"The days are long, but the years are short." Gretchen Rubin said this. I don't have a clue who Rubin is besides a person who apparently can capture a universal feeling in nine words.
Recently, I have found myself experiencing two completely different emotions in anticipation of having a child. The more prevalent emotion is sheer excitement. I feel like Cody and I are as prepared as we can be. I feel like I have gained valuable knowledge about labor, delivery, breastfeeding, and life with a baby in general. My parents are so happy. Cody is happy. The to-do list is shortening each day. And most days I am giddy at the idea of meeting this little human and starting our lives with him in it.
However, after resigning from my job for the upcoming school year, a completely different feeling has started to creep into my mind. I've suddenly started to worry about uprooting my existence and my identity in preparation for motherhood and all of the goodness that (hopefully) comes with it. I've started envisioning how my days will actually be filled next year when volleyball season starts without me and a new school year begins in August. I wonder what it will be like when Cody goes to work and I am alone with a baby who doesn't speak. I read articles about women who get lost in parenthood. People who completely lose touch with who they were before they had a child. I listened to a podcast about motherhood in which a woman cried about her unexpectedly changed voice after giving birth that kept her from enjoying her notoriety as an excellent karaoke singer...I'm not kidding. The woman was so upset about not being able to do karaoke that she cried on a podcast. What in the world?!?
Needless to say, I've started to worry a bit. The whole parenthood and working debate is exhausting. I have no idea how anyone can determine what is best for them until they simply become a parent and make a decision on the matter. It is probably logical that I have at least temporarily decided to quit working, since I come from a woman who eventually quit teaching to stay home with my brother and me. I also come from a woman who to this day claims being a mother is the best thing she ever could have possibly done with her time on earth. But this brings us back to the long days, short years idea.
Life is generally not good in the present tense. On a daily basis it is difficult to manage stress levels and small details that can greatly impact one's experience. I know that the first few weeks (maybe even years) of my child's life may feel very tedious to me. All of the firsts that he (and Cody and I) will experience will unfortunately be tainted by all of the complaints of everyday life. There are very few moments that I have experienced that transcended the present and managed to erase all of the common complaints of existence, replacing the present tense with a moment so perfectly created that its beauty was abundantly obvious right then and there.
I know that parenthood will be slimed with days of frustration and exhaustion and lack of fulfillment. I know that there will be times when I wish I was living this life that I am a part of right now. I know that the stories my mom tells of her perfectly behaved children who were adorably cute and unique have been smoothed by the years in between when she has forgotten how many hours of sleep she had the night before or the hours of tears leading up to that one perfect experience with her baby. I know that the days are harder than the years. I know that if I go back to work I will regret missing the days no matter how hard they feel at times. I know that if I don't go back to work I will miss the person I was before I had a baby. I know that there is no answer to this question.
I suppose I originally decided to quit working on the pretense of what we have left at the end. When I look back on seven years of teaching and coaching, I can recount only a few moments that seem worth remembering. Most of the days were uneventful. I don't feel like I have moved mountains as an educator even with the help of the years to smooth out the edges.
I keep telling myself that what will be left after the days as a mother have passed will be more valuable than the days I am spending currently. The moments that remain will be filled with my child and not someone else's. The stories that I will tell years from now after the smoke of parenthood has cleared will be enough to sustain me through the days of reality.
Lena Dunham posted a picture to Instagram this morning of her and a friend sitting in her shabby, first-ever office space before she became famous. The look on her face exemplifies the grunginess of the building, the weird characters who surrounded the office. She tells stories of all the hard times she remembers when she looks at the picture from years ago. Yet, she notes that, "it was all better than it felt at the time." Somehow I have to remind myself that the years that pass generally make life easier in our memories. Time will smooth edges and wash away all that we couldn't filter in the present tense. The worry of what will be will probably not matter, and certainly we (I) don't want to miss out on the few moments we get to live that don't have to smoothed to be appreciated.
I'm sort of banking on the fact that creating a human needs less smoothing than a lot of life. Time will tell.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Immediately, Gradually, Ultimately
I wrote this in November, which now feels so long ago.
