Welcome to the Scream Fest

Sometimes the most love-drenched parenting moments come in silence: profound gazes, sleeping bodies cuddled impossibly close, hungry mouths sucking noiselessly away on my breast with the strength of survival-stained-instinct.

But if you are really, really lucky, you find yourself transcendent in the midst of the (incredibly deafening) not-so-peaceful moments.

Let me just give you an example. A few weeks ago, we (ridiculously) decided to take our family (all of us snot-nosed and coughing) to a wedding less than two hours away. BK (before kids), such a trip would be no big deal at all. And, indeed, Justin and I congratulated ourselves on our incredible parenting skills after a peaceful ride up to the wedding, both children snoring noisily in the backseat. And then, of course, the ride home ensued.

To describe the 90 minute trip home as loud would be an enormous understatement. It turns out that exhausted three year olds who are also a bit sick and crazed by too much sugar do not make the best traveling companions. Lucy transformed from the sweet cherub that she had been a few hours before into a pacifier demanding, irrational creature with disproportionately large lung capacities. In short, she screamed the entire way home.

It should be said that Lucy's scream fests always are triggered by something or other. But the something or other that triggers them is almost always imperceptible to rational adults. I believe a few weeks ago the issue was she had dropped on pacifier that she wanted to hold onto (although she still had another pacifier in her mouth) and we refused to pull the car over immediately to remedy the drastically urgent emergency. In any case, once the screams begin, the only thing that is certain is that they most likely will not stop until our ears are ringing or Lucy gets her way.

Because we are super-hero-parents, we try not to give in to these fits. Ask POLITELY, we remind her calmly. And so, she adds a new word to her screaming mantra. Instead of "STOP THE CAR NOW!" She starts yelling, at an increased pitch and volume: "PLEASE STOP THE CAR NOW." We, still calm, tell her that this is not acceptable behavior, reminding her that her brother is sleeping beside her. She screams back "HE IS NOT SLEEPING ANYMORE." As if to confirm her words, Zander then began to add his own screams to the symphony.

A newborn's screams are a different matter entirely. Lucy's screams make me mad. His break my heart. His, sound to me like: "Mommy I love you but I am trying to sleep and I am sick and sissy is so loud and my ears hurt."

And so, Justin and I drove, exchanging glances ranging from amusement to torment, all the way back to Bloomington, with our two children screaming at the top of their lungs.

I think this is the story of persistence. I think there are small victories in each day that we miraculously don't lose our insanity.

And I think next time we go on a long trip with the kids, Justin and I will most definitely pack ear plugs.

No Sleep = No Joke

All moms have their "things".

You know what I mean. Some moms really worry that their kids will get fat, so they over-obsess about only giving them healthy foods. Some moms really worry that their kids won't succeed in school, so they sign them up for every possible tutoring-academic-organization imaginable. My mom's main worry had everything to do with sleep.

I still remember my mom's face when I would ask to go to a sleepover. "You know you will come home the next morning totally grouchy and it will ruin the rest of your Saturday," she would point out, not altogether incorrect. And each night, during our back scratching-prayer ritual (this was a huge hit in our house . . a duo that created in me a deep affinity for prayer), she would negotiate with my alarm-setting for the next day: "Do you REALLY need all that time to get ready? How about sleep in just a few more minutes??"

Thanks to mom, I've been a pretty good sleeper throughout life. I'd get made fun of during college, as I dutifully headed off to bed by 11pmish each night, ensuring at least eight hours a night. But then I became a mother. And, even more shocking, I decided to become a mother a second time.

In many ways, once you become a mother you realize the multitude of ways your own mother wasn't such a dummy after all. Well, here's one way. Forced into living a life of sleep deprivation, I have found the first months living with a newborn as delightfully fuzzy. I can't recall my address, my passwords, or, sometimes, my husband's name. I drive slower, but I feel like I'm zooming down the highway. I have to focus, REALLY focus, to hear and comprehend words when there is any other background noise (aka the TV). And, most pointedly, my ambition for any expenditure of energy beyond the necessary things (eating, sleeping, nursing, feeding my kids) is remarkedly low. Yesterday I sat in amazement at all of the young, energetic, motivated grad students surrounding me. (I used to perhaps be one of them just a few months ago.) They literally competed to answer questions better, use larger vocabulary words, get their criticism of the author out there. I sat there literally amused, thinking, "how CUTE. They all really CARE about this stuff." Uh oh.

I'm praying I get back in the swing of the academic world just in time to, oh, I don't know, write a qualifying exam and a dissertation proposal. I'm praying all of this is about sleep deprivation and not a totally brain melting. And I'm praying I can remember my husband's name again.

