All About Leo

Baby Leo is only 9 months, 3 weeks old. Yet I am starting to compile this-and-that for his 1-year-old montage of memories. Not being an over-achiever here. Just being realistic: it will take me at least three months to finish this job.

Context: On Iza's first birthday I wrote a portrait of her (Read it here: First Album.) I would like to do the same for Leo.

So here are some impressions when I think of Leo:

Speed. He came into this world at top speed and hasn't stopped. Well, he did go through that newborn slug stage, which Izabella somehow missed. And then he sat up. And then he learned that he could stick his little chubby paw into the air and someone (usually mama) would oblige him. Two impossibly chubbed thighs floating above two incredibly delicate ankles, would twist and lurch and hop upright. One step. Two. Then, if you held two hands, he would put his head down and run. Run. Lest we forget, this operation usually required the tongue thrust. His pink tongue curled up and over his lip on one side. Really, too cute. And as he started to take steps on his own, his grins would light up the room.

First food: mashed banana.

Bath: splasher. Avid. Gleeful. Not afraid to get his hair wet.

Sleep? I was happy to nurse Leo at night since his sister was nursing during the day. It was a comfort to know that he had full access at least at nighttime. He grew like a weed in the sun. He still loves to nurse at night. This means that he also wakes up frequently. Seriously, a three-hour stretch is a luxury. This kid usually needs a cuddle/nurse about thirty minutes after he goes to bed. Then it may be every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes. Thus, sleep followed by a question mark. Despite the work this entails, it is so delicious to sleep cuddled up next to him. Mama loves when I have my back to him in bed and he snuggles up against me. So warm and alive. So little and so big.

The eyes. The eyes. I have no idea if there is a name to describe them. They are rimmed in navy. The center is a version of brown that wants to be green. When I look into them I think: Earth. As in the earth viewed from outer space, a globe mostly dark blue with flecks of earth floating in a blanket of white clouds. It will slay me to have to fill in a form with one word: they are not just blue, or brown, or green. They are Earth.

and he awakes.....

Since Leo

A New Club

Miss Iza had her second birthday on February 8th. And as of that date, I can no longer claim membership to the 2-under-2 club. I suppose now I am in the 2-2-and-under club, but that doesn't quite garner the same insanity. With an over-2-year-old to my name I should have it all together by now. Parenting should be old hat, down pat, downright easy. Cutting baby nails? Been there. Teething? Been there. Making baby food. Done that.

Raising babies is "easier" with number 2. All that I learned raising Izabella has given me a frame of reference for the second baby. With Iza's every baby first, I would ask my mom, "Is this normal?" The weird newborn eyerolls. The frequency or lack thereof of poops. The list is endless. Now I have a sense of what is "normal," and even more importantly I understand that normal is way overrated.

A big bummer of parenting two little ones: illness. Wow. Does it suck to have a sick baby. Two sick babies are even worse. Worser still, sick babies + a sick mama. Poor me. We are not talking cancer. We are merely in the grip of lingering virus that causes mild fever followed by sinus woes. Leo is taking it the worse-est.

We are heading into night 13 of Baby Leo's fight against the family virus. By day he is cranky, but not too terrible. By night he drowns in his own snot. It is so sad to hear him try to breath. There is coughing, enough to make him gag and vomit. (I know. Sorry. But. Parenting babies is all about bodily fluids.) I have elevated our bed to create an incline. Vaporizer on full. Warm bath to loosen up the goo. I am doing all that I can and still we are up often in the night. I am okay with frequent waking when all that is needed is for me to nurse him back to sleep. But getting up to rock or bounce and walk or sing or all of the above is murder on this mama.

I admit it has led me to mutter quite loudly really bad words. I feel like a sh*t when I do it. But it usually releases some of my negative energy and allows me to refocus on the moment and endure. After so many nights, folks, I am not at my mothering best. It aint pretty.

The good news is that while I am not a patient woman, I do have endurance. And I do have a penchant for suffering bred into me by years of observing Lent and general Catholic culture. I may not be a saint, but I do understand the value of martyrdom.

I do not want my parenting to be defined by martyrdom, however. That seems all askew. I do not want to lose my life. I want to find it, create it in relationship with these little people.

