Now that the trauma has begun to fade, I am issuing this entry as a warning to any and all expectant parents. I'm guessing that friends and family never thought to caution me about the dreaded PKU test because they continue to block it out, imagining that it was merely a nightmare or some sort of gory, sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination. Maybe it's one of those secret parenting initiations that you have to go through without preconception just to prove to those who have fallen before you that your skin is thick enough to deal with this parenting thing. To that I say: Enough is enough! Let the secret be told - PKU is a euphemism for Baby Torture. It's a necessary evil, but have no illusions - it is evil.
Last Thursday afternoon, we took Amari to the hospital - our first official family outing. What a lousy first field trip. Maybe there are some people love hospitals, who associate them with successful surgeries or the blissful after-glow of pneumonia, but I have never been a fan, never thought to myself, "Man, this sterile, white corridor and rooms full of sick or dying sure brings back fond memories." Come to think of it, I did really enjoy the game room at UCSF when my dad was sick with a staff infection. This time, however, there would be no games, unless you fancy and quick round of Bleed the Baby.
Our midwife mentioned the PKU in passing at the end of our Wednesday visit, handed us a referral, and suggested that we do it at our convenience - no big deal - but as soon as possible. The afternoon of the test, a colleague told me that the PKU is very important, that it tests for an amino acid deficiency that can ultimately lead to mental retardation. She's a kind, compassionate friend, not the sorority or Skulls type, so I don't think she was in on the initiation, and I can only imagine she omitted the details of the test to spare me the added anxiety. Her overall tone was "This important, but also no big deal." So, until we arrived at the hospital, the biggest deal I anticipated was taking Amari in and out of the car seat. Guess what? No big deal.
By the end of the weekend, I was brave enough to Google PKU, because the acronym and even the word itself - phenylketonuria - sounds innocuous. During the test, however, I was convinced that PKU was a Latin acronym that meant Infant Blood Letting or Phucking Krazy Unbelievable. I felt misled, even betrayed by the nomenclature. Call it what it is for Pete's sake. If you're going to puncture my baby's foot and juice it until her blood fills five circles the size of her palm, give some kind of indication in the title. Call it the BBJ - Baby Blood Juicer or even the PTT - Parental Trauma Test, anything that would give us a sense of what was about to happen.
When the nurse pricked Amari's foot she began to cry as quickly as the blood began to pour out of her foot. I watched for a while, hoping that she only had to fill one quarter-sized circle on the test sheet. When she moved on to the second circle and Amari's blood was already beginning to clot, I thought, "You've go to be kidding." At one point I said "I need to use the bathroom," hoping it was somewhere on the other side of the hospital, hoping that by the time I returned this would all be over. "Sure. It's just around the corner," smiled the homely, sadist lab tech as if to say, "You can still hear your daughter's screams from in there."
When I got back, Carrie asked me to take Amari's leg that she was holding in place. The wailing had reached new heights, a pitch we hadn't experienced yet. I felt conflicted about putting my face near her to soothe her crying, worried that she would think I had something to do with all of this. I wanted to whisper, "This is all her fault," and turn Amari's face toward the lab tech, but Amari was too consumed with screaming and blinded by tears to see anything. I thought in that moment that I would craft a mask resembling one of my least favorite relatives for future occasions such as this.
Her blood clotted and the nurse had to puncture Amari again. On the plus side, I guess she's not a hemophiliac, but it was too soon to see that silver lining. I was annoyed; I was certain the lab tech was incompetent, leaving patches of cotton swab on the bloody foot, telling us to wipe it off later when we give her a bath. I brought a swab-free, un-punctured baby in here and she wants me to clean up her mess? The second time the blood came faster and so did the tears. I imagined Amari as a young child or a teenager suffering from an injury or an emotional loss. I knew this was the first of many heartaches for me, helplessly watching her in the hospital were just part of the parenting territory. I'm pretty sure that, with time, it will get easier...and then harder...then easier again, and so on.
Carrie and I felt fragile when we got back to the car, each expressing it in our own unique ways - she with tears and humor, and I with humor and indignation. Amari, on the other hand, snuggled tightly in her car seat beside me, had already traded in the PKU for some R.E.M. To us, she might have said, "Mom, Dad - no big deal."
Unsolicited Parenting Advice: Now that I'm licensed by birth to pass along my opinions, the only suggestion for those who have not experienced the PKU is to ask if you can either feed or just hold your baby during the test. Our lab tech did not give us that option, and we were too rookie to ask.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Don't Worry, Be Happy
Thursday was Amari's one week birthday, which also happened to be my first day back at work. She'd only been alive for one hundred sixty-eight hours, I'd been with her for nearly all of them, and it felt both unjust and abrupt that I had to leave her for almost half a day. I'd be missing the next 5.3 percent of her life, I thought to myself. Math, which has been historically soothing in times of crisis, was failing me.
I woke up earlier than usual that morning and held Amari for a long time before I left, running my hand over her dark, wispy hair, imagining mine would probably have the same thickness in about thirty years - maybe sooner. I'd watched her closely over the past seven days, the subtle changes in her facial expressions, the mercifully drastic changes to the shape of her head, the countless changes in diapers, and I wished I could put her on pause until I got home. "Don't go changin'," I whispered in her ear, which she probably interpreted as, "Beard Man is handing you to Boob Lady now." I passed her to Carrie with a wistful smile and walked out the door. As I headed down the driveway, I felt like a little kid going to my first day of school again - excited, worried, proud, and pining for the days of five minutes ago.
I remembered mornings like this from my childhood in Bolinas, a few days from the last rain, mist rising from the frosted grass as the sun rose slowly through the trees. Instead of pine then, it smelled like Eucalyptus, and instead of heading straight to school, I would stop at every puddle to search for polliwogs; gathering them into glass jars with holes in the lids so I could take them home and watch them grow into frogs. It was futile. They would morph slowly, grow small legs, absorb their tails, and I would actually see these things happening. I paid close attention, knowing they would transform completely any minute. Then I would wake up one morning or come home from school some afternoon, and they were suddenly frogs. I'd missed it. This is how I imagine parenting feels sometimes.
When I left work last week, I was an expectant father, in some ways still that child in Bolinas. I was nonchalant even flippant at times about the whole alleged "most incredible experience of my life" that was just around the corner. I knew intellectually that having a child would be transformational, but I did not expect it to deepen my emotional well so quickly. I arrived back at work proud, probably glowing, triumphantly carrying around a manila folder with Amari pictures from days three through six. I may as well have had them laminated, printed on a t-shirt, or tattooed on my forehead. I think I may have even shown them to a few people I'd never even spoken to before.
In fact, on my first outing earlier in the week I saw a student from the middle school at the grocery store and said, "Hey, look what I made," flashing my Amari cell phone wallpaper. Her mom gave me a who's-the-weirdo-talking-to-my-daughter look and asked, "Is she yours?" I then returned a what-kind-of-dumb-question-is-that look, wanting to say, "No, I just collect infant photos on my cell phone." Weirdo. I decided then that I would be more discerning about whom I boasted to. I quickly forgot I'd made that decision by the time I got to work on Thursday. People were great, loving, even kind enough to say that I didn't look very tired. I received cards and gifts and compliments and congratulations. I felt like it was my one week birthday.
I also received a backlog of news on students who had been struggling. Issues of school violence, suicide, and sexual abuse had me pining for the simplicity of the "Feed me, hold me, change me" problems I'd left at home. Frogs have much larger problems, but I'm convinced that many of them can still be addressed with tadpole solutions. As the Beatles wrote, "All we need is love," and food, and shelter, and some half decent parents.
