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My daughter – my oldest daughter, I should say – started middle school this year and though it was a rough start and huge adjustment, she is now doing really well. She’s found her stride not just with her classes and subject matter, but also with the getting to all her classes on time, walking to the bus stop, being out there in the world with all her stuff and keeping track of it… which, written down, seems like very basic skills but for her was completely new this year.

She actually gets herself up, makes breakfast, packs a lunch, dresses appropriately, loads her backpack, and heads out the door with no real supervision required. She returns and unpacks her lunchbox, does her homework, practices her violin, and gets her cleats on in time for soccer practice. This is astounding. Especially compared to my son, who, in second grade, would eat maple syrup for breakfast, still puts his shirts on backwards, forgets his underwear, forgets to pee, forgets indeed that he is supposed to go to school without my serious, minute-by-minute interventions.

Anyway. This big kid of mine. She’s knocking it out of the park. And while she is doing really well academically and organizationally and out-in-the-worldly, I am fretting for her on the social front. The hard thing, for me, is figuring out how much of the fretting I should just do privately and how much – if at all – I should act on. The substitute who yelled at her for asking a question and then not understanding his answer. Do I let the teacher know her sub was a douche? Or remind my daughter that the world is full of people who abuse their authority, and strategize how to deal with it next time? Or, the bus driver who yelled obscenities at another driver who got in the way: call the transportation office to complain? Or remind my daughter that people can react inappropriately when frustrated, and if it’s not threatening her safety, try to roll with it?

And then there’s the kids.

Her best friend from elementary school moved away over the summer, and there are a few kids from that school attending middle school with her now, but it’s a huuuuge school and she hardly sees them, and the ones she does see she tries to be friendly with, but it doesn’t seem to me that it is being reciprocated. She says she’ll ask one girl, let’s call her, oh, Madge, she’ll ask Madge to save her a seat at lunch, but when she gets to the cafeteria the table is full and there’s a rule about the number of people at a table so she has to go find somewhere else to sit. Or she’ll text her asking about a thing in a class or if she’ll be on the bus and Madge will text back, “You suck.” And then a few minutes later, “JK, LOL :-)”

And my daughter is confused, because she thinks this girl likes her. Because this girl is the supposed awesome girl, you know, that one who is both popular and nice and talks to everyone and has the best outfits and the coolest bag and compliments everyone else on their slightly less cool outfits and bags and shares her candy and has the latest iPhone and perfect side-swept bangs and knows the words to all the songs. That girl.

We all know this girl, right? She’s super cool but makes a point of being really nice, too. She talks to everyone, even the secretaries and the lunch lady and that weird mumbly guy with the puppet. Being nice is her thing. It’s her brand. Malcolm Gladwell would call her a connector. Everyone wants to talk to her. She sparkles, she schmoozes, she’s got the world on a string and she’d be thrilled to hook you up.

But sometimes we get a weird feeling. She’s still smiling, but it seems a little unfocused, like maybe she’s not smiling right at us. She put her bag on the seat next to her just as we got on the bus, seemingly absorbed in Candy Crush, then moved it off when someone cooler boarded. She forgot to include us at the company presentation, when we had done that whole big Section on the important Thing, and when someone pointed out her omission she said “Oh right, they worked on it too.” She would have invited our child to the birthday party, but the venue only allowed thirty people, so sorry. She didn’t get the three voicemails we left, her phone was being “weird”.

And most of us, I think, receive this unspoken message and move on. We find people we really connect with instead of continually trying to connect with someone who seems “on” but is never actually available. This is what I keep hoping my daughter will do. It’s a school of more than one thousand kids, so I know her people are there, people she’ll click with, who will appreciate and relate to her, goofy quirks and all. People who will want and remember to save her a seat.

I just don’t know if I should say it out loud or let her come to it on her own. Madge isn’t really that nice. She doesn’t really want to hang out with you. Go, find the people who do.

