Tag Archives: Pregnancy

A conversation, a reading assignment, a writing exercise, and a re-run #1

A conversation:

Welcome to my time machine. It’s 2005. Flora is brand-new, and Cinder is not quite two and a half, and trying to figure out what babies are for. So many many things.

Babies are for wrestling:

Jane: Why is Flora crying?

Cinder: Because I wrestled her.

Jane: Did she like it?

Cinder: No, that’s why she’s crying. She’s too little. I’ll try again tomorrow when she’s bigger.

Babies are for jumping on:

Jane: Cinder, what are you doing?

Cinder: I’m going to build a mountain and jump on Flora.

Jane: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Cinder: It is a good idea. Flora said she wants to play with me like that.

Babies love to play leap frog:

Jane: Stop!

Cinder: What, mama?

Jane: You’re stepping on Flora.

Cinder: No, I’m not. I’m playing leap frog, like Franklin and Rabbit.

Babies are for poking:

Cinder: Mama, can I poke Flora in the eye?

Jane: That’s not a good idea. We have to be very careful about eyes.

Cinder: Mama, can I poke Flora in the ear?[etc. Etc.]

Jane: How about we don’t poke Flora at all?

Cinder: But I like poking Flora.

From Life’s Archives, April 5, 2005.

A reading assignment that will change your life:

Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Take 12 weeks to read through it. Do the exercises. Even the hokey ones.

 

A writing exercise to do instead of asking “when do you find the time to write”:

Notebook. Pen. Cup of Coffee. Start writing Morning Pages. Now. If you’re reading this at 2 p.m.—don’t wait until tomorrow morning. Write your first three morning pages now.

Get a grip on the Morning Pages without reading the first chapter of The Artist’s Way (although don’t you wanna?): Morning Pages write up & video.

 

An explanation:

I’m going AWOL for 12 weeks. No phones, no wifi… also, no winter! I’m going to be documenting things old school via journals and postcards (if you want a postcard from… well, that place where I’m hiding… email your snail mail address to nothingbythebook@gmail.com).

The blog’s on auto-pilot with a conversation from the archives, a reading recommendation, a writing assignment (cause I can’t nag any of you in person), and unsolicited advice… er, that is, a re-run post of the kind I don’t write very often anymore.

Enjoy.

 

A re-run:

The Ultimate Secret Behind Parenting

(originally published May 7, 2012)

A friend expecting his first baby actually asked me for parenting advice. After I picked myself up off the floor (most of us, before we have children, know everything about parenting. Everything. Sigh. I miss that time), I gave him a big email smooch and hug. Even when childless, he thought our kids were super-cool and all the whacky stuff we were doing with them made total sense for him. He wanted me to spell it out for him in anticipation of his own journey. Here’s what I wrote. (Language warning for the sensitive of eye and ear: we’re university friends, he and I, and the way we talked about politics, education and philosophy back in the day contained a lot of four letter words. When it came to talking to babies and being a parent… well, old habits and all that.)

2008… As for baby advice, one day I plan to write a book, and in the meantime, my short-hand advice is this: no child should be raised by the book (not even my book). We’ve consciously parented off the beaten path, centering our practices and behaviours around the self-evident truth that children are human beings and should be treated and respected as such. Many of the things we’ve done are “attachment parenting” (watered down mainstream guru of approach is one Dr. William Sears, widely published) principles—baby wearing, sleep sharing, extended breastfeeding—but really it’s not what you do that’s important, it’s who you are as a parent. As a person, really. Now that our kids are older, I absolutely think the most critical part of the parenting journey is maintaining that focus on fostering attachment and bonding between parents and children and siblings, and casting anything other people call “discipline” within that context.

That means, among other things, that we don’t punish our children. Not by withdrawing privileges, not by disguising punishment by consequences, not by trading negative stuff for excessive positive reinforcement and rewards. Doesn’t mean we don’t periodically get angry, frustrated and yell. It doesn’t mean we don’t correct undesirable behaviour—but we don’t time out, send to room, cancel plans etc. But I’m jumping ahead: we can talk about all that when you have a toddler or preschooler.

First, you’re going to have a baby, and that means your focus for the next year is going to be all about keeping that teeny weeny creature alive, healthy and happy, and you’ll find a way to do it. You want to know what the real secret of parenting is? Ready? Here it is: humans have done it for fucking millennia. It’s not that hard. Actually, it’s not hard at all. One of the things that makes it hardest is the legion of self-proclaimed experts preying on the insecurities on new parents in order to sell books of dubious value.

What makes it hard, also, is that so many of the structures and rhythms of life today don’t fit children or families. That’s the biggest adjustment, I think, of post-baby life. We don’t socialize or live as families—we do so as age-segregated units of peers. Why are parents so focused on getting babies to sleep through the night? Two reasons: 1) because the parents need a good night’s sleep wake up at 7 a.m. in the morning and go to work for 10 hours. But even before that, 2) because they want “their life”—time to do adult only things.

