. 

This next concert is full of Broadway hits. Many I have never sung before. Some I sang in high school. And then there are those songs which I sort of know but have never sung. 

I missed a few rehearsals and had yet to read through "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. Obviously I know the tune, who doesn't? But I had never read or sung the complete words. 

Last night, as I sat in rehearsal, I got tears in my eyes as I sang "I don't remember growing older, when did they?"

All at once, I felt time slipping through my fingers. I remembered that 7lb baby I birthed. I remember her firsts - the moment she first looked into my eyes, her first steps, her first strawberry, her first popsicle. And I think back on how much life has changed in those 2 years. It is safe to say I will be a blubbering mess when she gets married. 

Once again, music served as a way to reflect and take stock in all that I have been blessed with.

Book Review: Clutterfree with Kids

By Sue

Living in NYC has its perks. It also has its limits. I often find myself watching House Hunters, angry (jealous is more like it) at the requirements home owners have, because my life is so very different. Space is at a premium here. There just isn’t room in our apartment for multiple bathrooms and guest rooms. And don’t get me started on stainless steel appliances…

Reflecting upon my reactions, I realize that living in NYC requires a certain amount of a minimalist lifestyle in your blood if you want to survive. I’m sure this is the reason I was drawn to Joshua Becker’s blog Becoming Minimalist. And why I picked up a copy of his book Clutterfree with Kids. 

Full disclosure, I can’t remember when I bought the book. I happened upon it one day after turning on my Kindle. That should give you an idea of the clutter in my life…

This short book describes the benefits of living with fewer things, focusing your energy on the things that matter most, and making intentional parenting decisions for you and your family. Becker makes the point throughout the book that living with less stuff does not mean living with no stuff. Rather the process of surrounding yourself with items that are useful and needed means you actually use your belongings, not just organize them for some other time (that may never come because you forget said objects even exist). Also by choosing to highlight specific items in your home that have personal meaning for you and your family, you are consciously reminding yourself of important memories, curating your life as if in a museum. Intentionally.

That word “intentional” is used throughout the book. So often I read about “intentional parenting” and I strive to be an intentional parent. Who doesn’t? One way to achieve this is by modeling behaviors for our kids. And it’s unlikely that PJ will understand the need for fewer toys at 2 years. However, hopefully I can help her get the concept - when she knows how to imagine and to play make believe, when she can tell fantastic stories and realize it is a lot easier to clean up when there aren’t as many stuffed toys taking over her play area. 

Possibly the biggest takeaway is the financial freedom that comes from owning less. Being more mindful with our purchases could mean more money for experiences - Broadway shows, vacations, trips to museums. And, yes, one day maybe owning a home with stainless steel appliances. In the meantime, offloading books and items I don’t use (he suggests purging your own possessions before tackling your partner’s and kids’ things) will give us more space in our lives, not just our apartment. 

My favorite line from the book was about having less and being able to focus on creating a community. “Friends from your birthing class.” These friends of mine, who have changed my life forever, and I can’t imagine my life without, are part of my community, my legacy. That is so much more important than the number shoes in my closet.

A Letter to Stephanie

By Sue

Dear Stephanie,

My first memories of you are standing around a retirement party at work, drinking champagne, and talking about “getting your junk taken care of” (your term for a bikini wax).

Of course that reminds me of the gift card you gave me to get a Brazilian. Moment of truth - I couldn’t do it. I wanted to be brave, but I just chickened out.

Then I remember asking you sing Milkshake in German countless times, and you only indulging me when you had been drinking.

I remember singing to you across Zankel Hall as we danced and smiled and just enjoyed being goofy.

I remember drinks with you as we talked about wedding planning and the countless conversations about your dress(es).

I remember your wedding and how beautiful everything was.

I remember you making the decision to leave New York.

I remember when I heard you were pregnant.

I remember the day Sophia was born, when we talked on the phone and you were waiting for Ozzie to arrive at the hospital.

