Tying Up Loose Ends

Well, this may or may not be my last entry for the one or two of you who have read this blog (including the a**hole who spammed me on my last entry). Mommy Time takes up most of my energy now. I am still settling in to this new role of mine. Will I ever completely adjust? Only time will tell. I do know that what we are doing is right for the Bruiser (he weighs 21.5 pounds now).

I love him so much it’s beyond comprehension. When I feel down (which still often plagues me) I find hope and purpose in his eyes. I admire his strength. His humor becomes more sophisticated with each day (very important in this household). When I hear awful stories of infant abuse this incredible rage wells up in me and I have to fight back the tears. Of course, people who abuse children have their own past demons to contend with as well as amazingly inferior self-esteem, but now that I have a child I see another reason for it. I think there is a jealously that can grip people like that when they see the absolute perfection of a child. It magnifies the absence of hope—the hole that continues to grow with each passing day in the life of someone who has had that perfection stripped of them. Yes, we all lose a bit of that perfection, but if you have truly been loved by someone as a child that is what carries you.

As for the rest of my life, I will continue to grapple with the relatively recent discovery that I was adopted. The news still hits me like a football to the gut. The irony is that I feel closer to my adopted family than I ever have. My son has brought us together. I think there is a relief for my adopted mom. When I saw her recently I was struck by how old she is becoming (she is 81). It’s getting harder for me to stay mad at her. Whatever has happened in the past I want the end of her life to be a comforting time.

As for my birth family, it is still all so new. My sisters and I continue to work on defining our relationship. And as for my main New Year’s resolution of finding my birth father, I don’t think it could ever happen, unless he searches for me. I don’t even know his name. I don’t know anything about him. Often I gaze into my son’s face and wonder if there is a shred of him there. It makes me very sad, but I have come to accept it.

So that is that. Thanks to those few of you who have checked me out. Rose Thetis is not my real name. There is a story to this name which I won’t go into. If you have read a little Ann Patchett and know your Greek mythology, that should provide some clues. Until the next time…

Behold! A Stay At Home Mom Is Born!

Boy was I ranting during my last entry. See what chronic sleep deprivation can do? I just napped so hopefully won’t sound as insane.

So we have decided we needed more stability in our lives (after lacking it completely over the last two and a half years). My husband is going from self-employed to employee. This will enable me to stay with E for at least a few months. It has just worked out that way and could have easily been the other way around. A. would have been happy to be at home with Le Bebe. That’s what I love about him (my relationship is not really down the crapper).

I am giving up a job I love for this, but I know that it’s the best thing for him. This decision, though, is not without its concerns. Yet another identity change for me. I need to figure out ways to not feel so isolated. So far A. has been home with me and the baby.

I also need to figure out ways to get those damn mustard baby poop stains out of clothes. A shout out to my lactating La Leche ladyfriends out there. How do you do it? I must keep the new medium onesies unblemished? (Is THIS my purpose in life?)

Behold! A Child Is Born!

On May 6th I became a mother (God help us all). The journey was both wonderful and excruciating (and not because of the labor pains). I labored at home for two days. This was an amazing exercise in mental control. I rode out each contraction with a mental calmness I am very proud of. I had incredibly uncomfortable back labor which increases the pain of labor exponentially. I never thought of myself as a big vocalizer, but moaning through each surge helped a lot. My husband (A) was so supportive as was my doula. She was with us for a couple days and did everything from giving me a bath to helping to wipe away my mucous plug (not pretty).

The experience turned a bit sour when it was time to head for the hospital on Thursday afternoon. All I had heard about impatient hospital staff pushing interventions was true. I entered the hospital at 5 cm dilated and was forced to re-answer questions that had been answered when I pre-registered weeks before (they couldn’t find my file initially). They were asking me questions during my contractions and expecting me to answer them. There was even someone who came in and was ready to take my blood right in the middle of a contraction. The initial labor nurse I had was terrible and made some comment about modesty when I had my hospital gown hiked up.

I made it to 7 cm and that is where I got stuck—for 20 hours. We tried every position to get the baby to turn from a posterior position (“sunny side up”). He wouldn’t budge and I lost steam. We eventually tried the epidural with pitocin which lead to the c-section. I had great hospital staff by this point, but the c-section was still very difficult. The best part of it was knowing I would see the baby soon. They lay you down as if you will be crucified and tie your arms down (the anesthesiologist untied me quickly, knowing it was stupid practice). You can’t see anything. They shaved me without warning me and all the while the staff laughed and talked about their upcoming weekend. They were all pleasant enough, but were completely oblivious to how utterly helpless and scared I was.

Seeing my baby (Baby E aka Chunky Brewster) made it all worth it. I was amazed by how beautiful his skin was (c-section babies look so much better than vaginal births). His little tongue was darting out looking instinctively for food.

I won’t dwell on the 5-day hospital stay, which was exhausting. I am still recovering from my surgery.

Now here we are, 2 months later—the 2 most difficult months of my life. If a woman tells you how wonderful it is be with your newborn she is lying to you and to herself. There is no honeymoon period (except briefly when you first see your baby). I have cried often and every day I think of escaping this situation (and I don’t even think I have full-blown post-partum). I went to find out if I needed drugs and was told it wasn’t severe enough. The social worker acknowledged, though, that I was (literally) experiencing what prisoners of war go through. Sleep deprivation is the most common form of torture.

Breast-feeding has made me little more than a shell. I have to keep telling myself it’s for the baby. With each feeding I am reminded of images of a snapping turtle I once saw on Animal Planet. He is a boob man who, at only 2 months of age, has almost doubled his weight (which normally happens at 4 months of age). I guess I am doing something right.