When I saw Amari again that afternoon, she was still my little polliwog. She had on a new outfit, her eyes were more alert, and her hair was spiked in a fauxhawk, but other than that she appeared unchanged. I smiled at her, and I'm convinced she smiled back. Although some say that babies can't smile, that it's just gas, I prefer to believe they can because "What a beautiful smile" sounds much nicer than "What a beautiful expression of gastro-intestinal discomfort." That's an un-poetic mouthful. After a traumatic and mandatory trip to the hospital for Amari's first blood test - a topic for a future, less nostalgic blog - we returned to our glass jar with the holes on top to watch our baby morph.
At ten o'clock I was on our back porch trying to lull Amari to sleep. The frost I'd watch dissolve that morning was reforming at the foot of the steps and a much colder mist was hovering nearby. Amari was swaddled tightly in a soft, cotton blanket, hat pulled down over her ears, eyes still wide open. I swayed her back and forth, dancing to the best of my ability, combining the "Five S's" I'd read about to activate her calming reflex. Swadle, sway, suck, side, shhhhhh. Swadle, sway, suck, side, shhhh. As it turns out, the forgotten sixth "S" is Singing - preferably popular '80's songs. For the next half hour, I hummed and sang Bobby McPheron's "Don't Worry, Be Happy." Sadly, I only know the first verse, but I sang it over and over and over again. Happily, Amari doesn't know that there are more verses or how to speak English, so she payed more attention to the vibrations coming from my chest as they resonated through her. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy and so did mine, and eventually we both went inside to get some sleep.
"Tomorrow," I said to myself, "Depeche Mode."
I woke up earlier than usual that morning and held Amari for a long time before I left, running my hand over her dark, wispy hair, imagining mine would probably have the same thickness in about thirty years - maybe sooner. I'd watched her closely over the past seven days, the subtle changes in her facial expressions, the mercifully drastic changes to the shape of her head, the countless changes in diapers, and I wished I could put her on pause until I got home. "Don't go changin'," I whispered in her ear, which she probably interpreted as, "Beard Man is handing you to Boob Lady now." I passed her to Carrie with a wistful smile and walked out the door. As I headed down the driveway, I felt like a little kid going to my first day of school again - excited, worried, proud, and pining for the days of five minutes ago.
I remembered mornings like this from my childhood in Bolinas, a few days from the last rain, mist rising from the frosted grass as the sun rose slowly through the trees. Instead of pine then, it smelled like Eucalyptus, and instead of heading straight to school, I would stop at every puddle to search for polliwogs; gathering them into glass jars with holes in the lids so I could take them home and watch them grow into frogs. It was futile. They would morph slowly, grow small legs, absorb their tails, and I would actually see these things happening. I paid close attention, knowing they would transform completely any minute. Then I would wake up one morning or come home from school some afternoon, and they were suddenly frogs. I'd missed it. This is how I imagine parenting feels sometimes.
When I left work last week, I was an expectant father, in some ways still that child in Bolinas. I was nonchalant even flippant at times about the whole alleged "most incredible experience of my life" that was just around the corner. I knew intellectually that having a child would be transformational, but I did not expect it to deepen my emotional well so quickly. I arrived back at work proud, probably glowing, triumphantly carrying around a manila folder with Amari pictures from days three through six. I may as well have had them laminated, printed on a t-shirt, or tattooed on my forehead. I think I may have even shown them to a few people I'd never even spoken to before.
In fact, on my first outing earlier in the week I saw a student from the middle school at the grocery store and said, "Hey, look what I made," flashing my Amari cell phone wallpaper. Her mom gave me a who's-the-weirdo-talking-to-my-daughter look and asked, "Is she yours?" I then returned a what-kind-of-dumb-question-is-that look, wanting to say, "No, I just collect infant photos on my cell phone." Weirdo. I decided then that I would be more discerning about whom I boasted to. I quickly forgot I'd made that decision by the time I got to work on Thursday. People were great, loving, even kind enough to say that I didn't look very tired. I received cards and gifts and compliments and congratulations. I felt like it was my one week birthday.
I also received a backlog of news on students who had been struggling. Issues of school violence, suicide, and sexual abuse had me pining for the simplicity of the "Feed me, hold me, change me" problems I'd left at home. Frogs have much larger problems, but I'm convinced that many of them can still be addressed with tadpole solutions. As the Beatles wrote, "All we need is love," and food, and shelter, and some half decent parents.
When I saw Amari again that afternoon, she was still my little polliwog. She had on a new outfit, her eyes were more alert, and her hair was spiked in a fauxhawk, but other than that she appeared unchanged. I smiled at her, and I'm convinced she smiled back. Although some say that babies can't smile, that it's just gas, I prefer to believe they can because "What a beautiful smile" sounds much nicer than "What a beautiful expression of gastro-intestinal discomfort." That's an un-poetic mouthful. After a traumatic and mandatory trip to the hospital for Amari's first blood test - a topic for a future, less nostalgic blog - we returned to our glass jar with the holes on top to watch our baby morph.
At ten o'clock I was on our back porch trying to lull Amari to sleep. The frost I'd watch dissolve that morning was reforming at the foot of the steps and a much colder mist was hovering nearby. Amari was swaddled tightly in a soft, cotton blanket, hat pulled down over her ears, eyes still wide open. I swayed her back and forth, dancing to the best of my ability, combining the "Five S's" I'd read about to activate her calming reflex. Swadle, sway, suck, side, shhhhhh. Swadle, sway, suck, side, shhhh. As it turns out, the forgotten sixth "S" is Singing - preferably popular '80's songs. For the next half hour, I hummed and sang Bobby McPheron's "Don't Worry, Be Happy." Sadly, I only know the first verse, but I sang it over and over and over again. Happily, Amari doesn't know that there are more verses or how to speak English, so she payed more attention to the vibrations coming from my chest as they resonated through her. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy and so did mine, and eventually we both went inside to get some sleep.
"Tomorrow," I said to myself, "Depeche Mode."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Superheroes and People without Breast Milk
That's me and about forty-nine percent of the planet, maybe less now because of all the popular and ubiquitous medications. It’s a little known fact that men have mammary glands, too, and they appear to be the target every new drug's side effects. Nipple shrinking, nipple sensitivity, engorgement, third nipples, you name it. If you want to feel better, don’t expect your man boobs to follow suit. Thanks to the pharmaceutical empire, we men may actually breastfeed our children in the future, while conveniently curing them of infant depression, anxiety, and erectile dysfunction. Warning: breastfeeding may cause dizziness, nipple bleeding, and chronic jealousy from Milk's Original Manufacturers (MOM's).
When we woke up from our first solid sleep in three days, Amari was swaddled up beside us, dreaming peacefully beneath a much too large hat. Carrie confided, “I feel abused and ill-equipped.” I listened quietly, I shared my own worries and doubts, and we both knew that time would be the only remedy for our fears. We turned our attention to Amari, marveling at her tiny little head, her fragile fingers, her thick, black hair, and her eyes struggling to focus on her giant, gawking, ill-equipped parents. Just six hours ago she’d been inside of Carrie where she’d floated peacefully for nine months, and now she was resting peacefully between us. It was amazing. In fact, it was so amazing that everything that used to be “amazing” had to find a new, less meaningful adjective. Looking into Amari’s eyes as they blinked our world into and out of existence, there was suddenly no room in my heart for fear.