Perhaps the nights of sitting with a suffering child who cries and thrashes and scratches (who seems entirely unappreciative of your love's labor) is a healthy dose of self-sacrifice. A way to die to self. It is certainly a way to wrinkle your skin and grey your hair.

And poor Leo. I can't wait to have my healthy, happy baby boy back.

Mise-en-scène

All the experts recommend that a nightly ritual will ease your little ones off to sleep. The elements may include a bath, a story, getting dressed for bed, dimmed lights, music, a cuddle, or nursing in permutations too numerous to describe.

Our evening ritual starts with dinner at six. After dinner we start the journey toward sleep by collecting our evening supplies: pajamas, the "bye-toe" (a wearable blanket), and socks. We then move through house and start the ascent toward the bedrooms with a litany of goodbyes to various toys and household landmarks. It is often at this point that Izabella remembers that we also need to bring along the monkey, dolly, owl, or the hairbrush.

Tata escorts Izabella and I bring up the rear with Leo. Once upstairs I leave Leo in the master bedroom to squirm on the floor. Tata is busy with Iza, who needs to be undressed (checked for poops) and then led into the tub. I charge around to dim lights, fill the vaporizers, adjust pillows and blankets, and check to be sure my iPhone is handy in Leo's room (in case I need to stay with him for an extended nursing session). Then I return to the master bedroom, undress Leo, and plunk him in the tub with Iza for his chance to splash madly. I exit the bathroom and Tata takes over. I wait outside the door with Leo's towel while Tata deftly removes him and distracts Iza with more water. (She recently started to get upset when we left.)

I then whisk Leo away to his room. I dress him: diaper, pajamas, bye-toe. I am usually singing his lullaby as he vigorously complains. We nurse in bed. If that doesn't work, we bounce on the ball and nurse. Eventually (hopefully) sleep overcomes him. If I can exit his room in time, I can then nurse Iza and put her to sleep. Lately her father has been able to put her to sleep without me, which is a huge relief as Leo has become more difficult to tip over into his dreams.

While I am tending to Leo, there is a drama playing out in the master bedroom. Iza sings her "clean-up" song and gathers her bath toys. She likes to have her stories read while she is in the buff. She leans against the pillows and snuggles under the covers. After the stories (Tata reads one Hungarian story, maybe two), she is dressed for bed: diaper, pajamas, socks, bye-toe. She is then carried across to her room where either mama waits to nurse her or tata puts her down with a final caress. (This room has been prepared with dim lights, music, and vaporizer.)

Repeat.

I know this is not fascinating stuff.

But what fascinates me is the drama of it all. The stagecraft. The nightly ritual is a habit that normally plays out without too much thought. Some nights I cling to it as if it were a magic formula that will culminate in every tired parent's favorite trick: sleeping babies (at least for a few hours) and a chance to breathe without little ones needing you.

My inner thespian geek gets a rush in the offing of it. As if the role I play is more than just stagecraft. It is art. It is transformational. This is the only audience that you want to fall asleep. And making it happen creates the actor's rush of transcendence, when it works. When it doesn't work, despair. The fourth wall crumbles when you are too tired to maintain the scene. Your makeup runs. Your costume constricts. You see your pitiful self attempting to play the role of Mother and coming up short.

I have to laugh at myself when I see my evening ritual as theater. Surely babies all over the world go to sleep with nary an ounce of such emotional/physical fanfare. Why the emphasis on ritual in our neighborhood?

I suspect that it sells products: THE perfect cuddly toy, THE music soundtrack, THE white noise machine, THE ETC. THAT YOU MUST HAVE IF YOU WANT YOUR BABY TO SLEEP (AND BE SUCCESSFUL IN LIFE).

I guess it is also a byproduct of a society that must guard its sleeping hours carefully in order to maintain its rigorous work schedules.

And tired parents everywhere will indulge a bit of drama if it buys more sleep for the entire family.

Not to mention the human craving for ritual for ritual's sake.

Of course you can train your babies to fall asleep with fewer elements to their evening ritual. But not many fewer, frankly. Maybe the babies would sleep without any of it. Maybe the ritual is partly (mostly?) for me too. It gives me a (false?) sense of control over the events of the evening. It allows me to feel like I am parenting.

