motherhood

World Breastfeeding Week 2021

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She gave me a gift. One last nurse.

My first child, Pidge, loved nursing. She wanted to nurse at every possible moment, and she never wanted to stop. Pidge nursed from both her Mama and me, so there was always plenty of milk. Weaning was a production. We were ready to stop, but we wanted to respect Pidge. Her last nurse was on the day of her third birthday.

Piper was different. She was born with a significant lip and tongue tie, and nursing was a challenge. Until she was six months old, she preferred expressed milk fed to her from a bottle. Then she returned to nursing. I was overjoyed. I was also busy and overwhelmed. Having a 3-year-old and a baby during a pandemic is hard. But Piper kept nursing.

Until one day, she didn’t.

I woke up one morning and realized that I couldn’t remember the last time Piper nursed. On the one hand, I was thankful for the reprieve and also thankful to avoid a difficult weaning. On the other hand, I was heartbroken. How could it be over? How could I have missed it? How is my baby not a baby anymore? I tried to focus on the positives and move on.

Then, about two weeks later, she gave me one final, beautiful moment. We were walking down the boardwalk after a delightful summer day on the beach. We were tired, but sun kissed and happy. I looked down at Piper. She smiled. She put her pudgy little fist in the air and opened and closed her fingers. The sign for milk. Tears welled up in my eyes. Thank you, Piper. Thank you. We sat on the bench together, gazing into each other’s eyes, nursing and cherishing our closeness.

Back to it.

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Piper will be 15 months tomorrow, which means that we have been struggling through COVID-19 for 15 months. That we are all still here with even a portion of our mental health is a miracle. This past year has been unbelievably difficult.

When I last wrote, my wife was going through a mental health crisis. Although the crisis has receded, the struggles continue. At one point, her ADHD diagnosis was a glimmer of hope. We knew what the issue was, so now we could fix it, right? Unfortunately, no. She tried medication after medication and nothing seemed to work. She became more anxious, more irritable. I became more despondent. Will nothing ever get better? She is working on it, and I am working on it. Sometimes it feels like we will get through it, and other times it feels like a treadmill.

In this time of darkness, our children have been bright spots. Pidge has come into her own, strongly advocating for her likes and clearly articulating her desires and needs. She is the femmest of femme, preferring all things pink and sparkly and girly. She asks us to refer to her as Lady. She started dance in the late fall, and fell in love. This June we had the pleasure of watching her perform three numbers in her very first recital. She was amazing! I played the role of Stage Mom, helping all the little ladybugs out onto the stage.

Piper has grown like a weed. She went from infant to toddler seemingly overnight. She is feisty and funny, resilient and confident. You would never know that she has spent her entire babyhood under lockdowns and shutdowns and fear and with everyone around her in masks. She is a firecracker and makes us smile every day.

More light: the vaccine. Vermont has now vaccinated 80% of its eligible population and I am hopeful that means that we’re pulling out of this. I feel cautious optimism, which I am thankful for. It would be easy, very very easy, to let myself get pulled down in the fear of additional strains and other people’s vaccine hesitancy. But I just can’t do that. Not now. I have to have some hope. Of course, that hope is tempered with reasonable risk mitigation. We are not dining indoors and I am careful where we travel with the children. But there comes a time that we need to balance physical needs with mental health needs, and our high vaccination rates and low infection rates make that possible.

As the vaccine has become available and more has opened up, we have been able to spend time with extended family. To be honest, it’s been a bit of a mixed bag. We had a very pleasant visit with my parents in Florida. It was nice to get into the sunshine and the pool. A few weeks ago, my wife’s parents came to visit. It was a surprisingly difficult visit, where all parties felt judged. We couldn’t pinpoint what the problem was, but we felt it. We felt it deeply. It was heartbreaking to have such a strained visit because we knew that we would not see them again for at least six months or more. And yet, we could change it.

I tried to process what went wrong in therapy because (hooray!) I finally have a therapist. I think what it boils down to is this: my wife and I have some serious childhood trauma. Some of it is religious trauma, and some of it stems from the culture in which we were raised – a culture that focuses on body image and shame and guilt. My wife and I have worked tirelessly to escape that history and to build a new life together, insulated from much of the harmfulness of our pasts. We have chosen to live in the least religious state in the nation, and the state with the least amount of materialism. We don’t discuss weight and calories. We try to protect ourselves and our children. Having my wife’s parents here felt somewhat like a security breach. Suddenly, that trauma came flooding back. Suddenly there were discussions about disliking bodies and avoiding calories and “fat.” There was yelling and “sternness” directed at the children. I felt terrified and defensive and protective for my children. I don’t know what to do. They aren’t going to change, but these interactions are just so triggering. I’m scared for myself and for my children. What will we do if my in-laws actually fulfill their goal of moving to the area?

Another new development: I’m pregnant! Our family is overjoyed. In an ideal world, we probably would have spaced out the kids a little more. But I’m getting old and I don’t want to be much older before I have another baby. My wife and I (and Pidge!) really want a big family. Of course, we are getting grief about it from our families. They told us we were being selfish. My wife’s grandmother and aunt refuse to acknowledge the pregnancy. It is hurtful. My parents are excited, and my wife’s parents are starting to get excited, too. They all got more excited when they found out that we are having a boy. I don’t know why that makes a difference to them, and to be honest, it felt a bit patriarchal. I am looking forward to having a son (until and unless he tells us that he is really our daughter, which of course we would support), but I am also a little intimidated by the idea. I feel like I don’t know or understand men or boys at all. My whole world is women. But, I’m sure I can figure it out and I’m sure that I’ll adore our little guy. He will be OUR little guy after all.

