lesbian 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.

 

 

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We’re almost there, inching ever closer to our second baby’s birth day. I know it’s coming, but I almost can’t fathom it. Are we really going to have another baby in the house?

I vacillate back and forth between surprise that I haven’t given birth already and thinking that the baby will never come. Pregnancy is getting increasingly uncomfortable. I’m not sleeping and it feels like everything I do is a struggle.

Our home birth supplies are set up neatly against the wall in our sunroom. We’re ready. Are we? We seem to be. . .

Truth is, we’re tired. And while having a newborn will bring its own set of challenges, living in limbo is challenging, too. We feel caught between two worlds and we’re juggling a lot. My wife is working a full-time job, prepping for her absence, taking care of a toddler, attending grad school full-time, and trying to manage household duties. Until two days ago, I had been commuting three hours every day to work as an attorney and professor at the law school. By the time I got home, it was all I could do to help a little with Pidge and with the house before I collapsed into bed. As we wait for labor to begin, I am still working, but I am working from home, which is much, much better. I can finally get that in-case-I-give-birth-on-the-interstate bag out of my car and breathe a bit. Only a bit, though, because now we’ve got Coronavirus to contend with. Good grief.

Pidge is getting antsy. We have been talking about this baby for the majority of the last year. She knows the baby is coming, but I think she gets tired of us talking about it. She wants it to happen already (me too, kid).

We’ve been trying to prepare her for the birth. We have been reading her stories like Hello, Baby and the book I made about how she was born. Although she is typically screen-free, I decided to show her the video of her birth. I thought it might be a good idea for her to experience the sights and sounds of what birth looks like. She watched, entranced. When my wife got to the hard pushing, Pidge winced and teared up and covered her ears. Birth is a lot for a 2.5-year-old. I hugged her close to me and told her that yes, Mama was in pain, but she was roaring like a lion because she is so strong. At the end of the video, I asked her if she wants to be with us when the new baby is born or if she wants to be somewhere else. She thought for a moment, tilted her head, and then said, “I want to be here, but I want to wear headphones.” What a little problem solver.

So now we wait. We work and we try to go about normal life and we wash our hands and we snuggle our toddler and we wait.

Pregnancy

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When my wife became pregnant with Pidge, I was a little jealous. I felt sidelined as I watched her body change in the most amazing way, heard about the movement and kicks I couldn’t feel, and the ever-present nature of her relationship with Pidge in the womb. She experienced what I saw as beauty.

This time, I’m the one who is pregnant, and the reality of what pregnancy does to your body has been a literal kick in the gut. Holy hell, it’s a lot. It’s pain and shortness of breath and sleeplessness and aching and fear and heartburn and nausea and itchiness and swelling and emotions a whole host of things.

I quickly learned that I had romanticized my wife’s experience; I had seen it through my envy, not for what it was. And yet, the beauty IS what it is. Despite the pain and sickness and overwhelm. Despite the exhaustion.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the back aches and rib aches and everything else. But then you feel a little squirm, a roll, a flutter. You feel your baby’s hiccups. Hello in there. I don’t even know you, but I love you.

Like many other experiences, we tend to characterize pregnancy as one thing or the other. It is wonderful, or it is horrible. It’s a miracle, or it’s a body-wrecker. But the reality is that it’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

When people ask me how pregnancy is going, I never know what to say. I want to be positive, because there is so much to be positive about, but I also want to acknowledge the extreme nature of pregnancy to give credit to all the individuals who choose to take this on. I feel the pressure to be a “good mom” and glow about the wonders of pregnancy. And I do. And I don’t. And I’m still a good mom.

I don’t really know why I’m saying all of this except to say to all the people who have experienced pregnancy, I see you. I want to hold space for you – for the dual nature of this wacky ride.

How is my pregnancy? It is amazing and it is too much. I am so happy and I am completely depleted. It is raw and it is beautiful and it is uncomfortable and it is real.

It is mine.

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Brussels Sprouts, Breast Pumps, and Blessing Ways

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It has been awhile since I last posted. Thanksgiving has come and gone, and we are now well on our way into the Christmas season.

Pidge is working on understanding the concept of “holiday.” Her first real association with the word happened around Halloween. She has a book, Clifford’s Halloween, in which the main character, Emily Elizabeth, outlines all the holidays and proudly proclaims that Halloween is her favorite. Pidge loves that book, and we read it to her often (albeit with some modifications to better align with our values). Consequently, Pidge was adamant that she dress up as Clifford for Halloween. As we had already put together her costume, we held off, hoping she would change her mind. But she never did. She held fast to her desire to be Clifford, and a few days before Halloween I found myself scrambling to transform my 2-year-old into America’s most beloved big red dog. The venture was successful, and Pidge was the cutest puppy I have ever seen.

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When Thanksgiving rolled around, Pidge could not understand how it too was a holiday. Halloween was the holiday, right? We tried to explain how holidays are special days we set aside to engage in various traditions. Of course, there are some holidays where traditions have been modified to fit our lifestyle, and Thanksgiving is one of them. We no longer tell or celebrate the fictive account of pilgrims and “Indians” that whitewashes the horrors inflicted on indigenous peoples by colonizers. We do not center our meal around a dead turkey. Instead, we recognize the history of the land we occupy, we engage in the practice of acknowledging our blessings and giving thanks, and we spend time together as a family.

One way we spend time together on Thanksgiving is by cooking together. This year, we enjoyed a large meal consisting of a Tofurkey roast (cooked to perfection), mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade stuffing, brussels sprouts, and crescent rolls. For dessert we prepared a vegan cheesecake and we washed it all down with sparkling cider.