My husband just gave me a shot in my left butt cheek as part of the last option we have to try to get my Progesterone levels to rise. Dr. Bell calls Progesterone "glue," as in the material that holds my developing fetus to my uterus wall. I need more glue or the baby growing inside me might simply unstick.
As we were leaving Wal-Mart today, a man was standing on the side of the road holding a sign that read "Homeless Anything Helps" and his dog's leash in his other hand. On Sunday when I was leaving Wal-Mart, there was a different young man sitting against the front of the store with a sign and a dog. On Sunday I bought the guy a sandwich and some water, the dog some food and treats. When I came out of the store, the man was gone. Cody and I drove home and returned to Wal-Mart this afternoon to give the man and his dog, Lady, some food and drinks. I couldn't get out of the car to hand the guy the food because I didn't think I could do so without crying. As Cody walked away from the man, Cody reached out and hugged him. Lady jumped to meet Cody as if she wanted a hug too. As we were driving away, I watched the guy pull out his sandwich and hand Lady a treat.
A couple of days ago I took my volleyball team to the state tournament. We snuck into the tournament as the lowest seed in the state. We didn't really deserve to be there, but we made it nonetheless. We played a one seed from the east. We lost. It was sort of close, but it never felt like we had a chance. At some point during the match, I jumped from my seat to celebrate a good play and felt an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach. I thought of the missing glue. I sat down. I calmed down. I thought about how different coaching volleyball is today compared to six years ago when I started. Six years ago when the seniors staring back at me red-faced and crying in that locker room after the match were just seventh graders. I coached those kids for six years. But I know the end of most things comes fast and quick. I know this. I tried to thank those seniors for playing all those years. I tried to tell them that the wins and losses are not really the reason people play sports. I tried to tie a bow on the end of something that I know is significant for people around me, but I couldn't. I couldn't talk about the end of those kids' high school careers because I was caught up in the idea that it was also the end of my coaching career. I wanted to cry, and I refused. We called it up. I left the laundry bag on the floor. I hugged kids to try to communicate what I needed them to know. I thought about the glue and the baby inside of me. I thought about the end of my volleyball career. I wondered if I would miss coaching one day. I worried how the end comes fast and quick.
I went to church last week for the first time in some months. I've been completely unconnected with the idea of God recently. His presence I have missed for quite some time. There have been too many question marks around me to feel like there is any divine presence in my world. We went to a new church that felt the way church should feel. There was stained glass windows and a vaulted ceiling. Organ pipes and pews and hymnals. The (female) preacher spoke about the unfair and inaccurate idea that with God there will be no hardship or struggle. She noted that some people feel the presence of God immediately after asking for it. Other people gradually experience God, which sometimes leads to questions about His existence. I would tell you my faith in God has been gradual. I'm a person that needs to be coaxed and convinced of things. I don't jump in with two feet before knowing all the details. Recently there has simply been too much for me to buy in. Throughout all of the questions, I have always wanted to believe in God. My brain recognizes the benefits in believing of something beyond the grind of life.
At some point throughout the service, the congregation offered up names of people who need prayers. As I stood with my eyes closed listening to the names of people, I thought about the living being inside of me. I considered the struggle to get this point. I realized that in my tunnel of hardship over the past few months (or years) I probably haven't paid attention to the good stuff as much as the bad. I realized that the questions I have about God started gradually. There were holes in the story that bothered me for so long, and somewhere along the way I reached a breaking point. At some point, the questions turned into an immediate disbelief and I haven't looked back much at all. Sunday as I walked out of church I felt like something had changed. I haven't completely bought back in to the idea of God. I know that my version of religion and God has to be something individual to me. I know the road back will be gradual.
The most important part of God's grace (according to the sermon on Sunday) is the ultimate salvation. The immediate and gradual happenings in this world are secondary to the end, the ultimate conclusion. There are a few things in this world that are ultimate happenings - things that are significant enough to surpass the immediate and gradual in-between. Creating your own human being has to be an ultimate experience. No matter how many immediate and gradual steps lead up to that moment, there will be a point in time when someone hands you your child, the ultimate goal.
