Hardy Har Har and a New Car

The weekend before last, we bought this:

And we moved out of this:

And into this:

I’ve been in my new job for eight days now. While I’m sure there is a honeymoon phase for every new relationship (romantic, friendship, job, etc.), that knowledge doesn’t keep us from loving it each time. My coworkers are great. My office is great. My Board is great. And the work that we do is phenomenal. I get to hang out with incredible women. They are intelligent, driven, socially active and funny. Last week I had three lunches with Board members: the board chair and two co-founders. In each one, it felt like an honor to be there. And not because any of them are high falutin, exactly the opposite. They all do important work in their fields AND are dedicated to Hardy Girls. I felt the same rush as when they offered me the position. The same sense of flattery and accomplishment. And, listening to each of them talk about the organization, I realize what I have to contribute.

I do miss the girls of MCI. They threw me a going away party and expressed real sadness at my departure. That, too, was flattering. They meant (mean) a lot to me and to know the feeling was mutual makes it that much more poignant.

For awhile, I kept saying I was just going to get a straight-forward job. Data-entry or retail. Something that requires skill, but a job I could leave at work. I was struggling with work encroaching my home life. That originally “working from home” sounded like a perfect solution to having babies and a job, but when your jobs don’t end and you’re on call personally and professionally basically all the time, time is like San Diego weather: it passes just as fast, but you have nothing to show for it. My mother and therapist (two separate people, just thought I’d clarify since my mother fills both roles occasionally) both said I wouldn’t happy in a straight-forward job. That I’d be typing or filing or answering phones and wondering why I wasn’t holding my new, happy, mellow, easier-than-making-cake-from-a-box baby. But I want something easy, I whined to both of them separately. Easy makes your brain atrophy, they both said separately. And they were right, as mothers and therapists often are.

In my new job, as I told my mom, it feels like my soul is refilling. I come home with more energy. I enjoy going to work. I feel lucky to have this job - a job I didn’t even really know was my life’s work until I started it. I believe most of the world’s problems can be solved (or at least greatly improved) by women. Therefore, these aren’t just women’s issues, they are people’s issues. When we limit each other so much, we limit our world. And who wants a limited world except for those 1% of people who aren’t limited (at least financially). I learned this week that girls’ ambitions peak at age 8. This breaks my heart. I still wanted to be president at that age. (If you really want to cry, google Dora, Strawberry Shortcake or Rainbow Brite makeovers - what is wrong in the world!?!?)

Point is, this job is a two-fer (It’s probably actually like a six-fer, but let’s just focus on two right now.) I’ve always felt the struggle of motherhood and working - not a unique thing, I know. But I have to work. In this position though, when I go to work, I feel like I’m helping to create the world I want for my sons. Maybe being away from them for a purpose only dissuades my guilt and they’ll still be talking about their absent mother in therapy in however many years, but I like to think not. I like to think they’ll be as proud of their mother as I know I will be (am) of them. I like to think my role here will teach me how to raise two kind, empathetic, considerate, intelligent, hardy boys who will be excited to be surrounded by so many hardy girls.

Cat out of Bag

Again, I’ve started multiple blogs since my last posting. I made those aprons I was talking about:

I also finished the poodle tree skirt for my mother:

 

But, I’ve had some news for awhile and haven’t been able to share it. So any time I’ve started a posting, there’s the Tourettes of “don’t say it yet” that spills out of me.

I have a new job. I start on Thursday. Yes, this Thursday. What that means for us is moving, getting another car, not living in a dorm, not being home with the kids, me working full time outside of our living room for the first time since before Henry was born and, well, big change.

I’m very excited (and very nervous). I’ll be President of Hardy Girls Healthy Women. On my very first trip to Maine in 2009, I saw their storefront when out with my mother-in-law. I liked their logo and looked them up when I got in front of a computer next. I’ve been following them ever since. It is an awesome nonprofit dedicated to the health and well being of girls and women. The vision is that all girls and women experience equality, independence, and safety in their everyday lives. To that end, the mission is to create opportunities, develop programs, and provide services that empower them. The coolest part is this (from the website):

Although many, if not most, national programs designed to support girls in the past 15 years have focused on self-esteem and other internal, psychological issues, HGHW is one of the few programs that addresses girls' lives in relational and social contexts. We believe that it is not the girls, but rather the culture in which they live that is in need of repair. The developmental psychology concept of "hardiness" shifts attention from the individual to their environment-families, schools, and community organizations- as the key agents of change in girls' lives.

