Laurel opens her big present

On my 8th birthday, I figured out that having an early January birthday kinda sucks. That was the year my parents couldn’t pull it off. Couldn’t make the magic happen. I had always measured my birthdays as compared to my sister’s, who always had summer birthdays filled with swimming, friends, sunshine, and happiness. I got the bleary winter sniffle-nosed birthday, with the cheap presents and snow. And on my 8th birthday, for whatever reason, I couldn’t have a party. I don’t even remember why. I just remember the heartache.

It was the date that was the problem. The date of my birthday sucked for a couple of reasons. First, my family was the Lehman Brothers of Christmas spending. My usually frugal parents turned into Mr. and Mrs. Jones on Christmas, and no one could keep up with us. So let’s just say that after Christmas my parents found innovative ways to cook with government cheese. Secondly, there is a certain ennui that hits families with school-aged children after the winter holiday break. My birthday usually fell on the day we would return to school from winter break. Oh, joy. Let me tell you– the holiday hangover does not lift by January 5. People are holiday-ed out. Happy freakin’ birthday.

My parents made up for it many times, I’m sure. Especially my mother. She always tried her best. And I’m grateful. I don’t leave bags of flaming poo on my mother’s doorstep to assuage my sense of loss. I’m a big girl now, and I have my birthday expectations set rather low now so that I don’t get disappointed. Any resentment I may feel toward my mother is so much dust, swept under the rugs, the memories of lame birthdayness buried under decades of psychosis and guilt. Well, except for that year I’m still trying to forget–1984?–when I got sweatbands for my birthday. Yes. Picture that, friends. Are you reading this, Mom? THANKS for the sweat bands. Really. Unforgettable. *grin*

Laurel and her new American Girl doll. I get the impression we have just eaten fruit of the forbidden tree....

And because I suck at planning, I became pregnant with my second child in the spring. Ensuring that I, too, would have a child with an early January birthday. My mother was delighted, as you can imagine.

So it is an understatement that I’m rather invested in making sure that my middle child has a good birthday, with cool presents and good friends. And Allen and I try very hard every year to make this happen. We’ve been quite successful thus far.

Except…this year. This very important year, when my little girl is turning seven so ferociously that she wanted to make herself a crown with 7 on every tip, covered in glitter and sequins, so that the whole school–nay the entire ‘verse–would know that she had gained this most noble of ages. This year when 95 percent of the pajama party invitees were already RSVP’ed in the YES column. This is the year that she will definitely remember. Because she just got the equivalent of sweat bands. But with phlegm and vomit. Yes. The flu. For her birthday. Doesn’t that suck?

Anyone who can be THIS excited by plastic shoes has her expectations set pretty low to begin with!

And my sweet mother, who is probably reading this from her laptop in her rehab room in Salem Hospital following open-heart surgery, is STILL trying to make it OK, to make it up to me, but this time to the next generation. She wants me to use her credit card to go buy Laurel her first big-girl bike. Because Mom wants to cancel out influenza with purple tassels on the handlebars. And I love her for it.

I don’t blame her. I want to buy Laurel her own rocket ship. I get it.

I guess this is my legacy. This guilt. Maybe we won’t be able to keep the bar raised every January 8th. Maybe Laurel, too, will grow up with low birthday expectations, embittered by continual disappointment, starting with this 2011 birthday of suck, when she had influenza.

Or maybe Allen and I will just step back, reschedule, and plan for an awesome party when she is done with the flu. Maybe we, as a family, will hit it out of the park, just to spit in influenza’s eye. And maybe now we will go to the store and get the bike on Mom’s credit card, and take lots of photos of Laurel exploding with glee when she sees it. Maybe that will finally let Mom off the hook. After all, she’s still trying to make up for the sweat bands.

Andrew likes oatmeal. All over himself. And the floor. Fun!

Daddy. Da da. THAT. This. Gentle. Tickle. Done. Hello! Hi! Book. Clap. Bonk! Block. Andrew. ilk (short for milk). Laurel.

