Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I just want you to know, it gets better


*** I started this blog by writing out my birth story, but that will have to take a back seat for a bit***

Seriously, I"m thinking of starting a campaign on YouTube a la Dan Savage's "It Gets Better" for LGBTQ kids. I have had a struggle with the transition into motherhood and being a stay at home/work at home mom. The day I found out I was pregnant was two days after I found out I failed the bar exam, fresh out of law school and working for a non-profit under a kick ass fellowship. I was scared out of my mind. To make matters more difficult, during law school I lost my father unexpectedly at 53, just five months after my husband unexpectedly lost his mother. While I was pregnant my dear grandmother (whom I had a very close bond with) became ill for months and died while I was 5 months pregnant. A couple months later I was put on bed rest and gained a lot of weight (to add to my law school weight ).

Since having my little girl (21 hours of natural-what-the-hell-was-I-thinking labor) I have had to figure out how to make money doing legal work at home. It has been a terrible struggle. It didn't help that she got her first two sets of teeth in four at a time. My little girl is a joy, just a doll, in general not fussy but she is really the world's worst sleeper. Then at about 12 months it seemed she started sleeping in big chunks, not relying on nursing as much and I was so excited to start enjoying life and her more, to get my own life and independence back a little and to concentrate on making money (and giving my mind more thought provoking tasks to do).

Then at about 13 and a half months she began getting more teeth, one by one, for six weeks straight to make ten additional teeth all together. In short, it was a little slice of hell. For the first three weeks I was really proud of myself, how patient I was with my little potato, how attentive and empathetic to her pain I was being. But somewhere after the third or fourth week, when she woke up crying at 2 am, 4am and 6am I would fight back tears myself. Of course I was still very good, attentive and empathetic, but I was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. It has been a month or so of just back in survival mode, the way I was for the first six months or so when she was born. I was just getting by, barely keeping the house in order and keeping up with her, all while not sleeping and paying little attention to my adorable and very patient puppy (don't worry - my husband took over his care and he still got his two walks a day and some play time but he is a high maintenance thing so he her being fussy and not sleeping was wearing the poor thing down too). As you nursing moms know, its harder to share this burden when all the babe wants is mom as a pacifier. Not to mention, since my husband is the primary earner, I wanted him to get his sleep and make sure he didn't slip up at work. I remembered, when I started feeling like a weak loser, reading in a baby book somewhere that parents shouldn't feel like failures for being so exhausted and that lack of sleep is used as a method of torture.

I don't have a lot of help with her, even though I do have a large and wonderful extended family, my aunts and cousins have their own grand-kids, nieces and nephews to help with. My own mother works and is unable to help much and my four brothers are iffy about sitting for my girl since she is so young and they are inexperienced, also my husband's family lives out of state.

So here I have been the last six weeks, fighting the feeling that this will never end and life will never get easier, struggling to get us out of the house even for an hour for a change in scenery, struggling even just to do the normal fun learning stuff we do (like books, games, music, flash cards etc.). The last two weeks I have been pushing myself, getting back in touch with my spirituality and connection to God, making sure to take her out every day to get some sun, making sure to do some fun learning stuff even if that means the house stays a mess - I was really trying to just live with what I thought it had to be like.

But then, last weekend she slept from 11:30p-8am two nights in a row, I couldn't believe it! I was so very excited at the possibility that things could, in fact, get better. Then we had two nights in a row where she would get up at about 4am and not get back to sleep at all. I was a bit nervous, though frankly it was still better than before. And I reminded myself, two steps forward one step back is the way it always is with almost any kind of progress.

Last night she slept from 11:30pm - 8am again. I am very optimistic! We had such a lovely day, we played indoors, had breakfast, played outside, walked to the library (where she had a ball!) came home, fed her lunch and she went right to sleep nursing. I expect her to sleep from 4p-6p (as per her old schedule), it seems we are definitely back to one nap a day but that is just fine!

