... I wanted to throw up. He'd been taken from my womb by a surgeon and was being held and tested by doctors in green. Hubby went to him, but they wanted to finish their tests. "Let him hold his baby," my midwife yelled from beside me. Lucas peed on the doctors at that point, and they handed him over.
Hubby brought him to me, at my midwife's urging. They put him next to me, and I turned my head the other way. They brought me a cardboard container that looks like what you put fish and chips in because I said I felt nauseous. I felt exactly how you think you would feel when your stomach has been cut open and is now being sewed up and no amount of anesthetic would make you unaware of it. I felt my guts being twisted and pulled, and I did not want to throw up on my baby. I remember shaking my head and my midwife saying, "look at your baby" and in the back of my mind, I could hear this warning refrain, "I'm not bonding with the baby, I'm not bonding with the baby," but there was nothing I could do. "What's his name?" people around us asked. I caught Hubby's eyes, because we had our boy's name ready but wanted to see him to make sure. Hubby nodded and told everyone, "it's Lucas."
My next memory is in the recovery room. A woman, a nurse, sitting beside me talks to me, but I can't hear her. I can hear my baby crying, hear Hubby's voice talking loudly, and my midwife and her student laughing. My baby is brought to me and put on my breast. I don't remember this at all but there are pictures and later, I'm glad of it. The nurse tests my freezing, gives me drugs, and then I'm out again.
When I wake up, I'm in a hospital room. There is a baby swaddled in a clear box beside me. I think maybe this has something to do with me. But I fall asleep again.
Later, when I wake up, Hubby is sitting across the room holding a baby between his legs and talking to him. I understand what has happened now but still feel no desire to "bond" with the baby.
It is late that night when it happens, after all of the family members have come and gone, after Kevin has fallen asleep in his sleeping bag, when it is just me and Lucas. When he cries, I pull him painstakingly out from his clear box/bassinet, so sore from the surgery. I am beyond exhaustion but my maternal instinct takes over, pulls him close to me and to my breast where he immediately finds relief. When he has taken my colostrum, I adjust my bed so I am sitting upright and place him between my legs.
There through the night, I watch him as I drift in and out of sleep. He awakes every few hours and I bring him to me naturally. In these moments, we are one again, and I realize no need to bond in the way that its described. We are bonded, have been these past nine months. When we got separated, we only had to recognize each other again.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
I've built Lucas a garage out of a diaper box. Not an original idea - I stole it from friends we visited today. But it has entertained him for almost an hour. The scene, replayed over and over, has his beloved cow, Moo-moo, shoved inside the drum of his concrete mixer, the garage door opening (with sound effects of course), the mixer driving in, Moo-moo getting out and closing the door (with accompanied effects again), then hugging and kissing his friend, Bearemy. After a minute or two where I play Bearemy and come up with something interesting to do, Moo-moo has to go to work and reverse repeats his entrance. My Bridget-Jone voice in my head says, "I am brilliant, almost-child-rearing-expert, mother."
This hour is made even better by the fact I rescued him from his meltdown with Daddy after Daddy finally turned off the computer (after indulging him for many, many YouTube videos featuring Lightning McQueen). I know Daddy has crashed guiltily on the couch, but is relieved. Normally it is me at my wits end and Daddy saving us both from a fight.
I pulled Lucas' sobbing body up into my bed, wiped his tears and his running nose, and held him close. Then I pulled out the classic "Everyone Poops" book, and was not surprised when he instantly calmed down as we examined the elephant's enormous poop. I followed this by revealing his mixer truck that was hidden in our bed, and eventually building him a cardboard garage and the rest of the hour was history. I even read a whole magazine article, popping up to play Bearamy's parts whenever necessary.
He didn't argue with me when I told him he had to go to bed. We read two books and then I sang him a song and pet his sweaty head. I'm pretty sure he has a mild fever, fighting off this cold and cough of his, but his eyes were bright and staring at me as he shifted from position to position in his bed. As I sang what I used to sing him when he was a baby, he asked me, "what are you doing?" but I kept singing and he seemed to remember it and settled down.