But most of all, I've got to say: "Mom, you were right. Sleep is pretty much the most important thing ever. I promise I will attend NO sleep overs for the next decade, and I will set my alarm for the latest possible time." It's really too bad baby Zander doesn't come with a snooze button.

Teacher-Mommy

One early spring afternoon, seven months pregnant with Lucy and totally bewildered by my inability to manage my fifth period room full of mischevious ninth graders, I complained to another wiser English teacher down the hall: "HOW is it that other people are able to get that "authority" thing across without being jerks? I'm usually a quick learner. Why can't I figure this out??"

In a moment of vivid clarity, she pointed at my ridiculously protruding belly and said something to the effect of the following: "All I know is that managing my classes became a ton easier once I had my own children. I could suddenly envision these ninth graders as the kids they really are, and I stopped being so shocked my their immature behavior. And I think it could be said that I loved them more, in a mom-who-needs-to-set-you-straight sort of way."

I may never know if this will really be the case with me, since I left the secondary classroom in favor of PhD and university pursuits after that trying year. But in honor of the fact that I just yesterday taught my first class (now undergrads) as a mother of two children, I thought I'd reflect on how being a mom has impacted how I envision my role as "teacher":

*I no longer obsess about what I wear. In fact, comfort is the most important quality I seek to attain (forget about "professional"), and spit-up stains have become my latest can't-do-without accessory. (I almost miraculously made it to class yesterday without spit up, but Zander pelted me with it at the last moment, as I was handing him over to his father.)

*Thanks to my post-pregnancy chubbiness and huge rings of exhaustion under my eyes, I no longer have to worry about being seen as a sexual object by my students. (I did so love those little love notes from my sixth graders . . . )

*I, who was totally unable to find "balance" when I was a workaholic new teacher, am now forced daily to stop working on my teaching stuff by my two very needy top priorities.

*I don't feel nearly as insecure or vulnerable in a teacher role. Pushing a 9lb 4 oz infant out of your body without drugs with ten plus people watching you in the room is potentially stressful. Teaching these students for a few hours no longer seems like such a big deal.

*It's not so hard to differentiate myself from college kid students anymore. They seem to live now on an entirely different universe, one filled with parties, late nights out, tons of laughing friends, and decisions that revolve around just one person's wishes.

The big question is whether or not becoming a parent has made me a better or worse teacher. I know it has made me different. The other big question is whether being a teacher has made me a better or worse parent. Either way, one thing is clear. I really should get back to lesson planning. After all, Zander will wake up any minute . . .

A Letter

When I was eight or nine years old and my life was largely dictated by the lives of the fictional characters I voraciously read about, I got a decent idea from an LM Montgomery protagonist, one who resembled Anne of Green Gables. Her name was Emily (of New Moon), and she decided to write letters to herself in the future. I promptly wrote a letter to my fifteen year old self (which was about as mature as I could imagine ever becoming at that age), in which I passionately proclaimed my love for Jesus and my love for a boy in my fifth grade class named Michael (in that order.) I asked myself scores of questions, including such important ones as "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Are you pretty?" "Do you have your driver's permit?" I ended with a sincere plea to myself to always perservere in my childlike faith.

I couldn't wait to open the letter. Instead of waiting until I was fifteen, I found myself rebreaking the seal every six months or so, each time more and more amazed at how young and innocent I was. This, of course, made it lose the impact it could have had when I actually did turn fifteen, but, nevertheless, the exercise was a worthwhile one in a study of transitioning from childhood to adolescenthood.

All of this has got me thinking. I need to write a letter to my grown up kids right now. Here's what I've got so far:
________________________________

Dear grown-up version of Lucy and Zander:

Hi, kiddoes. It's August 2011, and I am the version of mom that you see in the photo albums when you were a three year old and infant, the pics that make you cry out "Whoa! Mom- you used to look SO young!"

You two are seriously exhausting and seriously delightful. Luce- you are all storms and rainbows. You can be the kindest, most generous three year old I've ever seen, as you share your treats with you dad and love on your baby bro. You can also be hilariously tantrum-y at the drop of the hat, if I say a phrase you didn't want me to say "I didn't WANT you to ask if I ate all of my lunch!" or if I don't spread the blanket on your doll correctly.

Zander- you are completely out of it still, and so young that it doesn't bother you a bit. But your smile lights up the room, our hearts. Who in the world are you? The pediatrician said you are amazingly expressive for your age. Did you talk early? . . .
__________________________

As you can see, the letter is a work in progress. But the fact that words can act as a time capsule is something to make use of a time or two.

Especially when you want to capture a snapshot of a moment you realize you never want to forget.