The ultimate is so hard to keep in focus in the midst of the immediate and the gradual parts of life. People are homeless and young people grow up and no one has the answers about what we're all doing here. Nonetheless, I think being pregnant has to be an event that realigns what is true and real in this world. Being a parent is not fleeting. It is permanent. It is the ultimate. And it is terrifying.
My husband just gave me a shot in my left butt cheek as part of the last option we have to try to get my Progesterone levels to rise. Dr. Bell calls Progesterone "glue," as in the material that holds my developing fetus to my uterus wall. I need more glue or the baby growing inside me might simply unstick.
As we were leaving Wal-Mart today, a man was standing on the side of the road holding a sign that read "Homeless Anything Helps" and his dog's leash in his other hand. On Sunday when I was leaving Wal-Mart, there was a different young man sitting against the front of the store with a sign and a dog. On Sunday I bought the guy a sandwich and some water, the dog some food and treats. When I came out of the store, the man was gone. Cody and I drove home and returned to Wal-Mart this afternoon to give the man and his dog, Lady, some food and drinks. I couldn't get out of the car to hand the guy the food because I didn't think I could do so without crying. As Cody walked away from the man, Cody reached out and hugged him. Lady jumped to meet Cody as if she wanted a hug too. As we were driving away, I watched the guy pull out his sandwich and hand Lady a treat.
A couple of days ago I took my volleyball team to the state tournament. We snuck into the tournament as the lowest seed in the state. We didn't really deserve to be there, but we made it nonetheless. We played a one seed from the east. We lost. It was sort of close, but it never felt like we had a chance. At some point during the match, I jumped from my seat to celebrate a good play and felt an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach. I thought of the missing glue. I sat down. I calmed down. I thought about how different coaching volleyball is today compared to six years ago when I started. Six years ago when the seniors staring back at me red-faced and crying in that locker room after the match were just seventh graders. I coached those kids for six years. But I know the end of most things comes fast and quick. I know this. I tried to thank those seniors for playing all those years. I tried to tell them that the wins and losses are not really the reason people play sports. I tried to tie a bow on the end of something that I know is significant for people around me, but I couldn't. I couldn't talk about the end of those kids' high school careers because I was caught up in the idea that it was also the end of my coaching career. I wanted to cry, and I refused. We called it up. I left the laundry bag on the floor. I hugged kids to try to communicate what I needed them to know. I thought about the glue and the baby inside of me. I thought about the end of my volleyball career. I wondered if I would miss coaching one day. I worried how the end comes fast and quick.
I went to church last week for the first time in some months. I've been completely unconnected with the idea of God recently. His presence I have missed for quite some time. There have been too many question marks around me to feel like there is any divine presence in my world. We went to a new church that felt the way church should feel. There was stained glass windows and a vaulted ceiling. Organ pipes and pews and hymnals. The (female) preacher spoke about the unfair and inaccurate idea that with God there will be no hardship or struggle. She noted that some people feel the presence of God immediately after asking for it. Other people gradually experience God, which sometimes leads to questions about His existence. I would tell you my faith in God has been gradual. I'm a person that needs to be coaxed and convinced of things. I don't jump in with two feet before knowing all the details. Recently there has simply been too much for me to buy in. Throughout all of the questions, I have always wanted to believe in God. My brain recognizes the benefits in believing of something beyond the grind of life.
At some point throughout the service, the congregation offered up names of people who need prayers. As I stood with my eyes closed listening to the names of people, I thought about the living being inside of me. I considered the struggle to get this point. I realized that in my tunnel of hardship over the past few months (or years) I probably haven't paid attention to the good stuff as much as the bad. I realized that the questions I have about God started gradually. There were holes in the story that bothered me for so long, and somewhere along the way I reached a breaking point. At some point, the questions turned into an immediate disbelief and I haven't looked back much at all. Sunday as I walked out of church I felt like something had changed. I haven't completely bought back in to the idea of God. I know that my version of religion and God has to be something individual to me. I know the road back will be gradual.