All that is to say, there has been a lot going on. And there have been so many feelings about it all that I’ve been a bit stifled in my ability to convey it all. This has led me to not write at all. But I don’t want that. I want to document this fleeting and impossible time of new parenthood. I want to get back to writing. Hopefully, this is my start.

Overcompensating & Escapism

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Overcompensating and escapism have been the names of the game this summer. We are tired of being cooped up, tired of isolating, and tired of being house-bound. And yet, we are also unwilling to simply pretend that COVID-19 doesn’t exist like so many other Americans appear to be doing. It’s like people simply got bored of the pandemic and decided to return to business as usual. But business is not usual. Nothing about this situation is usual.

We want to give the girls a normal life, but we want to keep them safe. To that end, we have been seeking out mini-breaks that minimize risk but that are still fun. We created a family pod with our closest friends so that Pidge could at least have one other friend to play with. We are still overwhelmed, but we have been feeling pretty good about those decisions.

A month ago, we took a trip to the Maine coast. We watched as the little piping plovers darted about the sandy dunes and immediately thought that our second daughter should not be called Peach, but rather some derivation of piping plover. Piper? Pipes? Plove? She is so busy all the time!

Pidge enjoyed the waves of the Atlantic and the river estuary. We searched for shells, made a shell necklace, and swam in the pool. We wiped down every surface we came in contact with and used hand sanitizer non-stop. Every evening, we walked along the beach. Pidge ran naked, splashing and kicking in the giant puddles left behind as the tides receded. We snuggled and ate and breastfed in the sunset. On the third evening, fog crept in. It felt dystopian and weird, exactly how our time under COVID has felt. Parenting during a pandemic is the equivalent of doing essential work with no childcare, for no pay, and if you are lucky, doing it while also working a “real” job that runs concurrently. It is simultaneously impossible and indispensable. Every day I fight exhaustion from doing way, way too much. And yet, I would take it on tenfold if it meant keeping my little ones safe, protected, and feeling loved. I don’t want them to sense my overwhelm. I don’t want them to know my fear. I hope more than anything that this will be a passing moment in history; that someday we will tell the story of masked breastfeeding in the fog to our children as they listen, wide-eyed in disbelief. I hope more than anything that this is not a glimpse into their future. In the meantime, all I can do is my best—for public health, for my babies, and for myself.

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Big breath.

And more escapism.

We went camping. It was Pidge’s fourth trip and Piper’s first. We set up our amazing tent, cooked hot dogs and s’mores (all vegan, of course), hiked, and swam in Emerald Lake. Funny, although Pidge definitely liked her first s’more, she was overwhelmed by the sugar. She ate three quarters of it and then asked for vegetables instead! The dogs came with us, and a good time was had by all. Rain had been predicted, but it hardly rained at all! When it did, it was a torrential downpour in a sudden cloudburst – exciting and fun. Pidge kept telling Mama to hurry and feed the fire, which she gladly did despite getting soaked. On the last night, we tried to start the car but it wouldn’t turn over. We used our jumper cables but didn’t have enough power to get it going. Piper was screaming, I was trying to nurse her in the tent, and my wife was running around with Pidge, asking for help. A very nice family from Connecticut came over to help us. They fidgeted with the engine and hooked up jumper cables to their powerful truck. No one wore a mask. We were so thankful, but we were also terrified. Thankfully, no one got COVID (at least not that we know), but it is just so hard to have what would be helpful interactions turn into stress and anxiety.

We went to Cape Cod with our pod family. The girls had a blast running along the shoreline looking for crabs. We enjoyed the beach house, cooking together, and taking walks through the neighborhood and on the beach. We talked about moving to Canada.

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I took another camping trip with the girls while my wife stayed home to do her grad school work. She is currently attempting to write her thesis, all while parenting full-time as I work two jobs. Generally speaking, the camping trip went well. We arrived early evening and I was so proud of myself for getting the tent up with a toddler and a baby. Pidge tried to help with the tent stakes. She’s an amazing kid. That night, we had a fire and roasted hot dogs and ate s’mores. It’s becoming a camping tradition! We went to bed late, and around 3AM, Piper started piping. Loudly piping. At this point, Pidge was up as well. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole campground was up because Piper was LOUD. I ran everyone to the car to muffle the noise. Piper refused to breastfeed, so I started pumping. Pidge found popcorn in the glove box and started munching away as we listened to Putumayo’s Latin Playground on CD. What a memory! By then it was too late to go back to sleep, so we waited until it was suitably light enough to be officially up for the day and built a fire. We went on a morning walk and later took a hike to a large waterfall. We spent two nights at the campground and came home happy.

But,

We. Are. Exhausted.

I try to look on the bright side of everything. We are making memories and loving each other. But we are just so tired. And we can’t ask for help. And our overcompensating and escapism is beginning to cause more exhaustion but we are just so tired of being stuck – at home, and in this pandemic. We are tired of not seeing family. Pipes is almost five months old and none of our family members have met her.

 

And my wife’s grandma has COVID-19.

Privilege, Protests, Riots, and Raising Anti-Racist Children

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When I was young, I conflated racism with prejudice and open hatred. I believed that only “bad people” were racist. As a result, I did not recognize my parents’ or relatives’ racial jokes and slurs as evidence of not only prejudice, but also actively perpetuating racism by overtly and covertly sending them message that white people were better than people of color. I internalized this message and I am actively working on unlearning that racism today. Additionally, because of how I was raised, it took me until college to begin to recognize and see the way systems have worked to continue to oppress people of color. My childhood experience can be summarized in the following quote by Scott Woods:

The problem is that white people see racism as conscious hate, when racism is bigger than that. Racism is a complex system of social and political levers and pulleys set up generations ago to continue working on behalf of whites at other people’s expense, whether whites know/like it or not. Racism is an insidious cultural disease. It is so insidious that it doesn’t care if you are a white person who likes Black people; it’s still going to find a way to infect how you deal with people who don’t look like you. Yes, racism looks like hate, but hate is just one manifestation. Privilege is another. Access is another. Ignorance is another. Apathy is another. And so on. So while I agree with people who say no one is born racist, it remains a powerful system that we’re immediately born into. It’s like being born into air: you take it in as soon as you breathe. It’s not a cold that you can get over. There is no anti-racist certification class. It’s a set of socioeconomic traps and cultural values that are fired up every time we interact with the world. It is a thing you have to keep scooping out of the boat of your life to keep from drowning in it. I know it’s hard work, but it’s the price you pay for owning everything.