In time my babies won't need me to direct their evening dramas. They will have their own private rituals, such as reading under the covers or texting best friends. For now I am the show's producer, director, and supporting actor. The kiddoes have center stage. All I can do is hope I've set the scene.

Tandem

Everything is better is twos. Sipping champagne. Sightseeing in Paris. Nature walks. Breastfeeding is on that list too. Believe it or not.

Most people are amazed that I have been nursing my newborn, who is now six-months-old, and my toddler at the same time. Mothers who have nursed think that my stamina--both physical and emotional--must be somehow superhuman. Those who haven't nursed find the endeavor odd and not suitable for dinner discussion. As if nursing is akin to other bodily secretions that might upset the appetite. Fine, do it, just don't talk about it (or do it in front of me), they seem to say.

Not that I am eager to discuss the issue over canapes, mind you. When I have the opportunity to share adult discussion, I am eager to leave the realm of poop and milk too (though not always successful in doing so).

And yet, here in my blogspace, I thought I would try to write about my experiences with tandem nursing. If you fear the topic, turn back. I want to write about it because I am sure that my mama amnesia will set in and I will forget what it is like to handle two babies at the breast.

Soon after becoming pregnant with baby # 2 when my daughter was about eight-months-old, I realized that I may have the opportunity to nurse both of them. My daughter nursed throughout the pregnancy despite lowered milk supply caused by pregnancy hormones. She normally only nursed first thing in the morning and before going to sleep at naptime and bedtime. My water broke while I was nursing her to sleep. When I saw her the next morning with baby Leo in my arms, the first thing she wanted to do was "hammy," (pronounced hummy) her word for nursing. A few days later my new milk came in and she was in milk heaven. So, two babies nursing. One so tiny. One not so tiny.

Miss Iza, who at seventeen months was still not walking, was used to being nursed to sleep at naptime. In fact she had been napping on my pregnant lap while we rocked for the past several months. She happily nursed to sleep and was placed in a crib at night and she had given up night nursings. During the day, however, she would only nap in my arms at my breast. I was pregnant and tired. This arrangement made it possible for me to nap with her. So I didn't try to change the pattern. This dedicated nurser, however, had to learn how to nap without her mama.

The first week I tried to put them to sleep together in one bed. I would lie on my side with Leo nursing on the breast closest to the bed. Iza would kneel and lean over my back to nurse on the breast topside. Talk about gymnastics. Leo was happy, of course. Iza, not so much. Eventually she would drop from exhaustion and nap fitfully by my side. The arrangement was not a success. Not to mention very tough on my back.

At naptime and bedtime I started to take Leo with me into Iza's room. We would all sit in the rocking chair. If Leo was content, he could hang out in the bassinet. More often than not he joined Iza at the breast. Iza would nurse cuddled in my lap. I would lay Leo on top of her at the other breast. When she was ready to go to sleep, I put Leo down in the bassinet and then put her in the crib. Often he would fuss, but not always. Almost immediately she accepted that she needed to go to sleep on her own because mama had to tend to the baby.

After a few weeks (months?) I would nurse Leo in the rocking chair while Iza was having her bath with her father or nanny. When Iza came to me, we would do a baby exchange. And Tata would take the baby downstairs for cuddles until I could come. Iza soon learned this too. And she would tell Tata, "Tata baby." Meaning, "Tata, you take care of the baby now while mama nurses me." A very reliable baby-soothing technique in our house is the bouncy ball. As we exchanged babies, Iza would very seriously tell Tata, "Baby, ball." As in take this tiny fussy person and bounce him into oblivion!

Iza soon recognized that wherever mama was, the baby was there too. If she saw me without the baby, she would ask, "Baby?" After a few months she learned that if baby was not in mama's arms, the better question to ask was, "Hammy?"

In the first months, Leo nursed almost constantly and Iza jumped in there whenever my arms were open. She definitely wanted to nurse as much as possible, more than before Leo was born. Often they nursed at the same time. This called for invention. Our "favorite" position for a while entailed me sitting in a child-sized chair. Iza would stand and nurse while I held Leo across my lap. This allowed Iza to come and go as she wished. (Of course this only developed after she learned to walk on her own. Leo was born June 30th, and Iza walked by herself on July 4th).