The most important part of God's grace (according to the sermon on Sunday) is the ultimate salvation. The immediate and gradual happenings in this world are secondary to the end, the ultimate conclusion. There are a few things in this world that are ultimate happenings - things that are significant enough to surpass the immediate and gradual in-between. Creating your own human being has to be an ultimate experience. No matter how many immediate and gradual steps lead up to that moment, there will be a point in time when someone hands you your child, the ultimate goal.
The ultimate is so hard to keep in focus in the midst of the immediate and the gradual parts of life. People are homeless and young people grow up and no one has the answers about what we're all doing here. Nonetheless, I think being pregnant has to be an event that realigns what is true and real in this world. Being a parent is not fleeting. It is permanent. It is the ultimate. And it is terrifying.
He Has Hair
This is an old post...
I went to the doctor yesterday (31 weeks, 5 days). We did an ultrasound to check on this little one. All seems to be well. He's measuring in the 44th percentile. He has a huge head (excited about that part of delivery). He sucked his thumb/hand at some point during the scan; it was the first time I felt like I was seeing my baby as opposed to some variation of gray and white on a screen. He swallowed the fluid around him. I immediately felt guilty about the Easter candy I ate the day before.
We did a few 4D pictures. Cody claims the baby has my nose and mouth. I have never been able to pick out familiar features on an infant, much less an ultrasound of an infant. Either way, I couldn't help but feel excited that my baby might look a little like me. He is head down, and I am carrying him about as low as I can without actually going into labor. His feet curve around to the underside of my ribs on the right side of my chest. I can't keep from smiling each time those little feet nudge me.
I worry about everything to do with him. I worry that he is too small. I worry that my stomach isn't big enough. I worry when I wake up in the middle of the night on my back when everything explicitly says to lay on your left side! I can't just accept that I have a healthy baby growing inside of me. The whole thing is exhausting. Sometimes I want so badly just to get him out of me, to actually get to verify that he looks and sounds and checks out to be a healthy baby. I've always told myself that him being outside in the world is bound to be a safer, more manageable place. Recently it's struck me that once he gets here I may realize that the worry about his safety never goes away.
His room is nearly finished. Our house is filling with baby supplies. My shower is this weekend. Childbirth class was last weekend. He is due in eight weeks. Suddenly this is all sort of spinning out of control.
I've been putting a lot of thought into actually delivering this baby. I try to envision what might happen. The whole thing feels a lot like training for an important sporting event. Cody and I discuss plans of action for when I go into labor. He runs by me what his plans for support are. Knowing he will be there makes me feel a lot less scared about the whole thing. On occasion I feel a wave of athleticism wash over me. I remind myself that I know how to fight and to hurt and to keep going. Then I remind myself that childbirth is not a competition with four quarters and whistles. Then I go back to feeling pretty uneasy.
I am going to be a mother to a little boy with no name quite yet. He has a room and a bed and diapers and clothes. How he will enter this world is yet to be determined, but he will show up one way or another. I know that I am on the cusp of the biggest event of my life. I recognize the magnitude of what is about to happen. I make note of how different my life will be on a daily basis. When I sleep or wake up or eat a meal or watch tv, I try to imagine doing those things with him. When Cody and I talk to one another, I wonder who we will be after he arrives. When I go to work or read a book or think a completely independent, unique thought, I wonder if he will change those things about me. Will I be a different person simply because I am someone's mother? The whole thing is completely incomprehensible for the most part.
He has hair. My son has hair. Yesterday on the screen, the ultrasound tech showed Cody and me the hair that is already on our son's head. As she pointed out the hair sitting atop our kid's head, Cody turned around and smiled his smile, the one I see when he is legitimately awed by life. That smile doesn't happen all the time. It's a special event for me. Cody is much better at focusing on the good and accepting the positive in things. After the smile, I let myself smile too. I (temporarily) let go of the worry. I stopped analyzing every button the ultrasound tech pushed or expression she made. I tried to accept her answers as the truth. I tried to acknowledge that what is happening is so important and fragile and good.