And now, I am writing a post on a blog I started when I thought things were better but have not gotten back to in over a month, i.e. I have free time! Me time! I'm going to go and make a wonderful dinner that should suffice as lunch tomorrow for the whole family and I should be able to get some work done while I am doing that and she naps. YIPPIE! They told me, be patient, it will get better, it will get easier. I didn't believe them, though in fairness I am the type of person who gets a cold and swears I can't remember what it is like to be well and just know I never will be again. But truly, with her my patience has really grown and still I was convinced life was just going to have to be brutal from here on in. And, I thought, if that is what I have to do for my little angel, than I guess that is what I have to do, I will just make sure not to have another and I will deal with it. But they were right, it is getting better, the prospect of this new schedule is thrilling!

If you are struggling with sleep regression (oh yeah, we went through that as well these last six weeks), teething, a crabby not sleeping colicky baby, or whatever else, I just want to echo what you have already been told but more likely from a place closer to where you are right now - it gets better, it really truly does!

Thursday, August 22, 2013

"Two Pink Lines" or "The Fear Sets In"



Since I was 19 I have had irregular periods.  For all the medical advancement we have it seems two areas of the body are still quite mysterious to science, the brain and the female reproductive system.  The former makes sense, its damn difficult to understand, the brain is vastly complicated.  People have been known to have an axe stuck in their skull and still go on walking and talking. Experiments have been performed on fish, taking out their brains and slicing them up into bits and pieces, putting the mixed up bits back and the fish swims about as though nothing happened and seems fine. I guess we don’t really know what makes us “tick” or rather how we do.  But the latter it seems we would understand better by now. 

How is it that so many women suffer from irregular periods and bouts of intense pain in conjunction and yet what is happening to these women is a mystery.  They can do laparoscopy, they can give you birth control, but there really is no real way to help it or even know exactly whats going on.  It seems an area where we need much more medical exploration and research.  And we are still waiting…In the meantime I was told by no less than three doctors that becoming pregnant may help my situation.  Wow I thought, that seems insane, suggesting that I bring a new life into the world as a means of correcting my illness.  Wow. Many doctors have found that pregnancy often helps certain ailments. Presumably because a women’s body strengthens itself in preparation for creating and carrying another life. I guess it’s a sort of wake-up call to the body, “time to straighten out your act, you will be a parent soon.”  However, my response to those doctors (and other lay people who made the same suggestion) was, ‘you have to be out of your mind if you think I would make such a serious decision based on the possibility that my health could improve”.  Insane. 

When I turned 30 I had already been married for over six years with much of my old-fashioned immigrant Catholic-Iraqi family wondering when I was going to have children, or rather whether I was able to. I mean wouldn’t I already have some kids if we were able to make them? Well, my husband and I had recently revisited this topic, which we did periodically upon marrying, and had decided in this crazy mixed-up world who would be foolish enough to purposely have children.  Yes, we thought, that is probably the best decision. 

And then it happened. My irregular period was even more irregular seeming. It had been two weeks late before, but has it been even longer than that now? Gosh I seem to feel quite nauseous all the time now.  I was in strict denial. It was easy to be, we had used more than one form of birth control.  Ladies, let me tell you, abstinence is the ONLY sure fire way to avoid pregnancy.  I was even told it would be difficult for me to conceive, that if I wanted to I should consider seeing a fertility specialist.  I bought a three-pack pregnancy test.  I told my husband I would do it the next morning.  Then two days later he asked if I had done it yet. I said no, I was waiting to make sure to do it in the morning, when they say its best. Now two mornings had passed by with me conveniently forgetting to take this test. My husband mentioned that I should probably really do it.  The next morning I did.  I did all three. All three were positive.  

I sat on the couch and watched my life pass by.  And then I got nervous, scared really. I’m an incredibly sensitive person, to a fault even, and I was instantly enveloped in tears. What would this child do in this world, how would he or she survive, with the threat of war and global warming, classism, sexism, racism and homophobia... People filled with hate, morals being flung to the waste side. How would he or she survive this? Oh no, what if he or she becomes one of those people? And then my mind really started to race. What if my child is disabled, how would I ensure they will be cared for when I pass? What if I die when my child is still small? What if my husband does? What if I die in childbirth? God help this child. 

