Pregnancy

39w3d

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

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

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

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.

IMG_8557

Ice

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

I was on the ground. It was sudden, and the pain seared through my body.

Oh my god, I thought. My baby.

Not ten minutes earlier I was having a great afternoon. I was enjoying the last few moments before my new job started, and I was finally experiencing a slight reprieve from the month-long head cold I had over the holidays. Home alone, I had decided to take the dogs for a walk. I hitched them to their leashes and we strolled up our country road. The dogs, who have been slightly on the backburner ever since Pidge was born, loved the opportunity to get outside and take in the scents. They dug in the snow that piled up on the side of the road. I gazed at the pale blue sky and snow-covered branches. We sure do live in a beautiful place.

When I thought we had walked far enough, I turned around and headed back home. The road home was mostly downhill, and I knew there could be icy patches. I walked carefully and tried to stay on the crunchy snow. I was being cautious. Suddenly, one of my dogs pulled on the leash. Before I knew it, my feet were out and I was down. I landed hard – part on my side but part on my abdomen.

I don’t know what came first, the pain or the fear. I was in shock. Stand up, I told myself. But I couldn’t move. One of my dogs started sniffing at me frantically. She nuzzled and nudged my chin. It wasn’t until I saw her wet fur that I realized I was crying. Eventually, I pushed my body up and started walking home, limping and holding my abdomen, straining to see through tears.

When I got home, I found my phone and called my wife. I was panicked, and I don’t normally panic. She calmed me down and encouraged me to call the OB. I did, and I was asked to come in to the hospital.

My wife met me at the entryway to the hospital. Unsure where to go, we first tried to stop at registration. It was crowded, and we were confused. Eventually we made it up to the birthing center and I was checked in for a four-hour observation. Four hours? I thought. I had no idea I was going to be there that long.

The nurses settled me into a bed and immediately hooked me up to a fetal monitor. The baby sounded okay, which was reassuring. Still, they were worried about placental abruption. They kept me on the monitor. Minutes turned into hours. My wife held my hand as we watched the screen. My body had started contracting, and the contractions were coming at regular intervals. Not good. A nurse came in and asked if we had someone who could stay with our toddler for the evening. I wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon.

IMG_8262

The contractions increased, and I grew scared. I was given a RhoGAM shot to address any potential blood mixing, some Sudafed to help with my congestion, and some Tylenol to help with the pain. But there wasn’t anything to ease my mind about the contractions. A nurse came in and asked how far along I was. “30 weeks,” I told her. The concern that washed over her face was obvious. It was too early to deliver this baby.

After about eight hours, I sent my wife home to be with Pidge, who had previously been in the care of some very dear and accommodating friends. “I’ll be okay,” I told her. “I will let you know if I need you.” The nurses made sure to explain to my wife that she needed to be ready to come back at a moment’s notice. She glanced at me hesitantly, then left to be with our daughter.

For the remainder of the night it was just me, the machine, and the nurses. The band around my belly was tight and uncomfortable. I don’t think the baby liked it. She wiggled and moved nonstop all night – reassuring but also distressing. I tried to sleep, woke, watched the monitor, and listened to the sounds of the delivery wing. It was mostly silent. Every now and then I heard footsteps. At one point a nurse came in to tell me that a baby had just been born down the hall. How exciting.

Seventeen hours later, my contractions began to subside. Finally. I breathed in and I breathed out. Thank you thank you thank you, I thought to no one in particular. Baby was going to be alright. I was going to be alright.

My wife arrived, bringing me fresh clothes. I showered and dressed.

As we left, we saw a man walking in holding the hand of a little girl, who couldn’t have been more than three years old. “You’ll have to be very gentle with your new sibling,” he said. I smiled. This must be the big sister of the new baby who was born during my stay. I thought about Pidge. Soon, she would be a big sister. But not today. Today, we were going home.

 

 

Brussels Sprouts, Breast Pumps, and Blessing Ways

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

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.

IMG_7910

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!

IMG_7550

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.

IMG_7166

 

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.

IMG_8107

Thinking of you

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

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.

blurred face

A day off

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

My wife gave me the day off. Really, she gave me permission to take the day off. I’m thankful. Without her blessing, I tend to feel really guilty any time I take some time to myself.

Although today is Sunday, it was going to be a working day. I had planned to spend the day doing legal work to help us get over a little financial slump we’re having right now. Bills are piling up and so is the stress. This morning I wore the stress on my face like caked-on makeup; my wife couldn’t help but see it. You need a break, she said. She’s right.

To give me some time, my wife took Pidge out to a children’s museum—a nice way to spend a rainy day. How will I spend my day?

I sit down in our little gray rocking chair and take out my computer. Although my intention is not to work, the pull is there and I do a little bit. Stop it, I tell myself. I pause for a moment and listen. The rain falls from the sky in two tones – the quick and full rush of steady rainfall on our metal roof, and the drip-plop-splash of the accumulation as it slides from the awnings to the stones and concrete below. Our 13-year-old cat purrs loudly as she snuggles onto my lap, nuzzling her head against my chest and hands. The little baby growing inside of me pushes back against the pressure of the cat on my abdomen. I love that.