The first few days were an education. Though I'm sure we’ll eventually heed people's advice to sleep when Amari's sleeping, it's tricky resetting biological clocks that have been set to "childless" for decades, and for the firs four days I suffered from major baby-lag. Monday, Carrie's milk came in which instantaneously changed the playing field. Where my sweatshirt or finger once sufficed momentarily in lieu of her high-nutrient, pre-milk colostrum, my soothing wardrobe and I have now taken a back seat to the all powerful boob. If Carrie were a superhero I would barely be a sidekick. While she would have a cool name like or The Provider or The Pacifier, I would be dubbed Nappy Boy or The Housecleaner or Only-Catches-Criminals-When-They’re-Sleeping-or-Nutritionally-Sated Man. In my defense, I can leap dirty diapers in a single bound and I’m faster than a speeding…well, I’m not really fast.
I imagine this is why some fathers end up feeling neglected, even jealous of the mother-child relationship in their first year of parenthood. The first two nights Carrie and I acted as co-workers sharing the graveyard shift, changing posts every few hours to provide each other with a brief respite and some sanity. Now that Amari is Coo Coo for Carrie-Puffs, I can actually sleep for solid blocks of time. Unfair? Maybe, but I think Carrie's feels pretty powerful right now, maybe even a little bit equipped.
Although Signmund Freud completely glossed over the phenomenon in his writings, there have been fleeting moments when I've suffered from Boob Envy. I see the way Amari looks up lovingly at Carrie, the eye contact coupled with hormones creating an irreproducible bond. What makes sustenance so great, I thought? I asked Carrie if we could paste photos of me on her upper breasts every other feeding. I started by asking for tattoos, then worked my way down. It's an old sales technique. She didn't bite, so I had to take matters into my own hands. One useful technique I've discovered - delusion. I pretend I'm driving Amari to the Boob Mall, my treat. Tit J Max, Eddie Boober, the sky's the limit - nothing's too good for my little girl. The next time Amari began fussing, "rooting" for milk as they say, I lifted her in front of my face, looked deep into her occasionally crossing eyes and said, "Are you hungry Amari? Look at me. I can help you." Then I passed her to Carrie, being very careful not to let them make eye contact.
Tomorrow will be my first day back at work, and Amari's one week birthday. I will miss the luxury of lying in bed as she takes her waking slow, reflexively punching and kicking the air, contorting her face in all sorts of curious poses, ambiguously smiling or passing gas, every little development in her life. She's changing so fast that it breaks my heart to think I'll miss any of it.
When we woke up from our first solid sleep in three days, Amari was swaddled up beside us, dreaming peacefully beneath a much too large hat. Carrie confided, “I feel abused and ill-equipped.” I listened quietly, I shared my own worries and doubts, and we both knew that time would be the only remedy for our fears. We turned our attention to Amari, marveling at her tiny little head, her fragile fingers, her thick, black hair, and her eyes struggling to focus on her giant, gawking, ill-equipped parents. Just six hours ago she’d been inside of Carrie where she’d floated peacefully for nine months, and now she was resting peacefully between us. It was amazing. In fact, it was so amazing that everything that used to be “amazing” had to find a new, less meaningful adjective. Looking into Amari’s eyes as they blinked our world into and out of existence, there was suddenly no room in my heart for fear.
The first few days were an education. Though I'm sure we’ll eventually heed people's advice to sleep when Amari's sleeping, it's tricky resetting biological clocks that have been set to "childless" for decades, and for the firs four days I suffered from major baby-lag. Monday, Carrie's milk came in which instantaneously changed the playing field. Where my sweatshirt or finger once sufficed momentarily in lieu of her high-nutrient, pre-milk colostrum, my soothing wardrobe and I have now taken a back seat to the all powerful boob. If Carrie were a superhero I would barely be a sidekick. While she would have a cool name like or The Provider or The Pacifier, I would be dubbed Nappy Boy or The Housecleaner or Only-Catches-Criminals-When-They’re-Sleeping-or-Nutritionally-Sated Man. In my defense, I can leap dirty diapers in a single bound and I’m faster than a speeding…well, I’m not really fast.
I imagine this is why some fathers end up feeling neglected, even jealous of the mother-child relationship in their first year of parenthood. The first two nights Carrie and I acted as co-workers sharing the graveyard shift, changing posts every few hours to provide each other with a brief respite and some sanity. Now that Amari is Coo Coo for Carrie-Puffs, I can actually sleep for solid blocks of time. Unfair? Maybe, but I think Carrie's feels pretty powerful right now, maybe even a little bit equipped.
Although Signmund Freud completely glossed over the phenomenon in his writings, there have been fleeting moments when I've suffered from Boob Envy. I see the way Amari looks up lovingly at Carrie, the eye contact coupled with hormones creating an irreproducible bond. What makes sustenance so great, I thought? I asked Carrie if we could paste photos of me on her upper breasts every other feeding. I started by asking for tattoos, then worked my way down. It's an old sales technique. She didn't bite, so I had to take matters into my own hands. One useful technique I've discovered - delusion. I pretend I'm driving Amari to the Boob Mall, my treat. Tit J Max, Eddie Boober, the sky's the limit - nothing's too good for my little girl. The next time Amari began fussing, "rooting" for milk as they say, I lifted her in front of my face, looked deep into her occasionally crossing eyes and said, "Are you hungry Amari? Look at me. I can help you." Then I passed her to Carrie, being very careful not to let them make eye contact.
Tomorrow will be my first day back at work, and Amari's one week birthday. I will miss the luxury of lying in bed as she takes her waking slow, reflexively punching and kicking the air, contorting her face in all sorts of curious poses, ambiguously smiling or passing gas, every little development in her life. She's changing so fast that it breaks my heart to think I'll miss any of it.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Guest Appearance by LeBron James
That's right, my wife is the LeBron James of the birth experience and we're all just witnesses. That's a Nike ad campaign if anyone's muttering to themselves, "That's a weird and obscure reference." Though we may have some overlap in our descriptions, Carrie sheds a vivid and insightful light on the experience. Enjoy.
Just Sit Right Back and You'll Hear a Tale...
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started on a Monday night
and ended early Thursday morning with much swearing, crying, and icky bodily fluids.
Labor started (maybe not officially but definitely in my book) Monday night with regular contractions, then stopped Tuesday during the day, then started again Tuesday night and continued regularly Wednesday and into Thursday morning. Isaac took time off starting on Tuesday, so I've had lots of support from the beginning. The first stage of labor was pretty mellow. We watched TV, went for a walk, and listened to music. The midwife came to stay in the late afternoon/early evening. The harder labor didn't start until 7 or 8. I was trying to watch the Daily Show and Colbert Report, but I had to keep checking out to manage the contractions. It got worse and worse, but still seemed manageable, right up until right before the pushing phase, when it became pretty unbearable.
Now, I had read that the pushing phase can be a "relief" to the laboring woman. To that I say "bullsh*t"! First of all, I didn't know what I was supposed to be pushing on. Second of all, the midwife, Carla, told me to hold my breath and push. How am I supposed to hold my breath if I'm vocalizing through the pain? Have you ever tried to NOT make a noise when you've stubbed your toe? Plus, I was so tired that I almost kept falling asleep in between those final contractions. I hadn't slept through the night since Sunday and here it was Thursday morning. After maybe half an hour or so into the pushing, I began to think that I was going to end up at the hospital. I thought, there's no way I can do this. I also thought, how can anyone do this more than once??? Why would you knowingly put yourself through this kind of agony? Would I have had a natural childbirth if I knew what it would be like ahead of time? I don't know. I would want to try--that's the mindset I had going into this anyway--and by the time I regretted my decision, the baby was almost born! My midwife Carla really came through at that moment when I felt like "I AM DONE!" I really felt that if she thought I couldn't do it, she'd send me to the hospital anyway--so I might as well just carry on until I have a baby or end up at the hospital!
