I almost didn't write this, because... well, it's sad. It seems most of us are willing to share our happy stories, but when it comes to the flip side of that coin -- the not-so-pretty side of things... the things that make our lives challenging; the things that make us cry... we keep them tucked away, out of sight, while we suffer silently. I know often times that's what I do. There is so much fear in sharing sadness... Most of us wait for time to soothe the hurt...
Life is filled with many things... Beautiful moments -- so perfect and graceful, laughter, fear, and sometimes grief. Sad times are important because they teach us who we are, and they show us how deeply grateful we should be for the lovely things we are fortunate to have.
With that said, here's my sad story.
Two weeks ago, life was normal. When I say 'normal' I of course mean the usual chaotic, busy, light-speed-paced schedule... There is little downtime during a typical day in our lives, as we bounce from one activity to another, packing what seems like each and every minute with wall to wall stuff to do. So it took me a minute to put the signs together... I had been exhausted for the past several nights. The girls had invited me to their "Reading Party" upstairs on my bed at 8pm the past few evenings, and while normally I could read with them for an hour, then head downstairs for a few more hours of hang-out time with John before I'd feel sleepy, I found myself snoring away before I had even finished a page of reading. Then there were the frequent potty breaks. Like, waking up several times per night. The final hint was the charlie horses in my calves -- a tightening cramp I had only experienced, yep you guessed it, when I was pregnant. Oh, and of course the cherry on top, a missed period.
So, with not a small amount of fear, excitement and denial, I marched myself into Bartells, and bought the pink box, which now in these modern times proclaims it can tell you "6 days before your period" if you're knocked up. Brooklyn was in preschool and the older girls were at school when I came home with the box. I went directly to the bathroom and pee'd on the stick. I watched as my pee moved across the window, and scrutinized the white to see if I could make out anything colorful developing. Despite all the clues I had that were screaming "yes! you idiot... you're pregnant!" I waited for the window on the test to turn up stark white. There's no.way. I thought. But, watching with bugged eyes, a line did in fact develop. It was pink and it was solid and it was very much there. I blinked at the line and waited for it to fade. It didn't... In fact, it was darkening before my very eyes. My hands started shaking and the reality set in. I counted back through the days and tried to figure out 'how this happenened.' What I realized, after I (not so very quietly) yelled to the bathroom walls, "You have GOT to be effing kidding me!" was that I was excited. Nervous, but thrilled. Just like that, life turns on a dime.
Before this revelation had come anywhere near sinking in, it was time to pick Brooklyn up at preschool. I got in the car to make the 10 minute drive down East Lake Sammamish, and noticed everything looked different. It was a fantastically beautiful fall day. The sky was crispy blue, and all the trees along the glistening lake were heavy with yellowy, orange leaves. Some were spiralling down from the branches like golden coins in the wind. Everything looked magic. I felt in that moment a little bit magic, too. I felt lucky and proud and part of something amazing. I felt like this must be meant to be... especially since we hadn't planned it - it just 'happened.'
I love that it just happened. Anybody who knows us well knows that we have been riding the fence about having a fourth child for quite a while. And yet, we haven't been able to pull the trigger for whatever reason... And realistically, there are several... Reasons. Not far along on the short list (mine) has been Fear. Fear that a fourth child would put us over the edge, or perhaps not be healthy, or perhaps end in a loss... But here was this pregnancy, which essentially fell into our laps. We didn't plan it, or work on it... It just Happened. I loved that.
As the day progressed and I turned the news around in my head again and again and again, other feelings cropped up. Fear was there, for sure. It's incredible that it happens so soon, but already there was love for the life I knew was getting a start in my body. I was intensely protective already, and I was hoping that this little one was getting a nice firm grip in there, and would hold on... because I wanted him or her. Very much. The reality of the matter, I knew, is that many early pregnancies end in loss. Unfortunately, I knew this from experience. My body remembers that pain, and knowing I was carrying a new little life made that pain manifest itself as fear. And yet, I also felt a very distinct amount of peace. Whatever the outcome, I told myself, I felt blessed being pregnant at that moment. It was so sweet.
John was excited. No, I think "elated" is a better word. He, like me, could not believe it. Why is that? Women get pregnant everyday... but when it happens to you, it feels completely miraculous. I think for John, there is a certain degree of pride. 'I did this to you' sort of thing.
I scheduled my first doctor's appointment and went about life as usual -- only now, life as usual took on a whole new meaning. In my mind and in my body, I was making room for something new. Something wonderful and mysterious and already, very much loved. My thoughts were consumed with wrapping this new thing around in my mind. I turned it over constantly. I felt lucky and excited and happy.
One week is not a great deal of time, but that's exactly how long it had been when I went to the bathroom and saw that first speck of blood. My heart instantly sank because I knew. This is how it begins. Or rather, how it ends. Many people say spotting can be part of a normal, healthy pregnancy, but every time I've seen blood, it has meant it's over. I didn't cry. My peace and joy and my feeling of being blessed hardened into an angry fist in my chest. I hardly slept that night, and when I woke up there was more spotting. I called the doctor, and I was advised to go to the lab to get my beta hcg and progesterone drawn. Both give clues as to how the pregnancy is progressing. As I drove to the lab through the rain, the sun suddenly parted the dark clouds and shone brightly -- even as the rain continued to pour. It was rather beautiful, actually. The drops, instead of looking grey and cold, as they did moments before, were bright silvery yellow, and the spray being kicked up from the car in front of me was making misty rainbows that I was literally driving directly through. In my desperation for everything to be okay, this seemed like a sign. Something that on an ordinary day, I probably would have completely overlooked... but on this day, when I needed so much, there was meaning in the simplest of things.
Brooklyn sat on my lap while I got my blood drawn. I watched the vials fill with the dark liquid and I pictured what it would look like at the lab, in all the machines as it was getting tested. I willed my blood to have positive information in it. I wanted my blood to carry good news. Brooklyn told me I was brave, and the Tech. who drew my blood gave her princess stickers.
That night, as I sat in the parking lot while Peyton took her Taekwando class, the nurse from my OB's office called with the lab results. My beta was 200, and my progesterone was 2. Both were extremely underwhelmingly low, low, low numbers. I knew the nurse felt the same because she told me she 'was so sorry.' She told me they had to treat this like a viable pregnancy, though, and she prescribed a progesterone supplement. She also told me to get another blood draw in the morning to see if my numbers increased. I knew though. And I was devastated.
The following morning, the bleeding increased dramatically and when I got the lab results that afternoon they confirmed what I already knew. The numbers were dropping. The pregnancy was gone.
I felt robbed. Like the entire experience was a cruel trick. Why get pregnant unexpectedly, get excited and welcome it, only to have it taken away? What seemed 'meant to be' turned out to be nothing of the sort. What was the point?
I wish that I could sum this up with an anecdote about how I have derived some meaning... some reason... some shred hope from this experience. But I can't. I've merely been left with a deep sadness that I can't make sense out of. Perhaps in more time I will be able to get myself to that place in which this doesn't feel like one of life's betrayals. I will. Eventually.
What I do know, is that I'm already very lucky. My family is everything to me. They are my heart, my love, my happiness... and they will get me through this, and anything.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thankful
Often times these days, I look at my three girls and find myself unrealistically willing them to not get any older. Peyton, at age 8, is still a Mommy's girl. The other day when I was driving her to Tae Kwan Do, she told me, unsolicited from the backseat, "Mommy? When I finish college I want to travel around the world with you and Daddy... and buy you lots of souveneirs." I know I have about two years until John and I being included in her 'traveling around the world dream' will be aced. I asked her the other day if she still believed in Santa. When I was her age, the cat was way out of the bag... She looked at me, horrified... "YES!" She said without hesitation.
Quincy, at 6, is still my loveable lap girl. She often times crawls onto my lap and asks me to tickle her back. While she's lying there she'll tell me "I'm the best Mommy she ever had." She has such an abundance of love in her, and she gives it away without being asked -- to just about anyone who she comes into contact with. She is my bright sparkley light.
Brooklyn, my baby at age 3, is growing fast -- out of diapers, going to preschool, full of ideas and independence... and yet several times a day will pull at my legs and say, "I want to hold you." Her favorite thing to do these days is to "play food," which means going to her room and serving me from the array of wooden play fruit and veggies she has. She sings me happy birthday and makes me feasts.
I love these ages... They are sweet and innocent and brilliant. I know they must grow older, and in all honesty, I look forward to that as well. Right now I am just thankful for the people they are and the joy they give me.
Quincy, at 6, is still my loveable lap girl. She often times crawls onto my lap and asks me to tickle her back. While she's lying there she'll tell me "I'm the best Mommy she ever had." She has such an abundance of love in her, and she gives it away without being asked -- to just about anyone who she comes into contact with. She is my bright sparkley light.
Brooklyn, my baby at age 3, is growing fast -- out of diapers, going to preschool, full of ideas and independence... and yet several times a day will pull at my legs and say, "I want to hold you." Her favorite thing to do these days is to "play food," which means going to her room and serving me from the array of wooden play fruit and veggies she has. She sings me happy birthday and makes me feasts.
I love these ages... They are sweet and innocent and brilliant. I know they must grow older, and in all honesty, I look forward to that as well. Right now I am just thankful for the people they are and the joy they give me.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Triathlon Race Report 8/2010
Sammamish Triathlon, August 2010
I signed up for this race a mere two and half weeks before it was to take place and needless to say, my training (if it can be called “training”) left something to be desired. I had been doing a fine amount of hot yoga, had biked a few times here and there, had fooled around in the pool if and when I had some time (which, truth be told was not often and usually involved pushing Brooklyn around on a floatie and back floating with the older girls)… In addition, I had barely run in the last several months due to a nagging hip/IT band injury.
I had immediate buyer’s remorse after I purchased my entry… What the eff was I thinking? I asked the computer screen which displayed my receipt, and also the swim, bike, and run course. I’ll tell you what I was thinking… I was thinking I missed racing and training -- mainly due to an injury that reared its head seemingly each and every time I tried to push myself out of my comfort zone. I spent the summer running deflating 2 milers, which usually ended in a jog-slash-hobble home. John would see me from the window, limping my way up the hill with a grimace of frustration and pain on my face. “Stop hurting yourself.” He’d tell me with no shortage of irritation in his voice. “As if.” I would think to myself. I began supplementing with a hot power vinyasa yoga class, taught by an Ironman triathlete. It was hard – very hard, but I got a contact high from my very fit instructor’s triathlon successes. I kept pushing with the running, until I could get in 4 miles – which was followed by some, if not all, of the following: ice, foam rolling, alleve, and lots of stretching.
I wanted to race. The Lake Sammamish triathlon was just down the street and I was eager to do something before the summer came to a close. So I signed up, and told myself it would be ‘just for fun.’ Realizing I had but a few weeks to crunch some serious training in, I got cracking. I tried a few open water swims in Pipe Lake in my Mom’s backyard, and I felt surprisingly strong in the water – all those chatarungas, I suppose. I also did some quick-paced bike rides on East Lake Sammamish – where the race course would be – and got some decent (relatively pain-free) running in. What I didn’t do, however, is one single brick. I knew my legs would talk to me during the race and I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but I would cross that bridge when I got there. I essentially was hoping for an injury free end to the race – even if it wasn’t going to be my PR debut.