These are the words my almost one-year-old baby has been saying for months now. Do you notice something missing? A word. A word that starts with a very basic baby sound. One of the first sounds, linguistically speaking, that babies make?

Mama.

For the last 6 months, I’ve been following up almost every one of his da da‘s with a ma ma. And still, it didn’t happen.

Yesterday, I had a chance to slip away to have dinner, to have Terry Time with a friend. To try to transform this soup between my ears back into functioning brain matter and arrange some words into sentences befitting a grown-up human, speaking to another grown-up human. Before Allen got home from work, I put Andrew in the dreaded pack-n-play and jumped into the shower. As I was in there, Andrew was screaming for me. Kelsey saved him from his sad, lonely sojourn of 5 minutes’ confinement, and sat in the bathroom so he could be near me while I showered. And he sat there, on his sister’s lap, saying “Ma ma. Ma ma. Ma ma. MA MA MA MA MA MA MA MA MA” the entire time.

When I dried off, I grabbed him and held him close, thanking Kelsey for saving him. Thanking Andrew for finally saying my name. I nursed him to sleep and then got dressed, greeted my friend, kissed my wonderful husband goodbye, and made a dash for the door. When I returned a few hours later, Allen was holding his sleepy little son, who saw me and delightedly said “Mama.” Apparently, he had been saying “Ma ma ma ma” for almost the entire time I was gone.

Mmmmmm. Cruncy, sweet, crisp, delicious apples!

Fall in New England is my very favorite time of year. After more than 25 years of living in parts of the country that don’t do autumn very well, climate-wise (sorry–don’t mean to disparage your season, Florida, but… c’mon!), I’ve found myself being totally ecstatic when the end of September rolls around. The leaves, the fall produce, the crisp fall temperatures–these are things I’ve missed for most of my life.

And, of course, the farms. I love love LOVE visiting real, working farms and supporting local agriculture. So, last weekend, we decided it was time to head to the more rural parts of our area for some apple-picking time!

Allen and I loaded up the kids, and I grabbed my camera. We drove out to Stow and did a quick drive around Honey Pot Hill Orchards to check on the picking conditions and to meet up with some friends. Our first surprise was the huge professional-looking banner over the entrance, welcoming the apple pickers. And then there were attendants in orange vests, gesticulating purposefully and hurriedly, directing us to the HUGE parking area. We… kept driving toward the exit. As we passed by the entrance to the picking area on the way out, we spotted the hundreds of other apple pickers; but it wasn’t until we saw the guy in the bear suit giving out balloons that we knew for sure that it just wasn’t our kind of place. If it’s yours, you now know where you should go. They do a good business, and little kids, especially, love going to Honey Pot Hill.

We wanted a quieter, less crowded picking experience, so we went down the road to our first choice for apple picking–Carver Hill Orchards, a smaller, family-owned farm. You go to Carver Hill to pick apples and enjoy the leisure. You can also get cider donuts and pie and ice cream, but you don’t have to endure the theme park silliness if that’s not your style.

We took our time picking our apples, sampling from each tree to ensure we got the kind we like best. Laurel got stung on the lip by a kamikaze bee flinging itself out of a tree, but she endured it like the trooper she is. I pulled out the intact stinger from her lower lip with tweezers from my first-aid kit. We watched the swelling, put some ice on it, and she was good to go. The girls climbed trees to pick the best of the fruit. Andrew picked his first apple. We didn’t have to share our trees with anyone else. There were plenty of other pickers around, but we were never crowded. It was a wonderfully peaceful way to spend a few hours on a lovely New England afternoon.

So I have a peck of apples now sitting in my fridge, and I’m thinking of making some applesauce and at least ONE apple crisp. Do you have a recipe for either you’d like to share?

Here are some pics!

Laurel holds the cool fruit to her ouchy lip

Kelsey nomming a Cortland

Allen getting a little sun!

The girls show off their hard work

Andrew picks his first apple

Are these flowers glaring at my camera, or is it just me?

Yesterday, I might have seen The Grim looking down at me ferociously from a cloud.