What hurts more, hearing the harsh reality in one fell swoop, or months of ambiguity and solitude?

out with the tide

I’ve been trying for days to write about where we’re at with my son; his behavioral challenges have anted up significantly over the last few weeks and I know I need both the venting and commenter insights this space affords. However I just can’t. Maybe it’s too fresh, I don’t know. Words just won’t come. So, I’m going to punt that topic for now and try to do Peep’s birth story instead, which itself is 4+ months overdue.

So!

I’ll skip the days (weeks!) of prodromal labor, during which I contracted sporadically during the day and regularly during the evenings, for hours on end. Instead I’ll start two days before Peep arrived. It was early Thursday morning, around 3:30 am, when the contractions hadn’t stopped all night and seemed to be worsening, that I finally woke my husband and pronounced it Go Time. We called our friends, and husband took the two big kids over to their house while I put a few last-minute items in the hospital bag.

While husband parked, I shuffled and panted my way up to L&D triage, which was blessedly slow and they got me in a “bed” very quickly. We watched my contractions on the monitor, and I felt so validated as the enormous double peaks scrawled across the paper; the contractions weren’t a figment of my imagination nor just trifling little cramps. They were real, they were strong, and they were frequent. They just weren’t doing anything much, so I was sent home after a few hours. Oh, that long, hangdog slog back out of L&D. I felt like Napoleon, slinking from Waterloo.

We arrived home just as the kids would be heading to school. We let our friends know, and that we’d play pickup by ear, and I grumpily settled in bed to continue laboring ineffectively. (I should mention, at this point, that my separated pubic symphysis prevented me from walking or exercising my way into stronger labor; any movement hurt, even rolling over or trying to sit up.) 

The minutes and hours crept by in a strange, slow blur. My mother arrived in the afternoon, and she and my husband talked in hushed voices while I tried to rest. The contractions didn’t diminish, but they didn’t worsen, either. I manuevered and re-positioned constantly, trying to find any spot that would give even the slightest relief. We decided that while we didn’t know when things would actually get going, it was best not to let the kids come home and see me in this much distress. I was having a hard time moving through the contractions, and I didn’t even want to see them and try to put a happy face on. Our friends picked them up from school and would keep them for the night. I knew they’d be thrilled to have this extended sleepover with their besties, so I didn’t worry about them too much.

That evening found us back in triage, I was contracting regularly still, and they felt stronger and more intense to me, but upon being checked – by the resident with the world’s biggest hands, just think on that for a minute – I hadn’t progressed beyond 3ish cm and so I couldn’t be admitted. 

I can’t remember if I cried. I probably did. By now it was late Friday night, I’d been awake for two days, was in constant pain, and was SO TIRED. They gave me a shot of morphine and sent me home again. By the time I was back in my own bed, the morphine was working and the contractions felt like a mere dull roar. I slept for three hours, until I woke again to pain so intense I white-knuckled the headboard and moaned – no, growled – for my husband to apply counter pressure. (I’ve heard women speak with awe and amazement at how primal childbirth is, and how our animal nature takes over, etc. That may be true, and I do truly appreciate the magical insanity that is labor and birth. However. I do not like the strange, deep, bellowing sounds I emit when in that kind of pain. It just makes the whole experience feel even more out of control and surreal.)

This phase lasted until dawn, every contraction rendering me a gasping, sobbing wreck, desperately clutching my own ass in an undignified attempt to find leverage on the pain and subdue it. At some point during the morning I decided I had to go back to the hospital, if only to get more morphine. While the thought of riding in the car was unbearable, and the thought of having to walk out of L&D again even more so, I just could not manage the pain at home on my own. The breathing, the stretching, the focal points, the meditation, the music… I’d tried it all and come up short. I needed help.

Saturday mid morning found me in the same bed in triage, getting checked by the same large-handed resident. (“That’s the guy,” I hissed at my mom when I saw him outside the door.) I dreaded what he would say, dreaded hearing that my cervix continued to clamp itself at an uncooperative number, dreaded being in labor purgatory for another indefinite, insufferable stretch.

“Well, that’s a six!” he pronounced brightly, and everyone in the room cheered. I was beyond relieved. So far beyond. I think my husband was, too. He’s one for action, and all the limbo was driving him crazy.