Myself when I am Mom

Contemporary identity theorists disagree on a lot of semantics, but they generally all point the same direction: we are all composed of many selves. This dependence on context and reciprocal relationships on determining whether we embody the identity of "the fun-loving one" or "the responsible serious one" during a single moment completely debunks the notion that, sometime around adolescence, we mystically find our inherent "selves" and stay static in our commitment to that simple formula. Instead, our entire lives involve a negotiation of who we decide to become in each circumstance, created by a unique dynamic of the roles the others we happen to around decide to adopt. Who I am, then, results from a complex, performative dance, rather than a self I happen to discover when I am sixteen.

Similarly, nueroscientists have been having fun in recent decades discovering how flexibile our plastic brains really are, during our entire lives. It turns out that all of the pathways aren't made and set in stone by a certain age as previously thought. Instead, every year, every experience and habit contributes to shape our amazing brains.

These two fascinating fields beg the question: Who am I when I am a mother? In other words, what surprising things about myself have emerged from my interactions with my son, daughter, and spouse? And how has my brain had to adapt to this emerging self? Here's what I've got so far:

**Shocker #1: I am the GOOD cop. I always assumed (most likely because I grew up in a home where Mom was the tough one and Dad was the push-over) that I would have to be the consistent disciplinarian. It turns out, around my kids, I tend to play the good guy role. This was nothing that Justin and I worked out (and he often gets frustrated that he finds himself in the role of strict enforcer), but it is the dynamic our family has naturally fallen into.

**Shocker #2: I'm totally casual about my kids. I've met enough parents to know that I am WAY LESS concerned about pacifiers that have fallen on the floor, germs on public tables, stains on shirts, or toddler attempts at dangerous park antics than the average bear. In fact, in comparison to most parents I know, I verge or irresponsible. This is strange when I consider how much I love my children, how cautious my own mother was with me, and how type A and responsible I tend to be in daily life.

**Shocker #3: Too much noise or stimulation drives me crazy. Ever since I became a sleep-deprived mother who is generally multi-tasking with 3-4 things (talking on the phone while making lunch and stuffing a pacifier in my infant who I am wearing on a sling), I have become an old lady about noise. Just having the TV on as background noise can push me over the edge.

**Shocker #4: I love LOVE being alone. Whenever I would take those personality tests in TEEN magazines I would always score high as an extrovert, someone who needed to be around people to get energy from. Now I find social occassions with grown-ups draining (my face actually starts to hurt from smiling), and I can't imagine a better hour than one spent taking a run on my own into the sunset or reading a book without interruption.

*Shocker #5: When it comes to my kids, I am the world's worst teacher. You would think, since I'm getting my PhD in education and all, that I would be hyper-attentive in applying all I know about how kids learn on my own children. Instead, I find myself sitting back on the education front (Lucy will learn her letters eventually, right; no hurry!) constantly commenting to my nurse-husband, "WOW- you are totally making this a learning opportunity" as he points out maps, teaches new vocabulary in authentic moments, etc, etc.

Enough of me, myself, and I. In teacher education talk, we speak about the continual process of "becoming a teacher." There is no single moment defined by reaching this destination, by suddenly feeling like you are a professional in the field. Instead, there is a gradual moving journey. In the same way, I plan on always be working towards "becoming" a mother. After all, a three year old and infant need a pretty different mother than two teenagers.

Ode to Function

"The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs . . .

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun."
-"Song of Myself", Walt Whitman

I have a really good pelvis.

Good, in the case of I'm-getting-ready-to-give-birth-to-a-9lb-4oz-infant, by the way, can be summed up in one word: LARGE. I am not just vain or optimistic. I was told this a week before my son decided to finally make his entrance, and my husband can verify the elation that ensued. I literally sang songs about my great pelvis, shouted them to the world in the parking lot as we left the office. For some strange reason this embarrassed my husband. I figured, since we were leaving an ob's office, all the pregnant women entering and exiting would fully understand.

Oh how things change.

If you knew me in college, or the few years that followed, you know that my 90-pound frame drew comments ranging from "I would DIE for that metabolism" to "Does she have an eating disorder?" (For the record, I ate like a hog back then, as I continue to do now. For some reason, the old body doesn't handle millions of calories like it used to.) Back then being thin and looking decent mattered to me. The body was all about decoration. It was a tool to help the other parts of me (my brain, my personality, etc) get me what I wanted, and I don't just mean a fine-looking husband.

Then, I entered career-land, and looking like I was a pre-pubescent twelve year old became somewhat of a liability when I became a teacher of twelve year olds. The pounds began to creep on. But it wasn't until Justin and I started talking "let's try for a kid" that I really became, well. . . not ninety pounds anymore.

Here's the ugly truth. We women care about our weight. Even the most intelligent, wise among us can't curb the desire to be thin. Some of us, of course, care a lot more than others. But I became a whole lot more comfortable in my skin, despite, or because of, my ballooning weight, once I became pregnant with my first. Suddenly, my body was more than a nice little vehicle to get me around life. It was more than a fashion accessory. It became a human-creating-sustaining machine. This is remarkable. This is a miracle.

