“I find myself lying in bed at night, just wanting you.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Really? I have more.”
“I think I can only handle one a day.”
“Oh. Do you want a preview of tomorrow’s?”
“I’d rather savour today’s.”
Runaway
Yesterday while driving down the highway I saw a little dog running along the side of the road, obviously lost. Its well-groomed white coat was straggly and reminded me of plowed snow three days after the storm. I would have stopped had I not seen a man franticly scouring the woods.
As I approached, his shoulders dropped in exasperation. I slowed and motioned behind me. His eyes turned to the horizon and he too saw the almost white fluffball running toward him. His face was a mix of disbelief and relief as he ran to collect his prize. He had obviously been searching a while. His car was pulled over about 500 metres ahead, four-ways flashing, driver’s side not completely off the road.
I would have loved to have stopped to hear the story of this little dog who was so inadequately prepared for life on the run. Better yet, I would have loved to have heard the phone conversation when he returned to his car with the dog safely in the passenger seat and be at their home to see little hearts and hands cuddle and caress their favourite friend.
Korey
The birth of my first child was a well-planned event. Money saved for maternity leave, meaningful, unique names determined at week 8: Kyrie for a girl, Korey for a boy. Doula researched and engaged at 6 months. All the books reviewed. All pre-natal classes attended, with notetaking. Doctor’s appointments documented with each sensation recorded and reported. The only thing I didn’t do by the books was stop gaining weight at 25-30 lbs.
My birthplan was a work of art. Natural childbirth was high on the agenda and given the most real estate on the page. C-Section received only passing mention. “This won’t happen, but if it does…” I purposefully didn’t read the chapters on C-sections. I was fully trained in natural childbirth practices. I had a Doula. I was covered. This kid was coming out sans an episiotomy or complete pain blockers.
The May 28 due date came and went without so much as a twinge. A few days later it started, night labour. Which means you contract all night when you are supposed to be sleeping and as soon as your feet hit the floor, the contractions stop. How tiring. I was prenatally in my 4th trimester fog. Still, I resisted induction, knowing full well that meant a c-section was more likely. Weekly planning scores revealed a very content baby so I waddled along. At the June 8 planning score, our baby passed with flying colours but Mom failed. With a blood pressure of 169/102 I wasn’t going anywhere without a baby in my arms.
My husband called the Doula and our all-nighter began. First they broke my water and with a gush I went from comfortable to icky. Our baby was still content, however. The contractions didn’t strengthen. The pitocin drip was connected and the painful part began. All night I moaned as my husband and Doula saw to my every need. For the first time in my life I was not afraid to say what I needed. At one point early on, a very nice doctor mentioned that I should get an epidural now so my blood pressure would stabilize. I wasn’t listening…wish I had. I battled the blood pressure machine for hours, secretly afraid I was going to stroke out before I held my baby.
I finally requested the epi. What a relief. I still felt the sensations, and kept them “just bearable”. On cue, my blood pressure returned to a stable, woman-in-labour level. At day break I was announced fully dilated and told to rest until my doctor arrived. Her examination, however, didn’t bear the same result. I wasn’t fully dilated, only 9.5 with a lip. She pumped up the inducing sauce and I pumped up the epi. I had 45 minutes to make it happen. I pleaded and coached my baby to make an appearance. Nothing.
When they told me my time was up, I went from tears to elation within 5 minutes. I realized within a half hour I would be holding my baby. My cervix was closed for business and we were going in through the roof. At 10:26 am on June 9, I heard the cry of my first born. The birth plan clearly stated my husband was to announce the sex of the baby. My Doula stood guard, ready to drown out any peepers. “We have a son,” my husband whispered, leaning over and kissing me tenderly on the cheek. It was a brightly romantic moment that hasn’t dimmed.
Korey’s apgars were 9.5 and 10, such a keener. Our main objective was realized, a healthy baby. I remember saying early on that I liked the contractions because each one meant I was closer to holding my baby. I wasn’t trying to be a martyr, I was just earnest and wanted to experience childbirth. I don’t feel particularly ripped-off. I had the labour, the hemmorroids, even still, the incontinence 6 years later, and stitches in a far more comfortable spot.
As I reflect on my two pregnancies and births. I see that each child’s personality mirrors their individual stories. Korey very precise, organized, relaxed and patient, but a bit prone to intensity. Justin on the other hand, is layed back, likes to act goofy and aloof, eats his treats so fast he forgets the taste and then asks Korey to share his. Not usually a problem as Korey can always be counted on to have some safely hoarded away for a dry day, and he’s so kind he doesn’t mind sharing.
Unusually frightening
Today I had lunch with some friends. Not that that’s particular unusual, but the feeling of being completely comfortable with people you haven’t seen or hugged for uber moments leaves me a little frightened that I take these times and people for granted. What is it that brought us together? Work, play, our troubles, our triumphs? As we enter someone’s life, we leave a dent, sometimes barely noticable, like a ding from an unruly car door on a windy day. With others we smash together and become intertwined unextricably. Always we are connected by an infinite vibration, resonating as far as necessary to unite us.
I’m fortunate to have these people in my life and just wanted to say that out loud.
Even Better One Day!
