perfect blueberry muffin loaf
1 week ago
Friday, July 30, 2010
on language
speaking a language is learning a way to describe the world with both your mind and body. You can only speak a foreign language when your mouth moves without your mind first determining the words. Words are muscle memory that express feelings, ideas, wants, emotions. When an image conjures a word a thought.
work life balance
At my mom and baby group we talked about work life balance. I knew I would be holding my tongue, this is a sensitive topic. The group includes lawyers and stay at home moms and everything in-between. I did not want to offend anybody. New mom friends are so important, part of my sanity is being around other people like me who have a little one. I think also for Byrd it is important for him to be with other sweet babies. The discussion was opened and a woman from the south said how she felt bad about staying at home, like she had to apologize for it, when she worked that was her identity. Another stay at home mom cut in and said, you should feel that way, its okay, your work is your identity. Just hearing others voice these feelings, with no solution, just putting it out there, I felt some healing. And I realized how I have had a habit of asking moms what they do, even if they are stay at home and I know, but it seems that everyone does something. I think I have wanted to ask wishing the norm is the expectation that you do something, that it is normal to work as a mom, more normal than not to work. For me it is like I have been putting others on the spot as a counter balance in the universe to my mom and step mom who both have said how moms should stay home. My step mom recently said how she would not have children if she couldn't spend the first year with them. My mom told me once how I should take five years off when I have kids. They never said much about my career. When I got my PhD my mother did express how proud she is and how proud I should feel. My mother has mostly been a distant figure in my life, but she is making a come back. Her enthusiasm for the health and welfare of my family is refreshing. My stepmother's comparison of me versus herself or her kids, what she did and didnt have, the idea that I am wealthy because my Dad plans to leave me money in 30 years or whenever he passes away. There is great redemption when my mom tells me how hard it is to do a phd, how great I should feel. Though as a child she told my siblings I was not very smart, so bittersweet relationship always.
I want there to be the expectation that all adults work, that working adults can also have families, that moms and dads take care of children and households, that either moms or dads might stay home. And I have taken this out on moms around me, in the same way my stepmom is taking out her hard young motherhood on me, I am doing it to stay at home moms.
Shame on me. I think I am over this meanness now.
The discussion in mom&baby group had no resolution. Just jobs give us our identity and structure. It is uncomfortable and potentially isolating to stay at home with children.
I want there to be the expectation that all adults work, that working adults can also have families, that moms and dads take care of children and households, that either moms or dads might stay home. And I have taken this out on moms around me, in the same way my stepmom is taking out her hard young motherhood on me, I am doing it to stay at home moms.
Shame on me. I think I am over this meanness now.
The discussion in mom&baby group had no resolution. Just jobs give us our identity and structure. It is uncomfortable and potentially isolating to stay at home with children.
Grapefruit Tart
I have been cooking alot. It is not particularly easy with a baby, I will need to stir something continuously and then Byrd needs something and I end up leaving the stove and coming back with Byrd in one arm. I made a grapefruit tart yesterday. I think I would prefer a lemon tart, but grapefruit sounded interesting. I have already made lemon custards, why not make grapefruit? When Byrd is asleep I am free to do anything, I get stressed out by the options, forty minutes, what do I do? I often want to: eat, sleep, shower, pee, read, write, clean, and cook. I try to stick to writing, stave off hunger with a bite out of the cheese block in the fridge. But sometimes when I have been trying to finish putting together some ingredients and Byrd goes to sleep I just want the peace of finishing while reading the instructions carefully. Last night, driving to my Husband's bosses house with Byrd in the back, the tart crust with a big rift zone through it up front so I could make sure it doesnt fall apart any more, and the other two containers of topping parts in the back, I wonder what the hell I was doing. I had in the last hour remade the crust to make up for the long crack, been just short of enough dough for the edges, while that was baking I reheated the custard in the hopes that it would set better. I stirred it continuously since Byrd was asleep, and then I put the custard in the freezer in the hopes that it would be more solid. At the last minute I decide the cracked but full crust is the better option, I have refit the pieces so that it looks complete.
I am trying to be a successful scientist, I am trying to be a successful writer, why the hell am I trying to make a grapefruit tart? I ask myself. I just thought it would be neat. I never knew before that tart crust uses powdered sugar and egg, unlike pie crust that has no egg and uses granular sugar. Now, and forever, when I eat pie crust or tarts I can imagine what went into the matrix, when they taste differently I will have a deeper understanding. My hands and tongue now both have a language to understand crusts.
I am driving and that is when I realize this is a language, I am learning the language of food and cooking. The thrill at knowing tarts use powdered sugar reminds me of how I felt when I took a botany class and suddenly sidewalk weeds had identifiable characteristics, palmate leaves or single leaves, leaves arranged in a whorl, leaves arranged opposite and decussate. These characters of plants are a language for family of origin, for climate, for landscapes. And food, it is a landscape I spend much of my day eating, thinking about, shopping for. After college I was taken with the idea that I did not know where food comes from. I wanted to work on farms. I went to Italy for three months as a WWOOFer. I learned about hazelnuts, cheese, sheep, cows, pigs, olives, grinding polenta, I wondered through open markets, I saw skinned whole goats, live octopus, fresh sardines, entrails, fresh fried calamari in paper cones, olives not yet brined, dried hot peppers. I realized that to really run a farm you live the farm, there is no vacation, no weekend. The food is fresh and good, but the difference between just ground polenta and ready to go in a tube polenta may be more emotional. I am disapointed when I realize that even the difference between just made and month old ricotta is subtle.
So how does this food language fit into my world now? I appreciate and graviate towards local and organic. I like to cook. I am frustrated at myself when I use free time to explore cooking instead of writing or working sometimes. I am frustrated when we spend money to eat out and I realize how fancy we could eat at home for so much less. But it is the exploration that counts, the experience, the leisure, the tasting things I would not think of, exchange of ideas. This food language is not part of my career, but it is at the intersection of my animal self, my artist self, and my scientist self. Perhaps articulating myself with citrus and egg yolk, artichoke hearts and home made mayonaise, perhaps this conversation between my mind anticipating texture and flavor and my hands whisking, chopping, perhaps this is a way of being present.
I am trying to be a successful scientist, I am trying to be a successful writer, why the hell am I trying to make a grapefruit tart? I ask myself. I just thought it would be neat. I never knew before that tart crust uses powdered sugar and egg, unlike pie crust that has no egg and uses granular sugar. Now, and forever, when I eat pie crust or tarts I can imagine what went into the matrix, when they taste differently I will have a deeper understanding. My hands and tongue now both have a language to understand crusts.
I am driving and that is when I realize this is a language, I am learning the language of food and cooking. The thrill at knowing tarts use powdered sugar reminds me of how I felt when I took a botany class and suddenly sidewalk weeds had identifiable characteristics, palmate leaves or single leaves, leaves arranged in a whorl, leaves arranged opposite and decussate. These characters of plants are a language for family of origin, for climate, for landscapes. And food, it is a landscape I spend much of my day eating, thinking about, shopping for. After college I was taken with the idea that I did not know where food comes from. I wanted to work on farms. I went to Italy for three months as a WWOOFer. I learned about hazelnuts, cheese, sheep, cows, pigs, olives, grinding polenta, I wondered through open markets, I saw skinned whole goats, live octopus, fresh sardines, entrails, fresh fried calamari in paper cones, olives not yet brined, dried hot peppers. I realized that to really run a farm you live the farm, there is no vacation, no weekend. The food is fresh and good, but the difference between just ground polenta and ready to go in a tube polenta may be more emotional. I am disapointed when I realize that even the difference between just made and month old ricotta is subtle.
So how does this food language fit into my world now? I appreciate and graviate towards local and organic. I like to cook. I am frustrated at myself when I use free time to explore cooking instead of writing or working sometimes. I am frustrated when we spend money to eat out and I realize how fancy we could eat at home for so much less. But it is the exploration that counts, the experience, the leisure, the tasting things I would not think of, exchange of ideas. This food language is not part of my career, but it is at the intersection of my animal self, my artist self, and my scientist self. Perhaps articulating myself with citrus and egg yolk, artichoke hearts and home made mayonaise, perhaps this conversation between my mind anticipating texture and flavor and my hands whisking, chopping, perhaps this is a way of being present.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
North Shore of Lake Superior Itinerary
Dear Bryd,
We took you camping a few weeks ago, it was a perfect (unplanned) trip, I want to remember what we did so we can hopefully do it again many times! We hiked in Tettegouche State Park (http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/state_parks/tettegouche/index.html), the trail is at the end of a long drive through the park and a parking lot by the group walk-in campsites. It took about an hour to hike up to the lookout. Dad carried you in a front carrier and you slept. The lookout had exposed bedrock with lichen and fruiting small blueberries. The hike up went through birch and aspen forest, a lot of the trail overgrown with tall grasses. From the lookout we could see Lake Superior. This was one of the rare days where you refuse to eat, my breasts were so full that I stepped into the forest and hand expressed milk. It is amazing how far the milk projects, how many streams there are, milk shot in all directions.