Take breasts, for instance. Those two once useless lumps morph into these incredible baby-feeding-machines. Just last week as we were leaving the state fair, my husband caught two less-than-reputable-middle-aged-men staring at my cleavage (enhanced, of course, by milk at the moment) as I put Lucy in her car seat. As they passed by, giving me a smile and a wave, Justin remarked dryly, pointing at my sweaty son, snoring softly in the stroller: "Stop looking. Those things are HIS."

And so, though I'd be lying to say I love the way my thighs rub together and the slight double chin that can result from an unfortunate photo-angle, I've got to say .. . seriously, who really cares about a few pounds?! A few early-twenty-somethings and I were talking the other day, and they discussed, with real animation, the fear they have about getting pregnant some day. "I'm just going to blow up," one said,"I will have to work out every day before and after I give birth." (They, by the way, forgot to mention how incredibly great I look after just giving birth eight weeks ago . .. hmmm . . . ) "But look what you get out of it!" I replied, pointing at a fussy Zander. They smiled politely and continued on, exchanging diet advice, as if I had missed the point entirely.

I didn't miss the point. And to every mother, fat and skinny and somewhere in-between, don't forget to sing a song of yourself everytime you begin to consider all of the things you'd like to change about something as trivial as your face, your legs, your jiggly arms. There's one little ditty that you actually want running constantly through your head . . .

On Love . . .

You know those moms who declare that, the moment they laid eyes on their wrinkled, wet, smooshed-up infant, they had an instant connection? The ones that felt their life was suddenly, inexorably changed, that felt an immediate surge of love-protective energy power up their exhausted body? These moms couldn't help but proclaim, upon first glancing the literal fruit of their labor, "this kid HAS to be the cutest thing EVER."

Well, I am not one of those moms.

I'm told, upon seeing my wild black hair and squinty eyes, my own mother, drugged up on c-section drugs declared something to the effect of: "She's so ugly. Put her back." And I, too, was not blessed with the love-drenching-blindness upon seeing Lucy for the first time, and then Zander. As they placed my son on my chest just eight weeks ago, for instance, I couldn't help but think "he feels just like a slimy fish." And although I was glad he was out, thus relieving intense pressure and pain, I just had to point out to the nurses and my (slightly annoyed) husband: "He's not cute at all yet. Look at that bruised face and those exhausted eyes." But, to my credit, I also added "But don't worry. He will be."

And so it is with love and parenting and me. When Lucy was first born, I was embarrassed and quite frightened with the lack of instant love I felt. I felt, in the place where love should be, simply exhausted. I resented her constant neediness, and felt numb from the lack of dialogue you can have with a two day old. I feared I wasn't mom material. I failed in the only department that really mattered, the love department.

But then the slow miracle happened. This same miracle has been unfolding again with Zander. Each day, the kid grows on me a little more. And, if the pattern holds this time, by the time we hit Week 12 or so, I will be absolutely head-over-heels in love, and my infant will appear to me to be the cutest infat that ever walked the face of the earth. And I will no longer be a failure in the land of moms. I will simply join the host of other blind fools who think their kids are the smartest, most adorable, funniest things out there.

One more note on love for your children. It aches. My love for my mom, my dad, even my husband, feels sweet and mushy. But the love I have for my kids is fierce, is intense, and isn't altogether pleasant.

But for now, my job is to go nurse my eight week old, who is suddenly becoming more and more lovable by the second . . .

Shopping for baby bottles, childcare, and truth

I understand a lot of things. But I really don't get where decisive people get their confidence.

When I watch people lobby for political figures or parties, for movements, for ideologies, I watch in awe. When I see people rage at each other on Fox News, I am in a state amazement (slightly disgusted amazement, but amazement nonetheless). These people know what they believe, and they have no patience, no room for other opinions. How, for instance, can so many people be SURE George Bush is evil, when they haven't even met him personally? How, really, can I determine where I stand on any legislative issue when both sides make such a darn convincing case? But, most importantly, how in the heck can I determine which brand of bottles to buy my son?

I stood in the aisle at Target (with a slightly impatient husband, a hyper Lucy, and a sobbing six week old) musing on this very question. The first issue is that I breastfeed, so bottles have always seemed like somewhat mysterious, foreign territory. Aventi? Nuck? Dr. Brown? Cheap Target brand? They all claim the same things on the side: Reduces colic! Stimulates breastfeeding! No more gas and burping! And so, I stand, paralyzed with that familiar should-I-order-the-chicken-or-the-steak-and-the-waiter-is-in-a-hurry-and-everyone-is-waiting-on-me feeling.

