The best part of summer (and yes, it’s still summer until September 21) is fruit. Well, maybe not the best part. The BEST part is the beach, and the feeling of grass beneath your feet, and the smell of sunblock. Fruit is a close fourth, though.
With an overload of picked peaches, I made a crisp that is easy and quick.
Ingredients: 8 fresh or previously frozen peaches, sliced 3/4 cup brown sugar 1/2 cup flour 2 tsp. cinnamon 3/4 cup oats 1/2 butter, melted 1/2 cup Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal
Combine peaches, 1/4 cup brown sugar, and 1 tsp. cinnamon in bowl and let sit (the longer it sits, the tastier it will be). In another bowl, combine remaining sugar and cinnamon, oats, butter, and flour and hand toss to create a crumbly consistency. Mix in Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Place peaches in a baking dish and cover with crumb topping. Bake covered for 40 minutes at 400, then remove cover and bake for additional 20 minutes.
I haven’t written in a while, and it’s not due to lack of inspiration but due to lack of time. I never understood why people says that time is the greatest luxury. Just make more, I’d think to myself. Stop doing stuff you don’t want to to do, and do more of stuff you DO want to do.
Ha.
So, here it is, a Saturday morning at 11am. I’ve been up for five hours. I’ve made breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen. I’ve changed three diapers. I’ve dusted and Windexed the house, and cleaned both bathrooms. I’ve made a menu for the week and am ready to go to the store. I’ve refilled the hand soaps, done two loads of laundry, reorganized my jewelry box, one of E’s dresser drawers, and the hall closet. I’ve nursed E a few times, let the dogs in and out a few times, and have made coffee and brushed my teeth.
Time, I’m realizing, can’t be created. It’s got to be capitalized upon. With a few exceptions, none of the above was anything I really wanted to do, but I did it. One of the many things I’m learning, this time management thing. I still make time for things that are important, but I’m still learning how to juggle it all. I’ve been back to work for a month, and the challenges of everyday life seem to be magnified when you’re out of the house for ten or eleven hours each day. But, I do it. Capitalize upon those challenges, I tell myself.
I’ve had the opportunity to write a monthy piece for an online blog, Pregnancy After Loss Support, for the first year of E’s life. I’m writing about parenting after a loss, and balancing the joy I have for my daughter and the sadness I have for my son. Time is something I didn’t have with him, but I’m capitalizing on the challenges of a loss and turning them into something positive. Time is scarcer these days for sure, and I’ve got a lot on my plate and a lot of opportunities to consider that I never dreamed of a year ago. As I continue to navigate my life with the realization that time is finite (and boy does it fly by these days), I’m savoring each moment, even if it’s the moment of dusting an end table. This is my current state, and I’m trying to love every moment of it.
A friend said recently that a watch is the most intimate thing you can wear, because it rests on your pulse. Time is sacred, even though we spend a lot lf it doing things we don’t really want to do. But, without spending time on boring and mundane things, would we really appreciate the time spent on wonderful things?
Baptism is defined by Wikipedia (my favorite research source ever, I don’t care if it can be edited) as admission into the Christian Church. Today was a particularly momentous day for us, as Baby E was christened. We had beautiful weather, we were surrounded by friends and family and great food, and I was having a particularly good hair day. Win win!
I can’t remember if it was before or after I delivered Hank that the idea of a baptism was presented to me. I didn’t realize that this was something that could be done on a baby born dead. The pastor on call that evening at the hospital was new, young, and a recent father himself, and the arduous effort for him to baptize Hank was heartbreakingly obvious. I chose to not be present for the baptism, but my husband was, and it was short and sad and official. Even though Hank never took a breath, he was accepted and adopted by God. If I had to let him go, I suppose heaven would be the next best place, and the fact that we did something “normal” like a baptism seemed to validate his existence.
I dressed E this morning in the christening gown worn by three generations of my family, so delicate and old that my mother was scared to wash and press it. I slipped on a pair of new monogrammed bloomers over her tiny diaper. I clasped the delicate pearl bracelet, given to her the day before by her soon-to-be Godmother, around her wrist. And, at the last moment, I grabbed the light blue piece of fabric emblazoned with a cross and carefully placed it in my bag.
I knew that grabbing this fabric would be a game time decision, and it was something my husband and I had talked about a few times. I’m not sure exactly how this tiny blanket was used in Hank’s baptism, but I know it was present. I have so few things that are his, so few things that touched him or were next to him, and I’ll never have an opportunity for more, so I was hesitant to mix something of his in with anything else.