For the first four months or so I would nurse Iza and put her sleep around 7:30 while Leo was in the care of his father or the nanny. Then I would come downstairs and hang out with Leo until he was ready to sleep again. I would put the little one in a Moses basket and take him upstairs to our room when I was ready to go to bed myself. Usually around three hours later he would wake for the first time. I would then take the basket and move into his room where I would sleep with him the rest of the night on a queen-sized mattress on the floor.

Around five months or so I started putting Leo in the bath with his sister. I wanted to start a nighttime ritual for the both of them. This mostly involved plunking him down for just a few minutes before taking him for pijamas and nursing him to sleep in his own room. He now loves the bath and splashes like a madman. Iza likes to wash him with a washcloth.

By about six months or so we had established a pattern that looks like this: dinner at 6, bath 6:45, then Leo off to nurse to sleep while Iza plays and reads stories. Both babies asleep by 7:30. Okay, it looks something like that. In theory. That is the plan. The reality, of course, is much more "entertaining." This pattern requires two people. Minimum. There has been one night that I did the evening ritual alone. It was not pretty.

Little Leo wakes up to nurse several times a night. I wanted him to nurse at night because his sister was still nursing during the day. Happily he has gained weight like a champion and I am no longer concerned that he is getting enough milk. So it would be convenient if he didn't nurse as much at night. Yet at this point I am happy to nurse him as much as he wants at night. I am dealing okay with my decreased sleep, so far. Izabella effectively weaned herself at night by about 9 months. She just started sleeping longer and longer stretches without waking. So far Leo is not heading in that direction. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, it is fantastic to sleep next to his warm little body. Some nights I could swear that I can see him literally growing in front of my eyes.

All this nursing requires support. Tandem nursing is possible for me because I have a supportive husband and a nanny who does housework. I know that mothers do it without such help. But I don't know how.

I have also learned to listen to my own body and limits. Sometimes I just can't nurse Iza. I need a hammy break. But I can't explain that to her. So I silently count backward from 100 for each breast and then end the session. Or we do a "quick" nursing where I count aloud back from 10. She has learned this game and even laughs and tries to jump back before I get to 1. Or I offer her a book or a cuddle or goat cheese instead.

All this begs the question, why do I do it? Why put myself through the intense commitment when there are other options? I don't have a clear answer to this worked out just yet. I suppose I tandem nurse because I can. I can afford to stay at home. I can afford to hire someone to help me with the house. And I enjoy it. I enjoy the intensity. I enjoy the physical connection. It is not easy, but it is pleasurable. I want to forge this physical intimacy with my children when I can. Later they won't need me in this way. But hopefully somewhere deep in their skin and hidden in their brains will pulse the knowledge that love does not require language. Love can be purely a physical presence, a touch. A closeness that needs no explanation or justification. A love that is possible because that is how our bodies are configured. Simple. Perhaps it can be the beginning of a narrative about love that does not involve the drama of star-crossed lovers, the fiction of white dresses, or the delusion of white picket fences. Love is touch. It is presence. It is physical closeness. If love is created in this way, it can be sustained over long distances, and over time.

Izabella and Leo are siblings. They are nurslings. It feels like a good start.

(Ultimately I can't know if tandem nursing is good for my children. But I am interested in the idea that my experience as a mother who tandem nurses is perhaps an even more crucial part of the equation. Parenting should change us. It should. How? I'm not sure about that. But we shouldn't be able to cruise through our children's infancy without some encounter with what it means to be human, to be alive on this planet. I am thinking a lot lately about how our culture has set up parenting such that parents are no longer needed. Baby tending has been outsourced. The feeding, the touching, the being touched. How would our society be different if our legislators had nursed their babies at home for one year or longer? More on this later....)

I wax, or wane. Or whatever.

Leo wakes.

And so.

Both babies are sleeping. Laundry mostly done. Dishes can wait. Showered last night. Bills paid yesterday. Christmas shopping on order (online). And so. I have time to blog.