Then there is choosing a preschool. This is difficult because they claim such opposite, but all good things. One claims to set my child academically apart from the crowd. The other claims to foster creativity and individuality. The other focuses on creating a global citizen, one that prizes diversity and learns many languages. Can't I have it all? Apparently the answer is "no". And thus is my problem with choosing ice-cream flavors, childcares, bottles, and political pundits. I want the good (and not the bad) of everything.

In case you're curious, I chose to order one of all three brands of bottles for Zander to see which he liked best. It turns out he doesn't care. He would prefer to drink from the tap. And as for daycare, we rejected all of the high claims of the preschools (which also ended up being sold for quite a high price) and decided to come back to the familiar daycare coop we belonged to last year. I'm betting that Lucy won't be the most global, academic, or creative kid in the world, but that she will do just fine.

Sometimes it's a roll of the dice. And sometimes you take a leap of faith.

GUILT

A close third to the feelings most commonly experienced by mothers (running just behind love and fatigue) is guilt.

Unlike exhaustion, guilt follows mothers throughout the journey, morphing slightly to fit the demands of their changing children. With newborns, the guilt springs right alongside the nightime feedings and constant diaper changes. (Will I really mess up nursing if I give him a pacifier just this once?? Oh no! I never gave him infant massages . . . will be we be connected?). Oftentimes, due to competing, irreconcilable voices in my head, guilt is the only option. If I don't pick him up everytime he cries, I feel like I'm neglecting him. If I do pick him up everytime he cries, I feel like I'm spoiling him.

My interactions with my three year old prompt guilty fears about what I should be doing with her (I barely even read to her or work with her on fun educational pursuits. She's totally getting neglected with this new baby on the scene.), as well as what I shouldn't be doing with her (What kind of mom gives their kid a sucker BEFORE dinner? Seriously- I'm letting her watch Toy Story AGAIN tonight?). Most menacing, however, is the guilt that springs up when I observe Lucy's development or behavior. (I can't believe she just ripped that toy out of her friend's hand! WHERE did I go wrong? How can my daughter be the only almost-three-year-old in the world to still need a pacifier to sleep and to actively resist potty training. How did I screw her up this much?)

My midwife explained it to me this way, when she lectured me for 30 minutes before we left the hospital: Most people are content to NOT be perfectionists in life. We don't feel like we have to be NBA stars or high status political figures, or famous published authors. But nearly EVERY parent feels they have to be, at all times, amazing. This is unrealistic, and because human beings are pretty darn resilient, it doesn't matter that most of us can't measure up. Most of the time, it's just about showing up and being there, with whatever strength and wisdom we can muster up for that moment.

So today, I commit to (slightly) lowered parenting expectations. I do not have to be up-to-date on every parenting theory out there. I do not ALWAYS have to be totally consistent. The odds are my kids will be decent people because Justin and I are decent people. And the odds are, at some point, when my daughter makes up her stubborn mind within the next ten years, she will stop peeing and pooping in a diaper.

I'd write more- but I've got to run and spend some time with the newborn. After all, what kind of mother am I to blog instead of give him 100% of my undivided attention? :)

A Thing Too Impossible . . .

"Before she goes into labor, she gives birth; Before the pains come upon her, she delivers a son. Who has ever heard of such things? Who has ever seen things like this?" -Isaiah 66: 7-8

I cannot stop smiling. This is incredible to me, because from the third day until about the third month of my daughter's life, I was an emotional, sobbing, depressed mess. Now six days into the life of my son, I am beginning to trust that I may not again fall into that oblivion of despair again. No one knows precisely what triggers PPD, but it's hard to believe that the actual birth experience that occurred couldn't be one contributing force. Instead of leaving the hospital sore, drained, drugged, and in-shock from an emergency c-section and a daughter thrown into NICU, I got to leave with a very large and healthy son and a clear mind. Just in case you may be interested, here's my Zander birth story:

5/31/11

4AM: I wake up with some good contractions. They were good enough to start timing (10 minutes apart), but not good enough to convince me of a thing, since my body had been revving up for the main event for nearly three months.

6AM: Justin gets up to leave for work, so I tell him about the pain. He tells me to keep in touch, and is off (this was not, after all, the first time this pregnancy he went to work when I thought I could be labor.) They were now more like 7-8 minutes apart, and increasing in intensity.

6:30: With Lucy now demanding and awake, I call Justin on the phone: "I am getting s-c-a-r-e-d," I tell him, not wanting Lucy to know my emotional state. "These are getting really bad." "Call the office," he replies, "I can't leave work unless we are actually going into Labor and Delivery."

6:45: I text my doula, and guiltily dial my midwife as well. My doula has advised me to stay home and labor until I can't take it anymore, but my midwife has advised that I don't labor at home since this is a VBAC. I feel a bit stuck between these two minds, and am definitely in a doable state of pain. But I want my husband with me, so I call the midwife and am advised to go to labor and delivery by at least 9AM.