Finally Amari started to crown--what a euphemism! Finally, she started to rip through my lady parts into the outside world. Carla put up a mirror so I could see--but all I could see was what looked like a hairy finger! "That's not a head," I thought. That's like a cat or something! Carla kept saying "almost there" and all that, but I wanted her to be more specific. Exactly how many more pushes do I have to do? Amari's damn head kept popping back in again--it was SO frustrating!!!!! So another misconception that I had heard was that this part feels like taking a big dump. Well, unless you're pooping a giant turd out of your vagina, it didn't feel like any dump I ever took. Turds are nicely colon shaped, and babies have evil round heads, and even though these heads attempt to conform to a nice cone shape, they still look and feel like giant beach balls forcing through teeny rubber inner tubes. Looking in the mirror, I was both appalled and enthralled. I could NOT look away.
At this point, I was in "kill me now" pain. I was crying and whining and not being very stoic at all. Each emergence was like a new level of torture. I was shocked by the amount it HURT! "Oh my GOD!" I whine/moaned. "God can't help you now!" Carla replied. "You're going to have to push her out yourself!" I disagreed. I was convinced Carla could just reach in there--"Take her out of me!" I commanded. Fortunately, that was very close to the end. Amidst tears and cries of pain, her head popped out. Carla placed Isaac's hands so he could deliver the rest of her and then the rest came splooging out. Then I was stupefied! Everyone was saying "shhhh"--so as not to disturb Amari--I was sobbing. Don't shush me! They placed her on my belly and I said "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I felt very bad for her having been through that journey.
Carla was working on getting the placenta out and it came out shortly after Amari. I had seen pictures of them in our birthing class so I asked "is it gross?" The ladies said "oh, no!" but Isaac said "yes!" I appreciated his honesty.
So that's the birth story! Now it's like you were all there--but without the visual images that you will never erase from your consciousness. Amari's cute as can be and we're figuring out this whole baby thing one day at a time. Often one hour at a time.
Carrie
Just Sit Right Back and You'll Hear a Tale...
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started on a Monday night
and ended early Thursday morning with much swearing, crying, and icky bodily fluids.
Labor started (maybe not officially but definitely in my book) Monday night with regular contractions, then stopped Tuesday during the day, then started again Tuesday night and continued regularly Wednesday and into Thursday morning. Isaac took time off starting on Tuesday, so I've had lots of support from the beginning. The first stage of labor was pretty mellow. We watched TV, went for a walk, and listened to music. The midwife came to stay in the late afternoon/early evening. The harder labor didn't start until 7 or 8. I was trying to watch the Daily Show and Colbert Report, but I had to keep checking out to manage the contractions. It got worse and worse, but still seemed manageable, right up until right before the pushing phase, when it became pretty unbearable.
Now, I had read that the pushing phase can be a "relief" to the laboring woman. To that I say "bullsh*t"! First of all, I didn't know what I was supposed to be pushing on. Second of all, the midwife, Carla, told me to hold my breath and push. How am I supposed to hold my breath if I'm vocalizing through the pain? Have you ever tried to NOT make a noise when you've stubbed your toe? Plus, I was so tired that I almost kept falling asleep in between those final contractions. I hadn't slept through the night since Sunday and here it was Thursday morning. After maybe half an hour or so into the pushing, I began to think that I was going to end up at the hospital. I thought, there's no way I can do this. I also thought, how can anyone do this more than once??? Why would you knowingly put yourself through this kind of agony? Would I have had a natural childbirth if I knew what it would be like ahead of time? I don't know. I would want to try--that's the mindset I had going into this anyway--and by the time I regretted my decision, the baby was almost born! My midwife Carla really came through at that moment when I felt like "I AM DONE!" I really felt that if she thought I couldn't do it, she'd send me to the hospital anyway--so I might as well just carry on until I have a baby or end up at the hospital!
Finally Amari started to crown--what a euphemism! Finally, she started to rip through my lady parts into the outside world. Carla put up a mirror so I could see--but all I could see was what looked like a hairy finger! "That's not a head," I thought. That's like a cat or something! Carla kept saying "almost there" and all that, but I wanted her to be more specific. Exactly how many more pushes do I have to do? Amari's damn head kept popping back in again--it was SO frustrating!!!!! So another misconception that I had heard was that this part feels like taking a big dump. Well, unless you're pooping a giant turd out of your vagina, it didn't feel like any dump I ever took. Turds are nicely colon shaped, and babies have evil round heads, and even though these heads attempt to conform to a nice cone shape, they still look and feel like giant beach balls forcing through teeny rubber inner tubes. Looking in the mirror, I was both appalled and enthralled. I could NOT look away.
At this point, I was in "kill me now" pain. I was crying and whining and not being very stoic at all. Each emergence was like a new level of torture. I was shocked by the amount it HURT! "Oh my GOD!" I whine/moaned. "God can't help you now!" Carla replied. "You're going to have to push her out yourself!" I disagreed. I was convinced Carla could just reach in there--"Take her out of me!" I commanded. Fortunately, that was very close to the end. Amidst tears and cries of pain, her head popped out. Carla placed Isaac's hands so he could deliver the rest of her and then the rest came splooging out. Then I was stupefied! Everyone was saying "shhhh"--so as not to disturb Amari--I was sobbing. Don't shush me! They placed her on my belly and I said "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I felt very bad for her having been through that journey.
Carla was working on getting the placenta out and it came out shortly after Amari. I had seen pictures of them in our birthing class so I asked "is it gross?" The ladies said "oh, no!" but Isaac said "yes!" I appreciated his honesty.
So that's the birth story! Now it's like you were all there--but without the visual images that you will never erase from your consciousness. Amari's cute as can be and we're figuring out this whole baby thing one day at a time. Often one hour at a time.
Carrie
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Holy Crap - It's Still a Girl
With a few three hour naps under my belt, I now have a few words to describe my daughter's birth. Words like amazing, scary, long, surreal, exhausting, magical, and a little gross. That's right - it's not all butterflies and moonbeams. One such moment came when our midwife, Carla, delivered the placenta with a giant sploosh into a ceramic bowl. Carrie heard it and immediately asked, "Is it gross?" The three women in the room said things like, "Gosh no," "It's beautiful," "It's the nicest placenta I've ever seen," but Carrie caught my obviously-disgusted-face staring at the giant, nutrient-filled sac and I nodded and mouthed, "It's pretty gross." Carrie smiled at me, and although I thought it would be impossible after she gave birth to our child, I loved her even more. As for me, where I once envisioned Carla delivering a small, delicious piece of Italian cornmeal, I don't think I'll ever confuse those two things again. Not even in jest.
I'm not sure when most women consider their labor to have begun, but in my completely subjective opinion, Carrie's began when she had her first contractions Monday night; when she lost her ability to sleep or experience enduring periods of painlessness. By this measure, Carrie's labor lasted almost 60 hours, and not once along the way did she waiver in her decision to have an intervention-free home birth. Carla arrived Wednesday evening and stayed with us through the final twelve hours. What I once considered a lack of affect on her part became a beacon of fortitude. Although there were moments towards the end when I felt scared, wondering if this was all too much for Carrie and Amari, Carla remained calm, confident, assuring; she even napped on occasion between contractions during the pushing stage. How could I be afraid if someone who has delivered over a thousand babies was so serene?