So, I decided that when I’d tell Baby E about her baptism, and tell the anecdotal stories of the day (like my good hair day), I will tell her that she shared his blue overlay. I will tell her that they’re both baptized. And I will tell her that they’re also both immersed in love, and there will always be opportunities to share joy.
When I was pregnant, I’d lie in bed at night and just pray that my baby would be born alive. Whatever else got thrown my way after she was born I could handle, right?
As I talk to parents of children of various ages, I realize the pleading and praying never stops. The worries will never stop. Once you get through one, something else comes up. Will she make the basketball team? Will she fall off of her bike? Will she be bullied on the bus? Will someone break her heart during college?
When my daughter was born, she had some tests done that came back with a less than favorable outcome. The repeat test showed the same, so her sample was sent out once again, this time for DNA testing. For the last three weeks as we’ve thought about these tests, I’ve tried to control the worry and fear by reassuring myself that no matter what, we will get through it. No matter what, she is my beautiful and lovely baby. Just get me through this one and I can certainly handle what’s next.
We got through it, thank God. But, it’s made me realize that parents don’t always get good news. Sometimes, they get news that changes their lives forever. I know- I’ve gotten news like that. The thought of getting it again was almost more than I could handle. As we cheered today that everything was going to be ok, I couldn’t help but think of the parents who wouldn’t get the good news we got, and it’s made me so incredibly thankful for what we have. From the agonizing heartbreak to the pinnacle of joy we’ve seen in the last five years, I am thankful for the journey.
Let me begin with a blanket apology that should cover just about everything I’ve ever done to you.
Now, for the details on why–
I realized yesterday at Target, after a woman backed her cart into me and my stroller and didn’t even bat an eye, that I used to be her. I used to be one of these people who wondered why you brought your kid to Target in the first place (can’t you get someone to watch them for a few minutes?), or why you felt it necessary to jam all three of your children in the grocery cart so they can toss stuff out and block each isle for everyone else. I was one of those people that got annoyed when you drove the speed limit in front of me, simply because you had your baby in the backseat. I was that girl that rolled my eyes when you had your child pass money to the teller at the bank, oblivious to the fact that I was witnessing your learning experience but instead obsessing on the extra sixty seconds you were taking out of my day to do this.
I didn’t recently just gain a child, but also a massive dose of patience.
Last week, I took the baby to the pediatrician alone. After our appointment, I needed to travel another five minutes to have her blood drawn. Doctor’s appointment was at 9:45. I figured we’d be home by 11. Boy, was I wrong. I didn’t factor in the fact that the doctor was running late. I didn’t account for the fact that I’d need to drive to the far end of a parking lot, pull over, and climb in the backseat and nurse my screaming child for forty-five minutes. I didn’t realize how long it takes to get the carseat out of the car, get the stroller out of the trunk, snap the carseat into the stroller, and then make it inside while still knowing where my keys are. I didn’t realize that I’d want to sit and hold her after her heel was stuck for blood, not to comfort her but to comfort myself. We made it back in the house at 1:30.
Eight weeks ago, this would have stressed me out to no end. Now, it’s part of my maternity leave routine. Time doesn’t matter. What you have to do to get your day done doesn’t matter. I realize that every parent was just doing what they needed to do to get by, even if it meant driving the speed limit.
Well, I considered myself a mom before I got pregnant again- I’m a firm believer that even though Hank never took a breath, he still made me a mother. Now that there is a physical being around, it’s very real to me that I’m someone’s parent (case in point- at the pediatrician’s office they kept calling me “Mom” and I had no idea who they were talking to). This idea of tangible parenthood is new- and amazing.
So, four days later, and we have been home for two of them. We’ve done laundry. We’ve been pooped on. We’ve had to change the sheets on our bed because those got pooped on, too (advice- baby needs a diaper on at all times). Still trying to figure out the nursing thing. Still trying to figure out the “sleep when the baby sleeps” thing. Still trying to figure out the mystery of why it took us an hour to get out of the house and get to the pediatrician (a mere ten minutes away).
Some things I HAVE already figured out- I love my baby. I love staring at her tiny perfection. Fingers, toes, wild red hair, gorgeous blue eyes. I love that she is a culmination of five years of heartbreak-turned-realization that sometimes life gives you what your heart needed for so long. I love that I’m four days into this journey of tangible parenthood and between the whirlwind of the bouncy seat and breastfeeding and changing a diaper after you’ve just changed it ten minutes ago and four clothing changes a day and hovering around the thermostat to make sure the house stays comfortable to making sure I take some time to eat and shower and have an hour in the day to do what I want to do and finally trying to sleep, that I’m still smiling and in utter amazement every moment at what my body created from love and hope.