9AM: We drop Luce off at a good friend's house. She is happy and content. She knows today could be the day.

9:08: Contractions are 3-5 minutes apart, and I cannot talk or walk through them. I still feel great in between them, and am excited. We go through a McDonald's drive thru, where Justin gets some greasy breakfast and I get a large iced tea, which ends up seeing me through my entire labor. I wonder if a lot of people go through drive-thru's while in labor.

9:15: Justin and I talk about how GOOD we feel about this, how at peace. This day, this moment, this decision to go to the hospital feels completely right. His guess is that I'm at 6cm, and my hope is that I'm at least past the 2-3 I have been for the past month. We say a prayer in the hospital parking lot.

9:30: I'm relieved to see my amazing midwife AND doula already waiting for me at the hospital. My midwife says (slightly disappointed): "She's still smiling." (Aka- she can't have progressed much.) I sign some consent forms, pausing between contractions. My midwife comes in and checks me immediately. "Well- you're 8cm and 100% effaced. Things are going to start moving quickly." Utter shock and millions of phone calls commence. A flurry of activity. IV is inserted, water is broken (thin meuconium puts everyone on high alert, but my midwife assures me this is normal for post-term babies), I meet the OB on call.

10: Flurry of activity has ceased. There is only peace. Soft music from my doula floats around me, and this is profoundly helpful for me to focus on during contractions. I am completely happy. In between pains, we make small talk about various things. During contractions, I like things to be silent. I close my eyes. I breathe. I am astounded at how much I want my husband beside me. Hugging him during contractions while my doula pushes on my back is my favorite position. I try the birthing ball, kneeling on the mat, standing, lying on my side.

12: My parents come and the pain gets serious. I am now content to just lie in the bed on my side, and I find I now need to vocalize the pain in some way, so rather than being silent, I moan. Everyone encourages me to make my moans low and deep. I do my best.

12:30: I start to feel pressure. After a check, the baby is at +1 station, but I am at 9cm. I feel strangely relieved that I don't have to push.

1: I feel the most insane sensation of a baby suddenly slipping down my pelvis. My cry alerts my midwife to check me, and she assures the room that I am, as they say, "complete." "I always knew my daughter was a perfect ten," my mom quips. I do not smile at the joke.

1:15: My memory fades at the pushing stage. This was, for me, the most intense part of the experience. I mostly recall hearing the authoritative voice of my midwife: "Push through the pain, around it, above it, right towards it." "Reach deep within. You can do this." At one point her voice gets serious and she has me switch sides. I know this means the heart beat has dropped, and they strap me with oxygen. The next push I get him out from under my pelvic bone and her serious tone evaporates. My back suddenly stops hurting during contractions. I am so hot I can't even describe it. I'm also shaking uncontrollably.

1:30 I can't really think about what is happening, because it seems too incredible. The phrase "a thing too impossible" keeps going through my head. I keep pushing through contractions, but hurt so much all the time that I'm unsure when they stop or start. I'm advised to relax between them. "I'm having trouble relaxing," I cry out shakily. Everyone laughs.

1:45: At some point my mother-in-law enters the room. I am so beyond the point of even noticing or saying hello.

2: I know I'm getting close by the gasps in the room. "He has so much dark hair." "He's right there, Julie!" "You are almost done!" Now I hear the voices of my family members. I can't bring myself to open my eyes, or look in the mirror I asked them to set up, or even really feel for the babies head. I can only exist in the moment of excruciating pain.

2:11: A feel a sudden release and quick movement leaving me. To my absolute shock, a wet, floppy BABY is thrust on my chest. Astonished. Amazed. This was it?! I did this? Seriously?! He isn't crying, and he seems nearly asleep. "Is he okay?" "We are going to clamp and go."

2:12: The minutes they whisk him away, he revives with a hearty cry. I get my baby back. He is 9lbs, 4 oz. Another life begins.

Waiting for Our World to Change . . .

One sunny morning not so long ago on the way to Lucy's daycare, "We Keep Waiting for the World to Change" was blasting on my radio. The song may be cliche, overplayed, and predictable, but you have to admit, it's catchy and happy. Luce took to it immediately, singing along with the chorus and asking for me to play it again and again and again and again. (Unfortunately, the concept of "we have no control over what plays when" radio is pretty foreign in her world of DVR, OnDemand, and YouTube.) The song has only played once in the car, and still, at least a month later, Lucy asks at least once every other day for "Waitin' for the World to Change" as I strap her in the carseat. It's an appropriate song for this stage in our family's life for a lot of reasons (mostly the 41 weeks pregnant one), but here I want to capture a snapshot of gratitude for the waiting.

