Sleepus interruptus

There is so much you give up to be a parent, not the least of which is sleep. New parents talk about their loss of sleep like a badge of honor, a rite of passage in the trenches of noctural warfare: "I didn't sleep for four years," one mom told me, shortly after I had Tess. "We didn't sleep for two years after our twins were born and we tried everything," another father confessed.

Even when you're pregnant, that's the big joke: "Get all the sleep you can now!" Or you get this advice: "Sleep when the baby sleeps." You don't have to be a sleep expert to know that you can't stockpile sleep. It's something you need regularly for optimal brain functioning and avoiding daily crying jags. And sleeping when the baby sleeps is not very helpful advice. I know few mothers who can resist spending those precious moments of silence checking their email, taking a shower or picking up all the burp cloths strewn across the house. Even when I'm exhausted, I find it difficult to sleep on demand.

The best sanity-saving advice I've gotten, particularly when I was pregnant with my second child, was to keep Owen in daycare while I was on maternity leave and to get the help I needed. That way I wasn't sleep deprived and dealing with the demands of a newborn and a 2 year old all day (guess which child was harder?) And if I did feel inclined to nap, it was much easier to do so with my mom or aunt around. Even better if they helped fold laundry, wash dishes, pick up Lego pieces and pitch in with other repetitive household chores that makes being at home with a baby such a drag.

With Tess, we also hired a night nanny, a somewhat expensive undertaking ($20/hr) but probably the best form of self care and maintaining family equilibrium that money can buy. Our night nanny, Brenda, came three nights a week, from 10 pm to 6 am, to take care of Tess so Dave and I could sleep. It gave us something to look forward to on our baby duty nights ("At least I'll be able to sleep tomorrow night...") Plus Brenda started her shift with a baby massage, which was extra TLC for Tess.

A rare co-nap

But like the best laid plans, Owen chose this time to learn how to climb out of his crib. One night when Dave was sitting on the couch watching TV and eating dinner, he looked over to find Owen standing there next to him in his footed pajamas, a wide, self satisfied grin across his face. Out came the screwdrivers and instructions for how to convert his crib to a toddler bed, followed by nights of being awakened by the thud and cry of Owen falling out of bed.

I searched everywhere online for a guard that would work with his converted Ikea crib, only to find that it had been discontinued and parent chat boards warned that other types of guards wouldn't work because our type of crib didn't have a box spring to anchor it, or the right kind of platform slats. I'm mean seriously, people, what do we need to do to get some sleep?

Even after Dave came up with a solution (putting his mattress on the floor), Owen continued to embrace his newfound mobility by getting up two, three, even four times a night. It got to the point where I would feel anxious going to bed, even when Brenda was there, because I knew I'd be awakened by Owen rattling the old metal doorknob to break into our room.

That's when you're confronted with a major parental dilemma: Take the path of least resistence and let him climb into bed with you? Be strong and get up and take him back to his room, even if it takes 15 times before he stays there? Or hold the door handle to his room, feeling him trying to twist the knob while crying, "Mama! Mama!" until he exhausts himself and falls asleep on his bedroom floor?

After a year and a half of being a rock star sleeper, going to bed at 7 pm not to be heard from again until 6:30 am, Owen became a creature of the night. And me, a rock star sleeper myself before I had children, found myself unable to go back to sleep after these visits from the night intruder. I'd finally doze off around 5 am only to be awoken to Owen at my bedside pulling on my arm at 6 am."Juice, Mama! Juice!" he'd demand until I'd get up and follow him into the kitchen, aching with every molecule in my body to go back to bed. This can't be my life.

A few weeks ago I went to Seattle for a business conference and during breakfast, it came up in conversation that I'd just had a baby. "Was this your first night away from her?" one of the young associates at my table asked. I had to think about it for a few moments, mentally running through the past three months like a flip book. "Yes, I guess it was," I said.

"I remember when I went on a weekend trip with my best friend when her daughter was six months old," the associate said. "It was her first time away from her and she cried she missed her so much."