My husband wasn’t surprised, not to say he didn’t seem quite anxious about the whole thing, but he wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t how I pictured this happening when I was younger. I pictured my husband being really nervous and me being so elated and trying to calm his nerves. It was the opposite, he assured me that things would be fine, that it was in God’s hands anyhow and he had willed us to have a child. He reminded me that we should be so happy. And then I was, scared still, but happy, or at least excited about the prospect of a child and excited at the thought that I was carrying and creating a living being. What a head rush that is! 

I told my mom almost immediately.  She said she knew.  I guess I was the only one who didn’t.  I always thought I would know the instant I was pregnant, that I would just feel it. I didn’t know the instant I was pregnant, that seems certain. But I do think I knew for weeks, but just sort of ignored it.

And there it went. Everything I smelled made me crazy. Morning sickness really brought home the surreal feeling that began to slowly take me over. A living being that will grow to be a baby. I’ve seen babies, and now, I would think, I’m making one…inside of me. And it will come out of me (somehow) and grow to be a big person - what a trip. 

The bigger I got the harder everything got. Like so many movies and TV shows I kept imagining (and yes even using a throw pillow at one point) what I would look like fully pregnant. I don’t think it really ever hits you. Its one of those things that is such a mind blower you really can’t totally look at it straight ahead, like It will blind you if you really try to imagine it. Its too much, too scary. You have to think about it almost like peripheral vision, knowing its there but not really fully taking it in. Maybe this is just me and most women can fully revel in what changes their body is going through. But for me, despite feeling like a miracle, at times weeping over the beauty of being involved the most awesome feature of the circle of life, I was really freaked out by this.  

The more pregnant I got the more freaky it was. Especially when I got to the point of feeling her moving and her little kicks.  Not to say it wasn’t already flipping me out, imagine (for those of you who have not experienced this) feeling like you have a fish bowl and a rather healthy goldfish (like my four year old goldfish from the Michigan State Fair who looks like he belongs in a coi pond) in a bowl a bit small for them (like our goldfish, Lys Gul Fisk) holding court underneath the flesh of your abdominal area…yeah.  To top it off, Potato decided her little left foot would spend most of the last couple months sticking out of the top of my rib cage. If I really fell into a realization of exactly what was going on it fucked with me like crazy. 

And of course you gain weight. Or some people don’t, some people lose weight (I have heard). I gained weight. I had just finished law school, in fact recently took the bar exam. In fact, the day before I found out I was pregnant I was notified that I failed the bar exam. That was quite a weekend.  I got very plump indeed in law school, not everyone does. Actually, a lot like pregnancy many gain weight but some don’t and some even lose weight.  As soon as I started to lose weight again (after law school and restarting a long lost vegan diet) is when I got pregnant. Talk about ruining your diet. Walking up the stairs became such a chore, standing to clean the dishes became such a chore, so did anything else that required me to do anything other than sit in a room at perfect temperature at a desk. Sleeping even became a chore, when you have only one position to sleep in that isn’t very comfortable it stops seeming worth it.

At about five and a half months my maternal grandmother became very ill.  I tried to visit her in the hospital but was many times told by my family to stay home, worried I would get sick and hurt the baby. And at about seven months she passed away. Her seven kids and dozens of grandkids and great grandkids crowded her hospital room and the hall outside. We cried our eyes out, we screamed how we loved her, we prayed, we reminded her of memories, a call came in from a family member out of state wanting to say bye. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life and to say it left me broken and broken hearted is because I can’t find the energy and courage to think of it deep enough to describe it better.    My grandmother and I were very close.  Though I was a black sheep she treated me like gold. She called me “malakah” – an “angel” in Chaldean (an Aramaic language). I used to bring her flowers on special occasions. She would tell me it was a waste of money and to stop doing so. But I knew it really made her smile and maybe even let her know how much I loved her, how special she was to me. I enjoyed playing cards with her and listening to her stories. Without my grandmother I would probably speak very little or no Chaldean, it was because this was the only language she could speak that I know so much of it.  She wasn’t taught to read or write, the written Chaldean language is all but dead. She used to watch me read books, wishing she could, she literally sat across from me and smiled and watched.  I used to think I would teach her to read when I got older. I never did.