It is becoming increasingly apparent that we cannot just teach children to be kind and inclusive. One reason is that we do not operate on a level playing field. Although our family may face some stigma due to being queer, we have also inherited safety and security due to our white privilege. We need to teach our children to be actively anti-racist, and we need to be actively anti-racist ourselves.

According to Curious Parenting, “Anti-racism recognizes that racist beliefs have permeated our culture and created systemic problems. Rather than just talking about it, anti-racism asks that we actively work against it.” This means teaching Pidge and Peach that skin color deeply affects how people view each other. It means not hedging when describing the ways that people of color have been treated and systemically disadvantaged. It means using media to point out examples of racism and stereotypes, it means expanding our library and resources, and it means giving Pidge and Peach contextual examples of their privilege.

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A little light reading for Baby Pidge

Our small town in Vermont held a protest against police brutality, specifically after the murder of George Floyd. We wore masks, practiced extreme social distancing, and attended the protest with the kids. Before we went, we talked about why we were going. We explained, in toddler terms and with sensitivity to age, what happened to George Floyd and how skin color influenced that interaction. We discussed a little bit about what racism is, and why it is wrong. At the protest, Pidge held a sign. One side of the sign read, “Black Lives Matter. Say his name: George Floyd.” The other side read, “Toddlers against racism.” Pidge was respectful and quiet during the 9 minutes of silence we observed. She listened when the speaker stated the names of several people of color who have recently been killed by police. She later asked questions about the protest and about the things that were said at the protest, and we were able to engage in meaningful dialogue about it. I am looking forward to continued dialogue as my wife and I expand our knowledge of how to engage in effective anti-racism work with children.

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June 6th was my anniversary with my wife. On June 6th, my wife and I celebrated 11 years, 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats, beautiful careers, a beautiful home, and most of all, each other.

It was not lost on us that we are able to celebrate because of the sacrifices of those who came before us. Beneath the rainbows and pithy slogans that color Pride month every June, lies the blood, sweat, tears, and bodies of activists. We experience safety, security, happiness, and love because of people who rioted. They risked everything, and often lost everything, so that we can have everything.

Right now, the fight is for black lives. Of course, this has been a fight all along, but it is especially true today. Stonewall was a riot, and I have reaped the benefits. May today’s riots be a catalyst for the safety, security, access, and justice people of color have been denied for so long. May I take it upon myself to learn how to help, and then help. One way to do that is to raise anti-racist children. It is the least I can do.

Postpartum Parenting in a Pandemic

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They say it takes a village to raise a child. What happens when there’s no access to that village?

Peach was born the day Vermont went into lockdown. COVID had been on people’s radar, but the general thought was that if you washed your hands and avoided touching your face, you would be fine. Suddenly, that advice changed. Suddenly, everything was unsafe, everyone needed to isolate, and schools were closed. And in our home, suddenly, we were a family of four healing from birth, caring for a 2.5-year-old, and caring for a newborn, all without family, friends, or other help.

The isolation and fear that set in immediately after birth was intense. We were scared to go to the store, and scared to check the mail. We were scared to get medical care for myself and Peach and we were also scared not to get such care. Thankfully, we were able to live off of stored dry goods for quite a while. We did curbside pick-up twice at our local co-op, and after researching the safety issues implicated, we were able to receive homemade food that friends dropped off on our doorstep. Because we used home birth midwives, we were able to have Peach’s post-birth appointments conducted at our house by one midwife who took safety precautions. Still, I couldn’t help but stare at Peach and worry for the world she and Pidge will inherit.

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Pidge’s world especially turned upside down. We had no idea when we picked her up from school on March 13th that she would not be returning. Pidge loves school, and she misses her teachers and friends desperately. She talks about them all the time and can’t wait to show them things “when ‘crona-iris’ is over.” This sudden and drastic change to a life of isolation has been hard on her. The first time one of her teachers sent a video, she cried. She buried her face in my wife’s chest and choked out a whisper about how much she misses her teachers. Now, when we watch her preschool videos or participate in a recorded Sing & Dance, Pidge still tries to talk to the familiar faces on the screen. She tries to show off her twirly dress. No matter how many times we explain that it is a video and the other person can’t see her, she still tries. It breaks my heart. On top of lockdown, Pidge went from being an only child to being a sibling. How difficult this must be for such a little person.

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Regarding my health, our midwives advised I stay in bed for at least ten days to heal from significant tearing. So I sat in bed, alone, in pain, bleeding, and feeling soft. I thought I would be one to bounce back from giving birth, but the only bouncing I experienced was when my toddler would jump on the bed.

No one really prepares you for postpartum. Now that I have experienced it, I am not sure it is something you can prepare for. I was not prepared for my body to feel mushy and incapable. I was not ready to feel so weak. I was not ready to go from loving how cute I looked with my thick hair, glowing skin, and prego belly to suddenly feeling puffy and pale with stringy hair, cringing every time I looked in the mirror or at a photograph of myself. I had not had such a negative connection with my body since I struggled with an eating disorder in my teens. It felt really terrible. Actually, it still does.