As the active labor escalated, the women offered words of support and encouragement. "You're almost there, "You're so strong," "A couple more contractions and we'll try to push," and so on. I joined in on occasion, but as the labor persisted, I started to feel like a big fat liar. There was a funny moment when Amari began crowning, when Carrie could see the tuft of black hair begin to emerge and she yelled through a push "Oh God, get her out of me." Carla looked straight into her eyes and said, "God can't help you now, Carrie. You've go to push." You gotta love her.
A half an hour before Amari was born, Carla asked me if I still wanted to deliver her. I suddenly remembered asking if that were possible about two months into Carrie's pregnancy when it was easy to be cavalier about such things. "I'm a little nervous," I admitted, "but I think so." She suggested I hurry up and decide, because Amari's sleek, black hair was beginning to show. I quickly realized this opportunity may never come again, that I would regret it if I didn't, and that if I were to balk now I would not be able to honestly say during some ridiculous argument with my future teenage daughter, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
The final stage of labor arrived, Amari was crowning. Carrie had been working hard for nearly an hour, and I wondered how on earth that tiny tuft of hair could be a head. It looked more like something our cat had spit up on the rug. Then it got bigger, Carrie was doing it, I couldn't believe it. The rest happened in an instant. Carla said, "Okay, Isaac, put your hands here. Twist this way and deliver her to Carrie's chest face down." All at once the tiny hairball burst into this world followed by a cone-shaped head, an alien-like face, a fluid-covered body, and purple limbs. Magical...and kind of gross. But mostly magical. I burst into tears. Carrie was crying already and saying "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," over and over again. Later, when I asked her why, she confided that she was worried Amari might have been hurt because it took so long to push her out. It was one of many genuine expressions of maternal love I have already witnessed.
After Carrie held Amari and I held Carrie, she passed our daughter to me for the first time. I walked away from the light of the living room to ease the transition from womb to world. In my head I kept thinking, "Holy shit. Holy shit," an expression I notice pops into my head or out of my mouth during completely unpredictable, unfathomable moments - like when Carrie and I were hit head-on driving over Highway 20, or when George W. actually managed to swindle his way into office. This was a wonderful "Holy Shit," but a holy shit nonetheless. Albert Camus once wrote, "A person's life purpose is nothing more than to rediscover, through the detours of art or love or passionate work, those one or two images in the presence of which his heart first opened."
This, my friends, is as open as it gets.
I'm not sure when most women consider their labor to have begun, but in my completely subjective opinion, Carrie's began when she had her first contractions Monday night; when she lost her ability to sleep or experience enduring periods of painlessness. By this measure, Carrie's labor lasted almost 60 hours, and not once along the way did she waiver in her decision to have an intervention-free home birth. Carla arrived Wednesday evening and stayed with us through the final twelve hours. What I once considered a lack of affect on her part became a beacon of fortitude. Although there were moments towards the end when I felt scared, wondering if this was all too much for Carrie and Amari, Carla remained calm, confident, assuring; she even napped on occasion between contractions during the pushing stage. How could I be afraid if someone who has delivered over a thousand babies was so serene?
As the active labor escalated, the women offered words of support and encouragement. "You're almost there, "You're so strong," "A couple more contractions and we'll try to push," and so on. I joined in on occasion, but as the labor persisted, I started to feel like a big fat liar. There was a funny moment when Amari began crowning, when Carrie could see the tuft of black hair begin to emerge and she yelled through a push "Oh God, get her out of me." Carla looked straight into her eyes and said, "God can't help you now, Carrie. You've go to push." You gotta love her.
A half an hour before Amari was born, Carla asked me if I still wanted to deliver her. I suddenly remembered asking if that were possible about two months into Carrie's pregnancy when it was easy to be cavalier about such things. "I'm a little nervous," I admitted, "but I think so." She suggested I hurry up and decide, because Amari's sleek, black hair was beginning to show. I quickly realized this opportunity may never come again, that I would regret it if I didn't, and that if I were to balk now I would not be able to honestly say during some ridiculous argument with my future teenage daughter, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."
The final stage of labor arrived, Amari was crowning. Carrie had been working hard for nearly an hour, and I wondered how on earth that tiny tuft of hair could be a head. It looked more like something our cat had spit up on the rug. Then it got bigger, Carrie was doing it, I couldn't believe it. The rest happened in an instant. Carla said, "Okay, Isaac, put your hands here. Twist this way and deliver her to Carrie's chest face down." All at once the tiny hairball burst into this world followed by a cone-shaped head, an alien-like face, a fluid-covered body, and purple limbs. Magical...and kind of gross. But mostly magical. I burst into tears. Carrie was crying already and saying "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," over and over again. Later, when I asked her why, she confided that she was worried Amari might have been hurt because it took so long to push her out. It was one of many genuine expressions of maternal love I have already witnessed.
After Carrie held Amari and I held Carrie, she passed our daughter to me for the first time. I walked away from the light of the living room to ease the transition from womb to world. In my head I kept thinking, "Holy shit. Holy shit," an expression I notice pops into my head or out of my mouth during completely unpredictable, unfathomable moments - like when Carrie and I were hit head-on driving over Highway 20, or when George W. actually managed to swindle his way into office. This was a wonderful "Holy Shit," but a holy shit nonetheless. Albert Camus once wrote, "A person's life purpose is nothing more than to rediscover, through the detours of art or love or passionate work, those one or two images in the presence of which his heart first opened."
This, my friends, is as open as it gets.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Labor of Love...and Other UB40 Albums
I've never attended a birth; never been with someone as they experienced the many symptoms and stages of labor. I've read books, listened to stories, taken classes, and accepted or rejected advice, but I still had no idea what to expect on our own journey. Rather than attempt the impossible of recapping the hours and days once they'd passed, I decided to tuck moments away as we went along. This is the fragmented story of our daughter's birth, which does little justice to actually being there.
Monday, 7:17 AM - I was up early reading about the fourth trimester theory in a book called "The Happiest Baby on the Block." We may live on a small block with lots of unhappy babies, but one can dream. When I went upstairs to say good morning, Carrie smiled and told me that "things were happening." I never imagined that words like mucous and plug could elicit such joy in either one of us. I felt a surge of adrenaline, which always inspires me to ask, "Should I stay home from work?" "Call me at lunchtime for an update," she replied. The adrenaline faded. At least I could add some new information to my t-shirt that reads "No baby yet."
Monday, 4:06 PM - I was very excited to report this morning's development to our midwife. Surely this would be the piece of news that elicited some enthusiasm in her. Instead, she looked vaguely fatigued by the very notion that pre-labor had begun and maybe even a little concerned that we'd past the due date. She told us she would make appointments for tests if labor hadn't started by next Monday. It felt like a threat. I felt defensive. It's only been a day, I said. This was not the comforting news we'd driven fifteen minutes to get. Then, on our way out, her secretary added, "I never like to give advice to first-timers except that they should always add two weeks to their due date." This is why the words never and except should not be allowed in the same sentence. It's the equivalent of "No offense, but..." or "I hate to do this..." They're just lies designed to assuage the guilt that comes with truth. Why not avoid both?