My parents are first cousins (don’t judge us, many if not all cultures practiced this until recently and we have stopped as well). My grandmothers were sisters. My paternal grandma passed away before I was born, when my father, her youngest, was only three.  My maternal grandmother told me I was just like her, supposedly I look quite a bit like her, I have a fiery personality as she did and I have a want to help others with what I can.  I think that’s why we had a special relationship, I was her youngest daughter’s only daughter, I came from her sister’s youngest son and I reminded her of her beloved and lost sister buried far away in Iraq long ago. Whatever the reason, I am so grateful for the relationship we had. I often wonder if she knows how much I love her, how I miss her more than the father I lost unexpectedly at 53 just a couple years before her death.  She was a part of my heart that is gone, my mother’s mother, my second mother who taught me to pray and who raised my mother, who in turn raised me, to be a strong woman. 

At about seven and a half months pregnant something happened. I was at work when I felt an all the sudden enormous pressure on my pelvic area. Considering I had to pee every forty or so minutes I figured I probably just had to pee and held it too long. When I got up I was in a lot of pain but managed to hobble to the bathroom. After I went and the pressure was still there I knew something was wrong. I had a hard time making it back outside the bathroom. When I got to the doorway in the hall I just stood there bent over in pain and hoped someone would come by and help me. Eventually one of my coworkers walked that way and hurried over to help me out. They brought me a chair because I couldn't move and I called the doctor. It turned out that my pubic bone had separated prematurely, with the weight of the baby weighing on the two parts which were grinding together it was agony. I was on bed rest for pretty much the rest of my pregnancy.

At some point near the end I could deny it no further, I could no longer ignore what was going on, nor look at it only peripherally-my belly was so straight and in the center “out there” I could hardly look in any direction and not be faced with reality. 
June 6, 2012 came and went. I learned that due dates are no more than good guesses and to not be surprised when I was late – "first babies often are".  It was getting pretty hot and I was pretty huge. Being on bed rest for a while wasn’t helping. June 9 was the day I declared she would arrive. I just knew it, nine being my favorite number.  June 9 came and went.  So did June 10, 11, 12, and 13. I was getting pretty restless. I was numb in my hands and swollen legs and feet. My wrists hurt from carpal tunnel and even my nose was swollen. We did all the things you are told to when trying to induce labor, all the way from massage and acupuncture to sex and driving around on bumpy roads. Nothing. The one thing I held off on doing was drinking castor oil.  That sounded horrible. But I was getting worried. Babies born late have a risk of having their first poop in the womb and getting it in their lungs. Scary. 

On June 14 I had a doctor appointment. I decided long before to go natural (as horrible as it seemed) for various reasons like trying to avoid a caesarean section and not wanting the babies first time on drugs to come before her teenage years. The midwife seemed a bit concerned. I was very thinned out but only 1 centimeter dilated.  She suggested castor oil. I winced. We checked the baby with a stress test and an ultrasound. She seemed to be fine. The midwife, the doctor (I thought had the best of both worlds, giving birth in a hospital in the alternative birthing center this unique hospital has with a nurse/midwife and a doctor right near if needed) and I made a plan by the end of this appointment. It was a Thursday. We decided if I wasn’t in labor by Saturday night, I needed to come to the hospital to be induced naturally. 

I went home and started to really worry. I was afraid to be induced. I was worried something was wrong.  There was nothing left to try – except castor oil. My husband went and bought some and I stared at it. Then I remembered one thing I didn’t try since it seemed quite similar to taking a bumpy car ride, the yoga ball. I put on movie after movie and bounced on that damn ball for hours and hours. Nothing. I gave up and tried to get some rest, being told when it did happen I would really need my energy.  