Entire essay-length entries have been composed in my head while nursing, bathing, changing little diapers. And so the pressure is on, well, to say something. You know, all profound and such. Reflections on mothering in the modern world. And all that.

Mostly I am grateful that we are healthy. And happy, often. And when the babies cry, I now know to take the long view. When Iza was little her cries flipped deep genetic/hormonal switches in me and I would heat up and melt down and become convinced that I, her mother, had ruined her chances at a happy life. Now when one of them, or both of them, cry I try to breathe and go Zen. And if that fails, I mutter a few really bad words.

A bouquet of thoughts here:

Having one child, my love for her was a romance. Drama. Intimacy. Longing. Elation. Devestation. Wonder. Fear. Repeat. Having two, my love is now parental. Wonder. Respect. Awe. Frustration. Joy. Humility. Repeat. Much less fear, much more willingness to wait and observe as the person emerges.

The best things I never did this time around: write down every feeding, poop, pee, and sleep. Reread parenting books. pump.

Revelation: Every home should have a good rocking chair. This is an entire philosophy ready to be expanded and expounded. More to come.

Another Revelation and nascent philosophy: Every home should have a bottle of sparkly stuff (champagne for me) chilled and ready to celebrate.

Mothering is beautiful. Yes. But it sure ain't pretty much of the time.

Hooray for online shopping and groceries delivered to the house. Hip Hip Hooray for my nanny, who sadly is leaving us in January.

Hooray for carrying two babies: Leo in the Bjorn on the front and Iza in the Ergo on my back. This way we could go for a long walk on the nature path, where strollers couldn't go. Although with Leo growing so quickly, I think those days are over.

And then there was the day when I realized that my two-baby-wearing adventures caused a bit of discomfort for some New England types. A neighbor happened to cross our path as we all headed to the Starbucks. She casually commented that, well, you could use a stroller....And I heard it in her voice. She was embarrassed for me. And I was amused.

Feeding a toddler is slowly forcing me to learn how to cook. As in put three meals + snacks on the table a day. I used to cook for dinner parties. This is totally different. I can make a decent pork roast. Chicken in various permutations. Cous cous is my new favorite side dish. Izabella loves blue cheese, hates mashed potatoes. Leo still only nurses. I am a casserole queen. I may never be a great cook, but I am working my way toward being a good mom cook.

Lots of thoughts about tandem nursing. That I need to write about.

Things that get me through the day: jasmine green tea. Napping/nursing with Leo while Izabella sleeps. Facebook.

And Leo wakes....

Size Matters

Izabella was born 6 pounds 12 ounces.
At 6 months, she reached 15 pounds.

Lenard was born 6 pounds 5 ounces.
At 3 1/2 months, he reached 14 pounds 11 ounces.

ps Still tandem nursing.

Lullaby

Leo, Leo

You're my little potato

Leo, Leo

Sweet as a summer tomato

Confession

I have a birth narrative in progress for baby Leo. It is difficult to find time to sit down at a keyboard. Izabella takes two-hour naps in the afternoon and generally goes to sleep for the night by 7:30. As soon as she is down, however, I can't wait to fill my arms with new baby Leo. Facebook and email I can do from my iPhone. Blogging requires the rare moment when both babies are sleeping and I am not. Here is one of those moments....

First, let me clarify my entry regarding how rested I feel despite two babies to care for. As soon as I posted it and logged off, I knew it required emendation. Supermom, I am not. It does help that Leo and I share a bed. Though he wakes every two or three hours to nurse, he is a highly efficient nurser and usually finishes in about ten minutes. So I barely have to wake up to offer him my breast. Sometimes I fall back asleep while he nurses. I can't say enough about how great it is to co-sleep. Not only does mama get more sleep, I get to sleep with the sweetest gurgles and grunts as a soundtrack. More important to my sense of well-being, however, is my caregiver. Let me just admit it: We have a live-in nanny. I never thought that I would have a nanny, but I do. And it is wonderful. She is wonderful.