"This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too"
(Celtic Women)
This hour is made even better by the fact I rescued him from his meltdown with Daddy after Daddy finally turned off the computer (after indulging him for many, many YouTube videos featuring Lightning McQueen). I know Daddy has crashed guiltily on the couch, but is relieved. Normally it is me at my wits end and Daddy saving us both from a fight.
I pulled Lucas' sobbing body up into my bed, wiped his tears and his running nose, and held him close. Then I pulled out the classic "Everyone Poops" book, and was not surprised when he instantly calmed down as we examined the elephant's enormous poop. I followed this by revealing his mixer truck that was hidden in our bed, and eventually building him a cardboard garage and the rest of the hour was history. I even read a whole magazine article, popping up to play Bearamy's parts whenever necessary.
He didn't argue with me when I told him he had to go to bed. We read two books and then I sang him a song and pet his sweaty head. I'm pretty sure he has a mild fever, fighting off this cold and cough of his, but his eyes were bright and staring at me as he shifted from position to position in his bed. As I sang what I used to sing him when he was a baby, he asked me, "what are you doing?" but I kept singing and he seemed to remember it and settled down.
"This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too"
(Celtic Women)
Baby H has fallen asleep on my chest. I'm bouncing gently as I'm seated on the couch in this motion that is automatic and familiar. His Mommy is observing me with that exhausted haze of new motherhood that I've forgotten but is also familiar. Moments flash back to me, like when a relative showed up in the hospital and rocked Lucas in the crook of her arm and laid him down to sleep, and Hubby and I almost cried in gratefulness and then shooed her off so we could sleep. Then when Amy came by up at two weeks in and took Lucas into her arms and bounced and swayed in this figure 8 motion, I felt like I should take notes.
I recall 7 weeks too, when Lucas was like little Baby H, when Amy's mother-in-law took him from me at a party and happily entertained him and put him to sleep. I just sat stunned in this green armchair unsure of what to do with myself, but so very very relieved. Just before leaving, I'd dissolved into tears with Hubby, as he went to study and I headed to this party to escape being alone. "I can't do this anymore," I cried. "I don't care about your masters - it's not worth it!" I screamed.
I don't know if Baby H's Mommy is feeling like I did, I don't know if I'm projecting my old fears on her, but I think I see a glimpse of it in her eyes. I want to find the right words to tell her, to soothe her. Instead I say useless things like, "how are you doing?" and she tells me she's fine, and "how's he doing?" and she says all the right things. And I know she's worrying if he's sleeping enough, and I know she's judging herself if she's picking up his cues or not. And I want to tell her, "everything you're doing is just right", but I don't think she'll hear that because it can't feel right, not when you're wandering in this haze feeling like you can't get a handle on things. I want to tell her, "you guys will figure it out", but instead I tell her what I did to figure it out, and it sounds like unasked for advice.
So, I hold Baby H instead, and maybe give her a moment to just be. And I drink in his sweet new baby head smell, and our hearts beat against each other, and I am transported to that magical place that new babies take you, that do make it all okay. Around us, my 2.5 year old is playing with the two other boys and us three moms take turns threatening and bribing our kids, complaining about their behaviour, and comparing notes on the things they say. We've lost sight of that magical place, but we've also stopped trying to get it right or figure it out and are learning to just let it be. It is definitely not so hard or isolating as it was at 7 weeks.
Part of me wants to swoop down and save Baby H's Mommy - from the sleeplessness, the self-criticism, the neverendingness of it all. But part of me also knows it's her journey to have and no one can do it for her. She has everything inside her to push through, and Baby H knows what he wants and will make it known. So, I guess if I could tell her something, it would be just that - trust him and trust yourself. And it's not easy, and you can ask for help, and it does get better, and you will find your way. Just trust him and trust yourself.
I recall 7 weeks too, when Lucas was like little Baby H, when Amy's mother-in-law took him from me at a party and happily entertained him and put him to sleep. I just sat stunned in this green armchair unsure of what to do with myself, but so very very relieved. Just before leaving, I'd dissolved into tears with Hubby, as he went to study and I headed to this party to escape being alone. "I can't do this anymore," I cried. "I don't care about your masters - it's not worth it!" I screamed.