I love feeling the baby roll and kick and stretch. I have never felt anything like it before. She doesn’t do it constantly, but it’s frequent enough to be reassuring, frequent enough to bring a much-needed smile to my face. You feel her when you’re still, I remind myself. Be still.

In today’s world of stress and busyness and work, it is hard to be still. I think stillness also goes against my nature. When I was in college, a professor made a comment about me: “She likes to be busy.” I remember being so insulted. No I don’t, I thought. No one likes to be busy. I have to be busy. I don’t have a choice. I am starting to realize that sometimes that is true, and sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes I don’t have a choice—I need to work, and work hard, in order to make ends meet. Other times, I can choose to slow down. In fact, if I don’t choose to slow down, my body will choose it for me by making me so sick that I am forced to take a day off. If I’m going to be taking a day off anyway, it might as well be when I want it, right? I moved to Vermont for a still life—one that wasn’t packed with traffic and hustle and concrete and people. New Englanders work hard, but they also know the peace that comes from quiet, rural living. I need that peace. I need that stillness.

Stillness for me sometimes comes in the form of sitting and reading by the fire, or snuggling with pets. It can also come by engaging in passion projects, which is what I think I will do today. I like creating pretty things, and today I intend to work on figuring out how to transform Pidge’s room into a sibling room. Of course it will be some time before Pidge’s sister joins her in that room, but it might be nice for Pidge to get used to a new arrangement. It also might help my wife and I to feel like we are really expecting another child. It seems odd to say it that way, but it’s true. While we know in our heads that this baby is coming, it has been difficult to fully appreciate our upcoming addition to our lives. It seems surreal at times, and the constant days filled with toddler parenting and work leave little room to sit back and wonder about the changes heading our way.

I put my hand on my abdomen. We are busy, but you are here. We are busy, but we will never be too busy for you.

Our other cat meanders into the room. He and the cat on my lap don’t typically get along, but today is different. It’s a rainy day. It’s a cozy day. It’s a day for shelving tension, for relaxing and engaging meaningfully and quieting the stress. I take a deep breath, exhale, and feel a little bit better.

Exhaustion.

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

I’m so tired. Not the kind of tired where you just need a few extra hours of sleep. Not the kind where a mini-break will fix it. Tired, tired. The sort of tired where it seeps into your bones and into your being and your muscles all ache from the weight of it.

I’m working too much. At my previous job, I was overstressed and overworked, so I opted for a career change for the betterment of my family. That may happen over time, but the immediate shift from lawyering to teaching caused a significant financial burden on my family so, as a stopgap, I got a second remote job. Then a third. These days I find myself up at 4:00 AM every morning, doing remote legal work until my toddler wakes up, getting myself ready for teaching and my toddler ready for preschool, working a full 8 hours at the elementary and middle school (mostly on my feet) with only a 20-minute break for lunch in the day, coming home, doing the toddler evening routine, possibly working more (though often I crash into bed at this time), then spending at least one full day every weekend working. All. While. Pregnant.

I feel like I could collapse at any moment.

My wife is as helpful and supportive as she can be. She is so good with Pidge. But she is also in graduate school and trying to work and her current earning potential isn’t enough, so we’re stuck.

I’m trying to remind myself that this is temporary; that we’ll get out of this rut sooner or later. But my body feels weak and my mind keeps circling around whether or not I made a bad decision trying to move from law to teaching, particularly at this time in my life. Something’s gotta give.

It’s not all bad, though. Amidst the exhaustion and frustration, I’m growing this little person inside of me who, by all accounts, seems to be thriving. We just had the mid-pregnancy ultrasound last week. I had been especially nervous because I had not yet felt the baby move. What if the baby had died inside of me? What if there was something terribly wrong? As I stretched out on the examination table, I held my wife’s hand and my breath. Then the baby appeared on the screen—wiggling and kicking and rolling and thumb-sucking. It was incredible to watch and so very reassuring. The next day, I thought felt movement. Was the baby really moving, or was my mind playing tricks on me after having spent an hour watching the baby do somersaults in my uterus? My wife put her hand on my lower abdomen. Just as I thought I felt something, her eyes got big and a huge smile crept over her face. She felt it, too. Our baby, saying hello.

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow to go over the results of the ultrasound. I’m planning to discuss my exhaustion, and see what I can do. Since this is my first year teaching, the school gave me one 90-minute class to teach and the rest is playground duty. 4.5 hours of my time each day is dedicated to watching 20+ kids play on the monkey bars. It’s mind-numbing, or it’s an exhausting stretch of conflict resolution. There is hardly any time to sit, and I am paid so very, very little. I think about how I could be doing my second job during those hours rather than at 4:00 in the morning. Or about how I might not even need the weekend job if I could use my time better. Of course, I’m thankful that the school allowed me to teach at all before I am licensed, and I love, love, love the class I am teaching, but the recess duty has got to go. One of my nurse midwives suggested that I talk to the doctor about this as it is not very safe to have a pregnant person outside and on her feet for that many hours, particularly when there is ice to slip on and the temperatures often drop below 10 degrees Fahrenheit. We shall see what the doctor says.

