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Different

8/28/2014

4 Comments

 
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I recently blogged about how motherhood has changed me. Changed my heart and my priorities... And the funny things like the increase in laundry and decrease of sleep... But there are other things that have changed from almost the instant I became a mother. 

About a month after Sarah was born, an Atlanta man left his toddler son in car on a hot day. 



And he died. 


Not too long after, it came out that he did it on purpose.

I really cannot put into words how this story has affected me; it's not like the story wouldn't have been horrible to me before I became a parent, but it's just different now in a way I can't really explain. I think about it continually and am absolutely paranoid that I will have a momentary lapse in memory and accidentally forget that Sarah is in the backseat. I understand now the meaning when people comment how something "makes them sick." The thought of a child being trapped in a hot car makes me feel literally nauseated. 

Shortly after the story came out, I ran some errands alone while my husband was at home with Sarah. It was the afternoon of a hot Georgia summer, and when I got back to my car and opened the door and felt the surge of heat waves escape the 4-door oven to waft over me, I instantly glanced into the backseat where the car seat usually sits. Of course it was empty. But I wanted to vomit thinking "what if it hadn't been?? What a horrible way to die."

A few weeks ago I was at my husband's softball game, and there was an adorable little girl there with special needs. She couldn't really seem to communicate, but she walked up to me and Sarah and was obviously delighted at the baby; pointing and making noises. I talked to her for a minute and told her how beautiful she was. A few minutes later she ran off. But she tripped, and fell flat on her face on the pavement with a smack that hit me like a slap in the face. Goldfish crackers went flying out of her hand and scattered all over the bleachers. And still facedown on the ground without even putting her hands out to break her fall, she began to cry in a way that absolutely made my soul hurt. And the urge to run over and pick her up and hold her tight and whisper that everything was okay was almost overwhelming (which of course her mother--who was nearby--did). 


Then not too long after that, I was scrolling through facebook early one morning and saw a story pop up on my newsfeed about a mother who delivered a stillborn baby, and about the newborn photographer who volunteered to take pictures of the devastated couple holding their baby for the first, and only, time. 

And I cried. I cried all the way to work. Cried because I feel horribly connected to all children and mothers now. Cried because I take my Sarah's wonderful health for granted. Cried because I can't get the images of the little boy in the car out of my head, or get the sounds of little girl at the ball field out of my mind. Cried because of all of people who don't love their kids. And because of the ones who love them too much, then have to deal with their deaths or terrible sickness. 

But I think about what the Lord says in Psalms 127:3 


"B
ehold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward." 


A heritage. A reward. 


Yes, motherhood has changed me again. My heart seems to have swelled to its capacity everyday, but with every moment I love Sarah more than I did before. And she is my reward. Reward for what, I can't answer. Because it's surely something I don't deserve: a gift no amount of money could buy, and a love no pen could describe. And for that, I'm thankful. 
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Labor & Delivery

8/20/2014

3 Comments

 
I wasn't going to write this post. 

Not because I didn't necessarily want to share my experience of birthing my first child, but because I didn't believe it when women said that they can barely remember the details of labor, because the emotion following the event eclipses it so thoroughly. 

Well. The days and weeks following the birth of our daughter were so fresh (nightmarish?) in my mind that I found myself thinking "maybe we really DO only want one child!" The 60+ hour marathon was so unbelievably exhausting, intense, and emotionally draining that I refused to believe that I would EVER forget even the smallest detail. 

But mysteriously enough, the details of the day ARE starting to fade. I guess it's not surprising, the Bible even references it: 

"When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world." [John 16:21]

So before I "no longer remember," let me reminisce: 

But instead of boring you with a story that started on a Wednesday night and didn't end until a Saturday afternoon, let's make this post for the prospective dads by breaking it down into some friendly rules. Er, that is to say, advice. 

But seriously they're rules. 


Rule #1
Don't take a nap while your wife is in labor. 


Take it from my husband. 

I am sure--at the time--that he thought his "short nap" (which incidentally lasted at least 2 centimeters) was innocent. I am also sure that he was unaware that I would be documenting his treachery with my iPhone whilst I was in the throes of labor* 

I hope his momentary lapse of judgement will serve other new dads to grasp the fact that while your wife is attempting to stretch her cervix from the size of a coffee bean to the size of a bagel, you should probably stay awake for moral support. 