I remember exactly where I was sitting and what I was doing when I heard the news and the floodgates opened...

Now I think of you every time I see a rainbow.

I think of you more than I say. I don’t tell you or text or email as much as I should or would like to. And I know from your blog why that is upsetting for you.

What I know is this:

• No mother should ever lose a child.
• Every mother should have the chance to take her baby home from the hospital.
• Sophia lives on in the hearts of those who love you and follow your story.
• Sophia was wise beyond her age. She brought so many people together around the world.
• I cry everytime I think of the pain you have been through and continue to face.
• I will try harder to be the friend you need. I have to for both you and Sophia.

I can’t speak for anyone but myself. I don’t always know what to say to you. If I was nearer, I would hold your hand. I would pass you a tissue. I would hug you when you need it. I would bring you a meal of dakos and fresh feta.

But, what to say? I don’t know… I have never faced any situation, any pain, any heartache like you have faced. So I don’t have the words. I don’t have the experience. So I am silent. All I have is the love I feel for you in my heart. The love and light that you deserve and need to help you through this life you are living.

So when you are lonely, remember this:

We both have changed so much since our first interactions in the treehouse office. We have seen beauty and pain. We have planted our feet on the ground and spread our roots wide. We have seen rainbows after the rain.

You are not alone.

Love,

Sue

Coming Home

By Sue

We all have misconceptions about parenting, being a mom, what to expect. And as you continue your journey, you gain perspective and skills to deal with the craziness. So it is with this experience behind me that I can write this post. We just don’t talk about the reality of coming home.

After I delivered my daughter PJ, I was rushed to the OR to remove the placenta (stubborn thing). My recovery was relatively quick and after 2 nights in the hospital, I was ready to come home. Did I mention that I let PJ sleep in the nursery so I could recover and get some rest? That may have been why I (thought I) was ready to come home.

After getting discharged, figuring out how to put PJ in clothes, strapping her into the car seat, taking the elevator to the lobby, retrieving the car, snapping the seat in the base, we were ready. I got into the back seat and cried. Just lost it as we pulled out of the hospital driveway. John navigated the streets of Manhattan expertly. We crossed the 59th Street Bridge, found a decent parking (a major feat in NYC) and proceeded to climb the 3 flights of stairs. (They were tricky at 40 weeks pregnant, they were tricky that day, and they are tricky now with a 20+ pound toddler.)

I remember wanting to be comfortable and changing into my scrubs. I remember being in pain. And I remember feeling like I needed to be ready for my parents. My dad, who hates hospitals, didn’t want to visit me there. Instead, he and my mom planned to meet us at our apartment. PJ was in her crib (where else do you put the little burrito?). 

I was lying on top of the covers when they arrived. I am not sure that they asked me how I was. They just wanted to fawn over PJ. All I wanted to do was talk about the birth.

Lesson 1 - Some people are not comfortable talking about birth 24/7. My parents, of I should say my dad, is one of these people. In hindsight, could I have limited the details? Most definitely. I will leave it at that.

Since breastfeeding was still new to us (PJ had bottles of formula for her first 16 hours of her life) I am pretty sure I just whipped out a boob.

Lesson 2 - Some people are uncomfortable with whipping out a boob.

My thoughts on this are simple. It’s going to happen. Look away if you’re uncomfortable. But also, moms, do what feels right. There are moments when you need to be modest (maybe on occasion, maybe all the time if that’s your preference) but it’s never something to be ashamed of or embarrassed by. YOU ARE FEEDING A BABY!

Any way, back to the boobs. (I will mention here that I miss those boobs. How is it possible that they are smaller now than before I was pregnant…) Moms will attest to the fact that it can be painful when you start breastfeeding, until you get the hang of it. And the nipples get chapped. So you use some of that Lansinoh cream that they give you in the hospital.

WARNING - Lansinoh stains.

I didn’t read the warning right away and ruined a perfectly fine top in the process. Also, I have my first photos with Nana, Pop Pop, John, PJ and me with rings on my shirt where my nipples are. Awesome. (Can you hear the sarcasm?)