And on top of that, I didn’t feel attached to Peach. People told me that I would be flooded with love for our new baby. I loved her, yes, but she also seemed so foreign to me. Here, on my left, was the toddler I had known for two and a half years, expressive and joyful. On my right was this tiny little stranger. I thought back to all that worry before Pidge was born – that I would connect with her less because she was not biologically related to me. So it was interesting when I felt more connection to her than I did to my own bio baby. Today, that is starting to change. At 12 weeks postpartum, I am beginning to feel more connection with little Peach. She is so, so adorable and I melt every time she smiles.

Pidge has adjusted to being a big sister beautifully. She adores Peach. She seeks out her little sister to provide and receive comfort. Pidge transitioned away from co-sleeping and nursing all while a new little person transitioned into these activities. And Pidge did it all with grace and kindness. It has been so rewarding to observe.

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Still, I wonder how all of this will affect Pidge long-term. On the one hand, the quarantine has allowed us to focus on our family and to spend some amazing time together. On the other hand, it is hard for me to watch her cover her face with her hands or scramble to pull up her mask if we see other people on the hikes we eventually ended up doing. I am proud of her for not resisting the social distancing and masking we ask of her, but I worry for her. I try to remind myself of her resilience, and I hold onto hope.

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Quarantine has extended for our family – we are under medical advisement to stay at home even as the state begins to open. Pidge has underlying cardiac and endocrine issues that increase her susceptibility to COVID. She is currently being tested for some hematology issues that have us concerned. To that end, we have been making trips to the hospital every now and then to have Pidge’s blood drawn or to see specialists. She wears her mask dutifully and works so hard to do the right thing, pressing her little hands together to avoid touching anything. She really is a remarkable child.

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Although all of this has been exceptionally difficult, I cannot help but acknowledge how very lucky I am. I have a beautiful family: a caring and generous wife, a toddler full of heart, and a beautiful, healthy baby. I also feel very fortunate to be living in Vermont right now. While our friends who live in cities are stuck in 600 square foot apartments, we have nearly unfettered access to the great outdoors. We hike, swim, and enjoy all the nature Vermont has to offer.

It is so easy to get mired in the mess. It is easy to feel frustrated and defeated and discouraged. But there is just so much to be thankful for as well. As we move forward, one day at a time, my goal is to focus less on my hardships and more on the joys. Because there is just so much to be joyful about.

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Birth, again.

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March 14th, 11:30 PM.

I’m awake again. Every night for the past several weeks it has been the same—exhaustion, early bedtime, then two to three hours of sleeplessness in the middle of the night. Pregnancy is the worst, I think to myself as I attempt to heave my massive body out of bed. But before I do, a twinge hits me in the lower abdomen. A cramp of sorts. It’s in my back, too. I pause. Could this be it? I am past my due date so it might be. . . No, I tell myself. That’s just wishful thinking.

I hobble downstairs and sit on the couch. A cramp again. That’s strange, I think. Again, I dismiss it. I turn on the television. Frozen II. Let’s see what the fuss is about.

Twenty minutes go by. Ow. Another pang. I go to the bathroom.

Blood.

Oh my god, so much blood.

My heart sinks. My mind immediately flashes back to my miscarriage. The cramping, the bleeding. Just like this. Just like this. Oh my god.

I go wake my wife. “What’s wrong?” she asks, panicked as she reads my face. I tell her about the blood. She tries to calm me by telling me that it might be the “bloody show,” or the start of labor. “No,” I say. “There was too much blood for that.” We text the midwives.

Over the next several hours, I monitor the blood loss. It slows a bit, which brings me some comfort, but not enough. The cramps continue. My mind whirls.

More hours, no blood. Thank goodness. But cramping. Painful cramping. Patterned cramping. Labor! This is it!

As night transitions to dawn, my worry begins to transform into excitement. We are going to meet our baby today. March 15th—Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s birthday. I love it.

The contractions start coming every four minutes. Despite the pain, I try to do everything I’m supposed to. I eat well. I hydrate. I go for a walk with my family. I can do this, I tell myself. I’m ready.

The day continues and the contractions progress. By 5:00 PM, they’re coming every minute and they are intense—nothing like I have ever felt before. I move between the yoga ball and the tub. I am on my knees a lot.

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My wife works to keep me hydrated and as comfortable as possible. Pidge has been precious all day, and continues to be. Earlier in the day, she bathed with me, pouring water over my back while singing, “Oh my doula” to the tune of “Oh my darling, Clementine.” As I bent over the yoga ball, she rubbed my lower back and kissed me sweetly. When I began to get more audible during contractions, she grabbed her headphones. Naked, wearing only a bag to hold her music and donning large blue headphones over her ears, she gave me a little pat and explained to my wife about what was happening. “She having a birf, Mama.” Adorable.

We text the midwives. I worry that we’re texting them too early. I worry that we’re texting them too late. I have no sense of time and no sense of how much progress I have made during labor. All I know is that after this many hours of labor, my wife had already had Pidge.

The first midwife arrives and begins arranging the supplies. She checks baby’s heartbeat—all good. She checks my blood pressure—all good. Good, I think. Things are good.

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Labor continues. And continues and continues. A second midwife arrives. A third arrives.

March 15th, 11:30 PM.

24 hours of labor have passed and it’s not looking like we’re having this baby tonight.

The contractions intensify. Pidge is asleep now, and honestly I have no idea how she is managing it as I am completely unable to control my volume. I start throwing up. A little at first, but then I realize that it’s happening with every contraction. We start keeping bowls next to me.

March 16th, 4:00 AM.

How much longer will this continue? My body is sore, I am exhausted. My throat is hurting from persistent vomiting. One of the midwives tells me that they rarely do cervical exams during home births, but that she can perform one if I want to know where I am. Do I? If I’m far along, that will really help me. But if I’ve hardly made any progress. . . I decide I want to know. I lay back on the couch and the midwife reaches in. She feels around. Then she smiles. 9 cm.