I was fretting about it when the shape all of a sudden dissipated with a wisp of breeze. I felt relieved until it reformed into a seriously evil-looking Siamese cat with huge fangs. Right before feeling panicky, the cat morphed into what looked like a terrier. *sigh of relief* Terriers don’t have it in them to be evil. I began to calm down a bit. OK, Terry, maybe we should change our perspective? Perhaps we shouldn’t go looking for signs of doom in fluffy white clouds on a perfectly gorgeous blue-skied September day?!

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face. Andrew was playing in the grass, getting some fiber, and he crawled over, giggling, to attack my exposed belly with playful-hey-I’m-hungry nips. I glanced over to see what the girls were doing. Kelsey, Laurel, and M (a former classmate of Kelsey’s) were playing under and up a tree right off the bike path. All was well. I looked again up to the sky for portents. And there was the biggest, fattest, fluffiest unicorn cloud that ever floated in any sky, ever. Going back in time. I mean, this unicorn wasn’t just chubby.

Comforted, I rolled over and offered Andrew my breast, trying to minimize the nipple-view for passing commuters who were gaping at the scene while walking home from work. I smiled at a red-haired woman who was staring in wonder, hoping to convey a sense of peace and rightness while also feeling a bit exposed. “Everything is OK. Yes, this is a baby and a mother, snuggling on a Mexican blanket. Yes, this baby IS on the breast. Yes, they are nursing in a soccer field.  Move on. These are not the droids you are looking for.”

Andrew rolls over, a little stream of milk running from the side of his mouth. He crawls over to munch on some clover (moooooo). I look up, and there is Laurel, looking at me with a question in her eyes. “Can I jump on you?” she asks. I tense my abdominals, awaiting the 46 pounds of enthusiastic first grader. She’s stopped leading with her knee, for which my spleen is quite grateful. She pounces, and we snuggle for a few minutes. She is smiling–her little body is recovering from weeks of gastrointestinal pain. Her agreeableness meter is operational again.

Laurel wanders off to play. All three of my children are involved in play or eating grass on this gorgeous day as I lie here in this field, enjoying the leisure that seldom, lately, goes along with my job. I’m feeling more at harmony with the world around me today. I’m moving at some kind of rhythm with the universe instead of against its sync. I no longer feel like the out-of-tune violin in a symphony, creating a cacophony of negative vibrations. I’m in tune, but still a little behind in tempo.

I pack up our stuff and declare that it’s time to head back to the house. M’s mother will be along soon, and I need to figure out dinner, and move everyone back onto the schedule we’ve set up for balancing the needs of getting homework done with the needs of kids’ having personal time. Allen is working late, so I need to be on. I need to be the one enforcing the schedule, kissing the boo boos, holding the freaking out baby, gently moving the girls toward bedtime. There will be time later for being up in my own head.

I think I will forgive the clouds their silliness. I will take my signs from the more rational, reasonable energies that float down from my brain. It was a good day, and sometimes that is enough.

But maybe I’ll *knock on wood,* just for the hell of it.

My first and third graders!

I’m supposed to be feeling lighter. Better. After all, 2/3rds of my children are in school after a long summer. But instead, I am a stress monkey.

I’ve crafted this life out of the scraps of good plans, thrown together with the very best of intentions, but nevertheless, messily. Laden with mistakes. If my life were an art project submitted for a grade, I would be kicked out of class. Allen and I have lived a transient life since having children. In our defense, we’ve been trying to find our town, our house, the place we want to be FROM. That may not make sense to those of you who figured it out sooner than we did.

But you don’t always get it right the first time **. Or the second. Or even the third *wince*. Of those who don’t get it right at first, many people just make do, just go along and make a life where they are, make the best of it. And then there is Allen and I. Fickle, pie-in-the-sky, idealistic people who want the BEST they can get, and are willing to sacrifice to get there.

What we hope is forgivable is that we have asked our children to go along with our plans. And they have been able to do so. Children are flexible, right?

Ready to go this morning, a little nervous.

We hope so. In the 8 years since having children, we have lived in 4 states. Kelsey, who just started third grade a few hours ago, has had her first day of a new elementary school 4 times already. Laurel just started first grade in a different school than she started kindergarten.