We make it a point to actively engage Pidge in everything we do, including food prep and cooking. Pidge was the best kitchen helper. She donned her new apron and chef’s hat and meticulously scrubbed and peeled potatoes. She practiced her knife skills by dicing and chopping, preparing the vegetables for the stuffing. Pidge helped me cut and peel the brussels sprouts. Her little brow furrowed as she concentrated on each task, working hard to do it just right. We loved spending this time with her and watching her beam with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Between prepping, Pidge and Mama danced around the kitchen, Pidge squealing with delight and shouting, “Happy Gives-Thanking!” over and over.

We sat down to dinner and fully expected Pidge to zero in on the crescent roll, forsaking all the nutrition on her plate. Much to our surprise and delight, Pidge’s favorite item on her plate was her brussels sprouts! She left portions of the roll and potatoes, but came back for seconds on brussels sprouts. Hooray for a vegan kid who loves her greens!

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Now we’re on to preparing for Christmas, and for that next big adventure. . . baby #2! We decided we want to co-nurse this baby, just like we did with Pidge. Consequently, my wife had begun the process of inducing lactation since, despite Pidge still enjoying the occasional comfort nursing session, neither she nor I are producing milk at this time. As a key part of the process, my wife has begun setting herself up to a breast pump multiple times per day. We were unsure how Pidge would react to this process, but she is fascinated. She watches my wife closely, helps adjust the flanges, and looks for milk. She will often remind my wife that it’s time to pump, running over to her while holding flanges and saying, “Mama! Breast pump!” Pidge knows that Mama is working to make milk for her little sister’s arrival and her enthusiasm around the process is beyond adorable.

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Another way we have been preparing for our next baby’s arrival is by working with the same midwives who helped us through Pidge’s birth. Initially, I had been unsure whether I wanted to use the services of home birth midwives. I was drawn to the idea, partly because of how wonderful our previous birth experience was. However, I was also nervous. My family has a history of C-sections, the nurses at the hospital have been consistently telling me I’m high risk because of my age, and my previous miscarriage made this whole pregnancy feel fragile. That said, the reality is that this entire pregnancy has been overwhelmingly normal. Aside from some of my digestive problems, everything has been progressing normally and there have not been any complications. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to take my prenatal care and birth into my own hands. I was tired of what seemed like the endless search for pathology that the hospital was engaging in, and I was ready to embrace more holistic care. So here I am, back in the care of our home birth midwives, planning my own home birth (with back-up plans, of course). I am a little hesitant, but I am also excited and I feel so incredibly supported by this medical team.

Where I don’t feel as much support is in my community. I think that part of this is because I’m somewhere between thinking and feeling, left-brained and right-brained, emotional and logical. If I could get with the whole woo-woo sacred birth concept, I would find support there. Conversely, if I was more clinical and less attuned to the emotional nature of bringing new life into the world, I could find companionship in that shared experience. But I am in the middle. I don’t want a traditional Blessing Way and we don’t need a baby shower, but I do want intention around this experience, and I want other people to acknowledge the specialness of giving birth. We’ve decided to create our own version of what I want/need. Our plan, as of now, is to invite friends over to celebrate the upcoming birth of this baby. We will put out a bowl of beads and each friend will choose a bead and write down a good intention either for me or for the baby. Then, we will string all the beads together into a bracelet, which I can wear while giving birth and later give to our daughter. We will also provide guests with tea lights, which they can light when I go into labor. I hope that isn’t self-indulgent. I think it sounds nice.

We are going to need some good intentions, because I start a new job in January. Honestly, it is a dream job. I was hired at a law school to teach family law and also to serve as a staff attorney in the legal clinic, representing children. I am very excited about it. Unfortunately, it also comes with an hour and a half commute each way and I will be starting the job about 6 weeks before my due date. I am nervous about going into labor far away from home with Vermont’s notoriously hazardous winter conditions. I am also worried about the sustainability of such a long commute, but we can move. Perhaps that’s what our future holds: Brussels sprouts, breast pumps, Blessing Ways, babies, and relocation. In other words, beautiful new beginnings.

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Thinking of you

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I feel you inside of me, rolling about. Was that a hand? An arm? A leg? I place my own hand on my abdomen. Feeling you. Holding you.

I think of you often and I wonder who you’ll be.

Over two years ago, at Pidge’s “Yay Baby” celebration, I remember speaking to a colleague. “I am just so excited to get to know her,” I commented. My friend noted that most parents laden their children with expectations and plans, but instead, I was simply curious. In the last two years, I have learned so much about Pidge. She is funny and smart, observant, deliberate, and clumsy. She is quick to smile and laugh. She loves books. Despite her parents’ preference for all things neutral, Pidge is obsessed with pink and twirly dresses and flamingos. We laugh and support it—it’s who she is.

Who will this baby be? In what ways will she be similar to her sister? In what ways will she be different?

My mother tells me she was shocked with how different my sister and I are; she was expecting her second to be a carbon copy of her first. I don’t have those expectations. For one thing, these children will have a different genetic makeup. Sure, their donors are the same, but their maternal genes are different. But then again, how much of who we are is nature, and how much is nurture? How much of Pidge’s personality is simply who she is, and how much of it relates to how we are raising her? I’m sure it is a blend. And again, I’m curious. How will genetics and environment blend to shape the personality of our next child?

I take a sip of water and feel a little pressure. She’s moving again. I kiss my fingers and place them just under my belly button. I love you, little one.

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