In the meantime, I just need to keep on keeping on. It is temporary. It is just a season. In March we will have a new baby to love and potentially some time to recoup. I just have to make it to Spring.

Known Donor

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

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.

IMG_7838

Pidge, after a successful day of painting at preschool

 

 

14 Weeks

/ sugaronsnowmom / Leave a comment

Hello, again. It has been awhile since I have written. I think I have been nervous.

Ever since I saw those two pink lines again, I have been elated and apprehensive. I was so excited to be pregnant again, to have new life growing inside me. At the same time, I was terrified to lose it. Pregnancy suddenly seemed so fragile—a precious gift that could disappear at any moment.

I tried to stay positive. It will work this time. But inside I wasn’t so sure.

Over the next several weeks, I searched my body for signs. Are my breasts still tender? How is my nausea? Are these cramps good or bad? I searched for signs and answers but it was like my own body was a mystery to me.

I sought reassurance from health care professionals. I had ultrasounds and did blood tests. Everything came back normal. There was no reason to fear that this pregnancy might terminate, but still I was afraid.

I am finally starting to breathe a little more. Just over 14 weeks along, we have made it to the second trimester. The risk of miscarriage at this point is less than one percent, and I like those odds. We started telling people we are pregnant, and we are beginning to get excited. Truly excited.

Preg Cropped

A few Fridays ago, we went into the doctor’s office where we were able to hear baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Pidge came with us, and was in awe. All night long she kept telling us about how she heard baby sister’s heartbeat in Mom’s “yoo-tus.” It was adorable.

I am pregnant. I am really and truly pregnant.

We are so looking forward to welcoming our rainbow baby next March.

Ultrasound

Spilled Milk and Sand Castles

/ sugaronsnowmom / 1 Comment

Everything feels different and yet it also feels the same. My body is bleeding and cramping. It feels like a miscarriage and it also feels like a period. I vacillate between distraught and okay, recalling that I was pregnant just a few days ago and then simultaneously feeling like that pregnancy was only a dream.

I am doing a little better now. Thursday evening was heartbreaking, Friday was sad, and yesterday I began to slowly climb out of that sink hole.

I keep thinking about the time I spilled breastmilk. As non-gestational mother, I had worked very hard to induce lactation. I set myself up to a breast pump and attempted to stimulate my mammary glands for thirty minutes every three hours, including in the middle of the night. I did this for months before Pidge was born, and for nearly a year afterward. It was exhausting. My nipples blistered and my body ached. Every last drop I produced was hard-earned and precious. One evening, as I was transferring my milk into a freezer bag, I let go of the bottle. Milk spilled everywhere. It was an accident, but I was devastated. My frantic hands attempted to scoop up the spilled milk, but the contaminated contents slipped through my fingers. I cried and cried. No matter how much my wife attempted to convince me that all would be okay, it didn’t feel okay. I was crushed.

Turned out, she was right. It was okay. During the entire year that I pumped for my daughter, we never once needed that expressed milk. Our supplies were ample and Pidge was always able to nurse directly from our breasts, something she is still doing today, albeit less frequently. We ended up donating over 6,000 ounces of breastmilk to mothers in need in our community.

I’m thinking about this because I’m thinking about passing this pregnancy, about the spilled blood and about my desperate desire to scoop it back in. Like the milk, it is too late. It is happening, it happened. It is not my fault, and I cannot fix it. But it will be okay. And just as I shared my milk with so many, I now share an experience so many women have endured.

The day before I found out I was pregnant, my wife and I took our daughter to the lake. We had a wonderful day, enjoying the sunshine and the water, the snacks and the sand. I spent hours at the water’s edge with Pidge, digging, scooping, pouring, and building castles. We filled her little purple bucket, packed it down, then turned it over. Pidge squealed with delight. Then the castle came down. Sometimes Pidge stomped on it, sometimes a boat-induced wake washed out its foundation, and sometimes the sand just crumbled. We always built another, and when we did, the delight returned.

My womb is emptying so that it can prepare to be filled again.

The sadness I am feeling is still there. However, unlike the ever-present darkness that enveloped me over the past few days, this sadness comes and goes like waves. And the tide is receding.

I am working with my doctors and midwives to understand this miscarriage. I have requested testing for Rh sensitivity, and the next time I get pregnant, we will monitor my hCG levels closely. If there is anything to be learned, I hope to learn it, even if it just means adjusting my expectations regarding future pregnancies. If nothing can be learned, that is okay, too. Sometimes miscarriages just happen. Sometimes sand castles just crumble. But with effort and hope and support from those who love me, I can build another and our family can delight once again.

IMG_4030