With two-under-two, not a relative nearby, and a partner who works many and long hours, I knew that I needed someone to help me. It has taken almost six months and the birth of my second child for me to really yield to the virtues of having another caregiver. As one of six children in my family, I never had a babysitter. Never. So I didn't grow up with the idea of having help with raising children. I was resistant to the idea. Especially as a stay-at-home mom (for now), it seemed ridiculous.

My attitude toward the issue is that my nanny is here to help me parent, not parent. Thus she cleans the kitchen, does laundry, tidies the toys, takes out the trash, etc. She sometimes cooks. These tasks are essential for a family. When I come downstairs from putting big sister to sleep and am ready to sit and nurse (or swaddle and bounce) little Leo for hours, the dishes have been down and the kitchen cleaned. The playroom is tidied. This makes a tremendous difference is my ability to parent two babies. Our caregiver is also wonderful with big sister, taking her to the park, reading to her, and happily pretending to be scared at least fifty times a day when Izabella squeals, "boo."

I wish grandma and grandpa lived down the street. I wish my college girl friends lived across town. I wish my women friends could drop by for coffee and cuddle time with the babies. The truth is that we are relatively new to the area, our families are nowhere close, and all my new women friends also have babies to tend.

I know families (and women) who manage on their own. I am not one of them. I have a nanny. And I am extremely grateful to have her by my side. (And a bit worried about what will become of us this fall when she will work for us on a part time basis.)

I'll keep plugging away at Leo's birth narrative.

(It feels good to write.)

Now I just need a haircut.

Notes After Leo's Birth

Baby Lenard, whose birth certificate was left unsigned for one week while we deliberated about his name, was born at 2:01 am on June 30th, 2009. As I begin to compose the story of his birth, he is soundly asleep on our couch. He is four weeks old today. He is a beautiful baby. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Leo's birth story starts with his sister. I was nursing his sister, Izabella, to sleep when my water broke at about 8:30 pm on a Monday evening. It was a small leak at first and frankly I wasn't entirely sure that it was my waters. I continued to nurse Izabella until she was drowsy and almost fully asleep. I became entirely calm. Just as my doula had told me, my body needed to know that my seventeen-month-old baby was deeply asleep before I began to labor.

I put Izabella down to sleep knowing that the next I held her she would be a big sister. I crept out of her room and went downstairs to speak with my husband and babysitter. I had requested that our babysitter, Nikki, who had moved in with us a few weeks earlier, and my husband wait for me so that I could explain to them my wishes regarding Izabella's care in the event I went into labor. I proceeded to explain to them my directions. Only after I had made myself clear about my wishes did I mention that my waters, I suspected, had broken.

At about seven that evening I had noticed some bloody show, blood streaked mucous, indicating that labor might be near. It was beginning to look a lot like labor. I was thirty-eight weeks plus several days into the pregnancy.

Soon after telling my husband that labor might have begun, the waters began to gush. I text-messaged my doula. I called the midwife on duty at the hospital to give her a warning that I would be making my way there sometime in the near future. At first my husband and babysitter stayed near me. Contractions had not yet started. So we turned on the TV and watched "Ice Age." At least it played while we all sat there "relaxing." Finally at about ten pm I sent them upstairs to bed. I needed to be alone. Still no contractions.

A few weeks earlier I had learned that I was Group B Strep (GBS) positive. (This means that I tested positive for a normal bacteria which is nevertheless potentially harmful if passed on to the baby during delivery.) If you are positive, you should receive two doses (four hours apart) of antibiotics by IV before delivery. My midwife informed me of this disappointing news as my husband stood there with two broken arms. Yes, that day he had a bicycle accident which would result in two plaster casts. Needless to say I was a bit confounded. My husband couldn't lift my toddler. Not to mention change a diaper. And the GBS meant an IV in my arm during labor and a need to "rush" to the hospital to start the medication before I delivered.

As it turned out, however, I would not be rushed by anyone else in labor.