Nine. NINE. I’m so close!

I continue to labor. I feel my body start to push. I remember when this happened with my wife. She gave birth two hours later! Maybe I only had two hours left. . .

Two hours roll by. Three.

The midwife does another exam. I’m told that she can feel her head, right up against the cervical opening. However, the bag of waters has not yet broken. “It is possible,” the midwife says, “that the bag is preventing her from moving down. Without the bag, her head might be small enough to make it through the opening. We never recommend this, but if we break the bag, there’s a chance she could be born very quickly.” I weigh my options. I don’t really want to start interventions, but the idea of labor being over soon is too appealing to dismiss. I agree to have the midwife break the bag.

SPLOOSH! Amniotic fluid gushed out of my body. Not just a little—a lot. And when I would think it was over, more poured out. I could not believe how much water was inside me! Then the vomiting came. Not just a little—a lot.

The contractions intensify. The pushing becomes unbearable. The vomiting continues. I begin experiencing extreme soreness. Why hasn’t she come yet?

More hours go by. I ask the midwife to check again. I watch her face drop. “This isn’t what you want to hear,” she said. Baby’s head did not slide through the cervix. Instead, her head dropped at a slightly incorrect angle and had begun ramming against my cervix. In response, my cervix hardened and started swelling. I was now at 7 cm.

No, I cried. No. I had to stop pushing in order to relax and re-dilate my cervix. But how can I stop something that’s involuntary? I get back in the pool, hoping the warm water could soothe me. With every contraction, pain sears through my body. 34 hours of labor. I cry. I vomit. I try to breathe through the contractions. I collapse with exhaustion. Our friends come over and pick up Pidge.

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At hour 36, the midwife checks my cervix again. 10 centimeters, and the head is close. Oh my god, thank you. I gather my strength and prepare to push.

With each contraction, I push with everything I have in me. I moan and growl and yell and turn red in the face and burst capillaries in my cheeks and push and push and push. After each contraction, I vomit.

My wife offers encouragement. “You’re so close,” she says. “I can see the head!” She shows me a photo she took on her phone. But as I look at the photo, all I see is the teeniest bit of the baby’s hair. I want to be encouraged, but I can’t believe that was all I had pushed out so far! With all the pressure, all the pain, I really thought I had made more progress. Ugh!

I keep pushing. I change positions and push again. You can do this, I tell myself. You are so close. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and repeat the chant I had been thinking but not saying throughout the whole labor: I’m breathing her down. Down through my pelvis, and into my arms.

After three hours of pushing, she finally emerges. She comes out with her hand up by her face, resulting in three separate lacerations that tear through skin and muscle. But I don’t even notice. I am so happy she is born that I burst into tears.

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The midwife places the baby, who I will refer to as Peach, on my chest. Her tiny, hazy eyes gaze up at me. She latches immediately and begins to suckle. My baby. Our baby. My wife is crying, too.

We did it.

 

 

Known Donor

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Every time he walks onto the playground, I find myself flashing a quick glance at Pidge, looking for signs of recognition. Sometimes she acknowledges him, mentioning him by name later in the evening just as she would for any one of her friends’ parents. Sometimes when he says hi to her she just stares.

We live in a small, rural community, which means lives overlap. A lot. Everyone crosses paths with everyone all the time. The idea of if-you-dress-a-mess-you’ll-run-into-someone-you-know is not a thing here because you are always running into someone you know. It’s the nature of living small.

Using a known donor to conceive Pidge has been an interesting experience. When we were looking to conceive several years ago, we weighed the ideas of using a sperm bank versus a known donor. As an attorney I knew that using a sperm bank was the safer route. Parentage is more easily established that way, and it doesn’t create the possibility where the donor could try to claim legal rights to your child. However, there were also aspects of using a sperm bank that concerned me. In this digital age, I am watching concepts of privacy and anonymity lose their meanings. I feared that even if we chose an anonymous sperm donor, our daughter might one day be able to find out his identity. What if we didn’t like him? Would she suddenly be wanting to spend time or holidays with a man we didn’t know and didn’t like? Would she end up with something like 32 siblings, as I had read about in the news?

We decided to ask a friend of ours who lived across the country to donate sperm. We were nervous to ask, worried it would be weird or jeopardize our friendship. Instead, he eagerly said yes, adding, “Y’all will be great parents.” We were overjoyed. As he is an attorney too, he and I worked hard to ensure that both of our legal rights would be protected. He wanted to help us, but he didn’t want to end up stuck with parental obligations; we wanted his help, but we didn’t want him to be able to claim legal rights to our child. Being across the country from one another, we felt as though we had an added layer of protection—it was unlikely that our paths would cross without concerted effort. After many months of contracts and research and reaching out to other attorneys, we started trying. Each time, the attempt to conceive was unsuccessful. We grew discouraged.

One evening, as I was working late, my wife went out for drinks with a colleague of hers. He was more of an acquaintance than a true friend, but they were friendly with each other and enjoyed each other’s company. He told her about how he and his wife were working on buying their first home together, and she told him about our failed attempts at trying to make a baby. Then he commented, “You know, if you ever need help with that, I would be happy to help.” My wife smiled and said thanks, but didn’t think much of it. When she told me about her conversation, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you think he’s serious?” My wife said she thought he was.

“Maybe we should do it,” I said to her. “I mean, what we have been trying has not been working. Maybe it’s because our donor is far away, or maybe there is something with his sperm. Whatever it is, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try someone different.”

My wife thought about it. She thought about her colleague, and his generous offer. “He does look a lot like you,” she remarked.