It took the usual amount of rigamarole to get me up to a delivery room, and I remember upon arrival my mom and husband exclaiming over the beautiful view of the mountains, and feeling a twinge of sadness that I couldn’t enjoy it properly, what with the miserable pain and all. I decided I wanted an epidural, despite my desire to go without this time. When I had imagined myself having an unmedicated labor, I had imagined that the hours leading up to delivery would be brief; third babies, after all, have had the way well-paved. What I didn’t know was that I’d be awake for nearly 48 hours and be in active labor for more than 20 of those hours prior to delivery, and would have burned through all my reserves before the action even got started. So even though it wasn’t what I wanted, it was what I WANTED. 

My nurse was super nice, young but warmly maternal and gentle, getting all her intake chores done while making me feel like she was completely focused on me. My mom and husband called various family, letting everyone know that things were happening. I sweated and struggled through every contraction, hoping that the anesthesiologist would hustle it up already. She arrived, young like the nurse but brisk and utterly lacking in bedside manner. “Hold still,” I remember her saying, as I shook silently with the effort of not writhing through a contraction, trying to curl into the proper C-shape that would open my vertebrae. My husband held my shoulders, and as the epidural took effect, I said something about how it was weirdly working feet-first, looked up at him, and that’s the last thing I remember for a while.

It turns out the anesthesiologist punched the needle too far, into the subdural space, but didn’t realize it and injected the full drug load, which instantly bottomed out my blood pressure and caused me to lose consciousness. I was out for about two hours, which on the bright side gave me a nice break from the pain marathon, however it did cause my mom, husband and nurse a serious case of fretting. Fortunately I didn’t go into respiratory distress, which can be common in these situations; unfortunately later that night I would get the first pangs of a resulting spinal headache, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

The return to consciousness was slow. At first I was aware of voices and sounds around me; slowly I realized they were talking about me, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t know what had happened, or even if the baby was ok. I managed to open my eyes and my OB’s face hovered over mine. Her lips were moving, but nothing was making any sense. I must have managed to ask about the baby, because I remember finally understanding her say “the baby is fine” over and over. I think I was crying, I was certainly disoriented and scared.

As my head cleared, I realized I had no sensation in my body and couldn’t move. The perks of this situation were immediately obvious: no pain! Gradually I was able to talk and understand more about what had happened. I was still in labor – the contractions were merrily chugging away on the monitor – but couldn’t feel a thing. My OB pulled up a chair and said it was time to go over the game plan.

Up until now, the game plan had been to go for an unmedicated, vaginal delivery if circumstances allowed. My previous baby had macrosomia and shoulder dystocia, and we’d had conversations about the probability of it happening again with this baby, and what the best management strategies would be. (You can read more about it in my last post.) 

Now, the long labor and failed epidural threw me a curve ball. At least, I felt it did. The OB was honest and said she really didn’t know at this point what to recommend. A c-section would obviously eliminate the chance of shoulder dystocia, but carried its own risks and difficult recovery. However, she said, if I was going to proceed with a vaginal delivery, I had to be ok with her breaking the baby’s collar bone or breaking my pelvis to get her out, should a dystocia occur. No, I said. No. I’m not ok with breaking the baby.

I thought and thought and thought, and felt like a c-section would be the safest path for both me and the baby. I couldn’t face getting another epidural after the last one failed so spectacularly, but I didn’t think I could get through delivery at this point without one. I was afraid I didn’t have the strength to push, after everything I’d been through. I didn’t think I could squat or get into optimal positions for getting the baby’s shoulders through. I just didn’t think I had it in me anymore, as much as it hurt to admit it.

My husband told me he’d respect my decision, but reminded me how much I wanted to do this naturally, and told me he believed in me, that everything that had led us here was fate. He wanted me to try. That he had so much faith in me meant a lot, though I didn’t think fate had anything to do with anything. 

During this conversation the feeling was returning to my body. The contractions broke over me in waves, bearable at first, but growing quickly in intensity. The pressure was on to make a decision. I really was leaning towards a c-section, the last thing I thought I wanted, but now suddenly seemed like the safest path. I looked at my mom; she nodded. She wanted me to choose safety. She believed in me too, believed that I knew myself enough to make the best choice.