The next morning it rained, we decided to jump in the car, we drove to Split Rock Lighthouse State Park (about 12 miles south: http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/state_parks/split_rock_lighthouse/index.html) and secured a campsite! We thought we would let you nap under a cabana overlooking the lake while we read. We walked down to the beach, aspen and birch trees grade into large smooth rounded black rocks that grade into smaller and smaller pebbles as you approach the water. The beach was beautiful, a cove curved like a crescent moon with the lighthouse on one end, an island out in front, bare rock topped with trees, and the other side rocks and pebbles reaching to almost touch the island. We walked in the rain and it was absolutely lovely. I was disappointed later when the hot sun dried the rocks and they turned a pale gray. The rain cleared up almost too quickly and we spent the day sitting on the beach. We had a little tent set up to keep you out of the sun. When we got too hot we would go to the water's edge and dip our feet in, the water is so cold it hurts. I let you splash in the water, you were both taken aback by the cold and excited to touch the water.
In the afternoon the beach was so heated by the dark rocks you had to wear shoes to walk on them, we watched a man stand knee deep and splash the shore where his children sat, the water hit the rocks and clouds of steam rose, we could all smell the cooking rocks. It was beautiful, people up and down the crescent started throwing water on the shore, making the rocks steam.
We hiked along the cliff over the shore and up to the Gitchie Gummie trail. It was perfect. There are small secret beaches, lovely rock formations.
It was strange, the whole area was once a mine and a fishing village, it felt so wild, yet not so long ago it was used for industry, and even now it is flooded with tourists.
Love,
Mom
We took you camping a few weeks ago, it was a perfect (unplanned) trip, I want to remember what we did so we can hopefully do it again many times! We hiked in Tettegouche State Park (http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/state_parks/tettegouche/index.html), the trail is at the end of a long drive through the park and a parking lot by the group walk-in campsites. It took about an hour to hike up to the lookout. Dad carried you in a front carrier and you slept. The lookout had exposed bedrock with lichen and fruiting small blueberries. The hike up went through birch and aspen forest, a lot of the trail overgrown with tall grasses. From the lookout we could see Lake Superior. This was one of the rare days where you refuse to eat, my breasts were so full that I stepped into the forest and hand expressed milk. It is amazing how far the milk projects, how many streams there are, milk shot in all directions.
The next morning it rained, we decided to jump in the car, we drove to Split Rock Lighthouse State Park (about 12 miles south: http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/state_parks/split_rock_lighthouse/index.html) and secured a campsite! We thought we would let you nap under a cabana overlooking the lake while we read. We walked down to the beach, aspen and birch trees grade into large smooth rounded black rocks that grade into smaller and smaller pebbles as you approach the water. The beach was beautiful, a cove curved like a crescent moon with the lighthouse on one end, an island out in front, bare rock topped with trees, and the other side rocks and pebbles reaching to almost touch the island. We walked in the rain and it was absolutely lovely. I was disappointed later when the hot sun dried the rocks and they turned a pale gray. The rain cleared up almost too quickly and we spent the day sitting on the beach. We had a little tent set up to keep you out of the sun. When we got too hot we would go to the water's edge and dip our feet in, the water is so cold it hurts. I let you splash in the water, you were both taken aback by the cold and excited to touch the water.
In the afternoon the beach was so heated by the dark rocks you had to wear shoes to walk on them, we watched a man stand knee deep and splash the shore where his children sat, the water hit the rocks and clouds of steam rose, we could all smell the cooking rocks. It was beautiful, people up and down the crescent started throwing water on the shore, making the rocks steam.
We hiked along the cliff over the shore and up to the Gitchie Gummie trail. It was perfect. There are small secret beaches, lovely rock formations.
It was strange, the whole area was once a mine and a fishing village, it felt so wild, yet not so long ago it was used for industry, and even now it is flooded with tourists.
Love,
Mom
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A glimpse of single parenting
Dear Byrd,
Dad was away for a few days and I felt nervous about being alone, I didnt want to fight you for every nap, I didnt want to go through teething alone, I didnt want there to be a tornado and hide alone with you in the basement. By day three though relaxation took me over. I was not worrying about teaching you good or bad habits with sleep. I was just trying to find my way, like water on the landscape, the lowest energy, just what makes sense to do. I also realized how much I conduct myself in relation to Dad. I am thinking about how we spend our days framed around when he gets home from work. I feel this weight when I have free time, a rush to go sit and work. Dad will play with you and tell me I can go have time to work, but I want to spend time all together, I dont want to be mining for time to work. The whole point right now is to have time with you, to not always work, to not have life dictated by work. It is a strange way to be doing creative stuff. You go down for a nap and I have a window of time, an unknown window, if I go to the bathroom, have a snack, and finish washing dishes my time will be up before I can do anything. I have long chunks of time in the morning, but I am tempted to check my email and facebook. Sometimes I am stressed about needing to do some amount of work.
I want to engage in my creative pursuits in the bits of time while you sleep or while Dad and you hang out without the intensity.
Love,
Mom
Dad was away for a few days and I felt nervous about being alone, I didnt want to fight you for every nap, I didnt want to go through teething alone, I didnt want there to be a tornado and hide alone with you in the basement. By day three though relaxation took me over. I was not worrying about teaching you good or bad habits with sleep. I was just trying to find my way, like water on the landscape, the lowest energy, just what makes sense to do. I also realized how much I conduct myself in relation to Dad. I am thinking about how we spend our days framed around when he gets home from work. I feel this weight when I have free time, a rush to go sit and work. Dad will play with you and tell me I can go have time to work, but I want to spend time all together, I dont want to be mining for time to work. The whole point right now is to have time with you, to not always work, to not have life dictated by work. It is a strange way to be doing creative stuff. You go down for a nap and I have a window of time, an unknown window, if I go to the bathroom, have a snack, and finish washing dishes my time will be up before I can do anything. I have long chunks of time in the morning, but I am tempted to check my email and facebook. Sometimes I am stressed about needing to do some amount of work.
I want to engage in my creative pursuits in the bits of time while you sleep or while Dad and you hang out without the intensity.
Love,
Mom
From tree climbing to moms
Two years ago this time of summer Lou and I drove around in my parents silver sports car in search of cherry trees. She would climb up the trees and throw the cherries down, I used my skirt and shirt as buckets, one hand holding both up to make bowls for catching the fruit, my belly button and thighs exposed to the warm summer. We had bags and bags of cherries. We talked about all the pies and jams we would make. We ate cherries and threw the pits and stems out the open car onto the asphalt.
A few months later Lou got pregnant and I got married. Then I had you.
We recently met up in my parent's town again, you and her boys looked at each other, you tried to taste his head and explore him in what looked like wrestling. Lou and I exchanged birth stories. We ran around my parent's yard after her boy, you had fallen asleep. We talked about our water breaking while we threw a ball to her son, we talked about throwing up and loosing our sense of purpose during labor while we play peekaboo with her son, we circle the house chasing this sweet golden child and contemplating the horror, our strength, and the sheer absurdity of growing babies and opening our bodies to let them out.
A few months later Lou got pregnant and I got married. Then I had you.
We recently met up in my parent's town again, you and her boys looked at each other, you tried to taste his head and explore him in what looked like wrestling. Lou and I exchanged birth stories. We ran around my parent's yard after her boy, you had fallen asleep. We talked about our water breaking while we threw a ball to her son, we talked about throwing up and loosing our sense of purpose during labor while we play peekaboo with her son, we circle the house chasing this sweet golden child and contemplating the horror, our strength, and the sheer absurdity of growing babies and opening our bodies to let them out.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Faith
Dear Byrd,
The only thing that lets me keep going without freaking out is the knowledge that I never know what the moment just before a change is going to happen looks like. When I put you down for a nap you fuss and sometimes cry as if the world is ending. A few times I have stripped you down to make sure you really are not hurt somewhere. I sing and leave the room, after the fussing accelerates I come back and pick you up and sing again. And so on. Sometimes it seems you will never calm down. Sometimes I feel this oppressive weight. I feel afraid you will never sleep. That I can not calm you. And then one time I walk out and you fuss and cry, I start to go towards your door to calm you again, and then there is silence. I peak in and you are beautiful and calmly asleep.