I took a gulp of orange juice.

"I think it's different with your second child," I said, feeling a surge of motherhood guilt rising in my chest. I hadn't missed Tess or Owen at all the previous night. All I could think about was having a king-size bed to myself, sliding under the crisp white sheets and getting more than four consecutive hours of deep, delicious sleep.

"Oh, I'm sure it is!" the associate said.

That's parenthood for you. Or for me, at least. Doing the best I can to take each stage as it comes. Knowing it will pass and be replaced by a new one. Disregarding advice that isn't realistic or helpful. And trying not to feel guilty when people ask questions that imply things like, "Don't you love your baby more than sleep?"

Getting it all

I'll have to type fast, because Tess is asleep and I don't know how long it will last. She's a noisy sleeper, one of those babies that makes snorts and squeaks that sound like she's going to wake up at any minute. I don't know what she's dreaming about after just five days of life. Two ounces of formula? Being swaddled? Going for a long ride in the car? Whatever it is, it sounds delicious, like she's eating a juicy piece of filet mignon.

The past few days, my heart has felt so big. So big, in fact, it seems as if it has swelled to double its size and engulfed my chest. Last night as I sat on our bed feeding Tess as dusk filtered into the room between the wooden slats of the shades, I sat looking at her and started to cry. Dave was in the other room getting Owen ready for bed and I could hear Owen splashing in the bath and prattling on to Dave in his sweet toddler voice. "Boat, Dada, boat."

I sat gazing out our bedroom window at the neighbors' house next door as my chest heaved and tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt so grateful I thought that I would burst. These were tears of joy.

Dave walked into our bedroom to get a towel for Owen, glanced over at me and stopped in his tracks.

"Are you okay?" he asked.
I nodded, tears falling from my chin onto my shirt.
"You're crying because she's so beautiful?" he said.
I nodded again.
He came over and sat down next to me on the bed.
"She is beautiful," he said, gazing down on her perfectly shaped, peach fuzz head.
"I never knew that I would be this lucky," I said between sobs. "I just feel so..."
Dave waited while I caught my breath.
"...complete." 
 "I know," Dave said, rubbing my leg. "I feel like we've accomplished something too. We've made it through two awful pregnancies. We have a boy and a girl. Now we can just watch them grow."

The kiss

It is a much different scenario than two years ago, when I had Owen. Three days after his birth I suffered a panic attack that launched me into four months of post-partum depression and anxiety. When I sobbed to Dave back then, it was because I was experiencing deep despair and the tight fist of anxiety in my chest. I struggled through each day, going through the motions of taking care of Owen, not knowing when the dark cloud would lift.

I hadn't been able to stay on my anti-depressant when I was pregnant with Owen because I was severely nauseous and kept throwing them up. I went right back on them after delivery, but they can take up to two months to build up in your system, a torturous reality for anyone who is suffering the mental anguish of depression and more than anything, wants relief. Given the added element of pregnancy hormones, it took an additional two months before I stabilized, before the tightness in my chest eased up and I no longer felt on the verge of tears. By the time I started to feel better, I was up to 300 milligrams of Effexor a day, because my doctor kept upping the dose to get me out of the hole. For anyone who hasn't taken anti-depressants before, that's a whole lot of Effexor.

This time around, I went back on my medication in my third trimester, giving it plenty of time to build up in my system by the time I delivered, in hopes of avoiding this terrible pain. Despite the reassurance from my doctor that the Effexor wouldn't hurt the baby, I couldn't help but worry that somehow there would be something wrong with her and my weak mental state would be to blame. The worst thing that could happen, my doctor said, was that she would suffer "discontinuation syndrome," which means she could be irritable, have difficulty sleeping and have either flaccid or overly tight muscles.

But the condition is self limiting, my doctor assured me, which means it would go away in three to five days. She would be going through withdrawal, but experience no permanent damage. No brain damage. No structural issues. No developmental delays. Still, I worried she would be born deaf or blind or have some other condition they couldn't test for in utero. She had passed all the other tests with flying colors: the tests for chromosomal abnormalities and spina bifida. After the 20-week ultrasound  — when they measure the brain, examine the organs, check for cleft palate and count fingers and toes  — my OB told me she couldn't be more perfect if I tried. But still.