When I spoke to the midwife on call that night she made a comment that drastically changed my birth plan. I had planned to rush in and start the antibiotics. If I failed to get the proper dosage, then the protocol meant that my son would have to have blood extracted within the first hour of birth and stay for observation for twenty four hours. I did not want him to be subjected to an avoidable blood test so soon after birth and I hoped to get home sooner than that. When I mentioned my GBS status to the midwife, she said something like, "They like to induce mothers who are GBB positive." What? Did she mean, "they" as in other people and not me? Or did she mean that she was obligated to be part of the "they" since we were at the hospital? All I know is that I weighed the risk of passing GBS on to my baby and the reality of being induced. And I stayed home. (I never did get a chance to ask her for clarification. Later my midwife who gives me regular care told me that I would have had the right to refuse an induction. But I didn't know that at the time. And it is so very difficult to refuse medical care especially while in labor.)

I am not sure when the contractions really started. I do recall that at 11:30 pm I thought that I should start recording the time for each one. By midnight I thought it was time to go to the hospital. The contractions were strong and coming at three minutes, then five minutes, then ten minutes apart. I just knew it was time. My husband drove me to the hospital. It should be noted that he drove me with two broken hands. We drove slowly, ever so slowly, because each bend in the road was painful for him. Picture that.

It was after regular hospital hours and so we had to enter through the emergency room. They moved me directly to the delivery room. I asked them to fire up the bathtub. Quickly they began to insert the IV to administer the antibiotic. I was in active labor and the contractions were strong. I would have felt sorry for the poor nurse who had to insert the needle if I wasn't upset and resistant that it had to be done. Somewhere in there the midwife did a vaginal exam to determine dilation. It must have been done before the IV, but I would have to check my doula's notes. I do remember that I tried to refuse it and that it hurt like hell. The midwife told me that I was dilated at about four to five centimeters. That shocked and panicked me a bit. It was a long way to ten, so I thought. I know the IV went in at 1 am, because I remember thinking that I had until 1:20, a twenty minute wait, until the antibiotics were in and I could be disconnected from the apparatus. I was violently shaking.

As soon as the antibiotics were in and my IV taped down, I got in the warm bath. The contractions were coming fast with little to no time in between to get all "I am Woman / Hear me Roar." Frankly I remember thinking that there had to be a better way to give birth, one that involved less intensity. My midwife was alone with me and began to help me relax by stroking my arms, saying soothing words, and offering aromatherapy. Then my doula arrived. I needed her there. I was glad to realize that the IV, which I was worried would bother me because it was still taped to my arm, provided no major distraction.

Together with the soothing water and my doula's arrival I was finally able to "let go" and relax. Labor is all about letting go. Turning off the mind. Giving in to the muscles and liquids that make up your corporeal self. You must yield. Your instinct is to tighten, to flex for the fight. To control. To hold on to your dignity. The key is to relax, release, to submit, to discover the dignity of the flesh.

I remember one moment: darkened bath room, on my knees, fully bare, hands on the tub's edge, warm water streaming down my shoulders and back as I stretched up and moaned through a powerful contraction. That felt right. It felt powerful. It felt true.

I also remember feeling like I needed to vomit.

I remember looking down and seeing a dark spot ooze from my vagina and shouting out to my doula and midwife in concern. It turned out to be blood (and normal), but in the darkened room it was hard to identity.

Then I needed to push. How did I know? Your body knows. The nurses hustled me out of the tub. (Water births are not allowed at this hospital.)

I moved to the bed and climbed up on all fours. I pushed with my contractions probably about three times. And then he was almost there. The midwife instructed me to lie on my side, which felt awkward to me. I agreed to try it for one push. But one push was all it took. It was a mighty one. My midwife told me not to scream, and my doula instructed me to take that screaming energy and push it down inside, making more of a grunt. It worked. He passed through me and into the world. He was quickly covered in a blanket and set on my chest. They didn't even check the sex, just placed him on my chest while the placenta was delivered. So fast. So very fast. Yet no tears, no stitches needed. He latched on perfectly and didn't let go for two hours.

As I "finish" this entry, Leo is sleeping in the swing. He is three-and-a-half months old. His sister is out with their father shopping for a new car. I am sipping my jasmine green tea and waiting for him to wake up so that I can take him in my arms and breathe deeply again.

Truly I can hardly believe that this little guy, who is growing at a tremendous rate, is here. He arrived so very fast. And he is growing so very fast. And I can't believe I named him Lenard. I am sure that he will carry it well.

(finally posted on October 13th, 2009)