All signs point to a healthy baby, and he is mine and he is Cody's and he has hair.
I went to the doctor yesterday (31 weeks, 5 days). We did an ultrasound to check on this little one. All seems to be well. He's measuring in the 44th percentile. He has a huge head (excited about that part of delivery). He sucked his thumb/hand at some point during the scan; it was the first time I felt like I was seeing my baby as opposed to some variation of gray and white on a screen. He swallowed the fluid around him. I immediately felt guilty about the Easter candy I ate the day before.
We did a few 4D pictures. Cody claims the baby has my nose and mouth. I have never been able to pick out familiar features on an infant, much less an ultrasound of an infant. Either way, I couldn't help but feel excited that my baby might look a little like me. He is head down, and I am carrying him about as low as I can without actually going into labor. His feet curve around to the underside of my ribs on the right side of my chest. I can't keep from smiling each time those little feet nudge me.
I worry about everything to do with him. I worry that he is too small. I worry that my stomach isn't big enough. I worry when I wake up in the middle of the night on my back when everything explicitly says to lay on your left side! I can't just accept that I have a healthy baby growing inside of me. The whole thing is exhausting. Sometimes I want so badly just to get him out of me, to actually get to verify that he looks and sounds and checks out to be a healthy baby. I've always told myself that him being outside in the world is bound to be a safer, more manageable place. Recently it's struck me that once he gets here I may realize that the worry about his safety never goes away.
His room is nearly finished. Our house is filling with baby supplies. My shower is this weekend. Childbirth class was last weekend. He is due in eight weeks. Suddenly this is all sort of spinning out of control.
I've been putting a lot of thought into actually delivering this baby. I try to envision what might happen. The whole thing feels a lot like training for an important sporting event. Cody and I discuss plans of action for when I go into labor. He runs by me what his plans for support are. Knowing he will be there makes me feel a lot less scared about the whole thing. On occasion I feel a wave of athleticism wash over me. I remind myself that I know how to fight and to hurt and to keep going. Then I remind myself that childbirth is not a competition with four quarters and whistles. Then I go back to feeling pretty uneasy.
I am going to be a mother to a little boy with no name quite yet. He has a room and a bed and diapers and clothes. How he will enter this world is yet to be determined, but he will show up one way or another. I know that I am on the cusp of the biggest event of my life. I recognize the magnitude of what is about to happen. I make note of how different my life will be on a daily basis. When I sleep or wake up or eat a meal or watch tv, I try to imagine doing those things with him. When Cody and I talk to one another, I wonder who we will be after he arrives. When I go to work or read a book or think a completely independent, unique thought, I wonder if he will change those things about me. Will I be a different person simply because I am someone's mother? The whole thing is completely incomprehensible for the most part.
He has hair. My son has hair. Yesterday on the screen, the ultrasound tech showed Cody and me the hair that is already on our son's head. As she pointed out the hair sitting atop our kid's head, Cody turned around and smiled his smile, the one I see when he is legitimately awed by life. That smile doesn't happen all the time. It's a special event for me. Cody is much better at focusing on the good and accepting the positive in things. After the smile, I let myself smile too. I (temporarily) let go of the worry. I stopped analyzing every button the ultrasound tech pushed or expression she made. I tried to accept her answers as the truth. I tried to acknowledge that what is happening is so important and fragile and good.
All signs point to a healthy baby, and he is mine and he is Cody's and he has hair.
34 Weeks
I am thirty-four weeks pregnant today. This whole thing is suddenly flying by. I have done a terrible job of writing about most of this. As anyone who reads this blog can tell, I'm much more inclined to write about the bad than the good and thankfully this pregnancy has been pretty easy.
We have narrowed this child's name to two options. Middle names are still up in the air. I thought deciding on a name after I give birth seemed like a good approach, but I'm starting to worry that labor and delivery may be so overwhelming that I'll give in to any name that is suggested. I may try to have this decided before then.