On our way home, Carrie and I talked about how people suck and how they should just shut the hell up. Who finds late-baby-stories comforting when they're hovering around their due date? That's like telling excruciatingly-painful-labor-stories after the first contraction. "When I was your age, we had labor in the snow and my cat was our doula." We talked about labor inducing options like warm baths, spicy food, and sex, but decided we wouldn't need any of it, because Amari would be here soon.
Monday, 8:33 PM - After having sex in a warm bath of salsa...
Carrie's back was aching when I arrived home from class. I massaged her for a while and she told me that she felt some tightening. Later on, she mentioned the words, "I'm scared," for the first time. I asked what she was afraid of, knowing if I'd been her I would have had an extensive list. "I'm afraid I'll go into labor in the middle of the night and lose a bunch of sleep." Not even on my list, but fair enough. She really appreciates her sleep, and I really appreciate her when she gets it.
Tuesday, 12:06 AM - When I finally got to bed, Carrie was mid-contraction. She had another one 12 minutes later. "Do I need to call anyone or do anything?" I asked. I was getting that primal adrenaline again, ready to do anything but sleep. Carrie assured me that she was fine, that I should try to get some rest. When I woke up again it was 3:40, there was a blazing fire downstairs and Carrie was curled up on the couch with one of our cats. "Damn old school doulas," I muttered to myself. Carrie was fine; she'd had several inconsistent contractions. She'd come downstairs so she could walk around without waking me.
Tuesday, 6:26 AM - Carrie was still downstairs, still not sleeping, and still contracting from time to time. I offered to stay home, which I was getting much quicker at. At first Carrie seemed ambivalent, but then told me that she didn't feel like being alone. Although I'd spent a great deal of time remodeling her menstruation shack into a birthing hut, it looked like she could really use the support.
Tuesday, 10:37 AM - Carrie's mom is a piece of work. She has lived a full life, thinks alternatively, yet has somehow cultivated the belief that her world view is more often fact than possibility. This can be challenging at times - like daily and during deep, painful labor contractions. She asked Carrie to promise that we wouldn't wander farther than a block away from home lest she jump into the final stage of labor and give birth in the bushes. When we left for the beach, she kind of frowned at me when I said we'd be right back with her granddaughter. As she has reminded me, things were different back then.
Fortunately, Carrie hasn't lost her sense of humor. When she was doubled over in pain at one point, I stupidly asked, "Contraction?" to which she responded, "No I just like looking stupid." By the time real labor starts I will have either exhausted all my stupid questions or learned to keep them to myself.
Tuesday, 3:55 PM - We just got home from a walk around Lake Cleone. I took some final pregnancy pictures, including my attempt at an artsy belly photo which involves a tree and a mediocre photographer. As we walked I noticed a surge of euphoria that could not be explained away solely by a Vente iced coffee. It was one of those defining moments that I was absolutely certain I would remember. Glancing back along the trail, I recalled how often Carrie and I had walked along this path during the past eight years, through many joys and challenges, break-ups and reunions. Then looking ahead, I felt profound love and admiration for her as she climbed through the brush with our daughter still inside her, imagining that for many years to come we will walk this path with her as she grows older.
The contractions came more consistently as we walked, every twenty minutes like clockwork, and Carrie endured the pain with barely a grimace. We sat by the ocean for a while, each in our own thoughts, then in each others, a certain knowing in both of our eyes that the next time we visit this beach we We made our way home to continue the wait.
Tuesday, 10:46 PM - The contractions have been consistently 8-10 minutes apart this evening. Carrie walks around the living room, sits on the yoga ball, and bravely fights through the pain as I take on the less painful, less courageous job of "timer." It's getting late, Carrie has gone upstairs again to rest up for the home stretch. She looks so strong, beautiful, and sleepy. I suppose I should rest up, too - I'm sure I'll have more "timing" to do in the morning.
It's interesting to sit here in the glow of technology watching my sad attempt at describing this experience with words. I believe tomorrow will be my daughter's birthday; will be a day that marks a new beginning, a rite of passage, an indelible mark in the course of my existence. I will remember this day forever. Unless, of course, I have a memory like my father's in which case I will have to make another child just to remind me of family birthdays and anniversaries.
For now, good night, Amari. I'll see you tomorrow.
Wednesday, 5:52 AM - Sleep came in 5-6 minute increments for Carrie. Any doubt that women are the stronger, more patient sex is surely erased in the hours preceding and during childbirth. I did not want to leave Carrie alone, but when we'd finished all six episodes of "The Office" (an excellent early labor DVD by the way), she kicked me out of the living room saying, "One of us should get some sleep." While I'm surprised by my own calm, I'm completely in awe of Carrie's fortitude and perseverance. She's exhausted, hurting, and has been nothing short of exceptional. She says she feels her hips opening and Amari moving down, which briefly elicited panic in me, but Carrie knows her body, her process, and I trust that if something needed to happen right away she would tell me. We'll call our midwife later this morning.
Wednesday, 9:05 AM - Our midwife stopped by and told Carrie that she is 2 cm dilated and her cervix is "wafer thin." I looked incredulously at Carrie when she went on to say the contractions might start to get intense at 4 cm. What the hell were the last 24 hours? The good news - Amari should be here by this afternoon or evening. As Rita Mae Brown once wrote, "People are like teabags - you can never tell how strong they are until they're in hot water." My fatigue disguises my fear, convincing me that it's only excitement. I know how strong Carrie is and I'll soon know how I feel about myself.
Wednesday, 11:20 AM - Although I am convinced that I can type with one hand and hold Carrie's with the other, I fear it may not appear very supportive yelling "push" from the downstairs computer. Our house feels calm right now - pregnant with anticipation...and with a pregnant woman. The sun is shining outside, and the trees are swaying gently in a cool autumn breeze. Tomorrow, the same trees will sway, the same sun will shine, the same breeze may gently blow, but everything will feel different.
Thursday, 3:40 PM - I have neither the energy nor the words to describe the last twenty-four hours. Our daughter, Amari Becker Fishman, arrived in our living room at 4:21 this morning. She is 6 pounds 8 ounces, she is beautiful, and she is all ours. I'm sure every man who witnesses his wife go through labor and childbirth believes that she is the strongest, most persistent, and courageous person on the planet. Tomorrow I will try to describe Amari's birthday and the hours that led up to it, but suffice it to say that Carrie is now, and forever will be, my hero.
Welcome to our world, Amari. I love you.
Monday, 7:17 AM - I was up early reading about the fourth trimester theory in a book called "The Happiest Baby on the Block." We may live on a small block with lots of unhappy babies, but one can dream. When I went upstairs to say good morning, Carrie smiled and told me that "things were happening." I never imagined that words like mucous and plug could elicit such joy in either one of us. I felt a surge of adrenaline, which always inspires me to ask, "Should I stay home from work?" "Call me at lunchtime for an update," she replied. The adrenaline faded. At least I could add some new information to my t-shirt that reads "No baby yet."
Monday, 4:06 PM - I was very excited to report this morning's development to our midwife. Surely this would be the piece of news that elicited some enthusiasm in her. Instead, she looked vaguely fatigued by the very notion that pre-labor had begun and maybe even a little concerned that we'd past the due date. She told us she would make appointments for tests if labor hadn't started by next Monday. It felt like a threat. I felt defensive. It's only been a day, I said. This was not the comforting news we'd driven fifteen minutes to get. Then, on our way out, her secretary added, "I never like to give advice to first-timers except that they should always add two weeks to their due date." This is why the words never and except should not be allowed in the same sentence. It's the equivalent of "No offense, but..." or "I hate to do this..." They're just lies designed to assuage the guilt that comes with truth. Why not avoid both?