Love,
Mom
The only thing that lets me keep going without freaking out is the knowledge that I never know what the moment just before a change is going to happen looks like. When I put you down for a nap you fuss and sometimes cry as if the world is ending. A few times I have stripped you down to make sure you really are not hurt somewhere. I sing and leave the room, after the fussing accelerates I come back and pick you up and sing again. And so on. Sometimes it seems you will never calm down. Sometimes I feel this oppressive weight. I feel afraid you will never sleep. That I can not calm you. And then one time I walk out and you fuss and cry, I start to go towards your door to calm you again, and then there is silence. I peak in and you are beautiful and calmly asleep.
Love,
Mom
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Food and eating
Dear Byrd,
When my body was your home I did not care how large I got. But now that you are out and free and I am feeding you from my body but my body does not need so much mass I want to be my old thinner self. I used food as a mechanism for healing after you were born. I had lost a lot of blood and needed to eat greens and red meat. I ate pastries to soothe myself. I would walk you places to get a treat as a way to have something fun to do. It has been six months. Eating pastries for entertainment is not a good solution, I need to soothe myself with writing, running, talking, hanging out with other moms. Maybe I need meditation.
When I crave food sometimes it is more an emotion or memory I want to capture. Sometimes it is really sensual. What I often think is that I need to have as much or have the experience last as long as possible. I want to remember that the act of eating is only one part. The preparation, or anticipation are huge. The feel in your mouth afterwards, the feel in your body and belly. The company shared during the meal. These are all part of the eating too. When I am presented with a beautiful pie I dont want to eat as much as I can. I want to have a small piece and feel the emotional side unravel, savor the whole thing.
Love,
Mom
When my body was your home I did not care how large I got. But now that you are out and free and I am feeding you from my body but my body does not need so much mass I want to be my old thinner self. I used food as a mechanism for healing after you were born. I had lost a lot of blood and needed to eat greens and red meat. I ate pastries to soothe myself. I would walk you places to get a treat as a way to have something fun to do. It has been six months. Eating pastries for entertainment is not a good solution, I need to soothe myself with writing, running, talking, hanging out with other moms. Maybe I need meditation.
When I crave food sometimes it is more an emotion or memory I want to capture. Sometimes it is really sensual. What I often think is that I need to have as much or have the experience last as long as possible. I want to remember that the act of eating is only one part. The preparation, or anticipation are huge. The feel in your mouth afterwards, the feel in your body and belly. The company shared during the meal. These are all part of the eating too. When I am presented with a beautiful pie I dont want to eat as much as I can. I want to have a small piece and feel the emotional side unravel, savor the whole thing.
Love,
Mom
New Mom Loneliness
Dear Byrd,
Dad is away for a few days. I miss him. There is though an unambiguity in terms of my time, I am taking care of you. When Dad is here we switch back and forth, though right now I do most of your care. But when he gets home at night I always feel torn. I want to drink wine on the porch with you both and hang out, but I can let Dad hang out with you and I can write or work on work.
You are napping at this moment so I can just write. Even when Dad is here I have a hard time shaking a sense of loneliness. Sometimes I can run it out with some good sun and blood pumping. Sometimes I can write it out. Sometimes I panic. In a panic I will email everyone I know and make so many plans that I drive myself to exhaustion. Today I could have had lunch with a friend at the University, but I decided to put it off to next week. I wanted to do our morning routine with writing while you nap and then running. I wonder if I will miss this free time when I start work in December.
What does it feel like? It feels like a gnawing in my core. It feels like a doubt about what I am doing with myself and my time. It feels like desperation. Today I thought this loneliness is not about being alone. I have a lot of social time and friends, and I have you with me all the time now. This loneliness is my name for uncertainty. The very uncomfortable feeling of flux. The feeling that we do not own a house so where we live is temporary. The feeling that we have new jobs we dont know what to expect from and they are only for two years and for sure not forever. The feeling that we are moving in a few months to only live somewhere for a short time. The worry that something could happen to you or to Dad and this life I think I am growing will be taken from me. This unbearable lightness of being.
I want a home and a place and a job and a routine. I want to think how my life is so boring, how for excitement we eat pancakes and walk in the woods. I want daily life that feels like it extends into infinity. But nothing is ever certain, life is always in flux, and so to deal with it I run, I make art, I read, I enjoy good times.
Love,
Mom
Dad is away for a few days. I miss him. There is though an unambiguity in terms of my time, I am taking care of you. When Dad is here we switch back and forth, though right now I do most of your care. But when he gets home at night I always feel torn. I want to drink wine on the porch with you both and hang out, but I can let Dad hang out with you and I can write or work on work.
You are napping at this moment so I can just write. Even when Dad is here I have a hard time shaking a sense of loneliness. Sometimes I can run it out with some good sun and blood pumping. Sometimes I can write it out. Sometimes I panic. In a panic I will email everyone I know and make so many plans that I drive myself to exhaustion. Today I could have had lunch with a friend at the University, but I decided to put it off to next week. I wanted to do our morning routine with writing while you nap and then running. I wonder if I will miss this free time when I start work in December.
What does it feel like? It feels like a gnawing in my core. It feels like a doubt about what I am doing with myself and my time. It feels like desperation. Today I thought this loneliness is not about being alone. I have a lot of social time and friends, and I have you with me all the time now. This loneliness is my name for uncertainty. The very uncomfortable feeling of flux. The feeling that we do not own a house so where we live is temporary. The feeling that we have new jobs we dont know what to expect from and they are only for two years and for sure not forever. The feeling that we are moving in a few months to only live somewhere for a short time. The worry that something could happen to you or to Dad and this life I think I am growing will be taken from me. This unbearable lightness of being.
I want a home and a place and a job and a routine. I want to think how my life is so boring, how for excitement we eat pancakes and walk in the woods. I want daily life that feels like it extends into infinity. But nothing is ever certain, life is always in flux, and so to deal with it I run, I make art, I read, I enjoy good times.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sanity
Dear Byrd,
I am often advised to provide a rigid schedule to help you learn to sleep and live well. Dad and I have very little of a regular schedule. I know we do similar things at similar times each day, but timing and order of things are all over the place, even when we eat dinner can vary by three or four hours day to day.
After your birth I did not have any of my most commonly used soothing mechanisms, no sex, no exercise, no outdoors (b/c it was below zero and icy and I could not walk much). I was sleep deprived. This pushed me to a crude level of thinking about my sanity, I felt like sanity was based on sleep, art (usually writing), and exercise. Things have improved greatly in the last six months, I can imagine doing several things in one day, I can take you to the grocery store, I can concentrate on several things in a day, I can remember the end of my sentences. Sometimes though I notice remaining fragility. I fainted a few times early postpartum and this has left me with a fear of fainting every time I leave the house, when I am standing talking to other people. Even waiting at the deli counter the thought occurs to me, what if I faint, am I feeling the start of fainting? And then I bounce you and move from foot to foot to stimulate my blood flow. When we returned from a week with my family and Dad talked about going in to work for the afternoon I panicked, I did not want to be home alone just you and I. The fear of social isolation is still deeply ingrained in me. The having an infant and the physical recovery in the deep of winter was so isolating.
We go to a weekly baby-mama class and this feels important to my sanity. It is like how I need to see women in the sciences to feel comfortable there myself, or how minorities need minority role models. It makes me feel so much more comfortable with my new mama self to go sit with other moms, to see so many babies, and to hear that every baby is different, this is hard, this is fun, this is continually changing, and it is beautiful.
Love,
Mom
I am often advised to provide a rigid schedule to help you learn to sleep and live well. Dad and I have very little of a regular schedule. I know we do similar things at similar times each day, but timing and order of things are all over the place, even when we eat dinner can vary by three or four hours day to day.
After your birth I did not have any of my most commonly used soothing mechanisms, no sex, no exercise, no outdoors (b/c it was below zero and icy and I could not walk much). I was sleep deprived. This pushed me to a crude level of thinking about my sanity, I felt like sanity was based on sleep, art (usually writing), and exercise. Things have improved greatly in the last six months, I can imagine doing several things in one day, I can take you to the grocery store, I can concentrate on several things in a day, I can remember the end of my sentences. Sometimes though I notice remaining fragility. I fainted a few times early postpartum and this has left me with a fear of fainting every time I leave the house, when I am standing talking to other people. Even waiting at the deli counter the thought occurs to me, what if I faint, am I feeling the start of fainting? And then I bounce you and move from foot to foot to stimulate my blood flow. When we returned from a week with my family and Dad talked about going in to work for the afternoon I panicked, I did not want to be home alone just you and I. The fear of social isolation is still deeply ingrained in me. The having an infant and the physical recovery in the deep of winter was so isolating.