Morning of Race:
My alarm went off at 4:45 and I crept quietly and quickly to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and swapped out my cozy pj’s for my tri clothes – as well as several warm layers, because it was a COLD morn. Went downstairs and chugged some water while making coffee. I got my bike loaded and added the final items to my bag (helmet, timing chip and swim cap, and a caffeinated Gu). I took my traditional pre-race breakfast to go (toast with almond butter, honey and sliced banana) and hit the road. It was dark on the 3 mile drive to the park. I sipped my coffee and ate my breakfast… It was still dark as I pulled into the parking lot at Lake Sammamish State Park. I always get that ‘this is kinda insane’ feeling the morning of a race… until I see hundreds of other men and women who are up, milling around bleary eyed, cupping canisters of coffee and Gatorade, wheeling their bikes and gear purposefully around. I unloaded my bike and started making my way to body marking. On my way there I was greeted by several warm ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’… Nice group of folks, I thought. There’s nothing like the familiar smell of porta-potties, neoprene, and body marking sharpie markers to get me fired up in the morning. After I was marked I wheeled my bike into transition and was stoked to see that I was the first to arrive on my designated rack. This has happened exactly: never. I grabbed the coveted aisle spot, which allowed me to spread out my gear a bit more than if I were cramped in the middle of the rack. I got my stuff all set up and was pinning my bib number to the shirt I intended to wear on the bike and run when a tall smiling woman threw her bike up on the rack next to me. “Hi! I’m Molly.” she said. “I’m gonna put my stuff next to you because you look nice.” She told me. She proceeded to dump her designer beach bag full of gear on the ground beneath her bike that was dangling precariously by one handle bar on the rack. She laughed at herself and asked if I thought she should eat something. I looked at her pile of stuff and saw about 10 different kinds of nutrition bars, gels, shot blocks and various other things. She settled on a banana and then asked me to help her get her stuff set up. She was so funny and nice, and thankfully was completely distracting me from any pre-race jitters or nerves I might have otherwise had. When there was about a half hour until transition closed I took a quick jog around the edge of the lake to warm up my legs. Though it was not warm, it was an amazingly beautiful morning. The sun had come out behind thin sheets of orange, pink and purple clouds. I stretched a bit, took a last minute potty stop and checked out the swim course. Then I made my way back to transition to pour myself into my wetsuit. Molly was struggling with her wetsuit herself. “This is borrowed.” She told me as she yanked up the legs. “I’ve never worn one of these before.” I managed to get myself all zipped in and walked down to the water with Molly to wait for our wave. We were in the same age group and it turned out we’d be going off at the same time. She asked how she should swim out , where she should stand while she was waiting, and if I ever felt like I was going to pass out when I exited the water. I told her I hadn’t done a race in over a year so I probably wasn’t the one to give advice, but told her my method was to stick to the inner edge away from other swimmers. My usual MO is to go out easy and pick it up at the first buoy. This became my method after my first open water swim in a wetsuit, in which I completely panicked – freaked, really – and felt like I would literally drown. I had tried to swim my hardest right at Go, and had hyperventilated, which I think was a combination of race nerves, adrenaline, and the new constricted feeling of the wetsuit. At any rate, since that debacle, I have chosen to be calm at the start and then really get moving once I’m warmed up and comfortable. This had worked out fairly well, the only drawback being that I had to move around slower swimmers once I got going. That was a big drawback, in all honesty. I looked at the course and realized I wouldn’t have much time to warm up, as it was only a ¼ mile swim. Our wave was up and both Molly and I hugged the outer left edge in the front. “Have fun.” She told me with a huge smile. I freaking loved that girl, I decided.
Swim:
When we were sent off I went for it and swam as hard as I could, while inwardly asking myself what the high hell I thought I was doing. I managed to stay calm and get enough air every fourth stroke, so I kept up the pace. The first buoy approached quickly and I turned tightly around it and spotted the next one and kept my pace steady. I got excited when our group of red-capped women began to thin out and I saw the yellow caps of the wave that had been sent off before us. I started to get breathless and tired as the second buoy approached, and noticed that my right rotator cuff was not enjoying the hard work. I had a touch of the ‘I can’t keep this up’ feeling… But the end was near… I could see the finish so despite some discomfort I hauled myself onshore as quickly as I could. Once on land, I felt good – not that disoriented exhaustion I have felt before when getting out from the swim. There was a steep ledge to hop over, and two volunteers to hoist up the swimmers as they came out. I thanked them and hauled my cookies as fast as I could back to transition. I checked my watch and realized I finished the swim in under 6 minutes – which may be a record for me.
T1
I was feeling pretty stoked as I peeled off my suit in front of my bike, and then I realized Molly was already back – standing leisurely in front of her bike, toweling off. ‘This chick is faster than I thought.’ I heard myself think. Initially when I signed up for this race, (my ‘just for fun’ race) I didn’t intend on really concentrating on transition times. I was just going to take it easy I told myself. But a few days before the race, I bought myself some zip laces to replace the regular ones and that’s when I knew I wouldn’t be able to cruise through transitions. They were, after all, an art form in themselves – which could either add or shave precious seconds or minutes from an overall finish time. Molly said hi and was asking me some questions which I may or may not have answered as I chucked my goggles, swim cap, wetsuit and got bike shoe #1, On. Bike shoe #2, On. Shirt, On. Helmet, On. Glasses, On. Bike off the rack. I was out the door, sopping wet and covered in dried grassy bits, while Molly was still toweling off. I could hear her voice as I ran my bike out, “You’re not even going to wear socks?” “Well actually, Molly,” I thought, “Socks are for pussies.” A valuable lesson I learned when I trained with the Raise the Bar Triathlon team.
Bike
I hopped on my bike in the mount area and was off. Getting out of the park was slow going, as it was a narrow path and crowded with riders. I called out a few “on your lefts” but for the most part wasn’t able to get moving until East Lake Sammamish, where the bikers thinned out and passing was easier. I felt great once I got going. Since I hadn’t bike-trained much to speak of, I wasn’t hoping for record times, which I think did contribute to a sense of overall enjoyment on my ride. I did push, and was surprised that I didn’t seem to be getting passed all that much. Except, of course, from the Tri Bikes… You hear them before you see them. They sound like a whirling combination of a swarm of angry hornets and a humming jet engine. And then they whir by – a stream of tricked out carbon and aerodynamics, operated by a pair of pumped up calves the likes of which I will probably never have. I feel a certain degree of acceptance when I’m passed by one these riders… But not when I’m passed by an older gent in a neon blue tank on a mountain bike. Which, did happen, and I made it a point to pass back. About halfway to the turnaround I looked up at the cars carefully navigating along the road next to the bikers, only to see John’s face hanging out his car window. I didn’t have the wherewithal to give a proper ‘hello’ but I do think I opened my mouth in a gaping ‘whazzup’ kind of way, which probably looked a bit disturbing come to think of it. For the most part, this course was flat, with a minor hill at about mile 5 and a fun ride down on the other side. As I was approaching the turnaround I was feeling great and remarked to myself that I hadn’t noticed anybody else in my age group passing (we’re all marked on our calves with our age). Just then I heard a sweet “on your left” and saw Molly and her socks flying by. I was impressed and then surprised and tried to keep up with her, but she was gone within a few minutes. This was somewhat disheartening, but I got back into the flow and duked it out a few times with blue neon mountain bike rider, who I finally passed for good with about 3 miles to spare. Going back into the park I was neck in neck with another woman. I passed her and she passed me, and then again. She worked hard and passed me again, then pulled directly in front of me and slowed way down. “Come ON,” I muttered to myself as I went to pass her. “Sorry,” she said as I was passing. Maybe I didn’t say it so quietly after all. “Thank you,” I said when she allowed me to go in front of her. As I pulled into the park I tried to assess the damage on my legs. They actually felt pretty good. But as I dismounted I felt it – that heavy, jelly, deadweight feeling. I braced myself so I wouldn’t fall (I’ve seen some embarrassing falls when riders dismount) and jogged awkwardly into transition. My watch said we were working with a total time of 1 hour – swim, T1, and bike included… which meant that the 14 mile bike took me around 50 minutes.
T2
I’ve never been able to get a handle on the second transition. I found my spot and racked my bike. Bike shoe #1….. off. Bike shoe #2…. off. Pause, pause, pause… Helmet, off. Hat, on. Running shoe #1, struggle with laces and, On. Running shoe #2, struggle, squeeze, push. in. my. foot, and, On. Take massive gulps of water and Gatorade mix from my water bottle and grab my caffeinated Gu. Stand up and run on my wobbly legs to the exit to begin: The Run.
The Run
There’s something relatively comforting about going out of the final transition onto the run. One cannot drown, and one cannot fall and scrape up his or her face beyond recognition… One simply must put one foot in front of the other… regardless how incredibly painful it feels. And that first mile? It sucks. It sucks particularly significantly if one has not trained oneself to go from the bike to the run… Say, someone who didn’t manage to do a single brick workout… Namely: me. The other runners who went out with me crawled along for awhile, then after some curse words and complaints about the pain, seemed to get their legs underneath them and get rolling. I tore into my Gu and took a few fruity goopy swallows (grody) and tried to hit the accelerator… I couldn’t kick into a faster pace though, and watched with mounting frustration as what seemed like a handful of people cruised by. This is ‘just for fun’ I reminded myself… and even though I was in a considerable amount of pain – each hamstring cramping and my lungs barely getting enough air in and out – I was having fun. One woman, who was half my size and twice as fast, flew by like she was on wheels. I looked at her calf. 67. “I hope I’m like her when I’m 67,” another runner behind me said. “I wouldn’t mind being like her when I’m 37.” I said and laughed. I was starting to feel better and had accepted the fatigue, as well as the fact that my heaving breath was loud and labored. We turned off onto a dirt trail with meadows on either side and I got an endorphin rush. My leg/hip situation was twinging on and off, but I could ignore it. Mile 1 was marked on the road, and I hit it in just over 8 minutes. Being on the trail was distracting, and made the time and distance go quickly. The course popped up on the road for a minute, then back on to the trail, around an entire soccer field, and back onto the trail again. I lost a sense of how far I’d gone, but looked at my watch and thought the end must be somewhat near. Just then I heard a woman on the sidelines say we were almost there, that we had just a couple more minutes ‘til the end. I could hear the bells and shouts from the finish line. “Finish strong!” somebody yelled just as I saw the finisher chute come into view. I picked it up as much as my legs would allow and heard my girls and John yell for me. I also heard my timing chip pick up my final time, which meant I could slow down – stop, even -- which I did, and promptly felt like I would throw up. I didn’t, thank God, but it was touch and go there for a minute. I saw John and the girls as I came out of the gates and they all gave me big hugs. Seriously, the best feeling ever to have my little ones (Brookie included) say, “great job, Mommy.” Total time 1 hour and 28 minutes...
I saw Molly as I was heading back into transition to get my gear. “Good job!” I told her. “You too.” She said, then added, “Those Cliff Shot Blocks? Yeah, they made me burp the entire run.” And then she made some burping noises for affect. Love that girl. John and the girls headed over to the play park while I went in to gather my stuff. Molly and her three kids were with her in transition. They were hanging on the rack and her little boy was karate kicking his little sister. I heard Molly say something like, “Let’s not kick each other. Do you know what happens when boys hurt their sisters?” At which point she grabbed him by the arm and gave him a firm look. “Right back into Mom-Mode, right?” I said, knowing exactly what that felt like. She nodded and rolled her eyes, then laughed. Being a triathlete was already being trumped by being a Mom…
Looking around I realized many Moms seemed to gravitate toward triathlons and running events. Probably in large part because Moms have the ‘endurance thing’ down pat. Moms are in survival mode on a daily basis. However, unlike athletic events, there are no finish lines in motherhood, no excited cheering spectators handing out cups of water and encouraging words, there are no medals, or personal records. Of course, being a Mom is the best thing in the world… but there is something so undeniably rewarding about crossing a tangible finish line… I was thinking this as I wheeled my bike toward my little girls laughing and smiling on the park playground.
I signed up for this race a mere two and half weeks before it was to take place and needless to say, my training (if it can be called “training”) left something to be desired. I had been doing a fine amount of hot yoga, had biked a few times here and there, had fooled around in the pool if and when I had some time (which, truth be told was not often and usually involved pushing Brooklyn around on a floatie and back floating with the older girls)… In addition, I had barely run in the last several months due to a nagging hip/IT band injury.
I had immediate buyer’s remorse after I purchased my entry… What the eff was I thinking? I asked the computer screen which displayed my receipt, and also the swim, bike, and run course. I’ll tell you what I was thinking… I was thinking I missed racing and training -- mainly due to an injury that reared its head seemingly each and every time I tried to push myself out of my comfort zone. I spent the summer running deflating 2 milers, which usually ended in a jog-slash-hobble home. John would see me from the window, limping my way up the hill with a grimace of frustration and pain on my face. “Stop hurting yourself.” He’d tell me with no shortage of irritation in his voice. “As if.” I would think to myself. I began supplementing with a hot power vinyasa yoga class, taught by an Ironman triathlete. It was hard – very hard, but I got a contact high from my very fit instructor’s triathlon successes. I kept pushing with the running, until I could get in 4 miles – which was followed by some, if not all, of the following: ice, foam rolling, alleve, and lots of stretching.
I wanted to race. The Lake Sammamish triathlon was just down the street and I was eager to do something before the summer came to a close. So I signed up, and told myself it would be ‘just for fun.’ Realizing I had but a few weeks to crunch some serious training in, I got cracking. I tried a few open water swims in Pipe Lake in my Mom’s backyard, and I felt surprisingly strong in the water – all those chatarungas, I suppose. I also did some quick-paced bike rides on East Lake Sammamish – where the race course would be – and got some decent (relatively pain-free) running in. What I didn’t do, however, is one single brick. I knew my legs would talk to me during the race and I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but I would cross that bridge when I got there. I essentially was hoping for an injury free end to the race – even if it wasn’t going to be my PR debut.