And please, please DON'T YOU DARE utter the words "I'm tired." 

In fact, go ahead and wipe the phrase from your vocabulary. It doesn't belong in your immediate future. Because I don't care how tired you really are—your wife is always. ALWAYS. More tired. 

Rule #2
Be sure you are on the same page with your wife about her wishes. 


My husband did good here. 

We had many conversations leading up to the birth of Sarah about what kind of birth experience we (that is to say, I, wanted). Top of the list was a vaginal delivery. I won't get into details of questionable American medical practices and how our C-section (and maternal mortality) rates have skyrocketed in just my lifetime. But let's just say it was important to me that I avoided any kind of intervention that wasn't absolutely necessary.

See, had I not specifically and repeatedly told my husband during my pregnancy that I did not want an epidural (even if/when I asked for it), I'm sure he would have chased down the doctor in the hallway the moment I started to show signs of giving in. 

It was a great plan we had...But you know what they say about plans... 

I had been having contractions for about 36 hours before we finally went to the hospital (and I was going on day 2 of no sleep). A Jamaican nurse who looked about 90 years old examined me, announced that I was 4 centimeters dilated, and proceeded to offer advice over the next 6-7 hours that was bizarrely condescending and motherly at the same time. 

When my midwife, Elizabeth, arrived early the next morning to check me, my husband (who finally decided to wake up) and I were excited that I might be close to start pushing. But as she finished her exam, I saw her throw a glance towards the nurse as she was withdrawing her gloved hand.

"Is she 8 centimeters??" The nurse asked excitedly in her thick accent.

The midwife didn't say anything. Total poker face.

"She's 9 isn't she!?" The nurse cried, throwing her head back and clapping her veined and knotted hands together. 

The midwife threw her a look and shook her head almost imperceptibly, like a "stop-talking-now" kind of look. 

"Well? What!?" I demanded, my excitement being quickly replaced by fear.  


Elizabeth looked at the floor before she finally glanced up at me and said, 
"You're still at 4 centimeters."

I exchanged confused looks with my husband and the nurse.

"What do you mean?" I said, my voice shaking.

...a short pause...

"I mean you're not in active labor."

It was good that my husband had read up on how to be a good birthing coach, because I pretty much had a nervous breakdown at that point. I sobbed quite hysterically in the adjoining bathroom while I heard the midwife telling my husband that we "might as well go home" and wait it out there. Since he knew how defeated I felt, and how exhausted I already was, he asked about other options and we eventually decided to break my water to speed things up.

And speed up they did. 

See, the entire night before while I was valiantly having contractions (alone!), I was having a sort of internal monologue. While I was practicing my breathing, swaying my hips, getting in and out of the shower, and walking the hospital halls (ALONE!) I found myself thinking "this isn't as bad as I imagined," and even "I can DO this!" and eventually, "I was MADE for this!" I even haughtily thought "I'm so much tougher than all those other women! This seriously isn't that bad."

Well. Once my water broke and I was in active labor, I found myself writhing on the hospital bed confessing my internal monologue of the night before to anyone who would listen. "I'M SORRY!" I bellowed. "I ADMIT IT, OKAY?!? I USED TO JUDGE WOMEN WHO GOT EPIDURALS!! I TAKE IT BACK! I TAKE IT ALL BACK!!"

When I think about the contractions of the night before compared to ones after my water broke, it's like comparing a paper cut with a having both of your legs crushed by a tank WHILE having root canal AND being devoured by fire ants.

So, just like we rehearsed, I gasped to my husband (in between contractions) "I changed my mind. I want the epidural."

He smiled encouragingly and said something vaguely motivating. I don't know for sure because I wasn't listening.

"NO." I hissed. "I haven't slept in over 2 days. I am exhausted. I can't do this"

He continued to offer reassuring support, and I couldn't argue because I honestly didn't have the energy. After a particularly bad contraction passed, I asked my husband again for the epidural. He began, "But you've got this! You're doing so... "

"DID I STUTTER?! GO GET THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!!"


Feeling that his own safety may be in jeopardy, my husband promptly left the room and returned with the new midwife on call, Natalie. A no-nosense, give-it-to-you-straight sort of woman with blazing green eyes. Randy clearly felt it was time for professional mediation.