She was right. He is taller than I am, but has the same color hair, the same texture hair, and the same color eyes. While I didn’t know much about him at the time, I knew he was smart, funny, and kind. Still, I was concerned about the fact that he lived in town, and that it would be possible that our children would be around the same age.

After several follow-up conversations with him, and after he discussed it with his wife, we decided to move forward using him as a donor. Three cycles later, my wife was pregnant.

My wife’s pregnancy was filled with emotion. We were so excited to become parents, but I was worried. What if I wouldn’t feel connected to this child? What if our donor decided to try to assert legal rights at the last minute? What if he changed his mind once our child was born? What if he started seeing the child as his? What if we see each other constantly and it is weird? What if our kids become friends? There were so many unknowns and, even with legal contracts, there was so much trust I had to place in a man I barely knew.

Fast forward two years and I am watching him play with his child on the playground. His child squeals with delight—“Daddy!”—giggling as his father pushes him on the swing. My daughter is playing with another child on the slide. I look over at the swings and I look back at my child. I study her face, looking for his face. I look for similarities between his child and mine. But I don’t see them. At least, not really. Sure, they are both adorable. Some of their features share certain aspects, but you would never pick them out as siblings in a crowd. Her face is not his—her face is simply my daughter’s face, perfect in every way.

Our relationship with our donor has been beautiful. His child and our child are friends, and our daughter knows him as her friend’s dad. Our donor has never once crossed any boundaries or even attempted to cross boundaries, which has been wonderful. His wife is supportive and similarly hands-off. When I see their child, I have a brief moment where I recognize that their child and our daughter are related. I mention that to my wife. She casually says, “Oh, I guess you’re right. That doesn’t really occur to me much.”

Of course, some day we may have to cross that bridge. Our contract allows us to reveal our donor to our child when she turns 18, or earlier with written consent of all three of us: my wife, the donor, and myself. But that is an issue for a later date.

Today, things are more simple and more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I am pregnant with our daughter’s sibling, conceived with the help of the same donor. Over the course of being Pidge’s mom, I’ve come to realize that genetics mean far less to me than I thought. Still, I am excited about the fact that Pidge and her sibling will be genetically connected—not through their moms, but through the selfless giving of their donor. Their known donor, who we will always be thankful for and love.

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Pidge, after a successful day of painting at preschool

 

 

Mother’s Day

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“Good morning, beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” My wife gave me a pained smile and hoarsely responded with her own version of the phrase. She was sick. A stomach bug.

I knew the best gift I could give her would be to let her rest, and so began a day focused solely on Pidge and me. Together we cooked breakfast, read books, played with puzzles, danced, sang, baked cupcakes, made videos for my wife (“Happys day Mamaaaa!”), hiked with the dogs and tromped bare-bummed through wet grass. It was exhausting and beautiful; hard work and magic.

It was perfect.

If you don’t have kids, maybe motherhood just comes across as emotional labor and sleepless nights and exhaustion that somehow brews magic but looks like the usual assortment of diaper changes and tantrums. With the advent of blogging and social media, we’re all given the opportunity to peer into other people’s veneers of motherhood, highlight reels depicting sunshine and laughter and toothless smiles. We caption these moments with hard work and magic, because so much of motherhood lies somewhere in between.

I look over at my daughter. She notices my observance and flashes a smile, tilts back her head, and shakes her curls. She pops up to her feet and puts her hands on her knees. She’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to pat-pat-pat my legs or spread my arms wide, both acts an invitation. She squeals with delight and charges toward me. This game repeats and repeats until she inevitably face-plants, tears immediately streaming down her surprised face. I rush to her, scoop her up, and snuggle the tears away. I ask her if she needs an ice pack and she says, “No. Mom, Mom, Mom. Kiss. Snuggle. Mom.” She just needs me.

And in these moments, as I cradle my daughter who somehow seems so big and yet so very small, I realize something. My daughter didn’t just change me into a mom; she changed the way light hits an object. Everything looks different, not just because she exists, but because my own existence is so valuable to her.

Someday she won’t need me like this. Someday I may watch as she runs wide-armed to someone else, or seeks solace or comfort in another. Next weekend we will focus on my wife and her special relationship with Pidge, and I will rejoice with her as we celebrate her Mama. But not last Sunday. Last Sunday it was Pidge and me and hard work and magic and love. Last Sunday it was my Mother’s Day.

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Cycle Day: March

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“This is the time of year that makes Vermonters strong.”

It was one of the first things said to me when my wife and I moved to Vermont in 2012. At the time, we didn’t understand. How could we? At the time, we were still star struck by our new state, in awe of the bare trees, the shadows they cast, the rock formations proudly jutting out of the landscape, and the snow. The pretty white snow blanketing any misgivings we may have had about moving 3,000 miles away from our families.

Today, we know. Even as people who love winter, the snow and the skiing, the coziness of inside, we understand the meaning of that statement uttered to us seven years ago. March is hard. Winter, despite its beauty, is long. It is dark and cold and icy. Our days are predominantly spent inside and our skin longs for the warmth of the summer sun. Unlike many places in March, Vermont is not abloom. Vermont still vacillates between arctic chill and sloshy mud. The wind howls and everything, including much of the snow, is brown. So much brown. Everything is dirty, everyone is inside.

Our first spring with a toddler, this March has been especially tough. She has no place to run or stretch or dance in our little home. She began experiencing slight delays in her gross motor development.

Adding more mud to March, Pidge is having health issues. She began experiencing a phenomenon where her hands and feet and lips would occasionally turn blue, something called cyanosis. Her pediatrician ordered some tests, and the results were frightening. Hypothyroidism. Possible autoimmune disease. Possible Type I diabetes. Blockage in the heart. We held back our tears but stress and fear welled up.