In less than an hour, my alarm will go off to wake me (even though I’ve been up for hours). I’ve got a pretty good reason to get up at 4:15am today- the birth of my daughter.
In the last twenty six months, I’ve been pregnant for seventeen of them. I’m ready to meet my girl.
I’m nervous, anxious, scared, and excited. I’m also calm and peaceful. I keep thinking how everything that I’ve been through has brought me to this moment, and what a wonderful moment it is.
Image From http://gameshows.wikia.com/wiki/The_Whammy
The internal game of Press Your Luck I’m playing with myself is getting old.
Each day now feels like walking uphill (and not just physically). The rational part of me knows every day that passes without a problem means that my baby is growing stronger, gaining more weight, and means she is a little bit closer to lung maturity. The irrational part of me wants her out. Like, right now. No doubt she’d be safer in the NICU than inside of me. I’ve never been pregnant this long before. I know I’m testing fate.
Right before Christmas, my doctor went over a plan with us on what was going to happen for the next 20 weeks. I interpreted this plan as the wait-for-something-terrible-to-happen-and-hopefully-she-can-survive plan. We talked hospitalization for a few days. We talked about medications that can be administered inpatient. We talked about bed rest. We talked about delivering at 26 weeks. We didn’t talk much about going to 39 weeks, which medically is as early as you can schedule a surgical delivery without an immediate medical reason.
Here I am, with six weeks to go, and mysteriously none of these contingency plans have been needed yet. My blood pressure is normal. My stress level is normal. My weight gain is normal. My sugars are normal. Blood work and pee and proteins and swelling and other random stuff is…. normal. My baby is moving, all of the time. My baby is already head down. My baby seems to kick me when I have doubts about how she is doing, like I’m already embarrassing her ability to do this.
But, six weeks is a long time when you’re counting each day. Each day is a long time when you’re counting movements. Each hour is a long time when you don’t feel anything and need to remind yourself ten times in that hour that babies do sleep in the womb. Each second that she moves goes by too fast. By the time I realize that I want to remember that feeling forever, it’s gone, and I can only hope in a few moments she does it again.
Tonight, after playing the what-if game long enough that I started to cry, I knew I needed to do something. I’ve decided that, instead of waiting for the little red Whammy to come across and take my prize, I’m going to stop playing this game show scenario with myself and start thinking positively.
I’m collecting 42 positive affirmations, mostly having to do with pregnancy, and I’ll have one each day to read over and over. I need to be focused on something other than thinking that this could be the last day. I know I can do this, I really do. Now I’ll have it in writing, staring me in the face, all day every day.
If Peter Tomarken were to ask me if I wanted to take my spins or pass them, I’d tell him I’d keep going. I’ve got this, and am working on 42 reasons to remind myself.
Another life taken too short. Dying of cancer in your early thirties isn’t fair. Leaving behind people who love you isn’t fair. Having so much to give and not enough time to give it isn’t fair.
Life isn’t fair sometimes. Rest in peace, our sweet friend. You will be missed dearly.
I remember having a conversation with a friend a few years ago who had a six month old. Although she had just given birth and she was fully immersed in mom mode and mindset, she made a deliberate effort not to let the persona of “Mom” completely define her. She looked at it as another descriptor but not the one that represented her entirely. She worked and was successful, she volunteered, and she was a terrific friend, all the while laughing her way through the spit-up on her shoulder and the scheduling frenzy that was daycare. I saw a lot less of her with a baby, and I know she was exhausted and crabby and hormonal, but that’s part of the territory. I really admire her for still being HER but adding Mom to it.
Why do women seem to lose their identities as people when they become a mother?
I know being a mother is a lot of work; I’m not saying it’s anything but. What I’m saying is that you will still be a wife, a friend, a sister, a daughter, an employee, a co-worker, a community leader, and a thinker of thoughts other than feeding schedules and preschool applications. You may not be terrific at all of these things when you’re now waking up every two hours at night, but they’re not going away. I can’t wait until my daughter is born so I can add mother to the list of things that make me, me. I CAN wait to let motherhood consume my entire identity for the rest of my life. I CAN wait to turn off my brain and focus solely on only one part of my persona.
Maybe these women who cannot talk about something besides their baby, or constantly refer to themselves in the third person as Mama in adult conversation need to remember what it was like before a kid showed up. Remember those ideas and thoughts and dreams and plans? I’m sure they’re still there underneath the cloth diapers and laundry. Maybe these women need to give themselves five minutes a day to remember they’re still something else besides a feeding station or a chauffeur. Maybe these women need other moms to tell them that, while being a mother is amazing and awesome and rewarding and fulfilling, you’re still a person. And just maybe being a person is one of the best things you can do for your kid.