We go to a weekly baby-mama class and this feels important to my sanity. It is like how I need to see women in the sciences to feel comfortable there myself, or how minorities need minority role models. It makes me feel so much more comfortable with my new mama self to go sit with other moms, to see so many babies, and to hear that every baby is different, this is hard, this is fun, this is continually changing, and it is beautiful.
Love,
Mom
Monday, July 12, 2010
interior world
Dear Byrd,
I heard a news story on Harvey Pikhor’s death, he met his wife through fan mail, she was teaching creative writing to prisoners. She wrote him about how she tried to help the inmates develop their interior world. After I had Walter I sometimes felt on the edge of sanity with the world as I knew it out the window and a whole new world I did not know. When my sanity was thinnest, I could think about it very crudely, and I thought that sanity for me was based on writing (art of any type, the interior world) , running (or other exercise, the body…), and socializing. Until I heard this story about Pikhor I hadnt really articulated that devoting time to writing, and not having done much ‘art’ in the past few years, was part of my overall burnout and dissatisfaction with working too much.
It is kind of funny though to think what it means to develop an interior world, like having imaginary friends, or wallpaper designs, or music running through your head. You cant really see anyone else’s to borrow good ideas. You can only show the products of yours so development and living the interior world is largely personal. All the fast entertainment and media can easily fill the void and take up interior world time too.
How do you guys develop, save time for, enjoy, etc, your interior world?
Love,
Mom
I heard a news story on Harvey Pikhor’s death, he met his wife through fan mail, she was teaching creative writing to prisoners. She wrote him about how she tried to help the inmates develop their interior world. After I had Walter I sometimes felt on the edge of sanity with the world as I knew it out the window and a whole new world I did not know. When my sanity was thinnest, I could think about it very crudely, and I thought that sanity for me was based on writing (art of any type, the interior world) , running (or other exercise, the body…), and socializing. Until I heard this story about Pikhor I hadnt really articulated that devoting time to writing, and not having done much ‘art’ in the past few years, was part of my overall burnout and dissatisfaction with working too much.
It is kind of funny though to think what it means to develop an interior world, like having imaginary friends, or wallpaper designs, or music running through your head. You cant really see anyone else’s to borrow good ideas. You can only show the products of yours so development and living the interior world is largely personal. All the fast entertainment and media can easily fill the void and take up interior world time too.
How do you guys develop, save time for, enjoy, etc, your interior world?
Love,
Mom
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Divorced Grandparents continued
Byrd,
It has been heavy on my mind that there are factions of family, the blood families their own units. I feel rejected by my step mother and step siblings and I feel angry for treating them or ever thinking of them as full family. It is like one of those economics experiments where they test to see if you all work together so everyone gets more or if one person will trick the others to gain more for them self. I was raised by my Dad and Stepmom to treat all the family as family, and now the step family are clearly more true and more loved for each other. All this time I could have been investing more in my blood family. The worst part is that the step family does it since they feel left out, there are more of us, we seem to have more earning potential (though not realized), and we have more degrees. I know it does not help to be angry or hurt. But I feel that way. I feel like the step family is family when they feel like it, but I am always something that can be dropped. That feels shitty.
I will feel very very good if at the end of my life I have kept one family together, we all live and love each other. I would hate to be a step mother, it is so confusing.
Love,
Mom
It has been heavy on my mind that there are factions of family, the blood families their own units. I feel rejected by my step mother and step siblings and I feel angry for treating them or ever thinking of them as full family. It is like one of those economics experiments where they test to see if you all work together so everyone gets more or if one person will trick the others to gain more for them self. I was raised by my Dad and Stepmom to treat all the family as family, and now the step family are clearly more true and more loved for each other. All this time I could have been investing more in my blood family. The worst part is that the step family does it since they feel left out, there are more of us, we seem to have more earning potential (though not realized), and we have more degrees. I know it does not help to be angry or hurt. But I feel that way. I feel like the step family is family when they feel like it, but I am always something that can be dropped. That feels shitty.
I will feel very very good if at the end of my life I have kept one family together, we all live and love each other. I would hate to be a step mother, it is so confusing.
Love,
Mom
Touch
When I am stressed I want to be held, I want affection, and I want cream. Any form of cream: whip cream, ice cream, pudding, panna cotta. When I was pregnant Dad and I stopped cuddling, pregnant sex is so great, we had enough intimacy. Sometimes he would hold me and breathe slow, help me slow my breathing down. But then I wasnt pregnant and I wasnt physically well. And now we are out of the habit of affection, and juggling taking care of a baby. Dad is trying to finish his graduate work, he is stressed. He is irritable, which for him is barely audible, just a slight tick is visible, a slight twinge of short temper. When I was finishing I was flailing, I needed to talk out every day, I cried, I woke up in the night and woke Dad up. I got frustrated about the speed of cutting vegetables in the kitchen. I was unable to watch myself from a distance and let go. I was not graceful. It is hard to switch places so fast. I am supporter and I still want the affection and holding. But Dad is now a less graceful self and instead of turning to me, he turns inward, or looks to me for enjoying time instead of hashing out things over and over. Dad is far more graceful than I. I wish I was calm. That I just took note and acknowledged my reactions. I wish I didnt panic. I have day dreams about cuddling and holding hands. The physical relationship of nursing is sweet, but it does not take care of me or fill my need to also be nurtured.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Divorced Grandparents
Dear Byrd,
It pains me that you came into a family split before I was even in grade school. And the effects trickle down. My step sister is moving here, I got an email from her, and I feel a great ambivalence. I did not respond, yes, come out, we will help you in any way we can. I said I would ask the neighbors if she could stay at their place. When I went to reply I thought of us in high school, when she could drive but I could not yet. I needed to go to work and there was a torrential downpour, it was fall, so it was a cold rain. I worked about a mile and a half away. I asked her for a ride, and she said no. I asked what she was busy with and she said nothing, but she did not feel like driving me. And now we are in our thirties and I am still angry or hurt or not wanting to open or give myself. When we took you to my hometown last week my step-mom's first husband who is a family friend hung out with us almost every night. It was like she had two husbands. Dinner would be my step-mom, her first husband, her two kids (who I grew up with), and my Dad and my family. Basically too big for one table, we were two families. This to comes to me when my step-sister writes. This doesn't make me feel right or good. But it doesnt make me warm and open no matter how I cut it. I feel protective of my Dad. I feel protective of you, I wonder if these people will sometimes seem like full family to you and other times will sit at a different table and make you confused. I think the worst thing is that when Dad and I were getting married my step mom got upset since her kids are not yet married, she made a comment that she had picked your Dad out for her daughter when she first met him, as if I somehow stole him. As if you can say that. Then my step mom encouraged her daughter to move to our city with promises of great men and finding husbands. I get this sick feeling that somehow my stepmom imagines there are a limited set of resources that her daughter and I share, one of them being Dad, and that her daughter should take him away. So when it comes to hosting my step sister, to having her stay in our house, I am ambivalent.
Love,
Mom
It pains me that you came into a family split before I was even in grade school. And the effects trickle down. My step sister is moving here, I got an email from her, and I feel a great ambivalence. I did not respond, yes, come out, we will help you in any way we can. I said I would ask the neighbors if she could stay at their place. When I went to reply I thought of us in high school, when she could drive but I could not yet. I needed to go to work and there was a torrential downpour, it was fall, so it was a cold rain. I worked about a mile and a half away. I asked her for a ride, and she said no. I asked what she was busy with and she said nothing, but she did not feel like driving me. And now we are in our thirties and I am still angry or hurt or not wanting to open or give myself. When we took you to my hometown last week my step-mom's first husband who is a family friend hung out with us almost every night. It was like she had two husbands. Dinner would be my step-mom, her first husband, her two kids (who I grew up with), and my Dad and my family. Basically too big for one table, we were two families. This to comes to me when my step-sister writes. This doesn't make me feel right or good. But it doesnt make me warm and open no matter how I cut it. I feel protective of my Dad. I feel protective of you, I wonder if these people will sometimes seem like full family to you and other times will sit at a different table and make you confused. I think the worst thing is that when Dad and I were getting married my step mom got upset since her kids are not yet married, she made a comment that she had picked your Dad out for her daughter when she first met him, as if I somehow stole him. As if you can say that. Then my step mom encouraged her daughter to move to our city with promises of great men and finding husbands. I get this sick feeling that somehow my stepmom imagines there are a limited set of resources that her daughter and I share, one of them being Dad, and that her daughter should take him away. So when it comes to hosting my step sister, to having her stay in our house, I am ambivalent.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Swim in the fountain
Dear Byrd,
There is a pleasure to parenting knowing that we get to decide to do things differently than our parents. Last night I took you running, I thought you would sleep. You didn't. You were not happy, finally I figured out that you wanted to be propped up so you could see. It is really hot here, even at 8pm it was in the mid 80s. By the time we made it around the lake you had lost patience and started to cry, I picked you up, I was sweaty from running, you were sweaty from sitting. I called Dad and he said he would come meet us in the park. I took you to the fountain with turtles spitting water. I took off your clothes and put you in. You were uncertain at first, but then excited. I sat you in the water and you kicked and splashed. When I was a kid there was a fountain in a park we went to, no matter the occasion we were not allowed to go in. I used to drape my arms into the water as far as I could in protest. When I took you out of the water you looked back to see this amazing water thing. When Dad came he put you in the fountain again. You laughed. Dad carried you home naked. By the time we got to the park at the end of our block you were asleep in his arms. There is something so so sweet about you naked, something sweet about being able to carry you naked. As if for now we really can take care of all of you.