We didn’t do this on purpose. We thought moving to North Carolina in 2006, buying a lovely house in a very kid-friendly area would be THE PLACE WE RAISE OUR CHILDREN. We were naive. No, actually, we were just plain wrong. Living away from our friends, from any family whatsoever, was foolish, even though we met really awesome new friends and had the house of our dreams. It was a hard lesson to learn. And it took a lot of courage to give up that ideal, that house, that plan, and move back to New England to try to re-forge a life. You can’t start over. You can only begin again, wiser.

So here we are, in Arlington, Massachusetts. East Arlington, to be precise. We live in an awesome house we hope to rent for as long as they’ll let us. We are across the street from a truly exceptional school, and also a mere 7 minutes’ walking distance to Alewife, where Allen catches the subway to get to work in Cambridge. We are surrounded by friends and not far from my family of origin (although still far from Allen’s, which totally sucks). Regardless, THIS–what we have now–this is the fulfillment of a lot of years of trying to figure out where we want to be. And so I should be happy! And I mostly am. Every other day we have lived here, I have been happy about where I am waking up in the morning. Every day but today.

Because when I saw Kelsey from across the gymnasium as I stood next to Laurel in the 1st grade line, I saw a scared little girl, all alone. The anxious look on her face as she stood in the 3rd grade line, as children around her paired off, stood in groups, called out each other’s names, as she stood there alone and afraid BROKE MY HEART. When I could leave Laurel, I walked over to rescue her, but all I could do was stand nearby and smile at her, whisper encouragement, offer a hug. Placid smiling, confident-appearing Mommy was there, but on the inside, my brain was yelling at me. If only we had remained in the old apartment, she would be meeting up with her friends from 1st and 2nd grade, and they would be starting their third year together. If only you could be satisfied with what you have instead of always yearning for something MORE. What’s wrong with you? How could you do this to your kids?

That voice is the reason for this headache now raging through my cranium, untouched by a very considerate chiropractor who tried to de-stress me this morning during our weekly appointment. “It’ll all work out fine, Terry” he said, and I THINK he’s right.

I still have so much to be thankful for. After all, we found our home. And I’m optimistic that things will work out–if not right away, then long term at least. For all I know, both of my girls are having the best first day of school ever. I won’t know for a few hours yet. Until then, I am plagued by guilt, angry at my decisions.

Let me just get through this last transition, Universe. Please. I’m getting better at life. I swear. I’ve realigned my priorities. My head is on straight. I have the most awesome husband ever, and my marriage continues to be an astoundingly profound wellspring of understanding, comfort and love. We have three amazing children we couldn’t love more. The journey to where we are right now has been full of challenges and learning experiences, and I am grateful for the life I have. I just need my kids to be OK at the least, until we can grow deeper into this groove of our new life and make it AWESOME.

** “it” being that confluence of events where you are living in a good location where you have optimal happiness for all your family members.

Tommy, age 13

Today, I said goodbye to my good friend, Tommy. Couch-eater. Crotch-sniffer. Carrot-loving, thunderstorm-hating, jumps-like-a-bunny, goofiest tongue-hanging-out-est canine who captured my heart 12.5 years ago. I will miss you forever.

Peace, my big silly yellow dog. I will write more when I’m not crying.

Andrew has cut his first tooth. I shall call it Rocky. We’re playing the “If you bite my nipple with your pointy little new tooth, I will suffocate you!” game. So far, I’m the winner.

Rocky would like a cookie. So maybe Andrew and I will have a *HealthyTimes Maple Biscuit. Cuz they are yummy for babies. And their mothers.

*No, I’m not endorsing this product. Unless they want to send me money?

Ah, springtime. A time of rebirth. The flowers begin blossoming, and the trees begin to regain some of their clothing finally after the bleak naked wardrobe of New England winter. Springtime is also a time of rain, flooded basements and mildew. It’s a complicated season, full of contradictions. And then.. there is Easter.