Morning of Race:
My alarm went off at 4:45 and I crept quietly and quickly to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and swapped out my cozy pj’s for my tri clothes – as well as several warm layers, because it was a COLD morn. Went downstairs and chugged some water while making coffee. I got my bike loaded and added the final items to my bag (helmet, timing chip and swim cap, and a caffeinated Gu). I took my traditional pre-race breakfast to go (toast with almond butter, honey and sliced banana) and hit the road. It was dark on the 3 mile drive to the park. I sipped my coffee and ate my breakfast… It was still dark as I pulled into the parking lot at Lake Sammamish State Park. I always get that ‘this is kinda insane’ feeling the morning of a race… until I see hundreds of other men and women who are up, milling around bleary eyed, cupping canisters of coffee and Gatorade, wheeling their bikes and gear purposefully around. I unloaded my bike and started making my way to body marking. On my way there I was greeted by several warm ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’… Nice group of folks, I thought. There’s nothing like the familiar smell of porta-potties, neoprene, and body marking sharpie markers to get me fired up in the morning. After I was marked I wheeled my bike into transition and was stoked to see that I was the first to arrive on my designated rack. This has happened exactly: never. I grabbed the coveted aisle spot, which allowed me to spread out my gear a bit more than if I were cramped in the middle of the rack. I got my stuff all set up and was pinning my bib number to the shirt I intended to wear on the bike and run when a tall smiling woman threw her bike up on the rack next to me. “Hi! I’m Molly.” she said. “I’m gonna put my stuff next to you because you look nice.” She told me. She proceeded to dump her designer beach bag full of gear on the ground beneath her bike that was dangling precariously by one handle bar on the rack. She laughed at herself and asked if I thought she should eat something. I looked at her pile of stuff and saw about 10 different kinds of nutrition bars, gels, shot blocks and various other things. She settled on a banana and then asked me to help her get her stuff set up. She was so funny and nice, and thankfully was completely distracting me from any pre-race jitters or nerves I might have otherwise had. When there was about a half hour until transition closed I took a quick jog around the edge of the lake to warm up my legs. Though it was not warm, it was an amazingly beautiful morning. The sun had come out behind thin sheets of orange, pink and purple clouds. I stretched a bit, took a last minute potty stop and checked out the swim course. Then I made my way back to transition to pour myself into my wetsuit. Molly was struggling with her wetsuit herself. “This is borrowed.” She told me as she yanked up the legs. “I’ve never worn one of these before.” I managed to get myself all zipped in and walked down to the water with Molly to wait for our wave. We were in the same age group and it turned out we’d be going off at the same time. She asked how she should swim out , where she should stand while she was waiting, and if I ever felt like I was going to pass out when I exited the water. I told her I hadn’t done a race in over a year so I probably wasn’t the one to give advice, but told her my method was to stick to the inner edge away from other swimmers. My usual MO is to go out easy and pick it up at the first buoy. This became my method after my first open water swim in a wetsuit, in which I completely panicked – freaked, really – and felt like I would literally drown. I had tried to swim my hardest right at Go, and had hyperventilated, which I think was a combination of race nerves, adrenaline, and the new constricted feeling of the wetsuit. At any rate, since that debacle, I have chosen to be calm at the start and then really get moving once I’m warmed up and comfortable. This had worked out fairly well, the only drawback being that I had to move around slower swimmers once I got going. That was a big drawback, in all honesty. I looked at the course and realized I wouldn’t have much time to warm up, as it was only a ¼ mile swim. Our wave was up and both Molly and I hugged the outer left edge in the front. “Have fun.” She told me with a huge smile. I freaking loved that girl, I decided.
Swim:
When we were sent off I went for it and swam as hard as I could, while inwardly asking myself what the high hell I thought I was doing. I managed to stay calm and get enough air every fourth stroke, so I kept up the pace. The first buoy approached quickly and I turned tightly around it and spotted the next one and kept my pace steady. I got excited when our group of red-capped women began to thin out and I saw the yellow caps of the wave that had been sent off before us. I started to get breathless and tired as the second buoy approached, and noticed that my right rotator cuff was not enjoying the hard work. I had a touch of the ‘I can’t keep this up’ feeling… But the end was near… I could see the finish so despite some discomfort I hauled myself onshore as quickly as I could. Once on land, I felt good – not that disoriented exhaustion I have felt before when getting out from the swim. There was a steep ledge to hop over, and two volunteers to hoist up the swimmers as they came out. I thanked them and hauled my cookies as fast as I could back to transition. I checked my watch and realized I finished the swim in under 6 minutes – which may be a record for me.
T1
I was feeling pretty stoked as I peeled off my suit in front of my bike, and then I realized Molly was already back – standing leisurely in front of her bike, toweling off. ‘This chick is faster than I thought.’ I heard myself think. Initially when I signed up for this race, (my ‘just for fun’ race) I didn’t intend on really concentrating on transition times. I was just going to take it easy I told myself. But a few days before the race, I bought myself some zip laces to replace the regular ones and that’s when I knew I wouldn’t be able to cruise through transitions. They were, after all, an art form in themselves – which could either add or shave precious seconds or minutes from an overall finish time. Molly said hi and was asking me some questions which I may or may not have answered as I chucked my goggles, swim cap, wetsuit and got bike shoe #1, On. Bike shoe #2, On. Shirt, On. Helmet, On. Glasses, On. Bike off the rack. I was out the door, sopping wet and covered in dried grassy bits, while Molly was still toweling off. I could hear her voice as I ran my bike out, “You’re not even going to wear socks?” “Well actually, Molly,” I thought, “Socks are for pussies.” A valuable lesson I learned when I trained with the Raise the Bar Triathlon team.
Bike
I hopped on my bike in the mount area and was off. Getting out of the park was slow going, as it was a narrow path and crowded with riders. I called out a few “on your lefts” but for the most part wasn’t able to get moving until East Lake Sammamish, where the bikers thinned out and passing was easier. I felt great once I got going. Since I hadn’t bike-trained much to speak of, I wasn’t hoping for record times, which I think did contribute to a sense of overall enjoyment on my ride. I did push, and was surprised that I didn’t seem to be getting passed all that much. Except, of course, from the Tri Bikes… You hear them before you see them. They sound like a whirling combination of a swarm of angry hornets and a humming jet engine. And then they whir by – a stream of tricked out carbon and aerodynamics, operated by a pair of pumped up calves the likes of which I will probably never have. I feel a certain degree of acceptance when I’m passed by one these riders… But not when I’m passed by an older gent in a neon blue tank on a mountain bike. Which, did happen, and I made it a point to pass back. About halfway to the turnaround I looked up at the cars carefully navigating along the road next to the bikers, only to see John’s face hanging out his car window. I didn’t have the wherewithal to give a proper ‘hello’ but I do think I opened my mouth in a gaping ‘whazzup’ kind of way, which probably looked a bit disturbing come to think of it. For the most part, this course was flat, with a minor hill at about mile 5 and a fun ride down on the other side. As I was approaching the turnaround I was feeling great and remarked to myself that I hadn’t noticed anybody else in my age group passing (we’re all marked on our calves with our age). Just then I heard a sweet “on your left” and saw Molly and her socks flying by. I was impressed and then surprised and tried to keep up with her, but she was gone within a few minutes. This was somewhat disheartening, but I got back into the flow and duked it out a few times with blue neon mountain bike rider, who I finally passed for good with about 3 miles to spare. Going back into the park I was neck in neck with another woman. I passed her and she passed me, and then again. She worked hard and passed me again, then pulled directly in front of me and slowed way down. “Come ON,” I muttered to myself as I went to pass her. “Sorry,” she said as I was passing. Maybe I didn’t say it so quietly after all. “Thank you,” I said when she allowed me to go in front of her. As I pulled into the park I tried to assess the damage on my legs. They actually felt pretty good. But as I dismounted I felt it – that heavy, jelly, deadweight feeling. I braced myself so I wouldn’t fall (I’ve seen some embarrassing falls when riders dismount) and jogged awkwardly into transition. My watch said we were working with a total time of 1 hour – swim, T1, and bike included… which meant that the 14 mile bike took me around 50 minutes.
T2
I’ve never been able to get a handle on the second transition. I found my spot and racked my bike. Bike shoe #1….. off. Bike shoe #2…. off. Pause, pause, pause… Helmet, off. Hat, on. Running shoe #1, struggle with laces and, On. Running shoe #2, struggle, squeeze, push. in. my. foot, and, On. Take massive gulps of water and Gatorade mix from my water bottle and grab my caffeinated Gu. Stand up and run on my wobbly legs to the exit to begin: The Run.
The Run
There’s something relatively comforting about going out of the final transition onto the run. One cannot drown, and one cannot fall and scrape up his or her face beyond recognition… One simply must put one foot in front of the other… regardless how incredibly painful it feels. And that first mile? It sucks. It sucks particularly significantly if one has not trained oneself to go from the bike to the run… Say, someone who didn’t manage to do a single brick workout… Namely: me. The other runners who went out with me crawled along for awhile, then after some curse words and complaints about the pain, seemed to get their legs underneath them and get rolling. I tore into my Gu and took a few fruity goopy swallows (grody) and tried to hit the accelerator… I couldn’t kick into a faster pace though, and watched with mounting frustration as what seemed like a handful of people cruised by. This is ‘just for fun’ I reminded myself… and even though I was in a considerable amount of pain – each hamstring cramping and my lungs barely getting enough air in and out – I was having fun. One woman, who was half my size and twice as fast, flew by like she was on wheels. I looked at her calf. 67. “I hope I’m like her when I’m 67,” another runner behind me said. “I wouldn’t mind being like her when I’m 37.” I said and laughed. I was starting to feel better and had accepted the fatigue, as well as the fact that my heaving breath was loud and labored. We turned off onto a dirt trail with meadows on either side and I got an endorphin rush. My leg/hip situation was twinging on and off, but I could ignore it. Mile 1 was marked on the road, and I hit it in just over 8 minutes. Being on the trail was distracting, and made the time and distance go quickly. The course popped up on the road for a minute, then back on to the trail, around an entire soccer field, and back onto the trail again. I lost a sense of how far I’d gone, but looked at my watch and thought the end must be somewhat near. Just then I heard a woman on the sidelines say we were almost there, that we had just a couple more minutes ‘til the end. I could hear the bells and shouts from the finish line. “Finish strong!” somebody yelled just as I saw the finisher chute come into view. I picked it up as much as my legs would allow and heard my girls and John yell for me. I also heard my timing chip pick up my final time, which meant I could slow down – stop, even -- which I did, and promptly felt like I would throw up. I didn’t, thank God, but it was touch and go there for a minute. I saw John and the girls as I came out of the gates and they all gave me big hugs. Seriously, the best feeling ever to have my little ones (Brookie included) say, “great job, Mommy.” Total time 1 hour and 28 minutes...
I saw Molly as I was heading back into transition to get my gear. “Good job!” I told her. “You too.” She said, then added, “Those Cliff Shot Blocks? Yeah, they made me burp the entire run.” And then she made some burping noises for affect. Love that girl. John and the girls headed over to the play park while I went in to gather my stuff. Molly and her three kids were with her in transition. They were hanging on the rack and her little boy was karate kicking his little sister. I heard Molly say something like, “Let’s not kick each other. Do you know what happens when boys hurt their sisters?” At which point she grabbed him by the arm and gave him a firm look. “Right back into Mom-Mode, right?” I said, knowing exactly what that felt like. She nodded and rolled her eyes, then laughed. Being a triathlete was already being trumped by being a Mom…
Looking around I realized many Moms seemed to gravitate toward triathlons and running events. Probably in large part because Moms have the ‘endurance thing’ down pat. Moms are in survival mode on a daily basis. However, unlike athletic events, there are no finish lines in motherhood, no excited cheering spectators handing out cups of water and encouraging words, there are no medals, or personal records. Of course, being a Mom is the best thing in the world… but there is something so undeniably rewarding about crossing a tangible finish line… I was thinking this as I wheeled my bike toward my little girls laughing and smiling on the park playground.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Post Yoga ~ Thank You Brookie
I've been practicing yoga for seven months now and still very much consider myself a 'newbie' when I think about all there is to learn.
One thing that has never stopped amazing me, is just how much sweat a body -- MY body can lose while doing a 90 minute Hot Vinyasa class. It pours off me in streams... on to my 'yoga towel' and on to the hardwood floor. It pools in neat little puddles on the side of my mat and completely (and I do mean completely) saturates my yoga clothes. For this reason, I choose my clothes carefully - wicking fiber, cami tops, and I've even started wearing yoga shorts which I told myself I'd never do - not because I've taken a negative position on 'shorts' per se, but I have leg issues - modesty, etc. It's just me... But I wear them now. Shorts. Despite my shrewd yoga clothing choices, when I come home from a class, I cannot WAIT to get out of my sweaty soaking clothes and into a shower. I find myself being impressed by my sweatiness, and also horrified... then impressed again. I have to peel the clothing off my body, because everybody knows when workout clothing is soaking wet, it sticks and clings to your skin in a most terrible way. I have to contort myself back into yoga poses just to remove the sticky heavy clothing.
