Floodgates

It has started. It's October 15, and I ordered my first Christmas present as a mother. It's a slippery slope. Naturally as parents we want to give our children the world, with the moon in the closet in case the world isn't enough.

It is my goal to get things for our son that will stimulate his imagination,  foster his learning and build on his little skills, so it only makes sense that his first present is books.

But after placing my order,  those pesky wheels started turning and suddenly I have a slew of gift ideas just waiting to burn a hole in my credit card. I imagine him toddling into the living room - because let's face it, he'll be walking by Christmas for sure - and being greeted by a glittering, glorious mountain of gifts. I do realize that he'll be more into eating the wrapping and playing with the boxes rather than the toys themselves,  but a mother can at least imagine.

I have a lot of expectations for our son's first Christmas and - honestly and realistically - I just want to see him smile.

Four...

The other day,  I was on my way home from work and, as I often do, I had the local country radio station on (judge all you want.) Miranda Lambert's song 'Automatic' came on and every time I hear it, I think about growing up and the values we gained from not having everything just a finger's touch away.

"Hey whatever happened to waiting your turn, doing it all by hand? Cuz when everything is handed to you, its only worth as much as the time put in. It all just seemed so good the way we had it- back before everything became automatic."

Now especially, with the anniversary of my father's death coming around again (hard to believe that 4 years have already passed and yet at the same time only 4 years have passed), that song is even more poignant as I think about the man he was, how hard he worked and how he taught us (my brothers and I) from a very young age to truly earn our keep.

As a little kid, I can remember riding with my dad in his beat up old truck either on the weekends or during the summer when I was on my mother's last nerve to one of his job sites. As a contractor and all-around Mr. Fix-It, he often had multiple jobs going at once and when he needed a little help and wanted to teach us a lesson about working to earn a little money, he'd take me or my brothers along.

By the time I was 10, I was a pro at sorting screws and nails, weeding, picking up old shingles and sweeping up curls of sawdust. By 14, I knew how to strip paint from a window sill, sand down drywall and cut in with a paintbrush with a hand as steady as steel. Sure, there was always the guarantee of stopping at the local donut shop for a mid-morning treat and he never made us work a full day, but looking back, I realize that I gained so much more from those days than $20-30 and a few blisters. Not only did I learn the value of working hard -something that has stuck with me to this very day, but I realize that those were probably some of my favorite memories, and I hope they were his too.

He was a man of polar opposites - church-going and God-fearing, but had the mouth of a sailor. He teared up during certain hymns but loved to listen to Queen and The Offspring on the job site, and I can distinctly remember sitting with him in our living room listening to Zac Brown Band's first cd in its entirety one lazy Sunday afternoon. He had callouses on his hands that were as thick as leather and at 6'4", he could be pretty intimidating, but he a big heart, and an even bigger soft spot, and he'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

He taught me some of the most important lessons in my life and, although I miss him dearly, I am proud to take these lessons with me, apply them to my every-day life, and share them with my children, passing on his legacy to the next generation.

Creeping...

I had a moment the other day. One of those ah-ha moments when suddenly I saw my own life drawing a distinct parallel to that of my parents and in that instant, I knew exactly how they felt, thought and worried about us growing up.

I was at my mother's house with my 7-month old son, spending some much-needed quality time together. As she watches my nephew 3 days a week, she conveniently has everything necessary for a little one including toys, a crib, high chair, etc. I had gotten the baby to go down for a nap in the crib in my brothers' old bedroom upstairs. It allowed for some necessary bonding time between my mother and I, talking about motherhood, marriage, faith, and life in general. After about half an hour of conversation, I thought I would check on my little one, knowing he's not one for long naps and I didn't want him to wake up in a strange room and be frightened.

I tip-toed up the old stairs, the age-old wood groaning under my feet, and I quietly cracked open the door. When I saw he was still snoozing, I crept back down the stairs and thought of all those times my mother or father must have done the same thing; holding their breath as they themselves crept down the stairs, hoping for just a few more minutes of peace and quiet, regardless of how much they loved their kids. There is just that feeling of relief, when your body tangibly releases a sigh of joy, when your child is finally asleep.