Love,
Mom
There is a pleasure to parenting knowing that we get to decide to do things differently than our parents. Last night I took you running, I thought you would sleep. You didn't. You were not happy, finally I figured out that you wanted to be propped up so you could see. It is really hot here, even at 8pm it was in the mid 80s. By the time we made it around the lake you had lost patience and started to cry, I picked you up, I was sweaty from running, you were sweaty from sitting. I called Dad and he said he would come meet us in the park. I took you to the fountain with turtles spitting water. I took off your clothes and put you in. You were uncertain at first, but then excited. I sat you in the water and you kicked and splashed. When I was a kid there was a fountain in a park we went to, no matter the occasion we were not allowed to go in. I used to drape my arms into the water as far as I could in protest. When I took you out of the water you looked back to see this amazing water thing. When Dad came he put you in the fountain again. You laughed. Dad carried you home naked. By the time we got to the park at the end of our block you were asleep in his arms. There is something so so sweet about you naked, something sweet about being able to carry you naked. As if for now we really can take care of all of you.
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Things we see when we go running
I try to run daily, you usually fall asleep in the stroller, your seat is reclined and I am not sure how much you can see. I always bring a carrier, stashed in the cargo space below you, just in case you refuse to enjoy riding. When this happens and you are sitting against my chest you look around with such a royal seriousness, as if your posture says, "hmmm...how is my kingdom today." I like to carry you, but I get hot and tired, really the tired part is the main problem. You are five and a half months and you weigh eighteen pounds. I dont run to loose weight, although I would love to loose 5, 10, 15 pounds. I dont think my body is letting go of anything. I can feel my fingers are thinner than ever before, but my middle is soft. I run to wake up, to flush my body with endorphins, I run to regain the strength I lost after loosing so much blood after the delivery.
We see a man sleeping by the shores of Lake Calhoun, his hair is bleach light blond by the sun, his body is tan beyond what seems possible, it looks like his skin might crumble if you touched it. His legs are spread out, he wears nothing but a small pair of shorts and they are pulled down so the tuft of pubic hair shows.
We see black people. My life here is pretty white and you have little opportunity to see different people, I want you to see all kinds of races and shapes of people so that you grow up comfortable and familiar. Running with you I interact more with people, they smile, or comment on you, or encourage me, "Wow, I can barely get myself out the door." These have been some of my first interactions with black people since I moved here. It feels good to exchange smiles, energy, with all kinds of people.
We saw a turtle digging a hole and burying its eggs. I stopped to watch and you woke up, I carried you the rest of the way home, in the next days I would slow down at this spot. It was a rainy week and I would see many tiny turtle heads sticking up out of the water, bodies resting in the sand.
We see other moms and sometimes I want to go up to them and speak to them, when I feel isolated I want to do this. This is new for me too, I smile at other moms, stop and say hello for a moment. I never talked with strangers in the park before.
We were walking through the rose garden, it is in full bloom now, and an old man and woman were walking behind us. The old woman said, "When we were kids we used to come here and pick the roses," she chuckles. "What did you do with them then?" The man asks, "We brought'em home and put them in books." I remember pressing flowers in books, I did it for the joy of finding them later. I pressed the carnations we used to send friends and crushes on valentine's day: red for love, pink for friend, white for secret admirer.
We see older men wading in Lake Calhoun with metal detectors. A man working for the parks tells me that sometimes they find diamond rings. You would not believe it. I dont. I do, but not that you find that many. I like the image though of the lake beaches being sand and diamond rings.
We see a man sleeping by the shores of Lake Calhoun, his hair is bleach light blond by the sun, his body is tan beyond what seems possible, it looks like his skin might crumble if you touched it. His legs are spread out, he wears nothing but a small pair of shorts and they are pulled down so the tuft of pubic hair shows.
We see black people. My life here is pretty white and you have little opportunity to see different people, I want you to see all kinds of races and shapes of people so that you grow up comfortable and familiar. Running with you I interact more with people, they smile, or comment on you, or encourage me, "Wow, I can barely get myself out the door." These have been some of my first interactions with black people since I moved here. It feels good to exchange smiles, energy, with all kinds of people.
We saw a turtle digging a hole and burying its eggs. I stopped to watch and you woke up, I carried you the rest of the way home, in the next days I would slow down at this spot. It was a rainy week and I would see many tiny turtle heads sticking up out of the water, bodies resting in the sand.
We see other moms and sometimes I want to go up to them and speak to them, when I feel isolated I want to do this. This is new for me too, I smile at other moms, stop and say hello for a moment. I never talked with strangers in the park before.
We were walking through the rose garden, it is in full bloom now, and an old man and woman were walking behind us. The old woman said, "When we were kids we used to come here and pick the roses," she chuckles. "What did you do with them then?" The man asks, "We brought'em home and put them in books." I remember pressing flowers in books, I did it for the joy of finding them later. I pressed the carnations we used to send friends and crushes on valentine's day: red for love, pink for friend, white for secret admirer.
We see older men wading in Lake Calhoun with metal detectors. A man working for the parks tells me that sometimes they find diamond rings. You would not believe it. I dont. I do, but not that you find that many. I like the image though of the lake beaches being sand and diamond rings.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Birth Story
Dear Byrd,
When I was in my hometown I saw a college friend and we shared our birth stories. I was excited to hear her's, and I was excited to tell mine. Her baby was running around and we chased him, you were asleep upstairs. Her son was ready to leave and go to bed, but we both wanted to let these stories run their course. When she left I realized my whole lower back and hips ached. As if telling the story had brought back the muscle memory of stress and pain and tense muscles. I had told this story before, but more as pure catharsis, almost throwing up the details to lay them out in front of me. Language makes us who we are, I know that how I tell the story will shape the memory, and I want to hold onto the parts where I felt beautiful and empowered. I want to hold onto how wonderful Dad was, how strong I know I was, and the real terror of the birth.
I had several grant applications due and my braxton-hicks practice contractions were intense, I would talk hot showers to calm the strange sensations in my belly, I could not wear anything around my waist one day. I was unable to go to my office, I worked at home, I was overwhelmed by the world and at the same time I missed watching people on the bus, I missed seeing things and hearing things and joking with colleagues. I could not take anymore stimulus. I worked at home, I left the house only to swim at the local YWCA. I kept rubbing you in my belly and saying, just give me until Friday. I had heard so much about first time mom's being late that I was convinced I had a couple more weeks. But you were moving and my body was moving too, so I kept reassuring you, just a couple more days. On thursday night I knew things were in a place where I could just send them in if I had to, I was going to meet Dad at the store. On my way out of the house I stopped and held my belly with both hands and said, I am ready for you Byrd. We called our good friends and asked if they wanted to have dinner, we were playing an old hip hop CD and everyone was bopping through dinner, joking, we asked them if we could call them in for help if we needed during the birth, of course they told us, we joked that we might have the baby before they got back from a weekend away. I went to bed exhausted. Dad got an email that night notifying him that he had been awarded a postdoc. I was excited for him, glad to know we had a salary lined up, and I felt utterly lost and sad about how I would also find something in the same place. I was angry at Dad for checking his email before bed. I needed sleep and this news, though great, brought up a lot of difficult emotions. We stayed up late talking, whispering, reassuring each other.
Dad was going in very early, I kept my eyes closed while he got up and showered, I wanted to keep sleeping. I felt a wetness on my legs, I tried to ignore it, I felt more wetness. I got up and liquid fell from my legs. Clear liquid with a faint smell of smoke. I went into the bathroom. A puddle of liquid formed around me, "I think my water broke." I told Dad and I started to cry, I felt shocked, it was a week early, it was the first moment it was going to be OK to have the baby. I wanted a break from intensity. We walked down to the lake, I did not have pads and the liquid kept falling from me. It felt good this hot liquid, like I was releasing something pent up. Large dogs tugged on leashes feeling my energy or smelling the amniotic fluid. It was an unseasonably warm day. We came home sent off our fellowship applications, I put on my emerald green birthing dress and we went to the clinic. They gave us until 3pm to go into labor. I felt nothing. We went out for Thai food, I craved the hot tangy soup. We walked back to the lake. I listened to Beirut and rubbed my nipples. I felt very little movement in me.