This little person's room is nearly complete. All of the big pieces are in place at least. In a perfect world, I will take some pictures of it and post them to remember this process. However, I've started to feel a definite shift toward being less worried about all of the extra stuff associated with babies and trying to actually prepare myself to be a parent. The arrangement of frames on a wall are slowly being moved down my list of worries.
We have been to a childbirth class and a breastfeeding class. I have read and read and read about how to do parenthood. I really hope I can successfully breastfeed, but it is probably my biggest worry at this point. Cody has been so supportive and present through this entire process. He should get some sort of award for being an above average man.
We are still working on a pediatrician. I still don't have a car seat installed. I don't know how to use half of the gear that has been purchased, but we have it nonetheless.
I keep telling myself that once a doctor hands me the child that my body has been creating for the past nine months suddenly I will not worry about whether I should buy gowns or onesies. I won't care if all of his clothes are organized in drawers according to size. I won't have time to worry about all of the little stuff that I spend my time considering now. I'll be a mother and Cody will be a father and we will have to collectively figure out how to work this little human into our lives. The logistics of what that looks like on an everyday basis will have to be worked out once he arrives.
I resigned from my job this week. I will not be employed next school year. I will instead spend my time taking care of a baby. I resigned not because I know that motherhood will be worth not having a professional life. I resigned because a lot of people around me vouch for the fact that motherhood is a worthwhile (if not more valuable endeavor) than working. I resigned because I don't know exactly what is about to happen to me, but I know that it is theoretically bigger than most anything else that ever has happened to me. I know that I can always go back to work, but I won't ever be able to give birth to my first child again. I resigned because I think I will love this tiny person more so or at least differently than any other person I have ever loved and hopefully that love will be enough to sustain me without a career in which to invest my time and energy...there's so much left to be answered in the next few months of my life. I hope I get it right or that I at least get it.
We have narrowed this child's name to two options. Middle names are still up in the air. I thought deciding on a name after I give birth seemed like a good approach, but I'm starting to worry that labor and delivery may be so overwhelming that I'll give in to any name that is suggested. I may try to have this decided before then.
This little person's room is nearly complete. All of the big pieces are in place at least. In a perfect world, I will take some pictures of it and post them to remember this process. However, I've started to feel a definite shift toward being less worried about all of the extra stuff associated with babies and trying to actually prepare myself to be a parent. The arrangement of frames on a wall are slowly being moved down my list of worries.
We have been to a childbirth class and a breastfeeding class. I have read and read and read about how to do parenthood. I really hope I can successfully breastfeed, but it is probably my biggest worry at this point. Cody has been so supportive and present through this entire process. He should get some sort of award for being an above average man.
We are still working on a pediatrician. I still don't have a car seat installed. I don't know how to use half of the gear that has been purchased, but we have it nonetheless.
I keep telling myself that once a doctor hands me the child that my body has been creating for the past nine months suddenly I will not worry about whether I should buy gowns or onesies. I won't care if all of his clothes are organized in drawers according to size. I won't have time to worry about all of the little stuff that I spend my time considering now. I'll be a mother and Cody will be a father and we will have to collectively figure out how to work this little human into our lives. The logistics of what that looks like on an everyday basis will have to be worked out once he arrives.
I resigned from my job this week. I will not be employed next school year. I will instead spend my time taking care of a baby. I resigned not because I know that motherhood will be worth not having a professional life. I resigned because a lot of people around me vouch for the fact that motherhood is a worthwhile (if not more valuable endeavor) than working. I resigned because I don't know exactly what is about to happen to me, but I know that it is theoretically bigger than most anything else that ever has happened to me. I know that I can always go back to work, but I won't ever be able to give birth to my first child again. I resigned because I think I will love this tiny person more so or at least differently than any other person I have ever loved and hopefully that love will be enough to sustain me without a career in which to invest my time and energy...there's so much left to be answered in the next few months of my life. I hope I get it right or that I at least get it.
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