Thankfully, it appears that none of my fears came true. Tess emerged wide eyed, alert and immediately began to cry, a sign that her lungs were healthy and strong. She had a bowel movement during labor, which meant that pediatric nurses had to insert tubes down her throat to remove any meconium (baby poop) she may have swallowed. But other than that, she was fine. More than fine. And so far, much to my great relief, so am I.

It's a scary thing to be this happy. It's hard to not wait for the other shoe to drop. To worry that Tess will come down with some terrible disease, Dave will run off with his secretary, or Owen will get hit by a car. That somehow I will be punished for having a good experience this time around. But that's just my thinking trying to scare me into not letting my heart feel so big and wide. To protect me from being vulnerable by telling me, "If you enjoy this too much, you're going to get really, really hurt."

But why would happiness attract disaster any more than misery would attract good fortune? So much of my thinking is a big, fat lie. Lies I tell myself to make me think I have control over everything that happens in my life. How scary to admit that I am more vulnerable now that I have two children who I love with all my heart. And that there's not much I can do, beyond taking the obvious precautions, to keep them healthy and safe.

Last November I called my mom after we had finished our follow-up appointment with the geneticist to tell her that not only were the baby's chromosomes normal, but that we were going to have a girl.

"You're getting everything you always wanted," she said.
"I know," I replied.

It didn't always look that way. I didn't meet Dave until I was 36, marry until I was 38, have my first child until I was 39, and have my second child until I was 41. When I was 35 and the biological clock was ticking, I had no idea what the next six years would look like, if I would ever meet someone I loved enough to marry and have the children that my heart desired.

Now that I'm staring down a happy ending (and exciting beginning), I'll do my best to sit with my good fortune and breathe it in. I'll focus on changing poopy diapers, doing load after load of laundry, soothing toddler tantrums, getting up for middle of the night feedings and yes, having an occasional cry.

Dear Baby 2,

When I was 38 weeks pregnant with your brother, I wrote him a letter on this blog. Now that I'm 38.5 weeks pregnant with you, I figure it's only fair that I do the same for you. They say the second child gets short shrift after the novelty of the first one. Fewer pictures, less excitement, an anemic baby book, no birth announcement and hand-me-down baby gear.

In many ways that's true. I don't think I have a single picture of me pregnant with you, even though we documented the growth of my bump with your brother by taking a photo every month. I haven't had any baby showers to celebrate your arrival. With your brother, I had three. I didn't meticulously research and and register for everything from burp cloths to strollers, because we already have everything we need. Your daddy and I didn't go on a babymoon to savor our last few months as a childless couple. When I was pregnant with your brother, we went to Hawaii for 10 days over Christmas and even had the time to make a video set to music of pictures from our trip.

The second pregnancy is a different story, that's for sure. But here's the thing: There's no less love, no less eager anticipation to meet you for the first time after you've been swimming around in my belly for months, to see what you look like and discover who you are. My mom (your grandma) has told me that when she was pregnant with your Uncle Eric, she was worried that she wouldn't be able to love anyone as much as she loved me, her first born. Then when Eric arrived, she was relieved to find that her heart simply made more room.

The outfit that I wore home from the
hospital and now you will too.

I have no doubt that you will be every bit as special to me as your brother is. Although you may not be the first, you will play a special role that only you can play. You are the one who will complete our family. You are the one turning three into four. The one who makes us an even number. The one who will fill the vacant seat in our four-door car. The one who will give your daddy and me the experience of parenting both a boy and a girl.

You will be the only sibling that Owen has, and he will be the same to you. Although I can't guarantee you'll be immediate best friends, I hope you both find it comforting to know there is someone else in the world who knows you better than anyone, someone who's shared the boredom of long car rides on family vacations, someone who has a significant amount of the same DNA. Someone who's been there from the beginning and will be with you when daddy and I are old and sick and (hopefully) long after we are gone.