At the hospital they gave me ripening agents and we waited for labor to start. We spent the night, I would breathe in four counts and out four counts, I was focused on staying calm and relaxed. At about 4 am I felt contractions rip through me, I had to get up on all fours. I would lay down and sleep between them. I was proud and excited. In the morning they gave me another ripening agent and we walked and walked the halls. I would lunge on a chair, watch downtown, a beautiful church, the pedestrians, and then a contraction would come and I would lean on Dad. I put my hands around his neck and looked down at my feet, eyes closed, breathing. Sometimes I leaned against a wall with my arms against the wall, pushing back on the pain. I got in the shower and asked Dad to leave the bathroom, we left the door slightly ajar so I could call out for help. I have heard to never leave a laboring woman alone, but this felt great. I did nipple stimulation, I did clitoral stimulation, I chanted "the pain is with me the pain is part of me." I chanted other things, mantras. My focus was on my breathe and on bringing the labor out, bringing you out. Since my water had been broken for twenty-four hours there was a threat of being forced into a c-section. I did not want to be induced, I wanted to birth you without ivs, interventions, operations.
I had planned the birth like this: in early labor when the contractions were hard, but bearable we would make tarts, we would go to the store to keep me moving and buy the ingredients and then we would be moving and working in the kitchen. A friend gave me the most beautiful book of tart recipes and a tin. I imagined taking the time to do each part of the recipe, to decorate, to bake, all the while labor intensifying. We wold wait until I was very far along, almost ready to deliver to go in to the hospital. I imagined working through pain, trying to ease the pain. Really what I wanted was to go to the farm in Tennessee and deliver with Ina May. But baking tarts and laboring at home was a pretty good second option.
The shower was a magical experience, my body was racked by contractions, I brought them on again and again with nipple or clitoral stimulus, the water distracted me from the pain and was part of the intense overstimulous. The chanting brought me deep into my interior, I was like an animal alone in the woods, walking around. I gripped the handicap bars, I sat in the tub, I leaned my head against the soup dispenser, and I brought on more and more contractions. I got out when I felt I needed grounding out of my own head. I was now completely effaced, soft, and only just starting to dilate. Dad led me through yoga poses and stretches, each one brought on a contraction. I wanted to rest, we started to play scrabble. The contractions stopped. We took up yoga again. Early in the afternoon the nurse came in to say that since I was not dialating they needed to start pitocin. I was deep in my breath, in my mantras, in my work to bring out these contractions, to move the labor forward. I had heard nightmare stories about the pain of pitocin. I cried, I felt deflated. I had worked so hard. The nurse held me and told me it would be a low dose, she asked my concerns. They did not start pitocin until I ate dinner, by then I was 5 cm dilated. The nurse hooked up the iv and moniter. I had a contraction and leaned my arms on the bed, my knees were on the floor. She looked at me and said, "The time has come to face the pain, you have to go into the pain now." I told her I had been working to bring out contractions. She told me to lung, yes yes, I have been doing that I said. Stay in the lung when the contraction comes. I lunged with one leg up on a table, the contraction was deep and intense, I wanted to brace myself against the wall, but I stayed. Dad held me, I held him, my leg still lunged, waves moved through my abdomen, into my back, I felt a deep splitting in my vagina and further up. It felt unbearable.
I got in the tub, the nurse held my hand, Dad went out to rest for a moment. My face was tingling, she told me to breathe with my hands over my face, I was hyperventilating. The midwife was there now, but I was focused on this nurse who could lead me into my pain, who had faith that I could go in and stay in. I hated the tub, there was nothing to hold onto, the nurse told me I had to let my body go. I was shaky. When I got out I had a huge contraction against the wall, the midwife asked if I felt the urge to push, I did not have the urge, but I wanted to have the urge, I told her I was not sure. She checked me, I was 7 and a half.
We went to the birthing tub and I got in. It was hot, I tried to let go of my body, my knees hurt to kneel. I felt tired. I wanted this to be done. I wanted the end to be in sight. I had a cold washcloth for my face, I lived for this coolness. I was naked. The midwife swept my membrane, she reached deep inside me and I screamed and screamed. It was uncontrollable pain. With each contraction I talked out loud, I never have to do that again, there is only the present, only the present is real, the pain is with me, the pain is part of me. The midwife had me lay on my back in the water and pull my knees back as far as I could. This seemed like the typical birthing position I had read about, it was uncomfortable. She told me to hold my breath when I pushed, to only push with contractions. I did not know how to work hard and hold my breath. The contractions ripped through my back, I felt like I was being struck by lightening, I would start the contractions calm and then end screaming, my body out of my control. Screaming did not lessen the pain.
They had me push on the toilet. The heartbeat dropped from 130 to 120. The nurse was worried, the midwife silenced her, said it was a new baseline. I already knew that there was a clock ticking, it had been 43 hours since my water broke. I was tired. I wished I had eaten more. I had been afraid of vomiting, they told me to eat light. I ate veggies and tortillas, broth, toast, and cake.
My contractions had slowed down, they were irregular again. They wanted to guide me back to the tub, I did not want to be in water. I wanted to kneel on the floor. I got off the toilet, I was dripping wet and naked. A contraction washed over me, I grabbed the midwife, the militant and hard woman I was not sure I liked. I clutched her.
I pushed on a bed then. Again the midwife had me on my back holding my knees. Dad held one knee back, the nurse held the other. When I got it right the contraction started, I held my breath and pushed, the pain disappeared, the contraction ended and then lightening ripped through my lower back, the pain returned. It felt like I was going underwater and then coming up screaming out of control. I could not keep the calm in my response when I had back labor. You need to push harder, you need to push longer, they told me. And I tried. With all my self. I felt you hiccup inside me, I felt acid in my throat, I felt tired. I pushed and pushed. I was scared about the heartbeat. I was scared about how you were going to come out. The contractions were still irregular and infrequent. I would push you so I could feel your head between my legs and then the contraction would end and you would go back up. During each contraction Dad would yell, you can do this, you have got to push harder, longer. The nurse would say, think of your sweet sweet baby. The midwife would say, you have to do more. In between contractions i told everyone to keep talking to me, I told Dad to yell louder and harder, I told the midwife to keep a finger on my vagina so I knew where to push to. I had no image of a sweet baby, of any baby, all I knew was I needed to get you out, I was tired, I was scarred, I could not do this forever.
The midwife told me to get you out we would have to do it all in one push. I pushed you as far as I could, the tip of your head in reach of the outside world. The contraction ended, I held my knees back and bared down. We need another contraction, the midwife said. Do nipple stimulation a nurse yelled. A nurse grabbed one nipple, Dad grabbed the other, a contraction came and I pushed with all my force. I was lost in holding my breath, the yelling, the need to get out you out into this world. You came, your whole body, all at once.
The shock of tearing seared through me. They held you up said, its a boy!, I looked at your naked body and could not make sense of whether I saw a penis. I was shaking hard. They laid you on my chest. I asked Dad to keep a hand on you, I was scarred I would drop you, I did not feel a great sense of joy, only relief and shock and instability of my shaking body. You would wiggle and I would think, what is that? Then remember. Over and over. I delivered the placenta, one push. I asked about feeding you, I was holding onto very few memorized ideas, breastfeed after they are born, look at the placenta. They told me it could wait. I started to realize something was wrong, they gave me a suppository, I was bleeding, hemorrhaging from my uterus. Two nurses began massaging my abdomen with all their force, I screamed and screamed. I had nothing left. I let go of my four counts in and four counts out. I apologized, I dont have the energy to be graceful anymore. I felt I had been graceful through labor, no epidural, no fear to move forward, no begging to not go through with labor that day, no deep seated inhibition to have you, no anger or swearing. Now that you were out I had nothing left, my body was shaking, my mind confused. I tried to look at you, I counted toes and could only find four, I asked Dad, he said there were five. I forgot you were on me and then paniced when I remembered, afraid I would drop you.
They clamped the torn muscles in my crotch and waited for the doctor to come stitch me, they gave me a shot of painkiller, they pumped my uterus with pitocin. I did not see my blood spilling out, I barely knew what was happening.