Being Unitarian Universalist is rather like being invited to a smorgasbord of spirituality. Our family has the opportunity to honor many Pagan, Wiccan, Jewish, and Protestant holiday observances. But the Easter that we celebrate in our home has often been a rather weird holiday for us. Since we have kids, we do the bunny thing. We paint eggs. In past years, we’ve told a story about Ostara. Last year, we explained the crucifixion story that Christians believe.  But, basically, because we have little investment in any one flavor of spirituality, we take a lighthearted approach to this holiday. And sometimes, just sometimes, we get a bit irreverent.

This is the year of the Peeps of Death.

Yes, Peeps — those sticky sweet strangely hardened colorful fluff animals that ANY OTHER TIME OF YEAR ARE COMPLETE ANATHEMA TO ME AND MY CRAZY IDEAS THAT KIDS SHOULDN’T HAVE HFCS AND ARTIFICIAL FOOD COLORING. We had 7 children at our house, from age 12 down to age 3.5. They represented faiths that include Judaism, Wiccan, and UU. I set out a tray of bunny and chick peeps, toothpicks, plastic cocktail swords, markers, glitter, and paper plates. I wasn’t sure what would happen. I had eggs to boil, coffee that needed drinking, and a baby to take care of. It didn’t take them long to either massacre or masticate all the Peeps before these adorable children returned to being dragons and dressing up as princesses and pirates, their swords and lightsabers clashing in a strange uber-pop-culture casserole of tropes, with dialogue spewed from a mishmash of Dr. Horrible, Star Wars, Pokemon, Princess Bride, and songs from Jonathan Coulton and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A bunch of weird and completely amazing and creative kids.

THIS is Easter. It’s a complicated season, a weird holiday. Full of contradictions.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. And she had a plan. For her third and final childbirth, she would have another easy, natural, unmedicated, uncomplicated childbirth.

Life, aka the universe, aka destiny, aka the great cosmic unknown, aka the gods, aka God with a capital G, (choose whichever you like, as your beliefs dictate) however, had a lesson to teach. It’s one our girl is familiar with, and it goes something like this: no matter how you plan or how much control you think you have over a situation, that situation has a life of its own, and events will unfurl as they will, so prepare to let go and let it happen.

So, I didn’t get the birth I wanted. But does it really matter, in the end? The outcome is good. There is a baby, and he is lying beside me, cranky because I stopped feeding him and put him down. He is beautiful.

Oh, but you want the details? OK. Read on.

For two weeks, I had prodromal labor. I would have contractions for hours on end daily that would gradually stall out. We ended up in the hospital twice with regular, timed contractions, only to be sent home because my body wasn’t dilating. Prior to the third trip to the hospital, the contractions were stronger than ever, for a longer, more consistent time. So, off we went to the hospital Monday morning around 4:30am. The midwives decided to keep me, as I was 2-3 centimeters dilated. So, I was admitted at 5am. I labored on my feet or sitting, in Allen’s arms, for most of that day. And when checked, was disappointed to hear that no dilation had happened in that time. I was failing to progress. I tried not to take this personally. Theories abounded, such as the fact that his head had never descended, that his presentation was posterior. That my body wasn’t producing enough oxytocin to do the job of dilating. Although it wasn’t in the plan, we acquiesced to receiving help and I was started on pitocin to get things moving.

Contractions got stronger, and still no dilation. I was having excruciatingly painful back labor. And yet no progress toward birth was happening. The baby’s head was still out of reach. No effacement. All those things that can be measured showed no change. My body was in hard labor, but my labor wasn’t moving toward birth.

Finally, it was decided that breaking the water would move things along.

It didn’t.

To further complicate matters, it was observed that the baby’s heartbeat became erratic whenever I had a strong contraction. For the sake of the baby, I was asked to labor horizontally. There was fear that the umbilical cord was prolapsed, so whenever the heartbeat dropped too low, I was turned to the other side.

Many hours of torture ensued. Fourteen hours after being admitted to Labor & Delivery, and feeling near the end of my pain tolerance, I asked for help. I hesitatingly submitted to the epidural, even though I knew it was unlikely to provide much relief, having tried this before during the birth of my first child. But I did get relief. Three hours of mostly-numb recharging. The left side of my body never got numb, but the edge was taken off. And then the pain returned. Doubly painful. And then the midwives talked to us about our options.