I was trying to get pregnant and my period was eight days late, but every pregnancy test was negative. What was going on? I felt trapped between waiting and pregnancy. Women who are trying to conceive monitor their cycle days. I felt like I was in cycle day March.

But here’s the thing. March is how you look at it.

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Pidge looking out the window at March

Fifteen years ago, I was living with my brother in Northern California. I remember lounging on my back on the living room sofa reading a book, when I looked up and saw the moon perfectly framed in the highest window. It was full and clear and there was even a redwood tree right next to it, like a postcard picture. I pointed it out to my brother, who was in the kitchen.

Look. The moon.

The only trouble was, from where he was the moon was blocked by a big piece of house. There was no moon, no postcard redwood in his view.

But instead of telling me it wasn’t there, he set down the pan he was washing and walked over to me, leaning and tilting his head until he could see my moon in the window.

And I’m thinking about this because I’m thinking about March, and about what a difference a little perspective can make.

Pidge’s cyanosis led us to have her tested at Dartmouth for a whole host of health issues. We are thankful that we are able to get ahead of these issues, and to treat as necessary. And, according to her pediatric endocrinologist and pediatric cardiologist, her prognosis is actually much better than we thought.

After forty days of waiting, I started my period. I am not pregnant. Not this time. But at least the waiting is finally over. My hope is renewed, and I am excited to try again.

Last Sunday, I redecorated a room in our house. If we are going to be stuck inside, I thought, let’s create some space to move. I got rid of bulky furniture and added a big, bright, colorful rug. When Pidge saw it, her eyes instantly brightened. She ran over to her rug and danced.

Maybe March is tough and beautiful. Maybe the snow is tedious and brilliant. Maybe it is making the most of inside time with a dance on a rainbow rug. Maybe it is just a matter of walking into a new room to come see that there really is a moon in the window.

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Iceland

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My wife was having a milestone birthday, and I wanted to surprise her with something big. It had been a long-time dream of hers to see Iceland, so I secretly booked a vacation for the entire family. She was beyond excited.

On December 31st, we packed our bags and headed to Boston. Our flight was scheduled for the evening of January 1st, so we were able to spend almost an entire day exploring our closest big city. We woke early and had breakfast at Pavement Coffeehouse. I loved being able to enjoy a jalapeno bagel with spicy vegan cream cheese, something I had not had since becoming vegan a decade ago. After breakfast, we spent some time walking along Boston’s Fort Point harbor. The weather was perfect. The sky was a bright blue and the air was crisp and fresh. We spent much of the day at the Boston Children’s Museum. Pidge had a great time playing with bubbles and exploring the many exhibits the museum had to offer.

We got to the airport early—too early for a 16-month-old. She toddled about the terminal, snacking on bananas, reading books, kicking off her boots, sprawling on the ground, and waving to every person she saw. We changed her into her jammies before our overnight journey and as luck would have it, she slept for most of the flight. My wife and I did not sleep, and we were quite exhausted by the time we reached the Keflavik airport at 5:00 AM. We mustered up the energy to rent our car and drive into Reykjavík. Our apartment for the week was located on the 5th floor in the city center. We had a view of the ocean and Mount Esja across the bay. We admired the view for a while, then we crashed.

We woke up a few hours later and decided to explore the city. We walked down many beautiful streets lined with multicolored buildings. We made our way to a vegan cat café where we enjoyed a nice soya latte and a late breakfast. Pidge loved the cat café. She made sure she said hi to every cat in the restaurant, pointing to each one over and over. “Hi, kitty! Kitty cat. Neowww.” We walked up to Hallgrímskirkja, the largest church in Iceland (244 feet high) and among the tallest structures in the country. It was incredible.

The locals are who convinced us to try the city pools. They said swimming in winter is an Icelandic tradition. We went to the pool and everyone is required to shower naked before swimming. It was actually nice to see how everyone was so comfortable with each other and with their bodies. So many people were engaging in conversations with us and chatting about Pidge—all while we were stark naked! Then we got in our swimsuits. There were 6 separate outdoor pools in the facility. We spent a lot of our time in the really shallow warm pool with Pidge, and then did a few laps in the big colder pool. Pidge even went for a dip in the big pool! We swam for almost two hours at night while the lights from the big (huge) church towered over us. It was simultaneously invigorating and relaxing.

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After swimming we went to dinner at Café Vinyl, the first all-vegan restaurant in Reykjavík. Pidge fell asleep on the walk, and continued to sleep on a couch in the restaurant. It was hilarious and adorable. That night, Pidge slept for 12 hours. I guess she was exhausted from our traveling, too.

The next morning, we all slept in and then had breakfast at a creperie in downtown Reykjavík. Although it was 9:00 AM, it was still dark out. It felt like we were walking through the city at night but for the fact that everything smelled like breakfast.

After breakfast, we started our drive around the Golden Circle. Our first stop was Þingvellir, home to the oldest parliament in the world and also the continental divide between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. We were able to walk between the plates, which was incredible. Rock towered over us on both sides. We were surrounded by valleys and fjords and waterfalls. We saw Oxafoss waterfall in Þingvellir.

After Þingvellir, we drove to Geysir. The ground smoldered and appeared alive. Mud pots boiled and the smell of sulfur filled the air. We watched as the Strokkur Geysir erupted and shot steaming water somewhere around 50 feet into the sky.

After Geysir, we headed to Gullfoss, one of Iceland’s most massive waterfalls. Gullfoss is actually two falls and it rises like Niagara. We learned the story of Sigridur, the daughter of a local farmer who in 1907 traveled barefoot to Reykjavík for a very long trial to save the waterfall from a businessman who wanted to turn the falls into a power plant. She won, and the falls remain today. They were spectacular.