As the decision slid into place in my mind, another kind of sliding was happening. I felt something shift and move down below, a strange but unmistakable sensation. “Oh my god, she’s here,” I gasped. “THE BABY IS IN MY BUTT.” (Because that’s what it felt like, and because my subconscious knew this birth story would need some humor later, apparently.)

The doctor’s eyebrows went up, she checked me, and it was true: I was at a 10 and ready to push. “It looks like she made this decision for us,” the OB said, and the room kind of started whirring around me, suddenly full of people running back and forth and moving things around and clanking the bed into its fully functional position. I remember looking down and everyone had white galoshes on. It’s one of the visual details from the entire experience that stands out the most.

Meanwhile the contractions were raging full steam ahead, and while I was relieved not to have to dither about what to do, I was also having an incredibly difficult time getting through each contraction. Grabbing my hips, scrabbling backwards in the bed like I could escape them, breathing through pursed lips so hard I was spitting all over everything. My husband and mom were holding my hands, encouraging me, but none of it got through. I was very near panic.

“Open your eyes,” my OB said quietly. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” So I did, and it somehow helped. “Stay here, stay with me.” She was gentle but so authoritative that I just somehow did. I still felt crazed with pain, but also more grounded in knowing that the only person who could finish this was me. I took a huge breath and started pushing.

The pain was unbelievable. Indescribable. Stretching, searing, hot, impossible. Just as I thought to myself I wouldn’t be able to do it long enough to get the baby out, the OB said, “Her head is out!” and I was stunned with gratitude. I pushed again, against the stirrups, against the pain, against the fear that had been building to this moment. I felt like a wild thing, a hurricane, a supernova: the sensation of opening was slithery and explosive and unbearable.

“It’s out,” the OB said, her shoulder is out.” Everyone cheered, and I cried, incredulous. Her shoulder was out. She was going to be ok. One final push and the rest of her slid through me, like the tide going out. And suddenly there she was, nestled in the OB’s lap, a deep yellowish purple, eyes tightly closed. I stared and stared, drinking her in. “She’s not crying,” I cried, as they lifted her to my chest. She opened her eyes. 

I don’t remember the order of what happened next. I know she spent some time in the warmer, and I got cleaned and stitched up, and she nursed, and my husband and mom held her. I know we all marveled at her, and the path her coming had taken. Mostly though I just remember holding her, looking into her face, and her looking back into mine.

 

 

*David Copperfield

spark of life

Big news! I’m pregnant! And… due in ten days! Uh, and absolutely terrible at updating this blog. Sorry. But anyway, baby #3 is coming soon, and we’re very happy and excited about that, despite knowing full well that the impact of a newborn will be a mixed bag for our family. With a 10 year old and almost 7 year old, we’ve gotten accustomed to the luxuries of life without nap schedules, or diapers, or choking hazards, and revisiting all that will be… interesting, especially for the big kids.

If you follow me on twitter, you’ve probably blocked me by now, because in recent weeks I’ve gotten very vocal (ok whiny) about wanting to get this baby OUT already. I feel like an asshole about it, because I know so many people would give anything to be pregnant and can’t, or have had horribly frightening experiences with preterm birth, and that my seemingly “I’m so uncomfortable I can’t stand being preggo ANY MORE” tweets must appear shallow or offensive or both. I don’t want to offend or alienate anyone, of course, yet I can’t be disingenuous about my own truth, either.

Here’s the thing. I want this baby out NOW because I am absolutely terrified what will happen if she stays in another minute more. My last baby was macrosomic, and his shoulder got stuck during childbirth. This is called dystocia, and is highly risky both to mother and baby; because the head is already delivered but not the chest, the cord is compressed against the baby in the birth canal and the baby suffers oxygen deprivation. This can be fatal, or cause brain damage, or permanent nerve damage and paralysis, or or or. 