Because Xander/Zander has chosen to take his sweet time, we have had an incredible week of "just the three of us" moments:

*Playing in mommy and papa's bed in the morning, mostly involving gleefully hiding in the blankets and finding each other.
*Baking brownies together. Not screaming due to sleep deprivation when huge raw egg messes result.
*Taking slow walks around the neighborhood. Pausing to slip off our sandals to feel sand on our toes.
*Pushing a baby doll around in Lucy's stroller at the Farmer's Market. Cracking up at the shocked look on people's faces when they peek into the stroller expecting to see a baby, and being greeted instead by a maniacal-smiling plastic replacement.
*Looking through photo albums of Lucy's birth and toddlerhood and talking a lot about what is to come.

I could go on and on, but you get the point. Sometimes flowers sprout right there in fields of frustration. I know in less than a week "just the three of us" will have morphed into "just the four of us", and our world will have indeed, totally and completely changed. So, since this current world ain't so bad itself, I might as well take a moment to relish it . . .

Selfish Parenthood

It's time the world knew the truth:

People seem to stereotype parents (particularly mothers) as somewhat sacred, selfless creatures. We rise at all hours to nurse our little darlings; we sacrifice our careers, our social lives, our pre-pregnancy bodies, for the sake of nurturing and loving our infants. We even tend to lose a piece of our identity in the process, known more as "so and so's mommy" than our previous, indpendent selves. And of course, this assumed generosity of mythic proportions is not entirely unreasonable. After all, I no longer watch anything on television that doesn't involve Elmo, Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, or some other strangely disturbing three-year-old allure.

But here's the dirty secret:

Parenting (especially parenting your own biological children) is quite possibly the most egocentric project anyone can undertake. I know this, not just because I personally gain great pride from my own undertaking of said project, but because I watched parenting from the outside when I was a brand new teacher. And let me tell you from experiencing more than my share of insane, irrational rants from otherwise normal, logical people: having a child catapults some folks into the most self-centered, narrowed-perspective, all-about-us versions of themselves. Only when you are a parent can you be excused for believing that something that sprung from your body can do no wrong, should never receive an A- in anything, and should dictate the needs of an entire group of people.

Personally experiencing parent-pride has further proved my beliefs here. I see myself silently scrutinizing every cute thing Lucy says, every adorable face she makes, for pieces of myself. "I hope she got that from me," I think when she is sweet and kind and intelligent. "That must come from Justin's side," I think, when her stubbornness is unyielding. Every night she makes up song after song to put herself to sleep, and I find myself, each night, more in love with the songs as they bring me back to my own preferred method of putting myself to sleep when I was a young child. "What a CREATIVE, MUSICAL child," I smirk proudly. Perhaps the greatest evidence of the identity-promoting-parenting-connection involves status updates and photos on Facebook. For the most part, if you are a parent, your cute child ends up being front and center of the majority of the photos posted and, for me, the status updates the dot my page. This is no accident. Facebook pages are vehicles for self-promotion of identity. My kid is the coolest thing about me. Of course I'm going to flaunt her.

Sorry to blow the whistle, all you parents who have been enjoying pats on the back for your selfless family-first choices. But we insiders know this story well. We are happiest, we are most self-satisfied through our vicarious lives in those little people we helped create. . .

How to Prolong Your Pregnancy . . .

People counfound me for all sorts of reasons. Here's one: folks generally get sick of being pregnant after 40 weeks.

The advice online is all about how to trigger labor, get to see your baby, and regain your body back. My theory: the people writing this blogs and contributing to these websites have either never had a baby or are about to have their first. And they, like I before having Lucy, have no idea what a greater disruption having a newborn in the home is in comparison to being slightly large, sore, and overdue. Because of this, I propose a new topic entry into the abundant genre of pregnancy advice: "How to Prolong Your Pregnancy". And, since I am currently five days overdue, I happen to be quite the expert on the subject. Here's what you can do so that you too can gather amazed stares from folks on the street, so you can frustrate your anxious friends and family who are just dying to meet your new little addition. In essence, here's what I've done:

*Eat ridiculous amounts of cottage cheese, salt and vinegar chips, and grapes, mixed together.
*Carry your three year old (or a 30lb weight) around all the time.
*Watch an embarrassing number of "baby story" shows in which, time after time, women just spontaneously "go into labor", as if this is an easy feat to accomplish, requiring no effort at all.
*Work out everyday on the elliptical to the point where the undergrads working at the gym say with nervous laughter: "You are banned from the gym once you hit your due date". Then, continue going to the gym once it passes.
*Tell everyone when you are 34 weeks pregnant that your midwife is afraid you might go into labor early. Then watch God laugh as you hit 41 weeks.