This is all just an intro, really... For this very afternoon I found myself in this situation: Sweaty, shivering - because my clothes were sopping wet and it was 50 degrees outside (a far cry from the 100+ yoga studio), and desperately wanting a shower. Peyton and Quincy were playing "grocery store" downstairs with the play cart and plastic groceries. Brooklyn, of course, came upstairs as she always does to accompany me while I showered. Translation: Brooklyn came to seek and destroy in the bathroom while I showered.
I peeled and contorted and removed the impressively sopped clothing - and hung it up to dry, which I mused would probably take at least 24 hours. Just as I closed the shower door and let the steamy water warm me, Brooklyn shot like a little bullet from the bathroom. My mind went through the options of troublemaking she could commit while I showered. The list was long and sordid. I started soaping as quickly as I could, shampooing at the same time. I comforted myself with the notion that most likely she would occupy herself by changing into an array of dresses and bathing suits - a favorite and well known pastime of hers... Yes, that's what she'd do, I told myself. Just as I relaxed I heard a blood curdling scream... and then another one. One after the other. It was Brooklyn and she was screaming from somewhere in the house. "That is not the cry of a child putting on a bathing suit," I thought before bursting through the shower door with a full head of shampooed hair and Dove soap film sliding from my body. The Tylenol debacle was fresh in my memory as I sprinted into my bedroom, slipping on the hardwood floor and leaving soapy sloshing footprints behind me. I heard the scream again and I picked up the pace through the hallway. If somebody had been outside the house at that moment, they would have had the great misfortune of seeing me streak past the window, body parts and soap flying this way and that. I made it to Brooklyn's room and opened the door. She was standing in the center of the floor, trying with little success (hence the screaming) to untangle herself from the criss cross straps of her pink-polka-dotted bathing suit she had managed to twist herself in. When she saw me there, naked and dripping on her carpet, she pointed a little index finger at me and said, "I need your help right now." I love curse words. I do. But unfortunately I no longer can use them when they are most needed, so I said something like, "Oh my gracious, Brookie!" and I quickly fixed her straps and retraced my wet steps back to the shower. As I was warming myself back up and washing off the remaining soap, Brooklyn marched into the bathroom with an exasperated look on her face. She had on a dress now - over her suit, and she couldn't zip up the back, or tie the bow. "MOMMY!" She declared. "Zip my dress!"
One thing that has never stopped amazing me, is just how much sweat a body -- MY body can lose while doing a 90 minute Hot Vinyasa class. It pours off me in streams... on to my 'yoga towel' and on to the hardwood floor. It pools in neat little puddles on the side of my mat and completely (and I do mean completely) saturates my yoga clothes. For this reason, I choose my clothes carefully - wicking fiber, cami tops, and I've even started wearing yoga shorts which I told myself I'd never do - not because I've taken a negative position on 'shorts' per se, but I have leg issues - modesty, etc. It's just me... But I wear them now. Shorts. Despite my shrewd yoga clothing choices, when I come home from a class, I cannot WAIT to get out of my sweaty soaking clothes and into a shower. I find myself being impressed by my sweatiness, and also horrified... then impressed again. I have to peel the clothing off my body, because everybody knows when workout clothing is soaking wet, it sticks and clings to your skin in a most terrible way. I have to contort myself back into yoga poses just to remove the sticky heavy clothing.
This is all just an intro, really... For this very afternoon I found myself in this situation: Sweaty, shivering - because my clothes were sopping wet and it was 50 degrees outside (a far cry from the 100+ yoga studio), and desperately wanting a shower. Peyton and Quincy were playing "grocery store" downstairs with the play cart and plastic groceries. Brooklyn, of course, came upstairs as she always does to accompany me while I showered. Translation: Brooklyn came to seek and destroy in the bathroom while I showered.
I peeled and contorted and removed the impressively sopped clothing - and hung it up to dry, which I mused would probably take at least 24 hours. Just as I closed the shower door and let the steamy water warm me, Brooklyn shot like a little bullet from the bathroom. My mind went through the options of troublemaking she could commit while I showered. The list was long and sordid. I started soaping as quickly as I could, shampooing at the same time. I comforted myself with the notion that most likely she would occupy herself by changing into an array of dresses and bathing suits - a favorite and well known pastime of hers... Yes, that's what she'd do, I told myself. Just as I relaxed I heard a blood curdling scream... and then another one. One after the other. It was Brooklyn and she was screaming from somewhere in the house. "That is not the cry of a child putting on a bathing suit," I thought before bursting through the shower door with a full head of shampooed hair and Dove soap film sliding from my body. The Tylenol debacle was fresh in my memory as I sprinted into my bedroom, slipping on the hardwood floor and leaving soapy sloshing footprints behind me. I heard the scream again and I picked up the pace through the hallway. If somebody had been outside the house at that moment, they would have had the great misfortune of seeing me streak past the window, body parts and soap flying this way and that. I made it to Brooklyn's room and opened the door. She was standing in the center of the floor, trying with little success (hence the screaming) to untangle herself from the criss cross straps of her pink-polka-dotted bathing suit she had managed to twist herself in. When she saw me there, naked and dripping on her carpet, she pointed a little index finger at me and said, "I need your help right now." I love curse words. I do. But unfortunately I no longer can use them when they are most needed, so I said something like, "Oh my gracious, Brookie!" and I quickly fixed her straps and retraced my wet steps back to the shower. As I was warming myself back up and washing off the remaining soap, Brooklyn marched into the bathroom with an exasperated look on her face. She had on a dress now - over her suit, and she couldn't zip up the back, or tie the bow. "MOMMY!" She declared. "Zip my dress!"
Monday, June 7, 2010
Never A Dull Moment...
If our life was a movie and the movie had a title, one option would surely be: "Never A Dull Moment," (starring the Hutchinsons). What it lacks in creativity, it makes up in truth. Since having kids, I simply cannot remember a time in the recent and/or distant past in which we've had "a dull moment."
This weekend was exemplary proof of just that. It actually started in a most fantastic way -- in an unsual way, to boot. I woke up with an immediate realization. The sun was out. It was Saturday, and the Sun. Was. Out. It was bright and orangey and happy... Do you know the song "Zippitee Doo Da?" When you live in Washington and you've endured months and months of perpetual rain... rain well into the month of June, even... In these circumstances, when you see the sun shining in a clear cornflower blue sky, you may want to sing "Zippitee Doo Da." I for one, did.
I opened the kitchen windows and made the girls breakfast. I brewed coffee and looked at the blue sky. It was magnificent. I told John I wanted to take a run by the lake, and that's just what I did. Everything seemed to glisten in the morning sun. I came back home in a better mood than when I left - endorphins fizzing and popping in my brain. We made plans for the day... First, a trip to the park to enjoy the beautiful day outside with the girls. Then home for Brooklyn's nap, and John's yardwork. When Brookie woke up, we'd go have dinner together and see an evening movie (Shrek).
I trotted upstairs to shower and get ready. Brookie, of course, followed. This child likes to be exactly where I am, exactly all the time. It doesn't matter if I am showering, going to the bathroom, cooking a 5 course meal (okay, this rarely happens) or vacuuming the stairs... She wants to be within arm's distance. The only exception (and pardon me for the tmi) is when she needs to, er... poop. This is the only time she will look at me frankly and say, "I NEED some privacy, Mom..." At which point I say, "OKAY!" and try and get something done in the 10 or 15 minutes of privacy she allots herself to poop. I will admit (perhaps a little guiltily) that I actually look forward to when she has to go, because I get a little respite of my own... A sad but true fact. Oh, the other thing... though she is potty trained in the sense that she knows when she has to go, she prefers to go in a pull-up. More tmi, but this is all critical to the story... so forgive me for dwelling, but you'll understand in a minute.
So into the shower I went, while Brooklyn stood on the other side of glass busying herself as she often does by pulling out hundreds of Q-tips, opening and closing all the drawers and cabinets, twirling toilet paper around her waist, climbing on the toilet seat, and turning the water faucet on and off -- all to the continuous sound of my loud (yet helpless) pleas from behind the steamy shower door, "Brookie! Don't Touch! No. Put that back. No more toilet paper. Stop flushing. That's DADDY's deodorant. Stop using Mommy's toothbrush, etc...!!!" So, when Brooklyn told me she "had to poop" when I exited the shower, it was with some degree of relief that I took her to her room and got her situated in a pull-up. Still dripping wet and in a robe, I began to leave her to do her business in her room. "Close the door." Brooklyn told (not asked) me. I gladly did and when the door was shut, I hightailed it back to my bathroom to get dry and dressed.
When I had some clothes on and my hair was semi-dry, I went to check on Brooklyn's progress. I opened her bedroom door to find the room empty. I almost turned and left, but heard something from behind the closet door. I opened it to discover Brooklyn in her poopy pull-up having a private tea party with the bottle of Children's Tylenol I had, just the night before, put high on her 5 foot high dresser. I think I gasped, or screamed, or did something completely unexpected because Brooklyn froze in place and looked at me with terrified saucer eyes. I grabbed the bottle from her, which was now completely empty, and tried to remember how much Tylenol was in there before Brooklyn helped herself to it. To my recollection, it had been nearly full. This is when the full-fledge panic hit. When I hit full-fledge panic mode, I get very, very calm. But before the calm came, I did manage to say to Brooklyn with all the fear and anger of a Mother who has seen her child do something extremely dangerous, "Nooooooo!!! NOOOOOO!!!" And with that I hoisted her stinky (and now crying) little self on my hip and ran downstairs to call poison control.
"Zippitee Doo Da" was officially off the playlist.
I told John what was going on and he immediately got on the phone with the Emergency Room close to home, but not before he did his own scared Daddy version of the, "Noooo!Noooo!" Brookie was bawling in earnest now, the full magnitude of her naughtiness weighing on her. While John was talking to the ER folks, I was on the phone with Poison Control. The woman on the phone, Debbie, who had a very calm way about her (which I was thankful for) told me there was nothing the ER could do for Brooklyn until it had been 4 hours since she injested the medicine. Apparently it takes that long for it to affect the liver -- which is what would suffer if she had a toxic amount of acetaminophen in her system. Liver failure snagged in my brain and rolled around while I tried to process what she was saying. Toxic. Liver shutting down... I was terrified. But Debbie said to keep her home for 4 hours. "The ER people will just twiddle their thumbs for 4 hours if you bring her there," Debbie told me. She encouraged me to get Brooklyn to eat and drink. I made a turkey and cheese sandwich and cut it into tiny squares and put one of the squares in Brooklyn's hand. She was flushed from crying and when I sat down on the couch with her she melted into my chest and wadded the sandwich into her fist. So much for the eating part. "Eat your little sandwich, Love..." I asked Brooklyn as gently as I could. She looked at it and whimpered. Both John and I sat watching her like a pot about to boil. Was she acting lethargic? Was that normal? Was she about to have a reaction? What would we do if she did? Was she too flushed? Hot? Ultimately, we decided we'd rather have her in the ER, regardless if there was to be some finger twiddling. We decided I would take Brooklyn (who was still clutching her mini-sandwich) while John stayed home with the older girls. Why take a family of 5 to the ER? we figured.
Around this time, Brooklyn got it. She heard the word: Doctor, and: Hospital... at which point the shrieking began. Let's make one thing abundantly clear... Brooklyn is horribly. terribly. freakishly. afraid of the Doctor. This, I believe, is a result of her early months when each and every time she'd visit her Doctor she'd be stuck with multiple needles, then subsequently feel awful for days. Saying "let's go to the Doctor," to her, would be much like saying "let's go swim with some Great White Sharks," to an adult. So she cried. Loudly. The entire drive to the ER (20 minutes) and the entire check in process, and the entire time we sat in the little room while the nurses took her vitals. The nurses asked me questions, which I only somewhat heard. I managed to yell over the cries what had happened in Brooklyn's closet with the Tylenol bottle. They entered some information in the computer and yelled back that the Doctor would be in "soon." I held Brooklyn close on the hospital bed. I told her she was safe and that everything would be okay. Her face and ears were bright red from crying. I continued to reassure her that I was 'there' and she was safe. Finally, she sighed... and the crying stopped - just as my head was about to implode.
An hour later the Doctor arrived - a Mister Rogers type who smiled and cracked jokes and kept calling me "Mom." He said there was nothing they could do until 4 hours had passed. He suggested we go home. I made him assure me twenty times that nothing would happen if we left the ER. He assured me. He told me when we returned they would need to do a blood draw to test for Toxic levels (that damn word again) of Acetaminophen in Brooklyn's system. If there was an issue, they would give her an antidote, which he said, was very effective. We drove home, in the golden light of the first sunny day in what seemed like eons. Brooklyn was exhausted. I was exhausted. I got her to eat, and then we needed to go back. For the blood draw.