I thought back to those times when I was between sleep and waking in my own room as a child and hearing my parents' footsteps on the stairs and the peace that it gave me knowing they were there.

I can only imagine that the parallels - both good and bad - will continue to present themselves as we get older and our children grow and mature. Even before our baby was born, I could understand the incessant worry that my parents must have had for us. Everything we do now has a direct affect on our baby boy. As he is just learning how to move around, suddenly our house is a vault of unexpected weapons of mass destruction and I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider wrapping every sharp-edged piece of furniture in bubble wrap. I know only too well that we won't be able to protect him forever, but for now, I'll relish creeping down the hall to make sure he's sleeping snuggly in his bed.

Change...

Today it dawned on me.... In one week I'll be preparing myself to return to work and, even more difficult, preparing to send my 3 month old son to day care. It was a pretty painful and tear-filled epiphany to say the least. My little man woke up from a nap and I was sitting there reading my book when his beautiful eyes fluttered open. It was at this moment that suddenly I realized that pretty soon, he'd be waking up and finding someone else watching him.... And for a short time, that someone will be a stranger.

My husband and I spent a lot of time researching, visiting, and debating local daycare facilities before our son was even born and we both agreed on the same one, knowing it gave us both the strongest sense of comfort. Now that our son is here and I've spent the last three months snuggling, holding, rocking, singing, and bonding with this amazing little being, it's hard to imagine any place other than my arms and my home being the best place for him.

Unfortunately there is no way around the fact that we need daycare so that I can return to work. The unfortunate reality of today's economy is that most families can't survive on one income, and we feel that burden all too well. Between household bills, daily expenses and the overwhelming cost of a higher education hanging over our head (no thanks to Uncle Sam for any kind of break on that), there is just no other option than for me to return to work.

I will admit that there is a part of me that is anticipating my return to work; the thought of a more stable routine, interaction with some of my very-much missed coworkers and even removing myself from the all-to-distracting snacks that are severely inhibiting my post-baby weight loss efforts have a strong appeal. But at the same time, the thought of someone else seeing my son more than me every day, seeing him coo and smile and laugh and being the first to witness those milestones that every parent so eagerly waits for is almost overwhelming.

It's so true that the love for a child is different than any other kind of love out there. I just look at my son or even just think about him...hell, just writing about him now...makes my heart ache and brings tears to my eyes. I know that he will be in very good, capable, caring hands... But I can't help wishing  those hands were mine.

Wake

I've come to realize the hardest part of the early days of parenthood is not necessarily the sleep deprivation but the clouded thinking that comes with it. When 3am rolls around and those little cries crescendo over the baby monitor for the third time in an hour and all you want is for them to simply stop and sleep to come... that is when emotions run their highest and thoughts become entirely incoherent.

Parenthood is a synonym for self sacrifice. It didn't take becoming a parent to understand this though; I saw my mother often making her own sacrifices for us like going years without buying new clothes for herself or pampering herself with a manicure or just a quiet afternoon to herself so that we could have what we needed. I understand now the challenge she faced when taking us three kids to the grocery store; I tried with just one recently and it ended with a screaming baby and a rush through checkout.

But of all the sacrifices parents make, I would have to think the lack of sleep is one of the hardest because it messes with your head. You want to sleep so badly that you're literally willing to do anything. You try so hard not to get angry because that beautiful little angel in the next room can't help that they can't tell you what's wrong. Since I'm on maternity leave and my husband is working,  I try to do night feedings myself but sometimes I just want those extra few minutes in bed, so I'll quietly beg him from my pillow to get the baby. This request is either met with a quick flip of the covers and glorious peace or a succession of grumbles and yawns as the tension builds.