That's how I feel about your Uncle Eric. We fought like crazy when we were growing up and I'm ashamed to admit how mean I was to him (to be fair, he could be a real pest, too). Your grandma even said recently, "I don't ever remember the two of you getting along." But something changed when I went away to college and he came to visit while he was in high school. This pip squeak of a little brother who I was always so worried would embarrass me now had facial hair, long muscular legs from running track, a hot girlfriend and his own world view. We've become closer and closer friends ever since, something I wish for you and Owen, minus the 15 years of intense sibling rivalry it took to get there.

You will also be special to me because you will be my daughter, which means we will share many "girl things." We will share pig tails, twirly dresses and boys teasing you on the playground. We will share menstrual cramps, training bras and a world that expects women to be smart, driven and successful as well as sexy, beautiful and poised. Not to mention nurturing, selfless and thin.

I hope to be a strong role model in that regard, as I have been relatively successful both professionally and personally, although it has been and continues to be both an exhilarating and heartbreaking road. I hope to not only teach you, but show you by example, how to trust your feelings, express your needs, be assertive without being aggressive (not my greatest strength, but I'm getting there), capitalize on your talents, excel without embarrassment, admit when you've made a mistake, like what you see in the mirror, open your heart to other people, give up your seat to the elderly, and know that vulnerability is what makes you part of the human race.

I want to be a mom who celebrates your accomplishments (whoo hoo!), comforts you during set backs (you're still okay), laughs with you during the funny parts (did you see what he just did?!), validates your feelings (I know that hurt) and above all, lets you be yourself (you're the only "you" you've got).

I'm ready when you are. Here we go, my beautiful girl.

Love,
Mama 

The second time around

It's official. I'll never be a surrogate. The other day I told Dave that even if someone offered me $1 million, I wouldn't carry their baby. Pregnancy, in all its excitement and miraculousness, just doesn't agree with me. Or maybe I don't agree with pregnancy. As I've told many people throughout this pregnancy, "I love the end product, but not the process."

Today I am 33 weeks pregnant. The home stretch, so to speak. Just seven weeks to go. That's 49 days, 1,176 hours, or 70,560 minutes, depending on how you measure it. But who's counting? Lots of people have asked me how this pregnancy has been different than my pregnancy with Owen. For starters, I've written a lot fewer blog posts. I've even left a few unfinished. I'd be typing away, inspired by a good idea, but then the phone would ring or Owen would wake up from his nap and Poof! the spell would be broken. I still have those half written posts in draft. This from someone who takes great pride in crossing off everything on her to-do list.

One of the biggest differences this time has been going through pregnancy with a toddler around. An increasingly active, talkative toddler. One who loves to dance, wave at buses, point out airplanes overhead and run up and down our hallway at full speed, which I'm sure our downstairs neighbors love. He's at a really sweet age now at 22 months. He gives me spontaneous hugs and points at me from across the room saying, "Mama, mama, mama, mama," as if we're all in danger of forgetting who I am.

Pregnant with Owen (Sorry, no pics of the current bump)

It's because of him that I'm doing the whole pregnancy thing again. I knew it would be tough, even though everyone says, "Every pregnancy is different." But I wanted him to have a sibling. I wanted to round out our family. I wanted to have another little person around that I loved as much as him. I heard a quote the other day that having a child is like having your heart run around in another person. Blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but when I heard that during a radio interview, I teared up and cried.

The other day Dave and I watched the movie, "Gravity," the space odyssey starring Sandra Bullock and George Clooney. When it first came out I didn't have much interest in seeing it. I'm not one for sci-fi and outer space. I don't care how good the special effects are or how many times Dave tries to tell me a movie is "critically acclaimed," I'm not interested if there's no human interest story to draw me in. But then my friend Erin told me that it was about much more than an accident in space. She said Sandra Bullock's character goes through an emotional journey and suddenly I was in.