I feel guilty each time I am glad he is asleep.

I won’t even go into how my relationship has gone down the crapper.

Most of what I have mentioned here is negative—and that is because it is. But there is something so mesmerizing about this baby that moves me like no other image. His beauty is beyond description. It’s not just the softness of his skin, but his persistence to live. There is no life force like that of an infant. That is what people are drawn to, I believe, more than their looks. The perfection of an infant can move you to tears. Waking each day to his smile keeps me an agnostic. How can I not wonder if there is more to this little being?

Imminent Birth

So this baby will be born from within me in less than 2 weeks. It’s amazing to me how an experience that happens countless times every day—so ordinary—can be so incredibly extraordinary. Why isn’t EVERYONE talking about this?

The Physical: There is this amazing dance that happens between my body and this other entity. My mind can only sit back and watch. My baby will soon decide when he is ready to begin his emergence. For months I have felt his rhythmic exercises. I can predict that at 8:00pm he will perk up as well as when I get up to pee (which is very often). I can feel his form now. His head is in position, getting lower. His back still moves from left to right. His right foot loves to scrape against my right ribs. My uterus has been contracting for a long time now, irregularly. I know that this will be the only time in my life when gut-wrenching pain will be a good thing. I want to maintain my amazement and accept a certain loss of control. Through labor I want to continue to embrace this 9-month-old dance. All that I can control is my reaction to the pain.

The Emotional: I have still not definitively figured out why I want to become a parent. How can this act be so simultaneously selfish and selfless? We all want to be loved by others. We all want to love. That could be it, but it’s not because I have others in my life for that. Is it the purity of a child’s love? Well, that doesn’t last forever. The biologist in me knows, evolutionarily, that parenting is too complex to be strictly instinctual. So what is it that drives this desire? And to not just parent, but parent my own biological child. Figuring this one out may require several scotch and sodas once I’m off the wagon again.

For now I guess I will just enjoy the ride.

Is Anybody Out There?

So I am new to this blog thing so it makes sense that the traffic is slow on the site. I'm slowly getting the word out. What I would like to know from those of you who have checked it out is why are you not posting comments? Only 2 thus far. I've posted some brilliantly offensive stuff. I'd at least like to have a complaint made against me. Is it that boring?

I really do need some feedback and advice on how to share this with the world (if it's even worth while to do that). I'm starting to wonder.

PLEASE...pacify me.

In Defense of Bad Music

So I was watching American Idol (don’t ask) last night (which is incredibly boring, by the way, now that the bad(der) singers are gone) and one of the guys sings one of the quintessential power ballads of the last 20 years, Hold On to the Night, by that musical guru Richard Marx (also famous for writing Vixen’s one and only hit, Edge of a Broken Heart, during the glam metal days of the 80s—ahhhh I remember them well).

As this boy built up a crescendo towards the end, the drop screen behind him projected the crashing waves of the ocean (signifying the churning emotions of true love perhaps or maybe the constant barrage of memories of a lost love that rhythmically flood the mind). As I watched this spectacle in utter disbelief I was left wondering if there were actually people around the world moved by this.

These vastly different reactions to the Power Ballad (all visceral in their own way) have led me to wonder what is it about this musical genre that draws such intense responses? We either love it or hate it. There is no in between.

My theory is this: genetics. Just as a cat carries the gene that allows him to either get incredibly baked in the afterglow of catnip hits or to momentarily pause at a catnip toy before indignantly walking on, so do humans either possess or lack the ability to be moved by the emotional surges of Celine Dion. I see no other explanation.

So then the question arises, is this trait dominant or recessive? I would like to think recessive, hoping that both the dominant, homozygous genotype, let’s call BB, and the dominant heterozygous, Bb, both result in the Michael Bolton-hating phenotype. This leaves only the homozygous recessive genotype, bb, required for shmaltz-loving. In other words, going back to the recesses of high school punnett square probability, there would be a 75% chance of a couple producing a Power Ballad hater. (We will avoid more complicated genetic possibilities such as sex-linked characteristics, mutation, etc.)

So if my theory is correct, I must have more of a tolerance for this group of people. I must show compassion for they know not what they sway to. Beyond this I must show some admiration for the leaders of this community (the Richard Marxes and Mariah Careys) who have proudly embraced the genetic minority they belong to and have rallied other members to “Say it loud, we’re lame and proud.”

So the next time you see a 16-year old girl at a stop light in the car next to you with all windows down singing her heart out to Wilson Phillips’ Release Me, don’t roll up your window as would be your natural tendency. Raise your fist in solidarity and shout, “Power to the People” as you speed off to your destination.

Baby Shower Revisited

Ok, so we went to the baby shower my family threw for us this weekend. It turned out to be a lot of fun even though there were no special mommy rite of passage ceremonies I would like to be a part of. It was very girly (held at a tea house) and I dressed like a girly. No black pantsuits as is customary for me to wear to these things. That was ok, though. Cool girly is very different from lame girly (right?). I think I most enjoyed getting very practical advice from friends and relatives with children. I think if there is any occasion to share sage advice about babies it is at a shower. You know, I also REALLY enjoyed the attention, surprisingly. I usually HATE attention. Mommy-to-be attention is very different, though. It’s this recognition that what you are embarking on is a difficult and permanent and beautiful journey. I think people gravitate towards the life force inside of you. There is something very life-affirming (perhaps species-affirming) about it. Of course, the human species is not at any risk of dying out anytime soon, but, at the risk of sounding like a certifiable pro-lifer, to see a life that a woman is choosing to carry and to guide into this world, can bring those around her a sense of hope that things can be made better than they are now.