There are a few things the medical team can do to help free the stuck shoulder, including breaking the baby’s collarbone (GAH, I KNOW) or performing something called the McRobert’s maneuver on the mother: pushing her knees up somewhere behind her ears and then applying significant pressure to her pubic bone to release the baby’s shoulder. The latter is what they did in my delivery experience, resulting in a perfectly healthy baby, thank the stars, and a separated pubic symphysis and dislocated pelvis for me. This took months and months to recover from, was extremely painful, and limited my physical activities (such as, you know, walking) severely. But I eventually recovered, and life went on, save for the occasional modified yoga pose so the teacher wouldn’t get sued if I dislocated my hip.

Flash forward to this pregnancy: pubic bone separation begins around month 7, which, ow, but ok, I’ll try to work with it. And then an ultrasound at 36/37 weeks shows the baby is already clocking in at eight and a half pounds, “on track” to be a little more than 9 and a half pounds by my due date (same as my son was), according to the doctor. I sputter something about margins of error with ultrasound sizing and am reassured that a previous history of macrosomia reduces that margin. Not to mention, a previous delivery with shoulder dystocia significantly increases the odds for a repeat scenario.

So. My pelvis is already destabilizing, there’s a giant baby percolating in my belly, and she’s likely to get stuck. Obviously the risk to her scares me, obviously I’d prefer not to dislocate my own bones to get her out, obviously this is a double-plus ungood scenario and excuse me if I feel perfectly justified in eating pineapples, eggplant and sriracha in an attempt to jumpstart labor. Yes it’s early and generally not recommended, but: macrosomia, dystocia, pubic symphysis — maybe not on the same panic scale as preterm labor and NICU stays for some people, but definitely waaaay up there on mine.

We all have the lens of our own personal experience that colors how we view the experiences and decisions of others, and I am not guilt-free when it comes to judging others based on my singularly anecdotal evidence in some situations. But lately I’ve felt guarded in expressing my fears and frustrations with remaining pregnant, because the common party line is that it is always better to wait for a fully cooked baby than risk getting her out early, and I feel like people must thing I’m some kind of shallow idiot to want otherwise.

I’m lucky that my OB has made me a solemn vow to do everything to protect both the baby and I no matter what happens, that we will make decisions together as a team, that my fears are completely valid and if the baby gets stuck we can try some other techniques first (for example the Gaskin maneuver) if time and circumstance allow. She supports my idea that going without an epidural will give me greater flexibility to get into positions that could reduce the risk for dystocia and promises that the nursing team will also be very supportive in helping me get through an unmedicated labor. She gives great and reassuring hugs at the end of each visit and I feel safe in her hands. I wish I felt just as safe in talking about it out in the world at large, but the truth is, I don’t. 

And I know that’s part of the joy of living in a world of free & unfettered speech; that we don’t always hear what we want to hear, or get validated in the way we hope. That people may not agree with or even disapprove of our ideas. That even a civil and respectful dialogue about it may still hurt. I know all this, and yet, a part of me wonders if my body isn’t releasing the baby yet because my heart is still in its own infancy and needs the validation and support of entire, multiple communities before it can let go and fully trust that all will be well. 

This self-doubt, it’s frustrating. And also oddly reassuring; I’m just one little human, trying to make another. Wish me luck?

There’s the kind of person who may appear to be over-invested in their child’s emotional health. Perhaps this investment appears unhealthy in itself; I’m not sure, being one of those kind of people, and lacking in enough perspective to see the situation clearly. But I keep forging ahead, trying to do what I think is right for my kids: filtering media content, sitting at the bedside of an anxious child, staying an extra five minutes at drop off for the nervous child, carefully choosing my words about diet to reflect health rather than image, making sure to validate feelings and separate them from behaviors and actions in both praise and punishment. I try not to helicopter, I try to encourage discovery and agency and initiative, to teach critical thinking as well as compassion.

The tricky thing is that I’m married to someone who is practical, pragmatic through and through, and has a very difficult time valuing the emotional realm, let alone acknowledging its existence. Through my lens, his insistence on things “making sense” and “being smart” above how things might just feel is myopic and puts us all at a disadvantage. To me, yelling at a child for having feelings he or she can’t work through appropriately on his or her own is tantamount to abuse.