I don't know if Baby H's Mommy is feeling like I did, I don't know if I'm projecting my old fears on her, but I think I see a glimpse of it in her eyes. I want to find the right words to tell her, to soothe her. Instead I say useless things like, "how are you doing?" and she tells me she's fine, and "how's he doing?" and she says all the right things. And I know she's worrying if he's sleeping enough, and I know she's judging herself if she's picking up his cues or not. And I want to tell her, "everything you're doing is just right", but I don't think she'll hear that because it can't feel right, not when you're wandering in this haze feeling like you can't get a handle on things. I want to tell her, "you guys will figure it out", but instead I tell her what I did to figure it out, and it sounds like unasked for advice.
So, I hold Baby H instead, and maybe give her a moment to just be. And I drink in his sweet new baby head smell, and our hearts beat against each other, and I am transported to that magical place that new babies take you, that do make it all okay. Around us, my 2.5 year old is playing with the two other boys and us three moms take turns threatening and bribing our kids, complaining about their behaviour, and comparing notes on the things they say. We've lost sight of that magical place, but we've also stopped trying to get it right or figure it out and are learning to just let it be. It is definitely not so hard or isolating as it was at 7 weeks.
Part of me wants to swoop down and save Baby H's Mommy - from the sleeplessness, the self-criticism, the neverendingness of it all. But part of me also knows it's her journey to have and no one can do it for her. She has everything inside her to push through, and Baby H knows what he wants and will make it known. So, I guess if I could tell her something, it would be just that - trust him and trust yourself. And it's not easy, and you can ask for help, and it does get better, and you will find your way. Just trust him and trust yourself.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
"Okay, it's sleepytime!" I yell.
Lucas falls onto the nest of pillows on our bed, pulls one on top of himself and shuts his eyes firmly. He peeks one eye open to check that I am doing the same and I fake a snore.
"Morning!" I yell. He bolts up, goes and turns on the light beside our bed. Now it's his turn.
I call this one Wake-up-Sleepytime. It allows us to play while I lay flat out in a comfy bed, with minimal requirements of effort. It is just one in my repertoire of games I've invented for when I'm exhausted but we both want to play.
It all started with Find-My-Beebo, which originated around when I returned to work and would come home beat and lie on the floor. 13-month-old Lucas would toddle around me, pull up my shirt, and poke my belly-button. I would respond with true laughter because I'm ticklish and then tickle him in return. Again, the lying down part is quite convenient.
Another favourite is Tent-Time.
"Want to go in the tent with Mommy?" I ask Lucas.
"Yah!" he responds and drags over a blanket.
We nestle ourselves between the couch and coffee table, and I pull the blanket on top of us.
"Shh, we have to whisper in the tent," I tell him. This game is also good when you have a headache.
"I whisper!" he says loudly.
"Tell me a secret," I whisper to him.
"Secret, secret," he says into my ear, and I can't help but kiss his little head.
Lucas falls onto the nest of pillows on our bed, pulls one on top of himself and shuts his eyes firmly. He peeks one eye open to check that I am doing the same and I fake a snore.
"Morning!" I yell. He bolts up, goes and turns on the light beside our bed. Now it's his turn.
I call this one Wake-up-Sleepytime. It allows us to play while I lay flat out in a comfy bed, with minimal requirements of effort. It is just one in my repertoire of games I've invented for when I'm exhausted but we both want to play.
It all started with Find-My-Beebo, which originated around when I returned to work and would come home beat and lie on the floor. 13-month-old Lucas would toddle around me, pull up my shirt, and poke my belly-button. I would respond with true laughter because I'm ticklish and then tickle him in return. Again, the lying down part is quite convenient.
Another favourite is Tent-Time.
"Want to go in the tent with Mommy?" I ask Lucas.
"Yah!" he responds and drags over a blanket.
We nestle ourselves between the couch and coffee table, and I pull the blanket on top of us.
"Shh, we have to whisper in the tent," I tell him. This game is also good when you have a headache.