Earlier this week when sleeping in the crib was nowhere near my son's radar,  I succumbed to the need for sleep and snuggled up with him on our couch where we both slept (I, rather fitfully) for a couple more hours until daybreak.

Thankfully we seem to have returned to more normal sleep schedule although I say this fully expecting it to change in a matter of days or weeks. But in those late hours when I'm looking down at those beautiful eyes staring back at me, I simply thank God for this precious and perfect gift.....sleep or not.

Little one

Humbled. Joyful. Awestruck.
Amazed by the intricate beauty
That follows each and every tiny inch.
Overwhelmed with the magnitude
Of each and every tiny breath.
Cherishing the sweetness
Of each and every tiny sound.

Suddenly anxious of the dangers
Lurking around every corner
And the illnesses hanging
In the stillness of the air.

Nurturing. Sustaining. Guiding.
Waiting for the opportunities
That come with each new day.
Celebrating the joys that occur
With each and every moment.
Praying for a lifetime of
Simple happiness and peace.

Owl

It calls quietly from outside the curtained window.
A haunting, mysterious call that could easily be mistaken for the night's dark sounds.
It calls again and the feeling of being watched is unshakable.
The solemn, mournful call of one single owl never held such meaning.
My father watches us in the dead of the night.

Swaddle

Staring down at my beautiful baby boy in the early morning's silence while he nurses is one of the most peaceful moments of my day. I understand now why so many mothers say it was their favorite time when their children were young. Its a peaceful respite in what can sometimes seem a rather chaotic and harried (yet wonderful) chapter of life.

I play classical music, often hymns, on my Pandora radio on my phone and just quietly think. The mind has a lovely habit of going its own way from one thought to the next. As I sit and listen to my son's quiet breathing and feel his tiny fingers on my skin, I marvel at what it truly means to be a mother;  to literally provide life-sustaining nourishment and to have such a small life so dependent on me.

I think about my own mother and my new connection to her. Now I understand her emotions, her fears,  her prayers. I find myself constantly pleading for just a healthy, strong boy. I see such sadness and heartache in the world today and cant imagine the suffering some families endure.

And as always, my meandering thoughts settle on the absence of my father. I often find myself wondering if he's watching and talk to him as though he is. It saddens me that my son will never know his grandfather,  and I'm curious as to when I'll be asked where he is.

But most of all I marvel at this beautiful little being in my arms; how every inch of him is just perfect from his tiny little toes to the lovely lashes shading his eyes and everything in between. His quiet breathing is one of the most calming sounds and it brings me joy to just watch his tiny lips curl into sleepy smiles.

We are so blessed and I'm so thankful, humbled and proud.

It is well...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8_EfDqF7YI&feature=youtube_gdata_player

labor...

When our birthing class nurse came to visit us in the hospital after delivering our precious, beautiful baby boy, she said something that stuck with me. "You will never forget the story of your labor. You could ask a 90-year old woman about her children and she will be able to recall her labor like it was yesterday."

I learned in giving birth to my son that labor is not just about the act of giving birth; it is about learning about yourself, about your partner, about your individuality, strength, and perseverance; there is no right way to give birth and that is something that every woman needs to embrace.

I had planned all along during my pregnancy to have a natural birth with no pain medications; I wasn't opposed to the idea of meds if the need presented itself, but I felt that I had a pretty high pain tolerance and would be able to tough it out. What I didn't account for were the number of hours of contractions, the lack of sleep, and the lack of nutrition that I would endure before giving birth. Every woman has a different story that shapes who they are not only as women but as mothers and partners...and this is mine.

My due date was December 27 and I passed it by 5 days - not uncommon especially for first-time mothers. We had gone to extra lengths to plan around the holidays just in case he came early and it turned out that he came on the holiday we didn't expect - New Year's Day. After spending some time with friends on New Years' Eve, we headed home around 10pm when I started dealing with some indigestion that I thought was due to the quintessential New Years' Eve Chinese food. By the time we got home, it dawned on me that the indigestion was in fact contractions. We watched the ball drop and my husband laid down to get an hour or so of rest before we ended up heading to the ER at 2am. We were ushered up to the labor and delivery ward and a nurse hooked me up to the various monitors; there we sat for 20 minutes or so until they got the necessary records they needed. For the next three hours, we paced the vacant halls of the labor and delivery ward, hoping to move things along, stopping to breath through the contractions and just talking about anything and everything including our excitement of what was to come.