If you think I was nervous about Brooklyn having blood drawn from her tiny little arm, then you're absolutely right. My stomach hurt. I was shaky and overly cheery. I told Brooklyn we were going to see Shrek after we were done far too many times. We checked back in at the ER and two nurses took us back to another room. This time Brooklyn wasn't crying. Thank God. One nurse was going to insert the needle, and the other was there to hold my baby down. I did a great deal of breathing in, but not nearly enough breathing out. Brookie looked so little on that hospital bed while the nurse checked her arms for suitable veins. It was time and just before the needle went in I said, "Brookie!!!" and she looked directly at me. "What?" she asked. "Do you want to see Shrek!?" The needle was in, and dark blood was filling the vial. She started to look at it, and I said, "BROOKIE!!!" and she said, "What?" Before I could answer, we were done. The nurse was putting a bandaid on her arm. "We're Done!" I told her. "You were so brave." No tears, and she looked at the bandaid proudly. "I'm gonna show Peyton and Quinny." She told me.
We had to wait for over an hour for the blood results. I let Brooklyn play with my iPhone, and she must have taken 100 pictures of the floor and my hands while I watched whatever Cartoon Disney show the nurses put on the television.
The Doctor arrived again, all smiles and cheesy humor, to reveal that Brooklyn was completely Toxic Free. He had numbers and a graph, both which revealed that my trouble making little angel was indeed, okay to go home. I told Brooklyn the news, "We're done!" She perked up and told me, "We can go home now!"
This weekend was exemplary proof of just that. It actually started in a most fantastic way -- in an unsual way, to boot. I woke up with an immediate realization. The sun was out. It was Saturday, and the Sun. Was. Out. It was bright and orangey and happy... Do you know the song "Zippitee Doo Da?" When you live in Washington and you've endured months and months of perpetual rain... rain well into the month of June, even... In these circumstances, when you see the sun shining in a clear cornflower blue sky, you may want to sing "Zippitee Doo Da." I for one, did.
I opened the kitchen windows and made the girls breakfast. I brewed coffee and looked at the blue sky. It was magnificent. I told John I wanted to take a run by the lake, and that's just what I did. Everything seemed to glisten in the morning sun. I came back home in a better mood than when I left - endorphins fizzing and popping in my brain. We made plans for the day... First, a trip to the park to enjoy the beautiful day outside with the girls. Then home for Brooklyn's nap, and John's yardwork. When Brookie woke up, we'd go have dinner together and see an evening movie (Shrek).
I trotted upstairs to shower and get ready. Brookie, of course, followed. This child likes to be exactly where I am, exactly all the time. It doesn't matter if I am showering, going to the bathroom, cooking a 5 course meal (okay, this rarely happens) or vacuuming the stairs... She wants to be within arm's distance. The only exception (and pardon me for the tmi) is when she needs to, er... poop. This is the only time she will look at me frankly and say, "I NEED some privacy, Mom..." At which point I say, "OKAY!" and try and get something done in the 10 or 15 minutes of privacy she allots herself to poop. I will admit (perhaps a little guiltily) that I actually look forward to when she has to go, because I get a little respite of my own... A sad but true fact. Oh, the other thing... though she is potty trained in the sense that she knows when she has to go, she prefers to go in a pull-up. More tmi, but this is all critical to the story... so forgive me for dwelling, but you'll understand in a minute.
So into the shower I went, while Brooklyn stood on the other side of glass busying herself as she often does by pulling out hundreds of Q-tips, opening and closing all the drawers and cabinets, twirling toilet paper around her waist, climbing on the toilet seat, and turning the water faucet on and off -- all to the continuous sound of my loud (yet helpless) pleas from behind the steamy shower door, "Brookie! Don't Touch! No. Put that back. No more toilet paper. Stop flushing. That's DADDY's deodorant. Stop using Mommy's toothbrush, etc...!!!" So, when Brooklyn told me she "had to poop" when I exited the shower, it was with some degree of relief that I took her to her room and got her situated in a pull-up. Still dripping wet and in a robe, I began to leave her to do her business in her room. "Close the door." Brooklyn told (not asked) me. I gladly did and when the door was shut, I hightailed it back to my bathroom to get dry and dressed.
When I had some clothes on and my hair was semi-dry, I went to check on Brooklyn's progress. I opened her bedroom door to find the room empty. I almost turned and left, but heard something from behind the closet door. I opened it to discover Brooklyn in her poopy pull-up having a private tea party with the bottle of Children's Tylenol I had, just the night before, put high on her 5 foot high dresser. I think I gasped, or screamed, or did something completely unexpected because Brooklyn froze in place and looked at me with terrified saucer eyes. I grabbed the bottle from her, which was now completely empty, and tried to remember how much Tylenol was in there before Brooklyn helped herself to it. To my recollection, it had been nearly full. This is when the full-fledge panic hit. When I hit full-fledge panic mode, I get very, very calm. But before the calm came, I did manage to say to Brooklyn with all the fear and anger of a Mother who has seen her child do something extremely dangerous, "Nooooooo!!! NOOOOOO!!!" And with that I hoisted her stinky (and now crying) little self on my hip and ran downstairs to call poison control.
"Zippitee Doo Da" was officially off the playlist.
I told John what was going on and he immediately got on the phone with the Emergency Room close to home, but not before he did his own scared Daddy version of the, "Noooo!Noooo!" Brookie was bawling in earnest now, the full magnitude of her naughtiness weighing on her. While John was talking to the ER folks, I was on the phone with Poison Control. The woman on the phone, Debbie, who had a very calm way about her (which I was thankful for) told me there was nothing the ER could do for Brooklyn until it had been 4 hours since she injested the medicine. Apparently it takes that long for it to affect the liver -- which is what would suffer if she had a toxic amount of acetaminophen in her system. Liver failure snagged in my brain and rolled around while I tried to process what she was saying. Toxic. Liver shutting down... I was terrified. But Debbie said to keep her home for 4 hours. "The ER people will just twiddle their thumbs for 4 hours if you bring her there," Debbie told me. She encouraged me to get Brooklyn to eat and drink. I made a turkey and cheese sandwich and cut it into tiny squares and put one of the squares in Brooklyn's hand. She was flushed from crying and when I sat down on the couch with her she melted into my chest and wadded the sandwich into her fist. So much for the eating part. "Eat your little sandwich, Love..." I asked Brooklyn as gently as I could. She looked at it and whimpered. Both John and I sat watching her like a pot about to boil. Was she acting lethargic? Was that normal? Was she about to have a reaction? What would we do if she did? Was she too flushed? Hot? Ultimately, we decided we'd rather have her in the ER, regardless if there was to be some finger twiddling. We decided I would take Brooklyn (who was still clutching her mini-sandwich) while John stayed home with the older girls. Why take a family of 5 to the ER? we figured.
Around this time, Brooklyn got it. She heard the word: Doctor, and: Hospital... at which point the shrieking began. Let's make one thing abundantly clear... Brooklyn is horribly. terribly. freakishly. afraid of the Doctor. This, I believe, is a result of her early months when each and every time she'd visit her Doctor she'd be stuck with multiple needles, then subsequently feel awful for days. Saying "let's go to the Doctor," to her, would be much like saying "let's go swim with some Great White Sharks," to an adult. So she cried. Loudly. The entire drive to the ER (20 minutes) and the entire check in process, and the entire time we sat in the little room while the nurses took her vitals. The nurses asked me questions, which I only somewhat heard. I managed to yell over the cries what had happened in Brooklyn's closet with the Tylenol bottle. They entered some information in the computer and yelled back that the Doctor would be in "soon." I held Brooklyn close on the hospital bed. I told her she was safe and that everything would be okay. Her face and ears were bright red from crying. I continued to reassure her that I was 'there' and she was safe. Finally, she sighed... and the crying stopped - just as my head was about to implode.
An hour later the Doctor arrived - a Mister Rogers type who smiled and cracked jokes and kept calling me "Mom." He said there was nothing they could do until 4 hours had passed. He suggested we go home. I made him assure me twenty times that nothing would happen if we left the ER. He assured me. He told me when we returned they would need to do a blood draw to test for Toxic levels (that damn word again) of Acetaminophen in Brooklyn's system. If there was an issue, they would give her an antidote, which he said, was very effective. We drove home, in the golden light of the first sunny day in what seemed like eons. Brooklyn was exhausted. I was exhausted. I got her to eat, and then we needed to go back. For the blood draw.
If you think I was nervous about Brooklyn having blood drawn from her tiny little arm, then you're absolutely right. My stomach hurt. I was shaky and overly cheery. I told Brooklyn we were going to see Shrek after we were done far too many times. We checked back in at the ER and two nurses took us back to another room. This time Brooklyn wasn't crying. Thank God. One nurse was going to insert the needle, and the other was there to hold my baby down. I did a great deal of breathing in, but not nearly enough breathing out. Brookie looked so little on that hospital bed while the nurse checked her arms for suitable veins. It was time and just before the needle went in I said, "Brookie!!!" and she looked directly at me. "What?" she asked. "Do you want to see Shrek!?" The needle was in, and dark blood was filling the vial. She started to look at it, and I said, "BROOKIE!!!" and she said, "What?" Before I could answer, we were done. The nurse was putting a bandaid on her arm. "We're Done!" I told her. "You were so brave." No tears, and she looked at the bandaid proudly. "I'm gonna show Peyton and Quinny." She told me.
We had to wait for over an hour for the blood results. I let Brooklyn play with my iPhone, and she must have taken 100 pictures of the floor and my hands while I watched whatever Cartoon Disney show the nurses put on the television.
The Doctor arrived again, all smiles and cheesy humor, to reveal that Brooklyn was completely Toxic Free. He had numbers and a graph, both which revealed that my trouble making little angel was indeed, okay to go home. I told Brooklyn the news, "We're done!" She perked up and told me, "We can go home now!"
Friday, June 4, 2010
High Fashion in the Hutchie House
All three girls decided they wanted to dress themselves this morning. Peyton, at age 8, does a fairly good job picking her outfits - usually. Today her choice didn't impress me, and it certainly did not rank in her top ten. With great thought, she decided on a pink tank top (it was raining outside) a fall-colored sweater poncho deal, and a beige cordouroy skirt. I managed to convince her to ace the poncho and switch out the skirt for some jeans, and go for a more weather-friendly shirt. I must do this with the diplomacy of skilled politicians, lest I insult her fashion sense.
Quincy was pretty much good to go in a pair of capri jeans and a long-sleeve tee. My "easy" child...
Brooklyn... Sweet little Brooklyn... the most determined and ridiculously dressed of the three came down in: a Mexican summer dress, a bathing suit top (this is a staple of her daily wardrobe) and not one, but two pairs of pants, and yes, they were inside out. For shoes she had on her black Christmas patent leather "high heels" as she calls them. Perfect.
Then there is hair to contend with. Three blonde heads line up at the bathroom sink - small to large. Each child is begging with a passion and zeal you'd have to hear to believe, to be "First" because among the three girls, going first is of utmost importance and significance. I go for the closest head in front of me: Brooklyn's. I work deftly, because any wasted time will result in only a partial brushing. She quickly becomes impatient with hair-dos and often times I find myself trying to pop a pretty on her head while she twists and runs out the bathroom door. I manage to get a rubberband and bow in her delicate little locks and count myself very successful.
Quincy is next. While I begin removing tangles from her hair, she decides to multi-task and starts brushing her teeth. I want to tell her to -wait- until I'm done with her hair, but I'm distracted by Peyton emptying all the clips and rubberbands onto the counter. I tell her to 'knock it off,' which isn't my favorite parenting request- or demand, rather... but it's efficient. Brooklyn decides her teeth need brushing too, so she follows suit standing atop the toilet seat. Peyton is telling me in great detail the kind of hair-do she wants... I'm wrestling with Quincy's hair while she spits toothpaste in the sink. Brooklyn spits her toothpaste too, and it lands directly on Quincy's hand and toothbrush which, I don't think I need to tell you, causes hysterics from Quincy. I manage to calm her from the intolerable injustice she just suffered and finish her hair at the same time. Two done. Quincy sprints from the bathroom and launches herself down the hallway in an impressive cartwheelish rolling feat - completely messing up her hair. "Quincy!!! Your hair!" I tell her. "Woooops." She says guiltily in response. I grab Peyton and begin removing the one million tangles that gather in her hair by morning. She is protesting loudly as Brooklyn toddles off toward her room. From the bathroom I can see she is in her room, drawers open, reassessing her wardrobe options. "Brookie," I begin, while flipping Peyton's hair through a rubberband... "No. More. Clothes." But it's already too late. I see she has her last year's Holiday dress, which I no longer bother to hang up because it gets yanked from her closet (breaking hangers) everyday anyway. She struggles to wrangle it over her head, and I watch her brushed hair and successful hair-do fly out the window. She finally manages to get the dress all the way on - a velvet and chiffon number, over her Mexican summer dress. This seems to be just the touch she was looking for because with a satisified spin on her high heel shoe, she busts a move downstairs. I quickly touch up Quincy's hair, and tell the girls it's time to go.
