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!"
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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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