On our way home, Carrie and I talked about how people suck and how they should just shut the hell up. Who finds late-baby-stories comforting when they're hovering around their due date? That's like telling excruciatingly-painful-labor-stories after the first contraction. "When I was your age, we had labor in the snow and my cat was our doula." We talked about labor inducing options like warm baths, spicy food, and sex, but decided we wouldn't need any of it, because Amari would be here soon.
Monday, 8:33 PM - After having sex in a warm bath of salsa...
Carrie's back was aching when I arrived home from class. I massaged her for a while and she told me that she felt some tightening. Later on, she mentioned the words, "I'm scared," for the first time. I asked what she was afraid of, knowing if I'd been her I would have had an extensive list. "I'm afraid I'll go into labor in the middle of the night and lose a bunch of sleep." Not even on my list, but fair enough. She really appreciates her sleep, and I really appreciate her when she gets it.
Tuesday, 12:06 AM - When I finally got to bed, Carrie was mid-contraction. She had another one 12 minutes later. "Do I need to call anyone or do anything?" I asked. I was getting that primal adrenaline again, ready to do anything but sleep. Carrie assured me that she was fine, that I should try to get some rest. When I woke up again it was 3:40, there was a blazing fire downstairs and Carrie was curled up on the couch with one of our cats. "Damn old school doulas," I muttered to myself. Carrie was fine; she'd had several inconsistent contractions. She'd come downstairs so she could walk around without waking me.
Tuesday, 6:26 AM - Carrie was still downstairs, still not sleeping, and still contracting from time to time. I offered to stay home, which I was getting much quicker at. At first Carrie seemed ambivalent, but then told me that she didn't feel like being alone. Although I'd spent a great deal of time remodeling her menstruation shack into a birthing hut, it looked like she could really use the support.
Tuesday, 10:37 AM - Carrie's mom is a piece of work. She has lived a full life, thinks alternatively, yet has somehow cultivated the belief that her world view is more often fact than possibility. This can be challenging at times - like daily and during deep, painful labor contractions. She asked Carrie to promise that we wouldn't wander farther than a block away from home lest she jump into the final stage of labor and give birth in the bushes. When we left for the beach, she kind of frowned at me when I said we'd be right back with her granddaughter. As she has reminded me, things were different back then.
Fortunately, Carrie hasn't lost her sense of humor. When she was doubled over in pain at one point, I stupidly asked, "Contraction?" to which she responded, "No I just like looking stupid." By the time real labor starts I will have either exhausted all my stupid questions or learned to keep them to myself.
Tuesday, 3:55 PM - We just got home from a walk around Lake Cleone. I took some final pregnancy pictures, including my attempt at an artsy belly photo which involves a tree and a mediocre photographer. As we walked I noticed a surge of euphoria that could not be explained away solely by a Vente iced coffee. It was one of those defining moments that I was absolutely certain I would remember. Glancing back along the trail, I recalled how often Carrie and I had walked along this path during the past eight years, through many joys and challenges, break-ups and reunions. Then looking ahead, I felt profound love and admiration for her as she climbed through the brush with our daughter still inside her, imagining that for many years to come we will walk this path with her as she grows older.
The contractions came more consistently as we walked, every twenty minutes like clockwork, and Carrie endured the pain with barely a grimace. We sat by the ocean for a while, each in our own thoughts, then in each others, a certain knowing in both of our eyes that the next time we visit this beach we We made our way home to continue the wait.
Tuesday, 10:46 PM - The contractions have been consistently 8-10 minutes apart this evening. Carrie walks around the living room, sits on the yoga ball, and bravely fights through the pain as I take on the less painful, less courageous job of "timer." It's getting late, Carrie has gone upstairs again to rest up for the home stretch. She looks so strong, beautiful, and sleepy. I suppose I should rest up, too - I'm sure I'll have more "timing" to do in the morning.
It's interesting to sit here in the glow of technology watching my sad attempt at describing this experience with words. I believe tomorrow will be my daughter's birthday; will be a day that marks a new beginning, a rite of passage, an indelible mark in the course of my existence. I will remember this day forever. Unless, of course, I have a memory like my father's in which case I will have to make another child just to remind me of family birthdays and anniversaries.
For now, good night, Amari. I'll see you tomorrow.
Wednesday, 5:52 AM - Sleep came in 5-6 minute increments for Carrie. Any doubt that women are the stronger, more patient sex is surely erased in the hours preceding and during childbirth. I did not want to leave Carrie alone, but when we'd finished all six episodes of "The Office" (an excellent early labor DVD by the way), she kicked me out of the living room saying, "One of us should get some sleep." While I'm surprised by my own calm, I'm completely in awe of Carrie's fortitude and perseverance. She's exhausted, hurting, and has been nothing short of exceptional. She says she feels her hips opening and Amari moving down, which briefly elicited panic in me, but Carrie knows her body, her process, and I trust that if something needed to happen right away she would tell me. We'll call our midwife later this morning.
Wednesday, 9:05 AM - Our midwife stopped by and told Carrie that she is 2 cm dilated and her cervix is "wafer thin." I looked incredulously at Carrie when she went on to say the contractions might start to get intense at 4 cm. What the hell were the last 24 hours? The good news - Amari should be here by this afternoon or evening. As Rita Mae Brown once wrote, "People are like teabags - you can never tell how strong they are until they're in hot water." My fatigue disguises my fear, convincing me that it's only excitement. I know how strong Carrie is and I'll soon know how I feel about myself.
Wednesday, 11:20 AM - Although I am convinced that I can type with one hand and hold Carrie's with the other, I fear it may not appear very supportive yelling "push" from the downstairs computer. Our house feels calm right now - pregnant with anticipation...and with a pregnant woman. The sun is shining outside, and the trees are swaying gently in a cool autumn breeze. Tomorrow, the same trees will sway, the same sun will shine, the same breeze may gently blow, but everything will feel different.
Thursday, 3:40 PM - I have neither the energy nor the words to describe the last twenty-four hours. Our daughter, Amari Becker Fishman, arrived in our living room at 4:21 this morning. She is 6 pounds 8 ounces, she is beautiful, and she is all ours. I'm sure every man who witnesses his wife go through labor and childbirth believes that she is the strongest, most persistent, and courageous person on the planet. Tomorrow I will try to describe Amari's birthday and the hours that led up to it, but suffice it to say that Carrie is now, and forever will be, my hero.
Welcome to our world, Amari. I love you.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Day the Womb Stood Still
Over the course of Carrie's pregnancy, we've been given due dates ranging from October 31st through November 3rd. I, of course, was hoping for yesterday. It was the earliest prediction, it was a holiday of sorts, and it happened to land on a weekend. I'm also really excited to meet our daughter. It's as though I've been invited to a Your-Life-Is-Never-Going-To-Be-The-Same Party but I have no idea when it's going to begin. In some ways, it already has. I've spent nine months imaging the many possibilities - what Amari will look like, who she will become, whether she'll be a lefty or a righty, and how lethal split-finger fastball will be. I've spent nine months cultivating an extensive list of unrealistic expectations to balance out my unconditional love.
After our fall break last week, I was reluctant to return to work, wanting to stay by Carrie's side so I could know the minute labor began, as if I could somehow contribute in those early moments. I'm also enjoying the nesting process. Our house has never been so clean and from what I've heard it never will be again. The truth is, I've always been prone to inertia - when I'm an object at rest I like to stay that way. It was so nice to spend long days with Carrie, knowing they would be our last as an independent couple. We went to the movies, enjoyed eating out, began our days slowly and silently, and stayed up late watching Netflix without consideration of content or volume.