So, when the president position opened up, I had to apply, what with my years-long professional crush on them. I’m still a little shocked I was chosen, but I think there is that fear of being discovered as a fraud in most of us, regardless of your experience and competence.

I’ve always considered myself a feminist. I went to an all-girls high school. Worked for WIC. Worked for Girl Scouts. But it really wasn’t until I became a mother (of two boys, go figure) that my feminism went into full force. This isn’t the world I want for them. Too many stories about victims and sexual assault and commercials with boobs and thighs. I’m saddened by how limiting we are of each other. And how those limitations make all of us for the worse. Why is the fact that our women politicians pioneered the shut-down of the shut-down not more prominent in the news? Why do people freak out when my 3-yr-old wears nail polish and pink, plastic light-up sandals? These things are important to me and I’m beyond thrilled to be leading an organization that addresses this and more.

Hope all of you had excellent holidays and your new year is starting off with something that thrills you.

 

Creativity required.

To begin with, Sullivan laughed today. Apparently me gnawing on his cheek is funny. He’s also such an easy baby. When I had Henry, he’s the type of baby I would want to punch parents in the face for having:

“He almost never fusses.”

“He sleeps through the night.”

“He smiles all the time.”

“Such a happy baby!”

Maybe I’m being rewarded for all the times I didn’t punch those parents. :)

I put him down on the chair today to hang out and kick for a bit, which he did, and then he did this:

So, as you can probably tell, things are better. I’m still pushing myself to do more creative things as an outlet. I started sewing aprons last spring sort of randomly. I've made five and have fabric for five more waiting for me. Here’s a few (I was seven months preggers in my pic):

And I have a few more to finish. For my birthday, my parents bought me a sewing machine because they said hand-sewing aprons seemed a little silly. My first project on the sewing machine was Henry’s Halloween costume. I made the shirt, hat and sword:

I’ve also been walking a bit (Sullivan loves being outside), finishing up some work-related projects and reading. And Monday, because I hadn’t done anything creative, in between rounds at work I whipped out a sestina. I love sestinas. I ignore the required couplets at the end so it doesn’t count as a traditional one, but eh.

Henry tells me he follows the moon,

pointing to the dark sky with markered hands

and kiwi-strawberry yogurt outlining his lips: a circle

of pink cream glowing on his face

from the blackness of the car. We were driving home,

stopped for seven minutes subject to a freight train.

“Where are the passengers on this train?”

he asks, naming the cars as they pass, the moon

blinking between them. “Are they all at home?”

I start to explain there are none, my hands

gesturing in my lap. I tilt my head to see his face

in the rearview, the blinking safety lights red circles

on his cheeks. When we drive on, the splotchy circles

pepper my vision and it’s like I’m still watching the train.

Parked, he asks for a piggyback ride, his moist fingers on my face,

the grass wet on my flip flops, the spotlight of moon

on the front door. He is heavy against me, but I need my hands

for the keys. “Hold on tight,” I tell him, “We’re almost home.”

In the dorm where we live (too many people to say home),

he asks to be let down and runs to announce himself. They encircle

him and after this greeting, he shys under their hands.

“We saw a caboose,” he yells, thudding in Thomas the Train

slippers. I let us in to a cramped living room lit by the moon

and Henry twists to take of his striped hoodie, his face

 serious with the task. “Brush your teeth and wash your face.”

I call, the words feeling more like home

than the place. In the bathroom on the stool, he moons

over the fish with their fake, blue eggs; ridiculous circles

bobbing in rocks. Henry leans over the crusty sink, his train

t-shirt polka-dotted with dirt and marker spots. “No hands

in the tank,” I remind him and, without a flinch, his hands

recoil as he smiles, his eyes looking at me but his face

turned away. He knows and in response peeps like a train

and tells me he doesn’t want to brush. “We get home,

we brush. That’s the plan.” “No deal,” he pouts as I turn him a half circle

to get at his teeth. There are no cavities on the moon.

Life after birth

You know what’s really not fun? Postpartum depression. It’s the pits. Here’s why:

·         Having baby #2 = cranky mom. Having PPD with baby #2 = cranky x 26

·         I can’t wear mascara to distract from the dark circles under my eyes because crying happens multiple times a day often at very inconvenient times.

·         It’s a challenge to feed another human when you have no appetite yourself.

·         Motivation plummets (aka, no blogging).

·         Baby #2 takes on the unattractive role of Obligation when I’d really like him to play more of Affection.

·         Baby #1 asks, “Are you happy, Mommy?” repeatedly which reminds me of why I can’t wear mascara.