I realize at this point I haven't even run a brush through my own hair. I get a load of myself in the mirror and without hesitation go directly for a hat.
Mug of cold coffee in one hand, and Brooklyn in the other, I head out the garage door. Peyton has made it to the mothership - the car, and is buckled and good to go. Thank God. One down. I catch Quincy trying to stuff her capri pants into her brown zip up boots and essentially tell her 'Noway in the world' while I get Brooklyn buckled in her carseat. Two. When Quinny realizes she is getting nowhwere with complaining and insisting she simply can.not. get her tennis shoes on, she pops the shoes on and dashes to the car, hops in (Three) and we're off. The girls are brushed, dressed, and ready for the world.
I, on the other hand, have looked better. :)
Quincy was pretty much good to go in a pair of capri jeans and a long-sleeve tee. My "easy" child...
Brooklyn... Sweet little Brooklyn... the most determined and ridiculously dressed of the three came down in: a Mexican summer dress, a bathing suit top (this is a staple of her daily wardrobe) and not one, but two pairs of pants, and yes, they were inside out. For shoes she had on her black Christmas patent leather "high heels" as she calls them. Perfect.
Then there is hair to contend with. Three blonde heads line up at the bathroom sink - small to large. Each child is begging with a passion and zeal you'd have to hear to believe, to be "First" because among the three girls, going first is of utmost importance and significance. I go for the closest head in front of me: Brooklyn's. I work deftly, because any wasted time will result in only a partial brushing. She quickly becomes impatient with hair-dos and often times I find myself trying to pop a pretty on her head while she twists and runs out the bathroom door. I manage to get a rubberband and bow in her delicate little locks and count myself very successful.
Quincy is next. While I begin removing tangles from her hair, she decides to multi-task and starts brushing her teeth. I want to tell her to -wait- until I'm done with her hair, but I'm distracted by Peyton emptying all the clips and rubberbands onto the counter. I tell her to 'knock it off,' which isn't my favorite parenting request- or demand, rather... but it's efficient. Brooklyn decides her teeth need brushing too, so she follows suit standing atop the toilet seat. Peyton is telling me in great detail the kind of hair-do she wants... I'm wrestling with Quincy's hair while she spits toothpaste in the sink. Brooklyn spits her toothpaste too, and it lands directly on Quincy's hand and toothbrush which, I don't think I need to tell you, causes hysterics from Quincy. I manage to calm her from the intolerable injustice she just suffered and finish her hair at the same time. Two done. Quincy sprints from the bathroom and launches herself down the hallway in an impressive cartwheelish rolling feat - completely messing up her hair. "Quincy!!! Your hair!" I tell her. "Woooops." She says guiltily in response. I grab Peyton and begin removing the one million tangles that gather in her hair by morning. She is protesting loudly as Brooklyn toddles off toward her room. From the bathroom I can see she is in her room, drawers open, reassessing her wardrobe options. "Brookie," I begin, while flipping Peyton's hair through a rubberband... "No. More. Clothes." But it's already too late. I see she has her last year's Holiday dress, which I no longer bother to hang up because it gets yanked from her closet (breaking hangers) everyday anyway. She struggles to wrangle it over her head, and I watch her brushed hair and successful hair-do fly out the window. She finally manages to get the dress all the way on - a velvet and chiffon number, over her Mexican summer dress. This seems to be just the touch she was looking for because with a satisified spin on her high heel shoe, she busts a move downstairs. I quickly touch up Quincy's hair, and tell the girls it's time to go.
I realize at this point I haven't even run a brush through my own hair. I get a load of myself in the mirror and without hesitation go directly for a hat.
Mug of cold coffee in one hand, and Brooklyn in the other, I head out the garage door. Peyton has made it to the mothership - the car, and is buckled and good to go. Thank God. One down. I catch Quincy trying to stuff her capri pants into her brown zip up boots and essentially tell her 'Noway in the world' while I get Brooklyn buckled in her carseat. Two. When Quinny realizes she is getting nowhwere with complaining and insisting she simply can.not. get her tennis shoes on, she pops the shoes on and dashes to the car, hops in (Three) and we're off. The girls are brushed, dressed, and ready for the world.
I, on the other hand, have looked better. :)
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
These Three Girls
When Peyton was around three years old she was smack dab in the midst of her dress-up period, which incidentally coincided with her love of Disney Princess movies. She must have watched Cinderella one million times... Let's put it this way, we both could recite all the lines and songs by heart and sometimes I would dream them. No joke. She had quite a cache of princess dress-up clothes to choose from, but her standby outfit was the Snow White dress paired with hot pink cowgirl boots. Because she was my first child and I didn't know any better, I tried to disuade her from wearing this get-up in public. This caused quite a significant amount of opposition from Peyton, until I finally realized it wasn't worth the drama, struggle, and/or effort to get her to change. She wore her princess clothes everywhere. And hence, became the "princess" of the family.
Quincy was different. From a young age she was attracted to more physcial activities. Her toddler body seemed to be composed entirely of muscles that bulged from her little arms, tummy and legs. Her bottom was the exact antithesis of her Mommy's "white girl" bum. She loved Spiderman and Superman, and when her sister dressed up as a pinkalicious princessy maiden for Halloween, Quincy chose to dress as Spiderman. She knew how to crouch down low and convincingly shoot webs from her hands, too. She had a pair of Superman jammies, fully equipped with a red cape that flew dramatically behind her when she'd run really fast - which, of course she did with great frequency. Quinny was our "tomboy girl."
However, just when we had figured them out it seemed... they changed it up on us, teaching us that it isn't necessarily fair to label them or pigeon hole them in a certain way. Just this last fall, Peyton told me that she had no interest in doing dance or gymnastics any longer. She didn't care for dresses so much, and furthermore she wanted to take a Martial Arts class. When she had asked for the 85th time, I decided to take her to an intro class -- and Quincy as well, since Martial Arts seemed to be right up her ally. Both girls took their spots in back of the taekwando studio, following the more experienced kids. They did a series of kicks and punches and blocks. They ran around the room, did sit-ups, jumping jacks and some intense poses. About 3/4 of the way through class, during a challenging 'horse stance', Quincy turned to me with a look that conveyed one thing and one thing only: "This sucks." Peyton, on the other hand, had a grand time and told me after class that she for sure wanted to join. I couldn't get Quincy out the door fast enough as she announced repeatedly how thoroughly unenjoyable she found taekwando to be. Quinny decided she wanted to continue with gymnastics, and wanted the fanciest leotard and matching hair bow she could find to wear to class...
Okay, that was a switch.
Brooklyn, "the baby," seems to have learned in-utero that the squeaky wheel gets the most attention, juice, toys, and instant reactions. She arrived in the world with an uncanny ability, despite her size, to command the attention of everybody around her. She didn't get the memo that she's the youngest of three children, and therefore has to be patient for her turn. She expects nothing less than immediate service, which I find amusing and cruel, as I had always heard that the third child is the most flexible. Brooklyn likes to dress up as well, but not in princess clothes, per se. She begins with a bathing suit, then dons tights, a shirt (or two) and then a dress. Depending on if she has access, she will also put on shoes (often on the wrong feet) and sunglasses. She is opinionated and impatient with whomever dares to disagree or cross her. But she is also big-hearted and sensitive.
These are my little girls. They are growing and changing at light speed. They are deciding who they want to be, and who they don't want to be. I watch them with awe.
Quincy was different. From a young age she was attracted to more physcial activities. Her toddler body seemed to be composed entirely of muscles that bulged from her little arms, tummy and legs. Her bottom was the exact antithesis of her Mommy's "white girl" bum. She loved Spiderman and Superman, and when her sister dressed up as a pinkalicious princessy maiden for Halloween, Quincy chose to dress as Spiderman. She knew how to crouch down low and convincingly shoot webs from her hands, too. She had a pair of Superman jammies, fully equipped with a red cape that flew dramatically behind her when she'd run really fast - which, of course she did with great frequency. Quinny was our "tomboy girl."
However, just when we had figured them out it seemed... they changed it up on us, teaching us that it isn't necessarily fair to label them or pigeon hole them in a certain way. Just this last fall, Peyton told me that she had no interest in doing dance or gymnastics any longer. She didn't care for dresses so much, and furthermore she wanted to take a Martial Arts class. When she had asked for the 85th time, I decided to take her to an intro class -- and Quincy as well, since Martial Arts seemed to be right up her ally. Both girls took their spots in back of the taekwando studio, following the more experienced kids. They did a series of kicks and punches and blocks. They ran around the room, did sit-ups, jumping jacks and some intense poses. About 3/4 of the way through class, during a challenging 'horse stance', Quincy turned to me with a look that conveyed one thing and one thing only: "This sucks." Peyton, on the other hand, had a grand time and told me after class that she for sure wanted to join. I couldn't get Quincy out the door fast enough as she announced repeatedly how thoroughly unenjoyable she found taekwando to be. Quinny decided she wanted to continue with gymnastics, and wanted the fanciest leotard and matching hair bow she could find to wear to class...
Okay, that was a switch.
Brooklyn, "the baby," seems to have learned in-utero that the squeaky wheel gets the most attention, juice, toys, and instant reactions. She arrived in the world with an uncanny ability, despite her size, to command the attention of everybody around her. She didn't get the memo that she's the youngest of three children, and therefore has to be patient for her turn. She expects nothing less than immediate service, which I find amusing and cruel, as I had always heard that the third child is the most flexible. Brooklyn likes to dress up as well, but not in princess clothes, per se. She begins with a bathing suit, then dons tights, a shirt (or two) and then a dress. Depending on if she has access, she will also put on shoes (often on the wrong feet) and sunglasses. She is opinionated and impatient with whomever dares to disagree or cross her. But she is also big-hearted and sensitive.
These are my little girls. They are growing and changing at light speed. They are deciding who they want to be, and who they don't want to be. I watch them with awe.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Peyton's Birth Story
Peyton’s Birth Story.
I never wrote Peyton’s birth story. It’s been eight years now… and while one would think the details would have become murky in all that time… they haven’t. The days before May 10, 2002 and Peyton’s actual birthday are surprisingly vivid – even after all this time. Surprising, because eight years isn’t a small increment of time… so many things have happened in those years – two more daughters, joys, sorrows, the most beautiful days imaginable, and the most difficult, as well as the deep and undeniable brain damage that accompanies raising three children. But still, despite the brain damage and every memory in between, the experience of Peyton’s birth is pressed firmly – permanently, into my memory. Remembering now, however, is interesting… because I have the added benefit of hindsight… all the experience of these last several years – my subsequent pregnancies, and births.
But the first… it is nothing short of magical. Every step of the way is mysterious and fascinating. Though millions of women have gone through the very process, while I was navigating it, I couldn’t help feeling I was the center of the universe. I was carrying a life – a child. I was growing her. My body was making every little piece of her – her eyelashes and her toenails, her tiny bellybutton and knees and shoulders and hair. I know it’s cliché to talk about these things, but a brand new mom really does feel this way. There’s something so innocent about it… which probably makes us first-timers both “cute” and extremely annoying to our seasoned OB’s. On my 40 week appointment, I hoisted myself onto the exam table and let a few very melodramatic tears fall. “I want this to be over now.” I told Dr. Amies - the most fabulous doctor I’ve had before or since. She, coincidentally, was 9 months pregnant too. Her round belly was nearly touching my own and she looked at me with what looked like genuine… pity. She told me it would be soon. “Now.” I told her.
I realize now most OB’s would have shrugged off this plea with a quip about “how the baby couldn’t stay in there forever…” and with a hurried shuffle of paperwork add, “see you soon,” the door slamming shut, white coat flying behind. But Dr. Amies with her lovely demeanor was kind to me, even when I sat there weeping like a bloated pathetic time bomb about to burst. She put her hand on mine. “I could sweep your membranes,” she told me. I had never heard of membranes being swept, but it sounded intriguing – and industrious. “This could get things going for you,” she added with a hopeful look. Though I wasn’t all together sure what this ‘sweeping’ would entail, I was already in. I liked the sound of it, and I was down with whatever could ‘get things going.’ So she swept, and while it was more uncomfortable than I had anticipated, I lay back and practiced my breathing. I needed to practice breathing through pain, I reminded myself. I was going for a med-free birth.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lazing on the couch waiting for something to happen. I find this particularly amusing when I recollect it… I don’t believe I’ve lazed on the couch since this afternoon. At least not in the way one can when they have no children that, at any moment, may interrupt a perfectly good couch laze. John came home with the favorite meal of my pregnancy: a grilled eggplant sandwich, which I will detail because it was absolutely amazing, and I ate it almost every single night for weeks: grilled eggplant, roasted red pepper, mozzarella cheese, basil, and a drizzle of olive oil on focaccia bread. All of it was grilled. A moment of silence for that sandwich, which I’m sure more or less contributed to the nearly 40 lbs. I gained…
I went to bed ticked off. So much for the grand ol’ sweep. I felt: exactly nothing. Though it sounds ridiculous even to me, I wholeheartedly believed I would be pregnant forever.