So yes, I'm still pregnant. But I'm also still blogging. And if Zander had already entered the scene, I can promise this blogging thing wouldn't have been happening.

P.S. If you do decide you want to make an entrance into the world anytime soon, baby boy, well I'd appreciate it to happen sooner rather than later. . . . your head is only getting larger . . .

The Pregnant Professional

Let's just face it: Being 40 weeks pregnant is an obscene, in-your-face assertion.

When your belly is this size, there is no way to conceal your upcoming addition. No one needs to ask "What will you be up to this summer?" No one offers you wine, and strangers register vague fear on their face when you sit beside them, as if they imagine they may be called upon to deliver a wriggling infant at a moment's notice.

This is why I solidly recommend attending an academic conference the weekend of your due date. If you can remain professional-sounding, if you can miraculously obtain an air of intelligence, if you can get people to take you seriously without veering into baby talk, and if you can keep your feet from swelling so much they fall off, you know you have arrived. You are a true professional. You have not only successfully distracted yourself the fact that, despite your midwife's fear you would deliver weeks ago, you are STILL not in labor, but you have established that being a mother doesn't inherently detract from being a member of academia.

Of course, there's also the distinct possiblity you could fail terribly. You could find yourself in a state of panic in the morning, unable to find anything to accomodate your size from your "professional wardrobe," thus forced to wear an ugly shapeless flower-filled sundress. You could, like I did today, find yourself unable to have a conversation withoug blurting out: "My due date is tomorrow!" and "You won't BELIEVE what my three year old said the other day!" You could fail to prepare to present anything for your working session (since you thought you'd be in labor, after all), and instead sit nodding dumbly at the brilliance of all of the smaller-stomached presentations. You could hear your voice reverberating in the atrium at lunch: "After all, I'm eating for two!" as you snag a fourth cookie. You might even find yourself interrogating a new acquaintance about exactly how the delivered their third child without pain medication rather than discussing their research interests. Worst of all, you could, with great paranoia, imagine that everyone is looking at you judgmentally, surely thinking: "Look at THAT grad student. She surely isn't taking her career seriously enough."

So I may not have been at my professional best today. And I may not ever be, or at least for another 18 years or so. Nevertheless, I stand with my belly firmly placed forward. Juggling both maternal and professional identities is a choice I have made. They overlap in messy ways; they even inform each other at times. And although I may never publish quite enough research articles, and although I will never be the mother than sends "made from scratch" cupcakes to the kindergarten class, I may just scrape by. After all, mediocrity can't be such a curse if it results in opening up so many different opportunities for joy, for growth, and for life.

In Pursuit of Pain

I've come to the well-thought-out conclusion that all mothers are, at their heart, masochists.

How so? I could begin with the excitement we feel when that little line shows up on the pregnancy test, to be followed closely with a good 6-9 weeks of the worst, most-persistent kind of nausea and exhaustion imaginable. Then there are the back aches, the hip pains, the swollen body parts, and the inevitably unflattering weight-gain. Forget about childbirth: c-section or vaginal birth-- either one presents its own set of amazingly indescribable-off-the-charts levels of moans and groans. Think the fun ends once the kid is born? Ha! There are the bleeding nipples, the sleepless nights, and I could go on and on. Things do let up a bit as the kid becomes more human and less animal, but I've got to tell you, at least once a week my romping three year-old daughter's hard head comes into painful contact with my head or jaw or nose with enough force to bring tears to my eye. And parents of adolescents tell me that the emotional pain of raising a teenage daughter will make all of this initial pain seem like child's play . . .

I bring all of this ouch-factor up because I am on the cusp of enjoying it all over again. 39 weeks pregnant, my due date is just four days away. And I am struggling to make sense with the fact that, every time my stomach tightens or cramps with another meaningless Braxton-Hick's contaction, my heart leaps with the hope that this MAY BE IT. I'm falling for it all over again! Although I believed that humans have biologically evolved to avoid pain (aka- once we touch a hot stove, we don't touch it again), we are somehow excempt from such rationality where procreation is concerned. Not only am I such a sucker that I want to start this roller coaster of exhaustion over again as soon as possible (rather than enjoying my last few days of freedom), I want to pursue a NEW type of pain . . . a VBAC rather than a C-Section. I even plan to avoid an epidural as long as I can (to avoid any complications), although even I have my limits . . .

Billy Blanks, my personal DVD Tae-Bo coach, likes to remind me, as he sweats fake sweat bouncing around in bright leotards, that "you have to give some to get some." Perhaps this is why we pursue the pain of parenthood, even when we know precisely what we are getting into, even when we can no longer claim the profound ignorance of first time parenthood. Because we second-time mothers know that beyond the pain, there is pleasure that far-surpasses it. . .

That's what I'm banking on, anyway . . . After all, I'm kind of committed at this point . . .