After all that sightseeing in the cold and wet air, we decided to warm up in a secret geothermal lagoon that we learned about on an insider tip. It was incredible. Pidge loved soaking in the warm water.

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We got Icelandic pizza for dinner. It was topped with pesto, mushrooms, hot red chilis, Icelandic dulse (seaweed), shaved coconut, green onions, and sesame oil. We would have never dreamed of such a combination, but it was delicious! Pidge shared a little, but she was more excited about the pistachio-lime popsicle they gave her at the end.

On Friday we got up early to explore Iceland’s beautiful South Coast. We knew it would be a long drive, and we wanted to make the most of the precious daylight hours. We left Reykjavík and headed over the mountain toward Hveragerði. The mountain pass was dark and foggy and rainy. Driving was terrifying as you couldn’t even see the taillights in front of you! The darkness remained for hours, though the driving became less treacherous, thank goodness.

As the light began to break around 10:00 AM, my wife and I were left breathless by the astounding beauty. Mountains charged upward, towering over us on our left. We could not believe how tall they were and how sharply they rose. They had dramatic peaks and rocky ledges. Birds swarmed around them. To our right were the flat, black lava fields with veins of water that ran to the sea.

About three hours in we stopped at Reynisfjara, the volcanic black sand beach rated as one of National Geographic’s top 10 beaches in the world. We walked on the shore to find a large cave lined with basalt columns. Our photos do not accurately depict how enormous they were. Off the shore were multiple sea stacks, home to thousands of nesting birds. The massive waves crashed onto the shore as they traveled unobstructed from Antarctica.

Near Reynisfjara, we passed through the picturesque town of Vík í Mýrdal.  It sits in the shadow of Mýrdalsjökull glacier, which covers the Katla volcano. As we continued our drive, the sun began to shine brighter on the cliffs, which were covered in waterfalls. At one point my wife counted 11 waterfalls within sight of our car. A particularly beautiful scene, a group of Icelandic horses grazed below two tall, thin waterfalls.

The ground began to change. Fields and cliffs gave way to large expanses of black volcanic ash. The land was flat as far as the eye could see. Then, slowly, the lava fields began to take a different form. They piled and tumbled like groups of large, porous rocks. Moss covered the rocks. We pulled over and climbed a mound to take a picture of the moss and of the road we were traveling from above.

The mountains returned but this time every gap was filled with bright blue glacier. We were near Vatnajökull, Europe’s largest glacier. The glacier ice looked like it was spilling down from the mountainside. It was massive and we were unable to capture its wonder in our photos.

One of our favorite places in Iceland, we stopped at the Jökulsárlón is a glacial lagoon, bordering Vatnajökull National Park. Its still, blue waters were dotted with icebergs from the surrounding Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier, part of larger Vatnajökull Glacier. The Glacier Lagoon flowed through a short waterway into the Atlantic Ocean, leaving chunks of ice on a black sand beach. Pidge loved this place. She wanted to eat all of the large ice chunks!

We drove to Svínafellsjökull, an outlet glacier of Vatnajökull. To get there we drove over a very treacherous gravel road filled with potholes, large rocks, and waterways. Although the drive was certainly not for the faint of heart, it was incredible to see a glacier so close.

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We rested for the evening in a small cottage in a lava field. The air was still and soundless. We cooked dinner and enjoyed a bottle of red wine as Pidge squealed and ran around the cottage in the nude. She was happy to be out of the car for the evening. After Pidge went to bed, we relaxed in our own private hot tub. It was considerably cloudy, so we did not get a Northern Lights show, but I did manage to catch a quick glimpse when the clouds parted!

We left the cottage early on Saturday and headed back toward Reykjavík. We drove through farmland dotted with sheep and sang Baa Baa Black Sheep to Pidge more times than we can count. Pidge loved the song and the second it finished we would hear her husky little voice say, “Gah?” (translation: again?)

We stopped at the Skogafoss waterfall. It was massive! Skogafoss is one of Iceland’s biggest waterfalls with an astounding width of 82 feet and a drop of 197 feet. We put Pidge into her splashy suit in case she got wet. She stood there, geared up, smiling and waving at everyone. We jokingly called her Iceland’s official greeter!

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From there we went to Seljalandsfoss, a waterfall with a 200-foot drop. This waterfall is part of the Seljalands River that has its origin in the volcano glacier Eyjafjallajökull, a volcano that erupted in 2010. We put on our rain gear and hiked over rocks behind the falls into a small cave. It was incredible to watch the water tumble down from behind the falls. Pidge was completely intrigued and didn’t seem to mind that we all got completely soaked!

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On the way back to Reykjavík, we saw some Iceland horses very near the road. We stopped by and said hello, giving a friendly white one a little pet on the nose.

We got back to the city around 3:00. The sun was shining pink through the clouds, so we scurried down to the harbor to check out the Sun Voyager sculpture. However, just as we got to it the sun disappeared and the sky turned ominously dark. We were getting hammered by ice pellets! We pulled up our hoods and headed for the protection of the main road, stopping for some chips and a beer. Pidge charmed everyone in the shop, of course.

We ended the day by soaking in the warm geothermal pool as snowflakes gathered gently around us.

The next morning was my wife’s birthday. We celebrated by heading to the Blue Lagoon, one of the 25 Wonders of the World. It is located in a sprawling, 800-year-old lava field. The minerals in the water give it a milky blue color that is simply spectacular. It was awe-inspiring. We waded in as the mist rose above the warm water. We enjoyed the calm. My wife sipped champagne as Pidge bobbed in the water peacefully. We put on silica mud masks; Pidge looked so cute with the mask smeared over her tiny face.

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All in all, it was an amazing trip and Pidge was incredible the entire time. We are so proud of our tiny traveler. Our memories will certainly last a lifetime.