When I did go back to work, I continued to field questions about Carrie's well-being, signs of labor, and the sudden fascination with my readiness for parenthood. If I had a do-over, I would make a shirt that said "Carrie's fine, I'm ready, no baby yet." In the staff room on Thursday it became comical, as though "No baby yet" were the magic words to get to the fridge. Unfortunately, this eventually led to an endless chain of birth stories. As though I'd never heard that the due date was meaningless with the first child, fellow staff members felt compelled to not only remind me but to share detailed stories of labor ranging from 17-33 hours. And, as if that weren't enough, several went on to describe the quick, effortless exits of their second children. Thanks for those comforting images anonymous co-workers.
Towards the end of the week, I began to feel excited. I was convinced that Carrie's smooth pregnancy was an omen for a quick and easy delivery. Although I've lost sleep at night wondering how I will respond under the pressure of birth - whether I will be supportive enough, serious enough, quiet enough, or capable enough to deal with Carrie's fluctuating needs - during the day I am confident that I will be able to put one foot in front of the other, and one foot in my mouth if necessary.
During one of these moments of confidence I ran into an old friend and doula. If you don't know what a doula is, neither did I - and I'm still not entirely sure. To borrow an old SAT format, I believe doulas are to midwives as paralegals are to lawyers. They offer prenatal, birth, and postpartum support. According to Wikipedia, a highly respected information source, this support includes massage, cooking, and light housecleaning. That sounded a lot like me, so when my friend asked, "Who's your doula?" I confidently replied, "I am." When I got home Carrie reminded me that doulas are traditionally women who have given birth themselves, but concurred that I was going to be acting doula. I felt proud to break the chains of gender norms. Later, out of curiosity, I Googled "male doulas" and found a small population of men who, under the self-proclaimed "ridicule of peers and the criticism of feminists," have made doula-ing their careers. Yet another confirmation that there are no untapped markets.
Halloween came and went without incident and I was so self-absorbed with my parental musings that I wondered to myself when all of the homeless, midget vampires moved into town. At the grocery store I saw one of my third grade students dressed completely in camouflage, face painted, and real twigs and leaves sticking up from his bandanna. After my joke that I could barely see him fell completely on deaf, green-painted ears, I asked him what he was, assuming GI Joe or something else contemporary. "I'm a Vietnam Helicopter Special Forces Combat Trooper," he grinned, shoving his very real looking hand grenade into my face. "Wow!" I said trying to hide my "yikes" expression, "I'll bet you're the only one of those in town." I then made an excuse to leave before his retired Special Forces grandfather showed up.
Although I've always wanted a little girl, there were times in the first months where I imagined both possibilities - the pros and cons of each gender. I had to mourn the loss of some possibilities either way. Vietnam Helicopter Special Forces Combat Trooper Halloween costumes complete with possibly live grenade will not be mourned.
As we were running our errands yesterday, we discovered a new joy - answering the question "When are you due?" with a casual "Today." Sometimes truth is better than fiction, especially when I follow it up with, "Woah. There goes her water." Carrie once told me that during the birth, she wants me to give her the play by play of what's going on down below. I asked her if I could do it as though I were a sports commentator. Three months in she said, "Sure," but I have a feeling that opinion may change when Amari's crowning and I put on my Vin Scully voice. That being said, today feels like the seventh inning stretch. I'm expecting someone famous to come into our house any minute now and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" poorly and then yell "Go Cubs." Until then, all I can do is wait...
After our fall break last week, I was reluctant to return to work, wanting to stay by Carrie's side so I could know the minute labor began, as if I could somehow contribute in those early moments. I'm also enjoying the nesting process. Our house has never been so clean and from what I've heard it never will be again. The truth is, I've always been prone to inertia - when I'm an object at rest I like to stay that way. It was so nice to spend long days with Carrie, knowing they would be our last as an independent couple. We went to the movies, enjoyed eating out, began our days slowly and silently, and stayed up late watching Netflix without consideration of content or volume.
When I did go back to work, I continued to field questions about Carrie's well-being, signs of labor, and the sudden fascination with my readiness for parenthood. If I had a do-over, I would make a shirt that said "Carrie's fine, I'm ready, no baby yet." In the staff room on Thursday it became comical, as though "No baby yet" were the magic words to get to the fridge. Unfortunately, this eventually led to an endless chain of birth stories. As though I'd never heard that the due date was meaningless with the first child, fellow staff members felt compelled to not only remind me but to share detailed stories of labor ranging from 17-33 hours. And, as if that weren't enough, several went on to describe the quick, effortless exits of their second children. Thanks for those comforting images anonymous co-workers.
Towards the end of the week, I began to feel excited. I was convinced that Carrie's smooth pregnancy was an omen for a quick and easy delivery. Although I've lost sleep at night wondering how I will respond under the pressure of birth - whether I will be supportive enough, serious enough, quiet enough, or capable enough to deal with Carrie's fluctuating needs - during the day I am confident that I will be able to put one foot in front of the other, and one foot in my mouth if necessary.
During one of these moments of confidence I ran into an old friend and doula. If you don't know what a doula is, neither did I - and I'm still not entirely sure. To borrow an old SAT format, I believe doulas are to midwives as paralegals are to lawyers. They offer prenatal, birth, and postpartum support. According to Wikipedia, a highly respected information source, this support includes massage, cooking, and light housecleaning. That sounded a lot like me, so when my friend asked, "Who's your doula?" I confidently replied, "I am." When I got home Carrie reminded me that doulas are traditionally women who have given birth themselves, but concurred that I was going to be acting doula. I felt proud to break the chains of gender norms. Later, out of curiosity, I Googled "male doulas" and found a small population of men who, under the self-proclaimed "ridicule of peers and the criticism of feminists," have made doula-ing their careers. Yet another confirmation that there are no untapped markets.
Halloween came and went without incident and I was so self-absorbed with my parental musings that I wondered to myself when all of the homeless, midget vampires moved into town. At the grocery store I saw one of my third grade students dressed completely in camouflage, face painted, and real twigs and leaves sticking up from his bandanna. After my joke that I could barely see him fell completely on deaf, green-painted ears, I asked him what he was, assuming GI Joe or something else contemporary. "I'm a Vietnam Helicopter Special Forces Combat Trooper," he grinned, shoving his very real looking hand grenade into my face. "Wow!" I said trying to hide my "yikes" expression, "I'll bet you're the only one of those in town." I then made an excuse to leave before his retired Special Forces grandfather showed up.
Although I've always wanted a little girl, there were times in the first months where I imagined both possibilities - the pros and cons of each gender. I had to mourn the loss of some possibilities either way. Vietnam Helicopter Special Forces Combat Trooper Halloween costumes complete with possibly live grenade will not be mourned.
As we were running our errands yesterday, we discovered a new joy - answering the question "When are you due?" with a casual "Today." Sometimes truth is better than fiction, especially when I follow it up with, "Woah. There goes her water." Carrie once told me that during the birth, she wants me to give her the play by play of what's going on down below. I asked her if I could do it as though I were a sports commentator. Three months in she said, "Sure," but I have a feeling that opinion may change when Amari's crowning and I put on my Vin Scully voice. That being said, today feels like the seventh inning stretch. I'm expecting someone famous to come into our house any minute now and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" poorly and then yell "Go Cubs." Until then, all I can do is wait...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)