She knew my wishes of not wanting an epidural, but admitted that I still had a long way to go, not to mention the energy it would require to push. I reaffirmed that I couldn't do it, and the doctor was paged. 

By the time he got there, Natalie had me on my hands and knees, leaning over the  inclined head of hospital bed; my husband feeding me ice chips out of his hand. Like a bird. 

A most humiliating position. 

Probably in her last ditch effort to change my mind, Natalie said "well... he's here. Are you going to go through with this? Or do you want me to dismiss him?" She said it with the slightest bit of smugness on her face. Almost like she was trying to piss me off.

So knowing that I must be getting close now, and how much I would regret the decision afterwards (after all, I did tell everyone that I didn't plan on having an epidural), I roared "DISMISS HIM!!!!!" 

Rule #3
Become a professional masseuse. 

No seriously--massage therapy school takes a little under a year to complete. So to be on the safe side, you should ideally enroll while you and your wife are still trying to concieve. 

Because when the soon-to-be mom is thrashing around the hospital bed, a back massage (the motion of which most closely resemble trying to dig a hole with your elbow) is an absolute must. 

The fact that your forearms and hands may be feeling like they're going to shrivel up and die is irrelevant: Your wife is about to make you a father. You can deal with the pain!


Rule #4
Do some research to make your wife's recovery easier.


Had my husband or I known beforehand little facts, like how painkillers make you constipated, the first few post-partum days may have not been so horrific. 

Alas, I was unaware. 

I won't go into details, because I don't want the dudes to faint, but you can probably use your imagination to visualize what may happen when... let's say... things aren't wanting to move down there. And you have half a dozen stitches in your nether regions from pushing an 8.5 lb baby through the birth canal. I'll give you a hint: the stitches don't stay in.

Even if I had known, I don't think I was in any state of mind to remember to do anything (like eat. Or sleep. Or take some Miralax). 

As a grateful husband, make it your priority to do this research for your wife. 

Support her and encourage her in breastfeeding. 

Tell her she's beautiful and amazing and how proud you are of her. 

My husband may have been unaware of the effects of certain prescriptions on the human body, but he pretty much knocked everything else out of the park. 


Rule #5  
Announce the sex of the baby

My husband and I decided not to find out whether we were having a boy or girl thanks to some awesome advice from Randy's cousin; much to the chagrin of family and friends. And after pushing for over and an hour and a half, screaming and moaning through the pain (in positions any contortionist would be impressed by); at one point I believe Natalie shouted at me "control yourself!" or possibly, "stay in control!"), Randy glanced in between my legs at the insistence of the midwife, and said he saw a head full of hair. 

With a thrill of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline unlike anything I had ever felt, I gave a final push and heard the cry of our newborn baby. The baby was placed on my tummy and the midwife asked "well, dad?? What do we have??" 

He said with the biggest grin on his face I've ever seen "It's a girl!" 

I'll never forget those words, or how he said them, in my entire life. However much of that day was a total blur, I will always remember how I felt at that moment.

You did a great job, dad. 


When Randy first fell asleep
Still sleeping
Starting to be annoyed
Please notice the change in position as proof that time has passed
Welcome to the world Sarah Grace Lewis
First picture as a family
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Adapting to Motherhood 

8/3/2014

3 Comments

 
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I've always heard the proclamation that having children changes you, but I'll be honest: when I found out I was pregnant, I was a tad bit nervous that I wouldn't fit the bill of your typical mom. 


You know, the ones that make stupid faces in front of their baby and talk nonsense words? 


I've never been that crazy about kids, so I was crossing my fingers that what people said: 'it's different when they're your own!' would ring true in my life. 


Fast forward almost 3 months after the birth of my daughter, and I can say it is true. But I could have never prepared myself for how radically (and suddenly) my life, thoughts, and desires would change once our Sarah arrived. 

Some things that have changed are superficial: like how my conversation skills have taken a turn for the worse. 


I swore to myself before I had children that I would never become one of those parents. You know--the ones that cannot go more than one sentence without referencing their kids? But during the first several weeks when I was home (many times alone with the baby the whole day), I realized how desperately lonely it can be staying in the house with a little human whose only form of communication is varying degrees of crying. 


So desperate was I for discussion with another adult that my transitions in conversation had become somewhat erratic... So when the company who was handling my maternity leave called to verify some information, I found myself saying "yes, that's right, she was born May 10th. Speaking of being born, how 'bout them Braves??" 