If you haven't seen the movie but plan to, then stop reading right here, because I'm about to give away a major plot point. Halfway through the movie you find out that Sandra Bullock's character is not just a scientist up in space, but a mother grieving the loss of her 4-year-old daughter who died in a freak accident. The rest of the movie is not just a story of survival, but of choosing life despite the heartbreak, despite the seemingly unbearable pain. As the credits rolled, I sat on our couch and cried.

"What's going on, babe?" Dave asked gently.

"If anything ever happened to Owen, I would just die," I sobbed.

It's something I've heard my mom say about me and my brother. And until I had my own child, never completely understood.

"I know," Dave said quietly. "I know."

Being a parent makes you vulnerable. For me, that starts in pregnancy. The nausea, the headaches, the fatigue, the crabbiness, the dry heaves, the shortness of breath and all the anxiety. During my first trimester I caught Owen in our bathroom standing over the toilet pretending to spit into it over and over again. Our nanny saw him doing the same thing and we both came to the same conclusion: he was imitating me throwing up. It was one of the cutest things I'd ever seen and for a moment, I smiled, feeling a little less green.

One thing I've noticed during this pregnancy is that I've gained a new understanding of acceptance. During my pregnancy with Owen, I was so blindsided by how terrible I felt and how long it lasted (way into my second trimester), that I just struggled to make it through. During this pregnancy I find myself forging a new relationship with discomfort, the intensity of which fluctuates from day to day. These days, as my belly gets bigger and pushes my internal organs into pancakes, the discomfort tends to be indigestion and feeling like I can barely breathe. Sometimes it's so intense that all I can do is choke down a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and go straight to bed. Other days I feel fine and it's not so bad.

On one particularly nauseating day a few weeks ago, Dave picked me up from work. We drove home together and parked in our space in the alley behind our apartment building and started walking toward the front.

"Maybe there is something to learning to live with a discomfort," I told him as we walked single file on the path along the side of our house.

Dave stopped and looked at me.

"That is something I never thought I'd hear you say," he said.

He says that because I'm a fighter, someone who thinks that if you remain quiet in the face of injustice, no matter how small, you let the bad guys win. You're telling the world, "Hey world, I'm a doormat, come walk all over me, hurt me and treat me however you want." Thus, I've spent much of my life being the outspoken one, the one who clenches her fists and marches down the hallway to speak to the man in charge. The one who complains loudly about the smallest of physical or emotional pain.

Over the years I've heard that the quickest, easiest way to get through difficulty is to accept it. Feel the anger, sit with the sadness, embrace the fear. But that is so much easier said than done. And I've always secretly worried that by doing so, accepting things as they are instead of how I think they should be, I'm endorsing whatever is happening. That I'm saying it's okay. That I'm left with sighing and shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Nothing we can do about it. That's just the way it is."

Nothing is farther from the truth. Acceptance doesn't make me a victim of circumstances, it allows me to see more clearly what is happening, experience what is going on. It's not a matter or liking or disliking it, but seeing it for what it is, then deciding how to respond. I know this sounds awfully Buddhist of me and I'll admit, much of this thinking is the result of mindfulness classes I've taken, meditation exercises I've been doing and a Wednesday night women's group I regularly attend.

Today I still feel the heartburn, the lack of oxygen and the tightness in my chest. I still complain (a little) and blow up at those I love (but less and less). But I also feel an underlying calmness, a greater willingness to say, "Okay, I feel like shit today, so what?" Then go about my day. It helps that this is a temporary state, that it will all be over soon. Did I mention I only have seven more weeks?

Despite my knowledge of that time frame, I know there will be many more discomforts even after the pregnancy, because that's a part of life. I'm so glad that I've finally stopped fighting so much, not just for my well-being, but for the benefit of my kids.

Twirling towards happiness

Yesterday Dave, Owen and I were in the living room playing. Dave was sitting on the floor propped up on his elbows with his legs splayed and I was sitting cross-legged on the couch. In between us, Owen was twirling in circles with his arms straight out, then lurching side to side trying to regain his balance. I reached out to steady him and keep him from falling. He giggled at his dizziness, then started twirling again. 