I woke up at 3:00 for my nightly pee. I stood up and realized I was already wet. How humiliating, I thought. Pregnancy really does take you down a notch, I told myself grumpily… How would I explain to John that I peed on myself? I stood up and continued to drip on the hardwood floor, and it clicked… and I smiled. Oh dear Lord, it was happening. But was it? Could this be It? I woke John up, who in go-time fashion got ready and called the hospital before I could fully admit that we were going to have this baby after all. I had no pain, no gut wrenching contractions – just a wet bed. This isn’t what all the classes and books said labor would feel like… But my water had broken (go Dr. Amies for sweeping my membranes!) and so we were off to L&D.
I remember driving the two miles to the University of Washington hospital in the dark. I remember laughing and joking with John who was both driving, and trying to film me with the video camera. I looked down at my big belly, with a pink long sleeve tee-shirt stretched tightly across it, and realized this pregnancy was coming to an end, and on the other side of it, we were going to see a brand new person… We were soon to be a threesome. It was all very surreal and unfathomable really.
We checked in at the front desk – me smiling and cracking jokes. The no-nonsense nurse behind the desk looked at me narrowly. I realize now, probably wondering why I was in L&D when I looked so jovial. She sent me to a room to run some tests. They wanted to make sure that I was indeed leaking amniotic fluid and not, well… pee. The test revealed that it was amniotic fluid, and the nurse looked at me and said, “honey, you’ll be holding your baby before noon.” Still no contractions, though. I felt just fine. So far, labor was pretty easy.
My Mom was on her way - travelling from San Juan Island on a little plane. I didn’t want her to miss the birth, and hoped our little baby girl could hold on at least until my Mom arrived. I changed in to my hospital gown and got hooked up to the monitors. The monitor revealed what I already could feel – no business like contractions were happening at all. I felt self conscious, and wondered if they’d make me go home. I clearly wasn’t in labor here. But because my water had broken, I was allowed to stay. The anesthesiologist came into the room and I, very decidedly, thanked him very much but told him I wouldn’t need his fine services. Nevertheless, the nurses told me I needed an IV line started. I agreed, but took the needle in my hand with zero pain medication. Turns out, it was quite difficult to get that line into my hand. Here again, I practiced my breathing, while the nurse told me grimly, “for many women, this is the most painful part.” As she scraped around in my hand with that fat needle, I could see how that would be quite possible.
My Mom arrived. She blew into the room with a sense of urgency… Immediately, she could tell she had made it before the baby had. I was perched on the hospital bed, playing a rather competitive game of Scrabble with John. Noon rolled around (when the nurse said I would be holding my baby) and still nothing. No major contractions… Not anything of note to speak of. I again considered the possibility of being pregnant forever. It seemed altogether possible. The nurses were being extremely patient with me, but were concerned that my water had broken, and that meant labor needed to start or my risk for infection would increase. They told me they would start pitocin, which would kick things off. I remembered from my pregnancy book that pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, which stimulates labor. I didn’t remember, however, that with pitocin came the most ground shaking, violent labor contractions imaginable. The pitocin drip began. “pain management?” the nurses asked me expectantly. “No, thank you.” I replied.
I walked the halls for hours, trailing an IV drip of pitocin. John and I must have walked miles – back and forth through the hospital, the medical halls, the offices… my big pregnant rear-end hanging out the back of my gown. They bumped up the pitocin so many times I lost count.
It was beginning to get dark outside, a movie was playing in the labor and delivery room, and everybody was chatting and hanging out. I believe they too were finally realizing that I would, indeed, be pregnant forever. No baby here. Not today.
My Mom was lying across my belly talking to the nurse. They were comparing labor stories. John was watching a Mariners game. I was semi-dozing in bed (pretty exhausted by this point) when the first contraction hit. It blew my socks off. I sat up and gasped. My Mom and the nurse continued their conversation. There was nothing to see here… I wasn’t having this baby. John was watching the game. In my mind, I thought. “Dear sweet Heavens… that was only the first one.” And then the next one came. There was no gradual build up. I went from feeling rather comfortable, to instantly feeling like a truck was trying to drive out of my cervix. I grabbed my Mom and when she looked at me, she knew. I don’t remember what I said, but suddenly there was some scrambling around, and the room became very quiet. Soon, the birthing ball arrived on the scene. I bounced on the ball for several contractions, and felt quite certain my body was breaking into a million fragments. It felt as if bones were splitting, and organs were being smashed and squeezed and exploded. I was quiet though. My Mom, the nurses, and John kept telling me how “good” I was doing. My brain was somewhere far, far away… I didn’t want to be touched, talked to or otherwise disturbed. My eyes were closed. I was concentrating so hard on making it through and it was so ridiculously painful. This feeling is bringing my girl closer to me, I kept reminding myself. This is good pain… In the deepest part of my thoughts, however, the pain wasn’t good at all – it was very, very bad. Then I needed to move. I wanted the tub. Generally, they won’t allow a woman with a broken bag of waters to sit in the tub, but they said they would monitor me, and they allowed it. I hobbled to the tub. The warm water was soothing, but the pain was insane - deep, brutal, unforgiving. I hallucinated when I closed my eyes. I remember seeing magenta waterfalls behind my eyelids, and big bursting magenta flowers cracking into other shapes – morphing into other flowers. I may have moaned a little bit, but for the most part I was silent. I’ve never been comfortable with the expression “ripping me a new one…” I’ve always found it a bit grotesque in the visual department, but that was precisely what it felt like my sweet baby girl was doing to me. That was indeed exactly what she was doing to me. There was no way out now, I knew… Just through.
When I felt that I would rather give a limb than feel more of this pain, the nurse suggested she check my progress. I thought I’d certainly be at least 9 centimeters and nearly ready to push. Her internal exam revealed I was at a 5. Just over halfway. This was so disheartening, I wanted to cry. It had been hours, and I wasn’t even close. More hours slipped away. Me: on the birthing ball, then back to the hospital bed, then back to the tub again. More time passed – it may have been minutes, or days. I completely lost myself. Somewhere in that time warp I heard myself utter it… “epidural.” Once I had said it, there was nothing I wanted more in the world. But because I had refused earlier on, I wasn’t on the schedule, I had to wait for what seemed like forever. It was an hour. Time takes on a completely new meaning when you find yourself in exquisite pain. By the time the anesthesiologist arrived, I was shaking uncontrollably on the bed – a combination of the pain and the hormonal shift going on in my body. It happened with each of my births, but it was extremely disconcerting this first time. The doctor told me to hold still so he could put the needle in, which I thought sounded like a great plan if only I could control my violent shakes. I managed to curl up between contractions so that he could get to my spine. I didn’t even feel the needle go in, but soon I felt something incredible… relief. Something beautiful happened - the end of those bone shaking contractions. Very inappropriate offers were made – shamelessly from me to the anesthesiologist. Maybe something about French kissing, perhaps marriage…? Looking back, I’m sure he gets that a lot. Looking back, I think John would have French kissed him too, just so he didn’t have to see me in so much agony.
I was 9 centimeters. There was no pain now, only an unbelievable sense of pressure. I was so grateful to have the epidural in full effect. There was a brief moment when, because the pain was not so intense, I was able to rest a bit. The next time they checked me, I was fully effaced and a complete 10 centimeters. My baby girl was almost here! Though it was the middle of the night, Dr. Amies, who had been at home sleeping, arrived on the scene, her big pregnant belly preceding her. At the time, I knew that was fantastic of her, but now I realize just how incredible that was – is.
It was go time. There was nothing holding us back now from our baby girl aside from a few pushes. Right? Everybody can Push, right? Right? So I pushed. And pushed. And pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed…. until my face was reddish purple and I felt I had sprinted up 97 flights of stairs. “Push!” They all said. My Mom held one leg, John held the other, and everybody else’s head in the room seemed to be between my legs watching for something to pop out. I pushed and gasped for breath. Over an hour later I was deflated, demoralized and otherwise exhausted. My attitude was starting to suffer. In between pushes I tried to get Dr. Amies to make a deal with me. “Just GETHEROUT!” I told her. I was thinking prongs, vacuums – whatever it would take… I couldn’t have been more serious, but everybody else thought it was pretty funny and started to chuckle. Dr. Amies looked at me with the sternest look I had ever seen cross her face. “You need to keep working.” She said with her eyebrows raised. My lovely doctor got a little aggro on me, and I loved her for it all the more. “Now PUSH.” She demanded. I did. I went for it and gave it everything I had left, which at this point wasn’t much. But there was soon excitement from all the people down between my legs. Something was happening. A head… they could see a head. “Push! Push! Push!” This was the only word that bounced around that room… the only word that reverberated in my head.
I felt her head come all the way out, and distantly heard all the cheering that followed. The rest of her body slid out, John cut her cord, and Dr. Amies brought her up to my chest. “She’s so pretty,” She said, shedding some tears. John was tearing up too, and came up close to my shoulder to see our girl. All I could see was her face coming toward me. Her eyes were open, very serious and alarmingly intelligent, with a very distinct look in them. It’s taken me all these years to understand what those precious eyes were telling me. “You’re mine.”
I cried on her sweet face and kissed her and said hello about a million times. The elation I felt is something that just can’t be put into words. It was simply the most meaningful, beautiful moment in my life. I couldn’t stop staring at her tiny pink body, her little lips, and those eyes that stared back at me – so knowingly.
Everybody cried and marveled at her. Though babies were born every day, all day long in this labor and delivery room… Peyton seemed to me an out of this world miracle - a perfect, sweet little miracle. The world was so beautiful and complete in that moment.
I felt blessed beyond words. Looking back, I feel even more blessed. During my first pregnancy and birth, I was so naïve to all the possible outcomes. I was of the mind that: you get pregnant, you waddle around for nine months, then, you go to the hospital and leave with your perfect new baby. Since then, I’ve realized this isn’t always the outcome. There are losses, tragedies, and a pregnancy doesn’t always guarantee taking home a healthy baby. Since then, I have known many friends who have suffered devastating losses – things my heart cannot begin to comprehend. Since then, we have suffered losses of our own.
Looking down at Peyton, I felt my first twinge of fear. She was outside my belly now – out in the world, and the world suddenly seemed full of hidden dangers. It was our job to make sure this tiny person was taken care of, and as the nurse wheeled me down to the recovery room, I felt significantly unprepared. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t bear to let her out of my arms. They rolled the little plastic bassinet next to my adjustable hospital bed, but I insisted on holding Peyton. I held her all night long, cradling her close as we both slept… I only let her go when the nurses came in to check her, and I let go reluctantly.
It’s so hard to believe it’s been eight years since this day. It’s enough to make me swell with joy and pride at the lovely little lady Peyton has become… and weep all over myself at how quickly it’s all happening. They all say it: “It goes so fast,” and it does… it really, really does. Bottom line is that I feel blessed beyond belief to have such a wonderful little girl to bring up. And, she was right… from the moment her eyes caught mine, I was hers.
I never wrote Peyton’s birth story. It’s been eight years now… and while one would think the details would have become murky in all that time… they haven’t. The days before May 10, 2002 and Peyton’s actual birthday are surprisingly vivid – even after all this time. Surprising, because eight years isn’t a small increment of time… so many things have happened in those years – two more daughters, joys, sorrows, the most beautiful days imaginable, and the most difficult, as well as the deep and undeniable brain damage that accompanies raising three children. But still, despite the brain damage and every memory in between, the experience of Peyton’s birth is pressed firmly – permanently, into my memory. Remembering now, however, is interesting… because I have the added benefit of hindsight… all the experience of these last several years – my subsequent pregnancies, and births.
But the first… it is nothing short of magical. Every step of the way is mysterious and fascinating. Though millions of women have gone through the very process, while I was navigating it, I couldn’t help feeling I was the center of the universe. I was carrying a life – a child. I was growing her. My body was making every little piece of her – her eyelashes and her toenails, her tiny bellybutton and knees and shoulders and hair. I know it’s cliché to talk about these things, but a brand new mom really does feel this way. There’s something so innocent about it… which probably makes us first-timers both “cute” and extremely annoying to our seasoned OB’s. On my 40 week appointment, I hoisted myself onto the exam table and let a few very melodramatic tears fall. “I want this to be over now.” I told Dr. Amies - the most fabulous doctor I’ve had before or since. She, coincidentally, was 9 months pregnant too. Her round belly was nearly touching my own and she looked at me with what looked like genuine… pity. She told me it would be soon. “Now.” I told her.