·         I envy strangers who tell me how precious my baby is.

·         Fitting in therapy between getting Baby #1 to school and feeding Baby #2 while still doing my job.

·         Returning to work after four weeks of maternity leave and still feeling exposed like a grape with the skin off.  

As I write this it feels like I’m making light of it. Trying to be funny for my blog. The same way I wrote about Sullivan’s birth. But both were more than “not fun.” I have PTSD moments from his birth and PPD brings up such sadness. Something that would make a hollow sound if you could hit it. It’s embarrassing, if I’m being honest with myself. Not immediately loving the baby I housed for nine months. I compare it to going on a really bad first date (his emergency birth) and waking up married to the person. And everyone around me, even those not related to him, want to hold him and coo and tell me how cute he is. How lucky I am to have this beautiful, healthy baby.

But my body betrays me: simultaneously withholding serotonin and responding with milk to his cries. He craves the warmth of my body, curling around me and falling asleep on my chest. He clutches my fingers, his tiny nails digging into my skin. And I hold him, feed him, rock him, soothe him, change him, stroke his head, while feeling… well, not so much. It’s not negative feelings I have. But it’s like caring for a stranger. Which, in a way, is exactly what it is.

Recently, there’s been some prickling through the numbness. He’s starting to smile with regularity. I put my face close to his and ask for one. He holds my eyes with his, then the gaze tracks to my mouth and his lips pull up. And I find myself talking to him more. The silly terms of endearment coming without thought. Pumpkin head. Biscuit pie. Sweet boy.

I try not to blame myself or judge any more than I’m already prone to do. I’ve heard lots of metaphors for depression and even more for coming out of it. Like a black and white movie that rainbows into Technicolor. The off-beat metronome that regains rhythm. But it’s frustrating enough when the depression disrupts my own life. That it dislocates my barnacle feels unforgivable. My mantra becomes: He will be fine. We will be fine. until the moments of color outgrow the monochromatic beginning.

Cost/Benefit Analysis... Sorta

Things that are easier with child #2

• This time you know they don't break that easily
• You've been sleep deprived since the arrival of child #1 so the transition isn't as shocking
• Shopping/registering for stuff (since you know you don't need 90% of it) and already having most of what you need
• Realizing that noise while baby is sleeping is a good thing and NEVER get them used to silence
• Having two sets of grandparents within a 20 mile radius
• Having a co-sleeper

Things that are harder with child #2

• Child #1
• Mastitis
• Nipple confusion because of giving a bottle because of mastitis
• Working from home, but still having to interact with people (ie. giving new student and her parents a tour while leaking from my left breast)
• Not being a horrible, snappy, cranky parent to child #1
• Protecting child #2 from child #1 while still encouraging big brotherhood
• Convincing child #2 that 8pm to 6am is nighttime/bedtime/sleeptime... not 4am to 10am and most of the day
• Not waking child #1 while child #2 screams from gas during said non-sleeping, nighttime hours
• Imagining a functioning life with two children

Sullivan's Birth Story

Here's Sullivan's birth story... for people who like that sort of thing. Heads up, it does contain the works vagina and catheter. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm pretty sure the cherry coke made me go into labor. That or dancing at prom. But my money's on the cherry coke. Tuesday, the 6th, Henry and I went to my parent's house for dinner. I rarely drink soda - as in once a month or so I'll have a sip of Jared's. I also don't drink coffee. But seeing that can of cherry coke in the door of my parent's fridge inspired an irresistible urge to guzzle. I drank it down within ten minutes.

At dinner, I told my parent's about the phone message I'd gotten from my father-in-law earlier that day. It was his birthday and he was hoping it was going to be Sullivan's, too. My dad asked if I thought it might be. I shook my head confidently saying there was no way I'd have him that day.

Henry stayed over at my parents and Jared and I stayed up way too late chatting. I went to sleep around 1am. At 2:30, I woke up feeling contractions. They weren't too dramatic, but definitely happening. I waited a bit to wake Jared up figuring this whole thing would take awhile and one of us should have some sleep. But after hanging out in the living room by myself for a bit and them not going away, I decided he should probably be awake for this. At the birth center (with Henry) they wanted more of the labor to happen at home so told us to call them when the contractions were 4-1-1: four minutes a part, one minute long, for one hour. When I asked the doctors here, they said, "Oh no, don't wait that long. Call as soon as they are regular. 6-1-1 or even earlier."

By the time we started tracking around 3, mine were 2.5-1-1.