 ---silence on the other end---


Me: "... I mean... yes, I'll be returning to work once my FMLA is up... So what do you have going on this weekend?!" 

The increasing awkwardness in conversation is just the tip of the bottle, though. 

I walked into my CrossFit gym this week and quit. 


Just like that. 


The sport I've loved for the past 2 years, which I stuck with through injury, a hectic work schedule, and 9 months of pregnancy. But after my return to a full-time job I simply could not justify spending almost 2 hours of my evening in a gym while my infant daughter (who I haven't seen all day) gazes up at me from her car seat with a kind of polite indifference.

So I quit. Because in this season of my life, I'll sacrifice having a toned tummy if it means I can spend that time with my baby girl.

But it's not just my priorities that have changed. Driving has changed. I really am more careful now (aren't you proud mom??). 


Now I'm not saying that I've ever texted while driving (or written notes in my calendar. Or 8 paragraph long emails to clients. Or read entire facebook threads), but now I think "is this really worth driving off the road for? What would Sarah do without me?" 

And I'm sure all moms out there can sympathize with the ever-present problem of red lights. Sarah LOVES to ride in the car. But the second, and I mean the MOMENT my car rolls to a stop, she cries. So I've employed a tactic whereby I stop about 60 feet from the car in front of me so that I have sufficient time to tap dance on the brake pedal until I'm about a millimeter from the bumper of the car in front. 


All while inwardly cursing the existence of red lights. 


I've already prepared my speech for the police officer once I get pulled over for running said red light. "But SIR! The baby would have woken up had I NOT run that red light! So really, it's just safer for everyone."


Surely any decent human being would understand that.


And eating! I always used to (silently) scoff at people who would say things like "I forgot to eat lunch today!" 


Really? How ridiculous.


Before motherhood, the probability that I would 'forget' to eat a meal was up there with forgetting to go to work. Or remembering to go to the bathroom. Or other involuntary actions. Like blinking. It just happens.  


But with an infant in the house, I've gone for almost an entire day sometimes before I suddenly remember that I've only consumed 3 spoonfuls of soggy cereal and 2 sips of lukewarm coffee. Because after lugging a 14 lb bag of wet sand (also known as the baby) around, changing endless dirty diapers, singing songs that I only know 1/4 lyrics to and re-doing the swaddle blanket for the infinite time, eating has usually dropped to the bottom of my priority list. 


But then I remember that I am milk machine, and unless I want my baby to starve, I better eat a biscuit. 


And I never thought I would be overjoyed by getting a little human to burp in my face. My sister and I share a common loathing of bodily noises (especially when they are expelled by our husbands), but when your baby has gas, the belch that follows a feeding is like music to my ears. Honestly it's a little weird how happy I get when I'm burped on. 


And anyone who knows me well will attest to the fact that I am generally annoyed by children. So no one could have been as surprised as me at the reality that I just FEEL differently towards other kids now. 


I'm less annoyed at other people's crying children in stores and restaurants. It's like all mothers of young children have an instant connection. 


I saw a mother with 4 kids in Target the other day who was trying to cope. One of her boys was sprinting to the front of the store barefoot while his mother (laden down with the youngest 3) shouted 'to the LEFT!' and pointed wildly to the front corner of the store. She smiled apologetically to the other shoppers (who were watching the scene with disapproving looks) and explained that he had to go the bathroom. 


I felt like gripping her by the shoulders and shouting "I IDENTIFY WITH YOU!" in her face.


I even took the liberty of giving the judgmental shoppers the stink-eye when I passed them.


And while I may not be quite ready to join a mommy-and-me baby yoga class, or get involved in an online discussion about the contents of my baby's diapers, I think I'm well on my way to becoming one of those moms. The ones who make stupid faces and talk nonsense to their baby. 


Because I'll tell you what: witnessing your baby learning, growing, and changing, and seeing their face light up with wonder is like nothing else on earth. Seeing Sarah smile is more beautiful to me than any sunrise or sunset I've witnessed anywhere in the world. Hearing her start to laugh makes my heart happy in way that just doesn't compare with the joys of globe trotting. And witnessing the miracle of watching her change moment by moment is just magical. 


And I can't wait for tomorrow to do it all over again. 

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