I was relieved when Dad took you to weigh you. I wanted him to hold you too and I was afraid I would drop you. I continued to shake so I could not hold anything for hours. You were born at 10pm and I was still shaking at 2 in the morning.
When I put you to my breast you latched perfectly. I felt relieved. I held a nurses hand the first time I peed, she was not motherly or sweet, I grabbed her hand and did not let go. I was terrified of the torn and stitched flesh. I stared at your swaddled body at the end of my body, in a see through basinet. I wanted to hold you, but could not steady myself.
In the morning I was calmer, clearer headed. We took turns holding you. I was exhausted, famished.
For the first week I just watched you, held you, watched Dad hold you. I was utterly in love and captivated.
My body healed well, the loss of blood having the deepest effects, weakness and then when I recovered my iron stores, weakness from being weak. At five and a half months I am still building back strength. Still utterly in love.
Love,
Mom
When I was in my hometown I saw a college friend and we shared our birth stories. I was excited to hear her's, and I was excited to tell mine. Her baby was running around and we chased him, you were asleep upstairs. Her son was ready to leave and go to bed, but we both wanted to let these stories run their course. When she left I realized my whole lower back and hips ached. As if telling the story had brought back the muscle memory of stress and pain and tense muscles. I had told this story before, but more as pure catharsis, almost throwing up the details to lay them out in front of me. Language makes us who we are, I know that how I tell the story will shape the memory, and I want to hold onto the parts where I felt beautiful and empowered. I want to hold onto how wonderful Dad was, how strong I know I was, and the real terror of the birth.
I had several grant applications due and my braxton-hicks practice contractions were intense, I would talk hot showers to calm the strange sensations in my belly, I could not wear anything around my waist one day. I was unable to go to my office, I worked at home, I was overwhelmed by the world and at the same time I missed watching people on the bus, I missed seeing things and hearing things and joking with colleagues. I could not take anymore stimulus. I worked at home, I left the house only to swim at the local YWCA. I kept rubbing you in my belly and saying, just give me until Friday. I had heard so much about first time mom's being late that I was convinced I had a couple more weeks. But you were moving and my body was moving too, so I kept reassuring you, just a couple more days. On thursday night I knew things were in a place where I could just send them in if I had to, I was going to meet Dad at the store. On my way out of the house I stopped and held my belly with both hands and said, I am ready for you Byrd. We called our good friends and asked if they wanted to have dinner, we were playing an old hip hop CD and everyone was bopping through dinner, joking, we asked them if we could call them in for help if we needed during the birth, of course they told us, we joked that we might have the baby before they got back from a weekend away. I went to bed exhausted. Dad got an email that night notifying him that he had been awarded a postdoc. I was excited for him, glad to know we had a salary lined up, and I felt utterly lost and sad about how I would also find something in the same place. I was angry at Dad for checking his email before bed. I needed sleep and this news, though great, brought up a lot of difficult emotions. We stayed up late talking, whispering, reassuring each other.
Dad was going in very early, I kept my eyes closed while he got up and showered, I wanted to keep sleeping. I felt a wetness on my legs, I tried to ignore it, I felt more wetness. I got up and liquid fell from my legs. Clear liquid with a faint smell of smoke. I went into the bathroom. A puddle of liquid formed around me, "I think my water broke." I told Dad and I started to cry, I felt shocked, it was a week early, it was the first moment it was going to be OK to have the baby. I wanted a break from intensity. We walked down to the lake, I did not have pads and the liquid kept falling from me. It felt good this hot liquid, like I was releasing something pent up. Large dogs tugged on leashes feeling my energy or smelling the amniotic fluid. It was an unseasonably warm day. We came home sent off our fellowship applications, I put on my emerald green birthing dress and we went to the clinic. They gave us until 3pm to go into labor. I felt nothing. We went out for Thai food, I craved the hot tangy soup. We walked back to the lake. I listened to Beirut and rubbed my nipples. I felt very little movement in me.
At the hospital they gave me ripening agents and we waited for labor to start. We spent the night, I would breathe in four counts and out four counts, I was focused on staying calm and relaxed. At about 4 am I felt contractions rip through me, I had to get up on all fours. I would lay down and sleep between them. I was proud and excited. In the morning they gave me another ripening agent and we walked and walked the halls. I would lunge on a chair, watch downtown, a beautiful church, the pedestrians, and then a contraction would come and I would lean on Dad. I put my hands around his neck and looked down at my feet, eyes closed, breathing. Sometimes I leaned against a wall with my arms against the wall, pushing back on the pain. I got in the shower and asked Dad to leave the bathroom, we left the door slightly ajar so I could call out for help. I have heard to never leave a laboring woman alone, but this felt great. I did nipple stimulation, I did clitoral stimulation, I chanted "the pain is with me the pain is part of me." I chanted other things, mantras. My focus was on my breathe and on bringing the labor out, bringing you out. Since my water had been broken for twenty-four hours there was a threat of being forced into a c-section. I did not want to be induced, I wanted to birth you without ivs, interventions, operations.
I had planned the birth like this: in early labor when the contractions were hard, but bearable we would make tarts, we would go to the store to keep me moving and buy the ingredients and then we would be moving and working in the kitchen. A friend gave me the most beautiful book of tart recipes and a tin. I imagined taking the time to do each part of the recipe, to decorate, to bake, all the while labor intensifying. We wold wait until I was very far along, almost ready to deliver to go in to the hospital. I imagined working through pain, trying to ease the pain. Really what I wanted was to go to the farm in Tennessee and deliver with Ina May. But baking tarts and laboring at home was a pretty good second option.
The shower was a magical experience, my body was racked by contractions, I brought them on again and again with nipple or clitoral stimulus, the water distracted me from the pain and was part of the intense overstimulous. The chanting brought me deep into my interior, I was like an animal alone in the woods, walking around. I gripped the handicap bars, I sat in the tub, I leaned my head against the soup dispenser, and I brought on more and more contractions. I got out when I felt I needed grounding out of my own head. I was now completely effaced, soft, and only just starting to dilate. Dad led me through yoga poses and stretches, each one brought on a contraction. I wanted to rest, we started to play scrabble. The contractions stopped. We took up yoga again. Early in the afternoon the nurse came in to say that since I was not dialating they needed to start pitocin. I was deep in my breath, in my mantras, in my work to bring out these contractions, to move the labor forward. I had heard nightmare stories about the pain of pitocin. I cried, I felt deflated. I had worked so hard. The nurse held me and told me it would be a low dose, she asked my concerns. They did not start pitocin until I ate dinner, by then I was 5 cm dilated. The nurse hooked up the iv and moniter. I had a contraction and leaned my arms on the bed, my knees were on the floor. She looked at me and said, "The time has come to face the pain, you have to go into the pain now." I told her I had been working to bring out contractions. She told me to lung, yes yes, I have been doing that I said. Stay in the lung when the contraction comes. I lunged with one leg up on a table, the contraction was deep and intense, I wanted to brace myself against the wall, but I stayed. Dad held me, I held him, my leg still lunged, waves moved through my abdomen, into my back, I felt a deep splitting in my vagina and further up. It felt unbearable.
I got in the tub, the nurse held my hand, Dad went out to rest for a moment. My face was tingling, she told me to breathe with my hands over my face, I was hyperventilating. The midwife was there now, but I was focused on this nurse who could lead me into my pain, who had faith that I could go in and stay in. I hated the tub, there was nothing to hold onto, the nurse told me I had to let my body go. I was shaky. When I got out I had a huge contraction against the wall, the midwife asked if I felt the urge to push, I did not have the urge, but I wanted to have the urge, I told her I was not sure. She checked me, I was 7 and a half.
We went to the birthing tub and I got in. It was hot, I tried to let go of my body, my knees hurt to kneel. I felt tired. I wanted this to be done. I wanted the end to be in sight. I had a cold washcloth for my face, I lived for this coolness. I was naked. The midwife swept my membrane, she reached deep inside me and I screamed and screamed. It was uncontrollable pain. With each contraction I talked out loud, I never have to do that again, there is only the present, only the present is real, the pain is with me, the pain is part of me. The midwife had me lay on my back in the water and pull my knees back as far as I could. This seemed like the typical birthing position I had read about, it was uncomfortable. She told me to hold my breath when I pushed, to only push with contractions. I did not know how to work hard and hold my breath. The contractions ripped through my back, I felt like I was being struck by lightening, I would start the contractions calm and then end screaming, my body out of my control. Screaming did not lessen the pain.
They had me push on the toilet. The heartbeat dropped from 130 to 120. The nurse was worried, the midwife silenced her, said it was a new baseline. I already knew that there was a clock ticking, it had been 43 hours since my water broke. I was tired. I wished I had eaten more. I had been afraid of vomiting, they told me to eat light. I ate veggies and tortillas, broth, toast, and cake.