At about 2:00am on June 15, now nine days late, I woke up with an intense yearning to urinate. When I got out of bed I felt liquid dripping out of me.  Throughout my pregnancy I actually never had problems with bladder control, thankfully, so I knew something was up. But it being in the middle of the night, my head was cloudy and it took me a minute to put two and two together. I went to the toilet and it didn’t feel like a regular pee. I wiped and saw blood and freaked. I screamed at my husband from the bathroom and he woke up in a shock.  Poor guy, I probably took a year off his life waking him up like that. We checked contractions, irregular like before. I talked to the midwife, she said despite the irregular contractions it looks like it I was starting labor. If it wasn’t for the water breaking (not everyone's does) I would have never known I was in labor. They tell you constantly the contractions will be regular and that’s how you will know, well mine weren’t until they were two and three minutes apart. She told me to meet her at the hospital. An icy fear gripped me. 

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Introduction



*** I started writing a book about my experience of motherhood. It seems logical to put some of that content on this blog so I may be encouraged to continue with my birth story and beyond. Below is the introduction. ***



About 9 weeks after I giving birth my best friend called me up and demanded I leave the house, sans baby, to relax and spend some time with her.  I was so very excited at the prospect of getting away.  Now I had left the house before without Potato, but for very specific functions and didn’t really get to let my hair down. For all those non-mothers out there I will disclaim, I love my child more than anything I have ever known, more than I thought I had the capacity for or that such a capacity existed to love another. I would easily kill and die for this precious thing. That said, she was making me insane and I needed time to remember that I am me and not just mom a.k.a. her feeding machine. I needed independence. 

Anne picked me up and as she walked up my porch I was reminded of the girl from ten years ago, even further back, the girl from high school. I became flushed with mourning for those times gone by, the type of fun we had that will never be again. As she says, being a parent is fun, just a completely different type of fun. And though I hadn’t given it much thought, seeing her after such a long stint of not seeing any of my friends really brought back the days of youth and little responsibilities and for some reason it stung. She stood on the porch smiling at me and I relayed to her my thoughts and ended by telling her, “You should just leave.” Anne let out one of her hearty laughs and reminded me that it gets better and that I just have been so long without the company and conversation of adults that, like any new mom, it’s getting to me. 

She came in and started to chat with my husband. I rudely ended abruptly, stating, “No no no, you two can’t hang out, this is for me!” I grabbed Anne by the arm and marched her outside. “Where do you want to go?” she asked as we got into the car. “I really don’t know, just away from her,” I replied.  

We never ended up going anywhere, that is we never got out of the car to sit anywhere. We just drove and started talking. We drove up Woodward from Ferndale to Pontiac then back down again to Detroit. Just cruising down Woodward never thinking to stop, we couldn’t find a break in the conversation that had enveloped us.  Anne reminded me that I never told her how my labor went.  And so I did.

The conversation was explosive. I remember how wonderful it was to share this with her, my best friend who became a mother almost a decade before me. I thought I appreciated what she went through, how difficult it was for her. But I didn’t, how could I? You really can’t, even with the best intentions, imagine what the process of becoming a mother is like unless you go through it. 

At some point, as we talked, it occurred to me how important it is to share these stories and how rare it is, outside of birthing groups etc., that these stories are fully shared. As I mentioned to Anne, people don’t really tell you what to expect through pregnancy and labor. Details are mentioned, even some very personal and profound ones, but a lot is held back-especially the emotion. The result of which is that new mothers are really not sure what to expect during delivery. We know the end result will be, God willing, an amazing experience, a room infused with love, falling in love that is, welcoming a new member of our planet, our race, a whole new being. But all you hear about labor (so aptly named) is that it is excruciating, long and that you should always have the utmost respect for the woman who brought you into this world.  

After my birthing experience I joked around about feeling like I had post-traumatic stress disorder due to it.  But I wasn’t really joking, though it became clear that saying such things in a serious tone was somehow wrong.  At first I thought, I must really be a wimp, I don’t hear other women say they are this traumatized. But after some time it occurred to me, again like so many things women suffer through, that it was not socially acceptable for me to say and/or feel the way I do but that I am likely far from the only woman who feels this way. But we are shamed into silence. And it is assumed we will do this again, “at least one more time”.   