"I whisper!" he says loudly.
"Tell me a secret," I whisper to him.
"Secret, secret," he says into my ear, and I can't help but kiss his little head.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I take Lucas to the park on my one night off this past week. Unbeknownst to me, this park also boasts a nice wading pool.
"I go swimming?" Lucas asks me.
I physically move to block his view of the pool. "Er, no, Mommy didn't bring your swimsuit."
"That's not very nice, Mommy," he says, parroting something I've said to him on more than one occasion.
I shrug, "sorry, bud, let's go play on the slide."
I successfully distract him, but ten minutes later. "You get my swimsuit?" he asks, spying the pool again.
"No, sorry, I still don't have your swimsuit."
He points his finger at me, raises his voice, and yells, "stop doing that, Mommy!"
We repeat this over and over, and as people start to stare, wondering what I'm doing to him, I bribe him with McDonalds and move us on out of that park.
--
It's the morning rush. I'm standing by the doorway urging him to come put on his shoes so we can get out of the door. He is having a meltdown about his ding-a-ding-a's. Ding-a-ding-a's are the tubes coming out of the air conditioner that he has been pretending are train crossings (thus the ding-a-ding) while its been unplugged. He is put out to find that the air conditioner has been put away.
"That's not very nice, Mommy," he says between sobs. "I want to play with them."
"I know, honey. I'm sorry, but it had to go away. Can you come here and we'll put on your shoes?"
"I don't want to!" he yells. "I want to play with them." This is followed by a two minute rant about the loss of the ding-a-ding-a's and summed up with, "You understand?" as he points his finger in my face.
"I understand - you are sad and you are mad. But Mommy didn't mean to make you sad. We just had to put it away."
"You not put away. Stop doing that, Mommy!"
I sigh a big sigh, sit down, and allow his rant to continue. We are not getting out of the house any time soon.
--
Saturday evening. We've had a schedule-less day together as a family, so it's not a huge surprise when he demands his milk two hours before bedtime.
"No milk," Hubby tells him. "Milk is for sleepytime." After getting nowhere on negotiations with Daddy, he finds me and I reiterate the same.
Tears follow. Lying on the floor sobbing. Through the cries, I hear, "that's not very nice!"
Hell, if he wants it that bad, I don't care, I think. I look up at Hubby who shrugs the same thought. Except now we've made an issue out of it, we can't back down or he will think that crying will get him what he wants. Now we are hooped.
We try reasoning with him. Reasoning with a 2-year-old having a meltdown over milk, I know. We try distractions with Daddy's iPod. We try negotiating juice or water but he knows what he wants.
And what finally gets me is this. He opens the fridge, stares at the milk. "I not feel better. I am sad." Hubby scoops him up and we tell him he can have one cup of milk now or before sleepytime. He takes it now of course.
I plop down in his room, pull some books out of his basket, and put my arm out. He scoots into the empty spot beside me, snuggles into me, slurping his milk while I read about farm animals. That, I must say, is pretty nice.
"I go swimming?" Lucas asks me.
I physically move to block his view of the pool. "Er, no, Mommy didn't bring your swimsuit."
"That's not very nice, Mommy," he says, parroting something I've said to him on more than one occasion.
I shrug, "sorry, bud, let's go play on the slide."
I successfully distract him, but ten minutes later. "You get my swimsuit?" he asks, spying the pool again.
"No, sorry, I still don't have your swimsuit."
He points his finger at me, raises his voice, and yells, "stop doing that, Mommy!"
We repeat this over and over, and as people start to stare, wondering what I'm doing to him, I bribe him with McDonalds and move us on out of that park.
--
It's the morning rush. I'm standing by the doorway urging him to come put on his shoes so we can get out of the door. He is having a meltdown about his ding-a-ding-a's. Ding-a-ding-a's are the tubes coming out of the air conditioner that he has been pretending are train crossings (thus the ding-a-ding) while its been unplugged. He is put out to find that the air conditioner has been put away.
"That's not very nice, Mommy," he says between sobs. "I want to play with them."