I realize now most OB’s would have shrugged off this plea with a quip about “how the baby couldn’t stay in there forever…” and with a hurried shuffle of paperwork add, “see you soon,” the door slamming shut, white coat flying behind. But Dr. Amies with her lovely demeanor was kind to me, even when I sat there weeping like a bloated pathetic time bomb about to burst. She put her hand on mine. “I could sweep your membranes,” she told me. I had never heard of membranes being swept, but it sounded intriguing – and industrious. “This could get things going for you,” she added with a hopeful look. Though I wasn’t all together sure what this ‘sweeping’ would entail, I was already in. I liked the sound of it, and I was down with whatever could ‘get things going.’ So she swept, and while it was more uncomfortable than I had anticipated, I lay back and practiced my breathing. I needed to practice breathing through pain, I reminded myself. I was going for a med-free birth.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lazing on the couch waiting for something to happen. I find this particularly amusing when I recollect it… I don’t believe I’ve lazed on the couch since this afternoon. At least not in the way one can when they have no children that, at any moment, may interrupt a perfectly good couch laze. John came home with the favorite meal of my pregnancy: a grilled eggplant sandwich, which I will detail because it was absolutely amazing, and I ate it almost every single night for weeks: grilled eggplant, roasted red pepper, mozzarella cheese, basil, and a drizzle of olive oil on focaccia bread. All of it was grilled. A moment of silence for that sandwich, which I’m sure more or less contributed to the nearly 40 lbs. I gained…
I went to bed ticked off. So much for the grand ol’ sweep. I felt: exactly nothing. Though it sounds ridiculous even to me, I wholeheartedly believed I would be pregnant forever.
I woke up at 3:00 for my nightly pee. I stood up and realized I was already wet. How humiliating, I thought. Pregnancy really does take you down a notch, I told myself grumpily… How would I explain to John that I peed on myself? I stood up and continued to drip on the hardwood floor, and it clicked… and I smiled. Oh dear Lord, it was happening. But was it? Could this be It? I woke John up, who in go-time fashion got ready and called the hospital before I could fully admit that we were going to have this baby after all. I had no pain, no gut wrenching contractions – just a wet bed. This isn’t what all the classes and books said labor would feel like… But my water had broken (go Dr. Amies for sweeping my membranes!) and so we were off to L&D.
I remember driving the two miles to the University of Washington hospital in the dark. I remember laughing and joking with John who was both driving, and trying to film me with the video camera. I looked down at my big belly, with a pink long sleeve tee-shirt stretched tightly across it, and realized this pregnancy was coming to an end, and on the other side of it, we were going to see a brand new person… We were soon to be a threesome. It was all very surreal and unfathomable really.
We checked in at the front desk – me smiling and cracking jokes. The no-nonsense nurse behind the desk looked at me narrowly. I realize now, probably wondering why I was in L&D when I looked so jovial. She sent me to a room to run some tests. They wanted to make sure that I was indeed leaking amniotic fluid and not, well… pee. The test revealed that it was amniotic fluid, and the nurse looked at me and said, “honey, you’ll be holding your baby before noon.” Still no contractions, though. I felt just fine. So far, labor was pretty easy.
My Mom was on her way - travelling from San Juan Island on a little plane. I didn’t want her to miss the birth, and hoped our little baby girl could hold on at least until my Mom arrived. I changed in to my hospital gown and got hooked up to the monitors. The monitor revealed what I already could feel – no business like contractions were happening at all. I felt self conscious, and wondered if they’d make me go home. I clearly wasn’t in labor here. But because my water had broken, I was allowed to stay. The anesthesiologist came into the room and I, very decidedly, thanked him very much but told him I wouldn’t need his fine services. Nevertheless, the nurses told me I needed an IV line started. I agreed, but took the needle in my hand with zero pain medication. Turns out, it was quite difficult to get that line into my hand. Here again, I practiced my breathing, while the nurse told me grimly, “for many women, this is the most painful part.” As she scraped around in my hand with that fat needle, I could see how that would be quite possible.
My Mom arrived. She blew into the room with a sense of urgency… Immediately, she could tell she had made it before the baby had. I was perched on the hospital bed, playing a rather competitive game of Scrabble with John. Noon rolled around (when the nurse said I would be holding my baby) and still nothing. No major contractions… Not anything of note to speak of. I again considered the possibility of being pregnant forever. It seemed altogether possible. The nurses were being extremely patient with me, but were concerned that my water had broken, and that meant labor needed to start or my risk for infection would increase. They told me they would start pitocin, which would kick things off. I remembered from my pregnancy book that pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, which stimulates labor. I didn’t remember, however, that with pitocin came the most ground shaking, violent labor contractions imaginable. The pitocin drip began. “pain management?” the nurses asked me expectantly. “No, thank you.” I replied.
I walked the halls for hours, trailing an IV drip of pitocin. John and I must have walked miles – back and forth through the hospital, the medical halls, the offices… my big pregnant rear-end hanging out the back of my gown. They bumped up the pitocin so many times I lost count.
It was beginning to get dark outside, a movie was playing in the labor and delivery room, and everybody was chatting and hanging out. I believe they too were finally realizing that I would, indeed, be pregnant forever. No baby here. Not today.
My Mom was lying across my belly talking to the nurse. They were comparing labor stories. John was watching a Mariners game. I was semi-dozing in bed (pretty exhausted by this point) when the first contraction hit. It blew my socks off. I sat up and gasped. My Mom and the nurse continued their conversation. There was nothing to see here… I wasn’t having this baby. John was watching the game. In my mind, I thought. “Dear sweet Heavens… that was only the first one.” And then the next one came. There was no gradual build up. I went from feeling rather comfortable, to instantly feeling like a truck was trying to drive out of my cervix. I grabbed my Mom and when she looked at me, she knew. I don’t remember what I said, but suddenly there was some scrambling around, and the room became very quiet. Soon, the birthing ball arrived on the scene. I bounced on the ball for several contractions, and felt quite certain my body was breaking into a million fragments. It felt as if bones were splitting, and organs were being smashed and squeezed and exploded. I was quiet though. My Mom, the nurses, and John kept telling me how “good” I was doing. My brain was somewhere far, far away… I didn’t want to be touched, talked to or otherwise disturbed. My eyes were closed. I was concentrating so hard on making it through and it was so ridiculously painful. This feeling is bringing my girl closer to me, I kept reminding myself. This is good pain… In the deepest part of my thoughts, however, the pain wasn’t good at all – it was very, very bad. Then I needed to move. I wanted the tub. Generally, they won’t allow a woman with a broken bag of waters to sit in the tub, but they said they would monitor me, and they allowed it. I hobbled to the tub. The warm water was soothing, but the pain was insane - deep, brutal, unforgiving. I hallucinated when I closed my eyes. I remember seeing magenta waterfalls behind my eyelids, and big bursting magenta flowers cracking into other shapes – morphing into other flowers. I may have moaned a little bit, but for the most part I was silent. I’ve never been comfortable with the expression “ripping me a new one…” I’ve always found it a bit grotesque in the visual department, but that was precisely what it felt like my sweet baby girl was doing to me. That was indeed exactly what she was doing to me. There was no way out now, I knew… Just through.
When I felt that I would rather give a limb than feel more of this pain, the nurse suggested she check my progress. I thought I’d certainly be at least 9 centimeters and nearly ready to push. Her internal exam revealed I was at a 5. Just over halfway. This was so disheartening, I wanted to cry. It had been hours, and I wasn’t even close. More hours slipped away. Me: on the birthing ball, then back to the hospital bed, then back to the tub again. More time passed – it may have been minutes, or days. I completely lost myself. Somewhere in that time warp I heard myself utter it… “epidural.” Once I had said it, there was nothing I wanted more in the world. But because I had refused earlier on, I wasn’t on the schedule, I had to wait for what seemed like forever. It was an hour. Time takes on a completely new meaning when you find yourself in exquisite pain. By the time the anesthesiologist arrived, I was shaking uncontrollably on the bed – a combination of the pain and the hormonal shift going on in my body. It happened with each of my births, but it was extremely disconcerting this first time. The doctor told me to hold still so he could put the needle in, which I thought sounded like a great plan if only I could control my violent shakes. I managed to curl up between contractions so that he could get to my spine. I didn’t even feel the needle go in, but soon I felt something incredible… relief. Something beautiful happened - the end of those bone shaking contractions. Very inappropriate offers were made – shamelessly from me to the anesthesiologist. Maybe something about French kissing, perhaps marriage…? Looking back, I’m sure he gets that a lot. Looking back, I think John would have French kissed him too, just so he didn’t have to see me in so much agony.
I was 9 centimeters. There was no pain now, only an unbelievable sense of pressure. I was so grateful to have the epidural in full effect. There was a brief moment when, because the pain was not so intense, I was able to rest a bit. The next time they checked me, I was fully effaced and a complete 10 centimeters. My baby girl was almost here! Though it was the middle of the night, Dr. Amies, who had been at home sleeping, arrived on the scene, her big pregnant belly preceding her. At the time, I knew that was fantastic of her, but now I realize just how incredible that was – is.
It was go time. There was nothing holding us back now from our baby girl aside from a few pushes. Right? Everybody can Push, right? Right? So I pushed. And pushed. And pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed…. until my face was reddish purple and I felt I had sprinted up 97 flights of stairs. “Push!” They all said. My Mom held one leg, John held the other, and everybody else’s head in the room seemed to be between my legs watching for something to pop out. I pushed and gasped for breath. Over an hour later I was deflated, demoralized and otherwise exhausted. My attitude was starting to suffer. In between pushes I tried to get Dr. Amies to make a deal with me. “Just GETHEROUT!” I told her. I was thinking prongs, vacuums – whatever it would take… I couldn’t have been more serious, but everybody else thought it was pretty funny and started to chuckle. Dr. Amies looked at me with the sternest look I had ever seen cross her face. “You need to keep working.” She said with her eyebrows raised. My lovely doctor got a little aggro on me, and I loved her for it all the more. “Now PUSH.” She demanded. I did. I went for it and gave it everything I had left, which at this point wasn’t much. But there was soon excitement from all the people down between my legs. Something was happening. A head… they could see a head. “Push! Push! Push!” This was the only word that bounced around that room… the only word that reverberated in my head.
I felt her head come all the way out, and distantly heard all the cheering that followed. The rest of her body slid out, John cut her cord, and Dr. Amies brought her up to my chest. “She’s so pretty,” She said, shedding some tears. John was tearing up too, and came up close to my shoulder to see our girl. All I could see was her face coming toward me. Her eyes were open, very serious and alarmingly intelligent, with a very distinct look in them. It’s taken me all these years to understand what those precious eyes were telling me. “You’re mine.”
I cried on her sweet face and kissed her and said hello about a million times. The elation I felt is something that just can’t be put into words. It was simply the most meaningful, beautiful moment in my life. I couldn’t stop staring at her tiny pink body, her little lips, and those eyes that stared back at me – so knowingly.
Everybody cried and marveled at her. Though babies were born every day, all day long in this labor and delivery room… Peyton seemed to me an out of this world miracle - a perfect, sweet little miracle. The world was so beautiful and complete in that moment.
I felt blessed beyond words. Looking back, I feel even more blessed. During my first pregnancy and birth, I was so naïve to all the possible outcomes. I was of the mind that: you get pregnant, you waddle around for nine months, then, you go to the hospital and leave with your perfect new baby. Since then, I’ve realized this isn’t always the outcome. There are losses, tragedies, and a pregnancy doesn’t always guarantee taking home a healthy baby. Since then, I have known many friends who have suffered devastating losses – things my heart cannot begin to comprehend. Since then, we have suffered losses of our own.
Looking down at Peyton, I felt my first twinge of fear. She was outside my belly now – out in the world, and the world suddenly seemed full of hidden dangers. It was our job to make sure this tiny person was taken care of, and as the nurse wheeled me down to the recovery room, I felt significantly unprepared. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t bear to let her out of my arms. They rolled the little plastic bassinet next to my adjustable hospital bed, but I insisted on holding Peyton. I held her all night long, cradling her close as we both slept… I only let her go when the nurses came in to check her, and I let go reluctantly.
It’s so hard to believe it’s been eight years since this day. It’s enough to make me swell with joy and pride at the lovely little lady Peyton has become… and weep all over myself at how quickly it’s all happening. They all say it: “It goes so fast,” and it does… it really, really does. Bottom line is that I feel blessed beyond belief to have such a wonderful little girl to bring up. And, she was right… from the moment her eyes caught mine, I was hers.
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