In between moans, I finished packing my bag and we set off for the hospital, 30 minutes away. Just like in the movies, they brought out a wheelchair and I was rushed to Labor and Delivery. They hooked me up with monitors and such, stuck an IV in my hand and I put on their gown. I was already seven centimeters dilated. My water hadn’t broken and they were waiting for my doctor to arrive. They quickly noticed the baby’s heart rate was dropping during contractions. It felt a little like déjà vu as the same thing happened with Henry. However, this time we could clearly hear his heart. It went from the horse-racing hoof sound of duh-dump, duh-dump, duh-dump at 140 beats per minute to the terrifying

Dump

Dump

Dump

They kept changing my position and made me wear oxygen. My doctor arrived around 4am and broke my water. With his calm voice, he brought up the c-section possibility and Jared, after hearing that insanely low heart rate for the last half-hour said, “Don’t dilly dally. If you need to do it, do it!” The doctor said they didn’t know why the heart rate was dropping – that it could be a cord thing or that the baby was just pissed off at how quick labor was going. He said they’d take me to the OR and if, along the way, my labor progressed to the point where he could use a vacuum for a VBAC, we’d still go that route.

I was rushed downstairs to the white, bright room I remembered from Henry’s birth. This time, they made Jared stay outside until they assessed. It was determined I’d need to be knocked out completely and emergency c-section was a go. There was a sweet woman holding my left hand and lots of running around. My eyes were mostly closed as I was still having intense contractions and was now lying flat on an operating table with very little to brace myself with. The nice woman left and was replaced with a blurry, deep-voiced, gruff terrorist who proceeded to tell me she had to insert a catheter. And she couldn’t wait until I was knocked out. And then slapped the inside of one of my thighs saying “Open up” while I was having a contraction. Then there was shooting pain, I’m pretty sure I screamed several times and she told the doctor, “I think I put it in wrong. Is that her vagina?” Lovely woman.

Eventually, my doctor did her job and they knocked me out (with a suffocating rubber mask that made me ask them if they were killing me). Turns out the cord was wrapped very tightly around his neck which is what was causing those practically flatlining heart “dumps.” Sullivan Brady McCannell was born at 5:21am. Less than three hours after I woke up feeling the first contractions. He weighed 7lbs 10.8oz and was 20.5 inches long. Perfectly healthy boy. Just really wanted to get out. It was the cherry coke, I tell you.

Bust a Move

Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:42. Well, that’s my guess because I wouldn’t let myself look at my phone until 4:57. At some point in the night, Henry had climbed into bed with me. His tulip lips and delicately closed eyes were on the pillow next to me and his feet bumped my knees under the covers. I thought for the 137^th time how tall he’s getting and remembered when he’d first nursed in bed with me, his feet skimming below my stomach which I shielded with a blanket to protect my c-section scar.

After a few moments of enjoying my sleeping son, the to-do list bullets started firing in my head. Work stuff. My first job, my second assignment, and the committee I’ve been working on. Email so-and-so. Write up such-and-such. Finish that one thing. Assign those other things. Email someone else. And then the baby to-dos began to whine. Fish out the infant car seat. Wash both car seats. Where is the breast pump? Finish packing the hospital bag. Set up the co-sleeper. Clean out Henry’s new closet. Hang the artwork in his new room. Rearrange the nursery.

We’re getting close to the single-digit countdown. Jared’s big work event (Reunion Weekend) passed this weekend (a huge success). The ESL students start to arrive on Wednesday. After that, we are just waiting. On Friday, the doctor acted like I was overdue. They also act like I’m the one scheduling weekly appointments. “No questions?” they say each week. This time she gave me tips “to get things going” as if I’m past my due date. “I’m in no rush,” I told the doctor, “they are easier on the inside.” She shrugged, maybe surprised I’m not begging for induction.

 

Although… Friday night, we went to the first annual Alumni Sno-Ball (MCI’s version of prom). To celebrate the 90s in which we attended high school, some of us did some throwback dressing. I found a blue, glittery gown from the Goodwill that was very stretchy. With Aquanet bangs, blue eye shadow and my very form-fitting dress, we joked I was the token teen mom at the prom. (Pictures coming soon) Being mostly belly at this point, people seemed very concerned when I took to the dance floor. If you can’t dance to Bust A Move and the Humpty Dance when you’re 8 ½ months pregnant, when can you? And if that doesn’t speed along labor, well then, baby isn’t ready to come out yet. I’m happy waiting.

 

Gives me more time to pretend I’m going to finish those to-do lists.