"I know, honey. I'm sorry, but it had to go away. Can you come here and we'll put on your shoes?"
"I don't want to!" he yells. "I want to play with them." This is followed by a two minute rant about the loss of the ding-a-ding-a's and summed up with, "You understand?" as he points his finger in my face.
"I understand - you are sad and you are mad. But Mommy didn't mean to make you sad. We just had to put it away."
"You not put away. Stop doing that, Mommy!"
I sigh a big sigh, sit down, and allow his rant to continue. We are not getting out of the house any time soon.
--
Saturday evening. We've had a schedule-less day together as a family, so it's not a huge surprise when he demands his milk two hours before bedtime.
"No milk," Hubby tells him. "Milk is for sleepytime." After getting nowhere on negotiations with Daddy, he finds me and I reiterate the same.
Tears follow. Lying on the floor sobbing. Through the cries, I hear, "that's not very nice!"
Hell, if he wants it that bad, I don't care, I think. I look up at Hubby who shrugs the same thought. Except now we've made an issue out of it, we can't back down or he will think that crying will get him what he wants. Now we are hooped.
We try reasoning with him. Reasoning with a 2-year-old having a meltdown over milk, I know. We try distractions with Daddy's iPod. We try negotiating juice or water but he knows what he wants.
And what finally gets me is this. He opens the fridge, stares at the milk. "I not feel better. I am sad." Hubby scoops him up and we tell him he can have one cup of milk now or before sleepytime. He takes it now of course.
I plop down in his room, pull some books out of his basket, and put my arm out. He scoots into the empty spot beside me, snuggles into me, slurping his milk while I read about farm animals. That, I must say, is pretty nice.
I've started saying, "I'm developing a book." Developing a book. Developing means its in process, it's a production, it has a path.
The path is blurry and sometimes I think maybe I should take more courses, get my work published more, read another writing book, start a zine, do something else before. But instead, I'm taking what I know and going forward on the path. I launched a website, I put out a call for submissions, I posted it publicly. There's no turning back and I've no desire to.
What is that saying? When you don't quite know what you're doing, fake it!
I don't think I'm faking it per se. I have a publishing degree, a writing diploma and have taken editing courses. I know how to manage a project and have coordinated mass events and publications. I know how to query and pitch to agents and editors. And my father has self-published and I have contacts if I go that route. And I know marketing and think I've found a gap in the market.
But still. Do I know what I'm doing? Not exactly. Will I look back at this time in my life and think I was so very innocent point? Probably. Am I doing it anyways? Yes.
Because I could also look back at this time and wonder why I didn't do anything with my writing. I could continue being frustrated by the lack of true shared experiences amongst mothers. Something could happen to me and my biggest regret would be that I didn't publish my book.
So, I'm making up for what I don't know with my own drive, with the cheering on of others, and the beat in my heart that quickens every time I work on this project. If I don't find a publisher, I will self-publish. This work is going to become reality. I am developing a book.
The path is blurry and sometimes I think maybe I should take more courses, get my work published more, read another writing book, start a zine, do something else before. But instead, I'm taking what I know and going forward on the path. I launched a website, I put out a call for submissions, I posted it publicly. There's no turning back and I've no desire to.
What is that saying? When you don't quite know what you're doing, fake it!
I don't think I'm faking it per se. I have a publishing degree, a writing diploma and have taken editing courses. I know how to manage a project and have coordinated mass events and publications. I know how to query and pitch to agents and editors. And my father has self-published and I have contacts if I go that route. And I know marketing and think I've found a gap in the market.
But still. Do I know what I'm doing? Not exactly. Will I look back at this time in my life and think I was so very innocent point? Probably. Am I doing it anyways? Yes.
Because I could also look back at this time and wonder why I didn't do anything with my writing. I could continue being frustrated by the lack of true shared experiences amongst mothers. Something could happen to me and my biggest regret would be that I didn't publish my book.
So, I'm making up for what I don't know with my own drive, with the cheering on of others, and the beat in my heart that quickens every time I work on this project. If I don't find a publisher, I will self-publish. This work is going to become reality. I am developing a book.
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