When you are pregnant things are certainly fleshed out, so to speak, more fully. And maybe, again, unless you go through it you can’t know, and that’s why it’s not spoken of in such minute details.  But I remember wishing I had a better idea of what I was in for before it happened. Usually having knowledge of a thing takes a lot of fear out of it, at least for me it seems. That said, after having one child I am petrified of becoming pregnant a second time and having to endure, and hopefully survive, labor a second time.   
So here it is, the story of Potato’s birth.  I hope it makes you laugh, informs you and maybe makes the whole prospect less frightening, or if you have already gone through it, I hope it fills you up with a sense of camaraderie. If you haven’t gone through it and never will, I hope it reinforces the incredible amount of dedication and respect you should already have for your mother, even before all she did to ensure your survival, so much was sacrificed to bring you into this world. You may have told her you never asked to be born, but chances are, she didn’t ask to birth you either.

Cutting New Teeth

I am currently sitting in front of my laptop with a nursing pillow, complete with baby on my side (feeding "football hold" style).  She is asleep for the first time all day (it is 6pm and she normally is on her second nap by now). She, my Potato, wouldn't let me sleep until 5:30-ish am. Potato is teething and inconsolable, which means so am I (inconsolable, not teething, though I do share her splitting headache).

Though there are many days where things go smoothly and we have a ball, there are days where I feel like I'm sort of trapped, where Potato won't stop crying or being fussy, won't sleep, and won't give me a minute to myself (for glamorous things like using the bathroom). I come from a large extended Middle-Eastern family and it seems like my mom and aunts look at me as if I'm sort of a failure because I have had a hard time with the learning curve of becoming a parent. My cousins seem to have done a better job.  In fact everyone seems to have done a better job of coping, scheduling, and organizing. This is despite how hard I have tried. I had a natural labor, I use cloth diapers, I have made all her organic blah blah blah food from scratch and have been nursing this child (who has had teeth since 4 months) for over 14 months and never given her formula.

***I would like to note here that I do not begrudge any mother her stripes for doing anything other than what I did. I don't care if you had a C-section or a epidural, if you fed them fries from fast food and only used formula even though you could nurse.  I'm sure you are probably still an awesome mom who loves her baby just as much as I do and has had it just as hard despite.  So please don't take offense or think I am here to judge those who did things differently.  Every family, child, and mom have to do what works for them.***

After months of a sort of mild postpartum depression (and not even realizing that I was a bit down) I realized, with the magic of the internet, that it is in fact not easy for most new moms, that many of us struggle, many of us have kids that are terrible sleepers, and that many of us have mothers and aunts that don't remember what it was like to have only one kid who relied on you for its entertainment all day, every day. That was a relief to find out I'm not alone. Since that realization, I find it easier to see the worn-out look of frustration on my fellow mothers of young children's faces, where I used to only see people who had it more together than myself.

I have gotten over the hump (I hope).  Some days (especially teething days!) are still really tough, but we manage. I am very proud of myself for being (mostly) patient and good to my little Potato no matter how she tries me and I do hope I can sustain this throughout the teenage years. Most days, even when tiring, are more fun - we read, we do flashcards, we take walks, we sing and dance and learn new things. She is amazing.

Potato is up now and pulling everything out of the coffee table drawers again. My little bichon is following at her heels waiting to grab something from her so he can play too. They are so cute together.  Just the picutres I have of them both from the last 14 months could sustain a greeting card company into infinity. They remind me of Calvin and Hobbes, maybe because I'm a big sap. She is wobbling along, really starting to get this walking thing down, even while still in her little sleep sack.

Here is my little bichon, Potato's buddy. Is he a little kid's dream or what?


There is nothing I will ever be so proud of in my life.  Even if I have another kid I will attribute my relative ease in handling number 2 to the hazing I got from number 1. I have never tried too hard and been tested so much, and I have had an uphill battle type of life, so that is saying a lot. There is a big pay off however, which I can't say for other things I have been through (unless God is keeping score and I will find out later). There really is no greater reward than a child of your own. I used to tell people, like those in my Middle-Eastern family (people from our culture don't traditionally keep dogs indoors), when they would ask why I would want all the upkeep of owning a dog that the benefits are immeasurable and can't be articulated with any justice. Times that by a billion (give or take a few) and that is how I feel about Potato (though maybe it is not great to use an analogy of my dog and my kid, but you know what I mean).