The other day the boys watched the video of Ben and Liam. They worked the Youtube controls to “watch again” at least a dozen times. In the morning I found them lying in bed cuddled together, nose to nose, giggling and laughing. I asked what they were doing. “We’re Ben and Liam,” they said proudly. Ten minutes later they were clobbering each other. I smiled, thought of Kate’s family and prayed one day Ben and Liam will enjoy the bittersweet rivalry that peaks between the love.
Ben and Liam’s video trumped the OspreyCam which is one of the coolest things I’ve done this year. Keep up the good work boys. We love watching you grow.
Carrots don’t lie
Just because I feel impatience doesn’t mean I’m unable to wait. It just means I don’t want to. I’ve waited a lifetime for some things, only to have the realization be far too brief. Certainly no where near the time I’ve put into the desire. Which leads me to question if good things actually do come to those who wait. From this seat, and I retain the right to move to the leather sofa, I’m thinking it’s not that good things come, it’s the quenching of that insatiable, god-awful impatience which tricks us into thinking what we were waiting for is actually good for us. I’m still waiting, meditating on the crunch of the carrots, knowing deep that what’s coming will be…
Quiet Please
Within me lives a little girl who exists to be entertained and delighted. She craves adventure and each day designs a sparkling dynasty of intrigue, hope and what’s nextness. Without stopping to pause, she pushes me toward the next love, the next interest, the next enticing regime. She sleeps and I quietly relax and take in my surroundings, careful not to disturb her slumber. Sleep little one, let me enjoy these moments.
Things I don’t believe
I don’t believe there is a fine line between love and hate. That’s an easy excuse to stay too long in a relationship.
I don’t believe in hate. Fear is the opposite of love.
I don’t believe we have limitations. The best part is always yet to be.
I don’t believe in silencing children (although I’d like to sometimes). They are our best teachers.
I don’t believe I can have recreational sex. Being that close to someone is too emotional.
I don’t believe life passes us by. I believe we forget to reach.
Tortured by time
“It’s hard to be patient,” she whispered.
He sighed. “But it’s all we’ve got.”
“I’m not sure…” she started.
He touched her face. “Don’t worry, it will happen.”
“Do you really want it to?”
The tide rose between their eyes. He spoke bravely. “More than ever.”
Justin
Four years ago tonight I ate chinese food till it came out of my ears, double-checked my suitcase, tucked Korey into bed and tried to get a good night’s sleep. Five o’clock promised early and the day ahead was an exciting mix of familiarity and uncertainty.
The chinese food pounded upward all night, causing my throat to catch fire insatiably. No amount of water or chalky powder would calm the flames. I tossed and turned, cursing the sauce, the egg-roll, the chicken balls, even the harmless rice. I could feel Justin kicking inside, rolling around feeling his way through the darkness. I wondered if his eyes were open, if he could hear my agonizing moans, his dad snoring. In less than 6, 5, 4, 3, hours I would hold him in my arms and nurture him, skin to skin.
I believe I was thrown awake to savour the moment. Justin would be the last to kick between my ribs. The last to move around till my nose went numb. The last to take my breath away with a simple hiccup. The last to keep me warm from the inside. I willed for labour to start on its own, for Justin to arrive naturally without surgical steel his introduction to life. I wanted to deliver my children, not have them taken from me without the faintest sensation. I wanted to bounce back and push a stroller on day 3, not labour over my wound for 6 weeks, unable to circulate or pick up Korey.
It wasn’t to be. The clock went off and the day began. A bit surreal. Showers, triple checks of suitcases, Korey kissed awake and taken to the sitter and Mom and Dad off to the hospital for boy number 2. All with military exactness. No surprises, no audible exchanges.
Walking into the OR and climbing up on the table felt more like I was getting an exam than giving birth. As I lay there, the spinal took effect. I could feel Justin kicking, kicking, rolling, kicking, slight kicking, one little punch, nothing. I was fully dilated. Ready to begin.
The conversations in the room disrupted my breathing pattern and resulted in panic. “Are you ok?” asked the voice of God from overhead. “There’s too many conversations going on in here. I can’t focus.” “Patient has requested quiet,” said my nurse. My doctor apologized. I felt dumb but glad to resume my calculated breathing.
I could feel Justin being twisted and pulled from between my ribs. Another high one, I wouldn’t have been able to deliver him either. I don’t remember feeling anything with Korey’s delivery, but this actually hurt. I was glad, took it like a mom. Childbirth is meant to be painful, I felt qualified.
My 8:00 am OR date resulted in a 8:23 am healthy baby boy, loud and proud. All clumbsy limbs and vibrating tongue. Music to my ears. A sight for my sore hand that was poked 4 times by an unsteady, nervous intern, who was coached closely by God while she administered the deadening juice into my spine. Perhaps her incompetence led to my qualification.
Four years later, Justin is spending the eve of his birthday at his Dad’s. Tomorrow we’ll party at the bowling alley with 10 of his closest friends and cousins and his girlfriend Olivia, a five year old from up the street. She smiled at Justin on the first day of preschool, they’ve been an item ever since.
While I blow up balloons and pack the loot bags, I lament the lost feelings of kicks and punches from the inside. Hugs, kisses and sweet conversations are the prize now. I pray the years ahead will continue to bring even more to savour. The physical scar is finally gone, but bringing a child into the world, no matter how you do it or the outcome, leaves a permanent mark, right on your heart.
Longer version available here.
Just a Moment 