We all were hungry and my parents had brought a pre-made lasagna. Yay! However, they didn’t put it in the oven. We had to do that. And this is when I grew up… This was the moment for me when I knew that no one was going to save me. And if I wanted and needed help, I had to ask for it. (Demand, might be the more appropriate word.)

Lesson 3 - if people want to come and see the baby (and you), they have to work for it. Bring or make dinner, do the dishes, hold the baby so mom can rest or shower or pee, run out to the drugstore and pick up everything that is needed. It seems obvious now, but it’s not always in the moment.

Over the course of the next few days and weeks, we had many visitors. I enjoyed having the company and socializing. It helped me feel human, normal, and like my old self. And then the night came…

I mentioned that PJ went to the nursery on the first night and she was formula fed to allow me to heal. There was concern that I might not be able to breastfeed for several weeks after the surgery. The second night, they brought her to me at regular intervals. Even then she would sleep for hours (more on that in another post one day). So the first night home from the hospital, John and I thought we would settle down for a deep sleep.

Cut to us delirious from the constant crying and lack of sleep.

John has since been quoted numerous times saying how he understands why sleep deprivation is used as a torture technique. You can’t function. You can’t remember anything - like where the baby is.

One night, I woke scared as hell that PJ was under our blankets, having fallen asleep while nursing. IT WAS A PILLOW! In that moment, I thought we were co-sleeping by accident. John had to calm me down, assuring me that she was sleeping peacefully (at the moment) in her Rock 'n Play. In that moment though, I really thought that pillow was her! (I now know that I cannot co-sleep for fear of rolling over the baby, even if the baby is large enough to kick me in the neck. I want to co-sleep, but I just don’t rest well with her in the bed...)

Sleep deprivation will also make you crazy and angry and frustrated by everything. You may say things you don’t mean. If you’re a mom, you may (rightfully) blame the hormones. If you’re a dad or partner, you can only blame the lack of sleep.

One night, as I was attempting (unsuccessfully) to figure out how to work the breast pump, John took PJ to the bedroom to change her diaper and calm her. She was wailing. John snapped. I heard him yell, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” I calmly called to him, “Bring her to me.” I could hear the pain in his voice, “I didn’t mean it.” “I know. Just bring her to me please.” He was so upset at himself. I knew he didn’t mean it. I knew he was tired and frustrated and adjusting. I gave him the option to sleep.

Lesson 4 - Take care of each other as well as the baby. It’s so hard and you need rest to be a good parent.We also wear by Happiest Baby on the Block by Dr. Harvey Karp. It’s a book that was given to us and it’s a book we recommend to all of our expecting friends. It saved us in those first moments of becoming parents.

The next day, after visiting the pediatrician, and PJ had lost some weight, the doctor instructed us to give her formula. I didn’t know how. I didn’t give her bottles in the hospital. I didn’t know if we even had bottles. Thank God for my sister. She came to visit and helped me learn. I’ll never forget watching her and thinking, “She’s going to be a great mom...She’s done all this babysitting to prepare her...She knows this stuff…I don’t…”

Lesson 5 - Learn as you go. From everyone who crosses your path. Take it and use it.

Lesson 6 - There are worse things than feeding your baby some formula.

While we figured out breastfeeding, and didn’t really use formula on a regular basis until 4 or 5 months later, I now know that there is no shame in how you feed your baby. We all have our ideas of what we want, but we also have to do what is best for our families. I had some serious issues with supplementing, for no good reason, and once I got over it, life for all of us, got better.

There are so many moments that I remember from those first hours, days, weeks at home. Some I hope to never forget - like the pimple on her ear or how she would poop while eating. How at 2 weeks we took a ferry to South Street Seaport to see a dance performance. Or how at about a month we took her to hear the New York Philharmonic in Cunningham Park for her first orchestral concert.

But there were plenty of crazy moments. There always are.