At 5am, I was officially admitted; we texted our immediate family to let them know, with hopes that we would have a crying baby in our arms by noontime; no such luck. After another 7 hours of contractions, my doctor finally decided to break my water at noon to help move things along as they were going quite slowly. By this time, I had already been awake for more than 24 hours and I hadn't eaten in about 12.

After that, the contractions started coming on fast and furiously. They increased in length of duration and pain, jumping from 30-second contractions every 5 minutes to 1-minute contractions every 2 minutes. Any woman can attest to the fact that you can't even describe the kind of pain involved in contractions; you can't prepare for it having never experienced it before. After 2 hours of these contractions, I asked for some mild pain meds to try to take the edge off. I was hyperventilating, having trouble breathing through my contractions, zoning out without even knowing it and tensing up my whole body, contributing to the slow progress. Finally by 3pm, my husband knew I had had enough; I didn't have the energy to keep breathing through the excruciating pain and still push at the end of it all. In 16 hours, I had only reached 6 centimeters and it didn't look like things were going to pick up any time soon. Feeling defeated and weak, I begged for the epidural.

My husband was there to remind me that I had come this far; I had grown a baby over 9 months to this point where we were ready to bring him into the world. Asking for help did not make me weak; no one was thinking less of me. No one was judging me. No one was expecting me to be a hero. It was important for me to be healthy and ready to deliver our son and not compromise that by wearing myself out.

After the epidural, I was able to relax and even sleep for an hour or so; during that time, I went from 6cm to 9cm. The doctor came in and checked on me around 4:45pm, noted that I was 9 cm and that he would come back in an hour to check again. After he left, the nurse helped me get readjusted and more comfortable in bed at which point I felt the baby move down and I told my husband that there was no way we had an hour - this baby was coming now! He called the nurse back in and she nonchalantly entered my room and checked me, the doubt in her voice apparent that the baby was in fact coming. However, once she checked me, she realized that the baby's head was almost presented and all of sudden there was a mad rush of people into our room. Four more nurses came in, two to clean the baby, one to take pictures and another to assist. They put up the stirrups and the doctor came in and asked me to push.

With just one contraction, I was able to push the head out. Surprised that the baby was coming as quickly as he was, there was a scramble to ready the room even further. The doctor invited my husband to help catch the baby, I was told to grab my legs, hold my breath and push with the next contraction. In just seconds, the room was filled with the joyful sound of our baby boy squealing and crying. He was placed on my chest and it was love and awe at first sight. I was moved to tears and overwhelmed with a flood of emotions; I had never held anything more beautiful or heard anything more melodious than this baby. My husband was at my side and we couldn't stop smiling at each other. Our baby boy was finally here.

In retrospect thinking back on all of this, I realize that giving birth is far less glamorous than you expect, and I wasn't expecting glamor at all. It is a humbling experience that teaches you to rely on the help of others. You are exposed and vulnerable to complete strangers in whom you devote your complete trust. My love and appreciation for my husband has grown more than I thought possible; he was there for it all, helping me breath through contractions, keeping me calm, holding my hand, helping me to and from the bathroom, walking with me for hours down the short halls and now as we adjust to having our baby at home, he is eager to offer to help change diapers and sooth the baby to sleep since I'm breastfeeding and waiting for my pump to arrive. We are a team and a good one at that and I love him for it all.

Needless to say, my labor did not go as planned, but that may as well be the definition of labor. But in the end, we have a healthy, happy baby boy and a stronger bond now than we did before. The days ahead are not expected to be easy, but together, we will enjoy them one at a time.