So the question is, if I know I would immediately take the kids and leave a spouse who physically harmed them, first strike you’re out, why is it so much less clear when I feel like he sometimes emotionally harms them? Do I subscribe to his theory, that it’s a cruel world and they need to learn how to navigate it? Do I allow the generous excuse that his upbringing did not teach him how to have a healthy emotional life and he’s still working on it forty years later? What are my children learning from me, as I protest but don’t altogether stop the way their father speaks to them?

Common wisdom holds that parents should maintain a united front when making decisions, disciplining, and setting expectations with their children. Kids shouldn’t be given the opportunity to play one parent against the other, or feel insecure about who is really in charge. I’ve heard some divorced parents talk about how this is (or, sadly, more often isn’t) a sustainable practice, but I’ve heard less about how parents who are together also struggle with this.

Nature abhors a vacuum and all, so! Allow me to fill that void with vexations and frustrations from my own experience. 

I’ve always been pretty thin-skinned. My husband can make comments like “It would be better with more cilantro” or “Is that what you’re wearing?” or “I see you didn’t balance the checkbook” and I take it as a personal affront. His comments or observations vary on the scale of actual offensiveness (from not-at-all to WTF) but I perceive them pretty much universally as criticisms. Of me. Of how I am lacking in awesomeness, or even adequacy. Most of the time he feels he is just making a comment, and even if I point out that it technically was a judgement or if even the tone of this observation was snarky or mean, he reassures me that it wasn’t his intention to make me feel bad. After more than twelve years together, I feel kind of like an old tree covered in ivy; it’s hard to tell what is supporting me from what is tearing me down.

My dad was pretty critical and disapproving when I was a kid, too (yes, Dr. Freud, I did marry my father, thank you for noticing). He had a cold stare that could stop my heart from across the room. I just knew when I’d disappointed him, the way you just know when you’ve been impaled on a pointy, sharp sword. (I mean, I imagine you’d know that pretty well, if it happened.) By the time I reached my mid teens, I could hardly talk to him. I felt misunderstood, belittled, and unloved. It took a not small amount of therapy to untangle all that, and a lot of time. Today my dad is my confidant and my champion, but I remember what it felt like back then, the immeasurable divide between us, the bottomless hurt.

And, as it turns out, my daughter is temperamentally very much like me. Emotional, earnest, and very, very sensitive. Most of the time we’ve all muddled through, resolving misunderstandings and hurt feelings quickly and easily. In the last few months though — perhaps not uncoincidentally as she enters her tweenhood – things have changed. She hurts more deeply, and for longer, and withdraws into sarcasm or silence instead. She reacts to my husband’s every comment with sullen eye rolls or wounded sighs. He snarks back, and she storms and stomps, and like a wildfire in the wind suddenly they are both in aflame, burning each other with disappointment and despair.

I hear her sobbing upstairs, and go to sit with her. I don’t want to take sides, I don’t want to unbalance the perception of parental unity. But I think he has been an utter ass, and I ache for her. What can I say? How can I comfort? “Why does he hate me?” she cries, snot bubbling out of her nose in tiny, sad pearls. I am stricken. I know he loves her, yet I know how it feels to feel unloved. I’m in an impossible middle ground: I must defend the indefensible, find the grace in the grimness, speak the truth in the midst of hypocrisy.

Yes. I know he hurt you. I also know he loves you. It doesn’t make sense; it seems like two opposite things. But they are both true. This is a paradox. Hang on. You will be able to understand both truths one day. For now, trust me, there is love. There really is, I promise.

You might wonder why I tolerate this. Typed out it sounds awful. It is awful. But it is how he grew up, it is what he knows: he was never good enough. And now, he is trying so hard to undo his knotted history, to smooth his own scars and be a different kind of parent than his own were. I respect the hell out of his effort, and how far he has come. He has done much more and much harder work than I have. For me, this is enough: he loves me, he is trying to be better, he wants us to have a happy and healthy relationship.

But for my daughter? Is this enough? Is it fair to ask her to be patient, to try to understand? To believe the love is there, even when she can’t see it?

I wish I knew.

 

*Great Expectations

Well, it turned out I was not pregnant after all, though it took a considerably long time to establish the fact. The odd thing was, so invested had I become in being prepared for the possibility, that when all was made absolutely and finally clear, there was, I had to admit to myself, a little regret mixed in with the relief.