My contractions had slowed down, they were irregular again. They wanted to guide me back to the tub, I did not want to be in water. I wanted to kneel on the floor. I got off the toilet, I was dripping wet and naked. A contraction washed over me, I grabbed the midwife, the militant and hard woman I was not sure I liked. I clutched her.
I pushed on a bed then. Again the midwife had me on my back holding my knees. Dad held one knee back, the nurse held the other. When I got it right the contraction started, I held my breath and pushed, the pain disappeared, the contraction ended and then lightening ripped through my lower back, the pain returned. It felt like I was going underwater and then coming up screaming out of control. I could not keep the calm in my response when I had back labor. You need to push harder, you need to push longer, they told me. And I tried. With all my self. I felt you hiccup inside me, I felt acid in my throat, I felt tired. I pushed and pushed. I was scared about the heartbeat. I was scared about how you were going to come out. The contractions were still irregular and infrequent. I would push you so I could feel your head between my legs and then the contraction would end and you would go back up. During each contraction Dad would yell, you can do this, you have got to push harder, longer. The nurse would say, think of your sweet sweet baby. The midwife would say, you have to do more. In between contractions i told everyone to keep talking to me, I told Dad to yell louder and harder, I told the midwife to keep a finger on my vagina so I knew where to push to. I had no image of a sweet baby, of any baby, all I knew was I needed to get you out, I was tired, I was scarred, I could not do this forever.
The midwife told me to get you out we would have to do it all in one push. I pushed you as far as I could, the tip of your head in reach of the outside world. The contraction ended, I held my knees back and bared down. We need another contraction, the midwife said. Do nipple stimulation a nurse yelled. A nurse grabbed one nipple, Dad grabbed the other, a contraction came and I pushed with all my force. I was lost in holding my breath, the yelling, the need to get out you out into this world. You came, your whole body, all at once.
The shock of tearing seared through me. They held you up said, its a boy!, I looked at your naked body and could not make sense of whether I saw a penis. I was shaking hard. They laid you on my chest. I asked Dad to keep a hand on you, I was scarred I would drop you, I did not feel a great sense of joy, only relief and shock and instability of my shaking body. You would wiggle and I would think, what is that? Then remember. Over and over. I delivered the placenta, one push. I asked about feeding you, I was holding onto very few memorized ideas, breastfeed after they are born, look at the placenta. They told me it could wait. I started to realize something was wrong, they gave me a suppository, I was bleeding, hemorrhaging from my uterus. Two nurses began massaging my abdomen with all their force, I screamed and screamed. I had nothing left. I let go of my four counts in and four counts out. I apologized, I dont have the energy to be graceful anymore. I felt I had been graceful through labor, no epidural, no fear to move forward, no begging to not go through with labor that day, no deep seated inhibition to have you, no anger or swearing. Now that you were out I had nothing left, my body was shaking, my mind confused. I tried to look at you, I counted toes and could only find four, I asked Dad, he said there were five. I forgot you were on me and then paniced when I remembered, afraid I would drop you.
They clamped the torn muscles in my crotch and waited for the doctor to come stitch me, they gave me a shot of painkiller, they pumped my uterus with pitocin. I did not see my blood spilling out, I barely knew what was happening.
I was relieved when Dad took you to weigh you. I wanted him to hold you too and I was afraid I would drop you. I continued to shake so I could not hold anything for hours. You were born at 10pm and I was still shaking at 2 in the morning.
When I put you to my breast you latched perfectly. I felt relieved. I held a nurses hand the first time I peed, she was not motherly or sweet, I grabbed her hand and did not let go. I was terrified of the torn and stitched flesh. I stared at your swaddled body at the end of my body, in a see through basinet. I wanted to hold you, but could not steady myself.
In the morning I was calmer, clearer headed. We took turns holding you. I was exhausted, famished.
For the first week I just watched you, held you, watched Dad hold you. I was utterly in love and captivated.
My body healed well, the loss of blood having the deepest effects, weakness and then when I recovered my iron stores, weakness from being weak. At five and a half months I am still building back strength. Still utterly in love.
Love,
Mom
The stress of not working
Dear Byrd,
We spent a week with my parents. Their house is like a place you would pay to vacation, a huge lawn, beautiful garden plants, shade and sun, a great patio, amazing art. The house is huge, an old victorian, there are two staircases, three floors, an immense terrifying basement with 4 or 5 rooms. I think you will have a good time with hide-and-go-seek in their house. We also went to the beach for a couple of days. I cried when we left the beach the last morning. You were asleep in the moby carrier against my chest. You had laughed and laughed at the ocean and then fallen asleep hard. It felt so good, the wind blowing cold, the early morning light, the gulls, and you asleep on me, Dad walking along side me. I cried because I forget the smell, I forget the way the beach coats my skin with a layer of fine grit, sand and salt.
We landed back home in the morning, Dad thought about going in to the U to work. I felt panic like when I was still bleeding and torn and you were tiny and new and Dad went into work (at about two weeks postpartum). The panic of being left all alone, of the rivers of life flowing past and me not being part of it, of depression from being outside the world and not having structure (this fear has little basis, but when I was travelling years ago and got tired, after 6 months on the go, I forced myself up each morning at 7 even though I was exhausted, absolutely tired out). I wanted the whole family home, together. I felt fear about the next five months of not working, what will I do? How will you and I fill our days? What friends will we spend time with? Should we be satisfied to spend the days alone walking the city streets?
We had gotten up early, 3am our time, and I was tired, I laid down and slept for two hours and then the world had shifted ever so slightly and I did not mind anything. The next day I went to meet a mom and baby in the park, then ran an errand, and grocery shopped, I felt like I had the energy to fight dragons, I could run all day. At about 6pm I crashed. But this is the me I knew before. The me that runs and runs, the world is bright, things are moving and going and I am loud and laughing, and then I crash and need to lie down and read or sleep. I like this me. I like being up for thing after thing. When I was meeting with the life coach I said I wanted more peace. And I do. But not peace by sitting still. I like to do and make. I just want peace in my mind.
Love,
Mom
We spent a week with my parents. Their house is like a place you would pay to vacation, a huge lawn, beautiful garden plants, shade and sun, a great patio, amazing art. The house is huge, an old victorian, there are two staircases, three floors, an immense terrifying basement with 4 or 5 rooms. I think you will have a good time with hide-and-go-seek in their house. We also went to the beach for a couple of days. I cried when we left the beach the last morning. You were asleep in the moby carrier against my chest. You had laughed and laughed at the ocean and then fallen asleep hard. It felt so good, the wind blowing cold, the early morning light, the gulls, and you asleep on me, Dad walking along side me. I cried because I forget the smell, I forget the way the beach coats my skin with a layer of fine grit, sand and salt.
We landed back home in the morning, Dad thought about going in to the U to work. I felt panic like when I was still bleeding and torn and you were tiny and new and Dad went into work (at about two weeks postpartum). The panic of being left all alone, of the rivers of life flowing past and me not being part of it, of depression from being outside the world and not having structure (this fear has little basis, but when I was travelling years ago and got tired, after 6 months on the go, I forced myself up each morning at 7 even though I was exhausted, absolutely tired out). I wanted the whole family home, together. I felt fear about the next five months of not working, what will I do? How will you and I fill our days? What friends will we spend time with? Should we be satisfied to spend the days alone walking the city streets?
We had gotten up early, 3am our time, and I was tired, I laid down and slept for two hours and then the world had shifted ever so slightly and I did not mind anything. The next day I went to meet a mom and baby in the park, then ran an errand, and grocery shopped, I felt like I had the energy to fight dragons, I could run all day. At about 6pm I crashed. But this is the me I knew before. The me that runs and runs, the world is bright, things are moving and going and I am loud and laughing, and then I crash and need to lie down and read or sleep. I like this me. I like being up for thing after thing. When I was meeting with the life coach I said I wanted more peace. And I do. But not peace by sitting still. I like to do and make. I just want peace in my mind.
Love,
Mom
Friday, July 2, 2010
sleep and eat
Dear Byrd,
We feed you and you sleep. We want you to be happy when you are awake and otherwise to be asleep, presumably restoring your stores of happiness and giggles. We feed you and hope it keeps you asleep, keeps you dreaming and growing so that when you are awake, with us, you beam and feel nothing but pleasure.
Love,
Mom
We feed you and you sleep. We want you to be happy when you are awake and otherwise to be asleep, presumably restoring your stores of happiness and giggles. We feed you and hope it keeps you asleep, keeps you dreaming and growing so that when you are awake, with us, you beam and feel nothing but pleasure.
Love,
Mom
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