As long as the baby’s heartbeat continued to be stable, I could continue to move toward having a vaginal delivery. But I had to remain horizontal. Thanks to the pitocin administered earlier, I was now 5 cm dilated. Half-way there. When there was no change hours later, we had to make a decision. The midwife had a plan. She suggested a gradual increase in pitocin to get my cervix dilated so that birth could happen, as it was clear that my body wasn’t going to progress on its own. But so gradual that it wouldn’t affect the baby’s heartbeat. If it started to, it would be discontinued, and we’d have to consider a cesarean birth. We agree.

The pitocin is increased gradually. The pain relief is gone. Hours pass. The back labor in horizontal position is having its effect, breaking down my willpower. Another pow-wow with the midwife, and one tired woman asks for professional advice as to what to do. The midwife suggests a new epidural, and (with close observation of baby’s heartbeat) increasing the pitocin to, as quickly as possible, get the cervix dilated. If this doesn’t work, that other option will have to be considered. It’s now been 18 hours since admittance. The second epidural is administered. The pain relief comes soon after. Blessed respite. But the clock is ticking, so the pitocin is increased dramatically.

The baby’s heartbeat is strong, to our great relief. Three more hours pass, and I drop off for little naps here and there between contractions, awaking fully to pain on my left side, which is still not numb.  Then, the last of the pain relief dissipates. I endure hard labor contractions for about two more hours, fighting the desire to push. The midwife checks my progress and says “30 more minutes.” I breathe through the most excruciating pain of my life. Another hour passes. And finally, there is no more holding back. The midwife arrives, and the final check results in the best news ever. I am finally dilated and effaced enough for birth, although the baby remains out of full engagement.

The midwife sounds doubtful that I can push the baby out, since so much pain medication was pumped into me. She thinks I am numb and unable to push. “Do you remember how to push, how you pushed out your girls?” she asks. I don’t answer. I just push. I try to communicate that there is no pain relief, that I feel everything. But I’m also a little out of it with pain and resting between contractions. Her next question, I can hear the doubt in her voice. “Do you feel like you’re making progress?” I don’t need to answer this question. I just need to push out my child. I do so in less than 5 minutes, with three  contractions and some heroic pushes using every bit of energy and willpower I have left, to the cheers of my amazed and amazing husband, who hasn’t left my side for the entire 24 hours.

He is born at 5:48 am on his estimated due date—October 20, with a full head of hair.  8lb, 9oz, 22 inches long. Perfect.

I am up and walking 30 minutes later, and we are transferred to recovery. I shower and get dressed, and our first visitors arrive a few hours later to meet our son.

For more photos, go here.

I was FINE preparing to say goodbye to my little girl, standing patiently in line awaiting the bell on her first day of all-day Kindergarten today. And I would have remained fine, pregnancy hormones and all, had it not been for her very sweet and well-meaning but somewhat sadistic teacher. I was handed a little memento of this first momentous day. –>

As Laurel walked confidently away from me in her shiny new black shoes, a bouncing, smiling girl in all pink, her red hair glistening in the sun, the tears started sliding down my face. I took some photos, and she looked back once to give me the thumbs up. I waved and faked a smile. And then turned to Allen, who was there just in time after seeing Kelsey off, to bury my sobbing, sniffling face into his awaiting shoulder.

I had prepared to do the happy dance of the liberated mommy. I was bragging that I should have a party. That after being stay-at-home mommy for 7.5 years, THIS would be my shining moment. I would be free. For 6 hours per day. I was going to spend my first day doing errands that are so hard to do with kids around. Followed by a nap.

It turns out I’m a little bit of an emotional wreck. And instead of partying, I’ve done a little shopping, cleaned the house, organized the DVDs and re-alphabetized them, and am thinking of making cookies for my darling kids before zooming up to the school to get there early. I look forward to holding my little girl in my arms again.

It doesn’t matter that I’m not ready to let her go. She’s ready.

Damn hormones.

There goes my baby!! *snf*