As one part of me kept listing all the many reasons a third child would be a disruption to an already syncopated family rhythm, another grew excited at the prospect of feeling again the flush of new life and all the promise it holds. The possibility of beginning again, reveling – perhaps even hiding – in the uncomplicated newness of an infant, the simple care of love, feed, hold, nourish.

So much of my life now is governed by uncertainty and worry, there is an appeal in retreating to the safety of that warm, post-partum bubble. My many now-pregnant-with-their-second-baby friends would guffaw (if it didn’t put them in danger of vomiting) at my romanticizing life with a newborn, and while I understand it’s not all sweetness and light (particularly with older children still carrying on demanding things), and that things like colic and reflux and sleep deprivation can really rip a hole in one’s sanity, I still think of those early days as beautifully simple.

My oldest is entering the tween years, and my youngest is dealing with a mental disorder. As exhausting and uncertain as their early childhood was, it all seems even more so now. And perhaps all of parenting feels this way, to everyone, no matter their situation: always new and difficult and slightly opaque. Always the questions of what to do, how to navigate challenges, how to help your children grow and learn and love and be healthy, happy, independent people. From here, the diapers and the sleepless nights and the breastfeeding saga, even at their worst, look so manageable. But I have to remember that I was operating far out of my comfort zone then, just as I am now. It felt then there was just as much at stake as it does now.

The difference is, the further along the path you get, the farther your future’s endless possibility recedes. The lens narrows, the children take shape, your faults helping to form them as well as your better aspects. I don’t feel that I have failed my children, but I do see now that I could have done better. If only I could have carried that protective envelope of love forward, that their lives didn’t need to become burdened with such pain and confusion. Naive, perhaps, but isn’t it human?

In wishing, however faintly, for that third baby, I think I was really wishing for a chance to try again with the two I already have. When it became clear there wouldn’t be one, it also became clear that the only steps I can take with them are forward. We are where we are. It’s the curse of the path not taken – you don’t even see it until you have missed the turn.

wonders in the deep

If you follow me on Twitter you may know I’ve been ensconced in the throes of a drama entirely too comedic and youthful to be my real life. On the evening I was due to remove my Nuvaring, I discovered it missing. Tormented by visions of it floating lazily, Saturn-like, somewhere in my abdominal hinterlands, I phoned the doctor the next morning. Much embarrassing discussion resulted in an appointment for the next day, and, on her own thoughtful initiative, a prescription for Plan B. Which, as supportive as I am of the existence and availability of Plan B and many choices for women and family planning, I elected not to take it. My father always said not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and one may suppose that goes for any prize chute, including fallopian tubes. So, uh.

A rousing game of speculum peekaboo revealed I’d indeed been correct in my assessment of the situation, and even worse, it had probably fallen out a week or so ago, meaning the, ahem, relations I’d had with Monsieur Shriek more recently had been of the very unprotected sort and a biological supernova could quite possibly now be taking place Within. I bought an EPT at the pharmacy on my way home from the doctor, and have been staring apprehensively at the box for the last twenty or so hours.

It’s funny to be on the other end of the stick – in years past, I couldn’t wait to test because my hope of two pink lines was so overwhelmingly great it nearly undid me. I wouldn’t say my hope of a negative this time is in equal proportion, but. We are done. Or – we were done. Our two are so wonderful and amazing and impossible that adding another seems absurd. Unfair, even. With the youngest’s developmental issues lately, even the oldest has gotten shafted in the time/attention department. What would a squalling pooping sleepless infant – even assuming (ptui ptui) a normal, healthy one – do the two who are already here and struggling for secure and happy childhoods?

It’s an infinite loop, this line of worrying. And I am trying to give it up. What dreams may come, et cetera. I cannot know how it would work, only that that we would work, my husband and I, to make it the best it could be. We have our struggles, this family, yet more and more what they reveal to me is that we have enormous strength in love. Even as the world seems to be collapsing around us, my faith in the human heart grows every day. And perhaps even a new heart grows within me, too. I’ll let you know.

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