"Have you ever been to a Grateful Dead concert?" I asked Dave. "He reminds me of the spinners."

"No, but I've been to a Phish concert, which is basically the same," Dave said. "Probably even more drugs."

"I doubt it," I said, thinking of how out of my mind I was at a Grateful Dead concert I'd attended in Las Vegas with two sorority sisters during college.

Owen stopped spinning and started dancing along to one of the children's folk songs on our Pandora playlist. He shuffled his shoulders from side to side and moved his head like he was working out a kink in his neck. He's been doing this a lot lately, spontaneously breaking into dance whenever he hears music, even the electronic tunes that play when you push the buttons on his ride-a-long car. Sitting in the seat of his plastic car, he'll look at me as a tune begins to play, smile, and start shuffling his shoulders side to side, like a white boy's overbite.

I love seeing Owen dance, so free and expressive. I've spent one too many dates with men who'd rather be at the bar than on the dance floor, so I hope we can nurture this instinct and help him hold onto it long enough to become a boyfriend and later, husband, who will dance unabashedly with his partner.

Boy joy

As Jane Fonda said so eloquently in a video that recently made the rounds on Facebook, we have to do a better job of raising emotionally literate sons, boys who aren't bifurcated at their heads and hearts — no small feat in a society that will call them "sissies" or "mama's boys" if they show any emotion besides being steady and strong. It's not just crying that will get them in trouble, but playfulness and joy, like the kind you'd let loose on the dance floor. 

"Did your parents ever sit together and play with you like this?" I asked Dave. "I know your dad worked a lot."

"I don't remember," Dave said. "We had a finished basement and I remember spending a lot of time down there with my brothers. I think my parents were pretty exhausted by the time I came around."

"Yeah, I don't remember my parents playing together with me either," I said. "I remember my dad roughhousing with Eric and me on the living room floor but my mom was off doing something in the other room, probably glad for the break. I'm sure my mom played peek-a-boo and stuff with us as babies but then my dad would be at work."

"I have a hard time remembering anything from when I was really little," Dave said. "It's all kind of blurry. One of my first memories was being at the Kennedy Space Center but I don't remember how old I was."

Owen stopped dancing and hurled himself at Dave, grabbing a wad of his hair, another one of his recently acquired hobbies.

"Ow!" Dave said. "Soft touches, buddy, soft touches."

"Owen, let go!" I said sternly. "Let go!"

Owen looked at me, smiling and looking just a little uncertain as he maintained his death grip on Dave's hair.

"Owen, that hurts daddy, let go!" I repeated, as Dave peeled off Owen's fingers and finally broke free. 

Owen lunged at Dave again, who caught him at the waist and hoisted him up in the air out of reach from his head. Owen giggled as he dangled above Dave. Dave set him down on his feet and Owen ran over to me on the couch, his arms outstretched. I folded him into my lap and kissed his winter-chapped cheek.

"Hi, baby," I said, stroking his hair and feeling something sticky, like yogurt, above his right ear. Sometimes Owen pushes my hand away when I stroke his hair or rub his back or legs. This time he didn't.

"I mean, it makes sense that parents would mostly play with their kids one-on-one, because it gives the other parent a break," I continued to Dave. "But I think he really likes it when we're both here together."

"Yeah, he does seem to like it," Dave said.

Sitting there bookending Owen as he ping ponged back and forth between us, I felt happy watching him twirl and shoulder shuffle and yes, even pull hair. I couldn't help but think that we were providing him the kind of safe space and security that was enabling him to be silly and free, knowing that mom and dad were right there.

Maybe I was projecting my own sense of security in that moment onto him. Who knows? I'm just grateful that sometimes, amid the stress of juggling daily life and parenting, I get a glimpse of the true meaning of family. It can make you feel a little dizzy, but there are always plenty of hands to keep you from falling down.