Well, surprise: once you have a child, you transform from a couple into a family, and the predominant mode of life should be family life. I believe that’s one of the self-inflicted stresses of post-partum, people wailing “When do I get my life back?” You don’t. You’ve got a brand new life now, with a brand new person in it—and you can move forward and create patterns that work for the three of you, or wail and rant and make all three of you unhappy and estranged.

Everyone wails a little bit.

When that adjustment stage gets tough for you, meditate on this secret: humans have had families and found a way to make things work for fucking millennia. You’ll find a way. (Ours is dramatically different from that of our peers—we’re both working from home, for example, and we take our children with us to virtually everything. Flora’s thrown up on many a Bay Street suit, and there is Cinder pee on the carpet of most of my editors/clients. But I don’t advocate that as the only way—it’s our way and right for us, right? You’ll find your own—but do think in terms of creating new patterns and rhythms, instead of biding time until you can go back to the old ones.)

… When revisiting the past, it’s always interesting to see how one’s perspective has changed. I cringed throughout my re-read of that infamous “Why isn’t it natural” post. In this case, no cringing. I would still give the same advice again. The secret of parenthood: humans have done it for millennia. Addendum: no child should be raised by the book.

A Nepalese woman and her infant child.

Summer rerun6: The ultimate secret to parenting: it’s evolution, baby

A friend expecting his first baby actually asked me for parenting advice. After I picked myself up off the floor (most of us, before we have children, know everything about parenting. Everything. Sigh. I miss that time), I gave him a big email smooch and hug. Even when childless, he thought our kids were super-cool and all the whacky stuff we were doing with them made total sense for him. He wanted me to spell it out for him in anticipation of his own journey. Here’s what I wrote. 

2008… As for baby advice, one day I plan to write a book, and in the meantime, my short-hand advice is this: no child should be raised by the book (not even my book). We’ve consciously parented off the beaten path, centering our practices and behaviours around the self-evident truth that children are human beings and should be treated and respected as such. Many of the things we’ve done are “attachment parenting” (watered down mainstream guru of approach is one Dr. William Sears, widely published) principles—baby wearing, sleep sharing, extended breastfeeding—but really it’s not what you do that’s important, it’s who you are as a parent. As a person, really. Now that our kids are older, I absolutely think the most critical part of the parenting journey is maintaining that focus on fostering attachment and bonding between parents and children and siblings, and casting anything other people call “discipline” within that context.

That means, among other things, that we don’t punish our children. Not by withdrawing privileges, not by disguising punishment by consequences, not by trading negative stuff for excessive positive reinforcement and rewards. Doesn’t mean we don’t periodically get angry, frustrated and yell. It doesn’t mean we don’t correct undesirable behaviour—but we don’t time out, send to room, cancel plans etc. But I’m jumping ahead: we can talk about all that when you have a toddler or preschooler.

First, you’re going to have a baby, and that means your focus for the next year is going to be all about keeping that teeny weeny creature alive, healthy and happy, and you’ll find a way to do it. You want to know what the real secret of parenting is? Ready? Here it is: humans have done it for fucking millennia. It’s not that hard. Actually, it’s not hard at all. One of the things that makes it hardest is the legion of self-proclaimed experts preying on the insecurities on new parents in order to sell books of dubious value.

What makes it hard, also, is that so many of the structures and rhythms of life today don’t fit children or families. That’s the biggest adjustment, I think, of post-baby life. We don’t socialize or live as families—we do so as age-segregated units of peers. Why are parents so focused on getting babies to sleep through the night? Two reasons: 1) because the parents need a good night’s sleep wake up at 7 a.m. in the morning and go to work for 10 hours. But even before that, 2) because they want “their life”—time to do adult only things.

Well, surprise: once you have a child, you transform from a couple into a family, and the predominant mode of life should be family life. I believe that’s one of the self-inflicted stresses of post-partum, people wailing “When do I get my life back?” You don’t. You’ve got a brand new life now, with a brand new person in it—and you can move forward and create patterns that work for the three of you, or wail and rant and make all three of you unhappy and estranged.

Everyone wails a little bit.

When that adjustment stage gets tough for you, meditate on this secret: humans have had families and found a way to make things work for fucking millennia. You’ll find a way. (Ours is dramatically different from that of our peers—we’re both working from home, for example, and we take our children with us to virtually everything. Flora’s thrown up on many a Bay Street suit, and there is Cinder pee on the carpet of most of my editors/clients. But I don’t advocate that as the only way—it’s our way and right for us, right? You’ll find your own—but do think in terms of creating new patterns and rhythms, instead of biding time until you can go back to the old ones.)

… When revisiting the past, it’s always interesting to see how one’s perspective has changed. I cringed throughout my re-read of that infamous “Why isn’t it natural” post. In this case, no cringing. I would still give the same advice again (maybe skip the Dr. Sears plug, though). The secret of parenthood: humans have done it for millennia. Addendum: no child should be raised by the book.

NBTB-its-evolution-baby

 

2014. So. That post was written in 2008, and then published originally on May 7, 2012. It still doesn’t make me cringe. Except for this: I’m no longer arrogant enough to think I should-could-want-to write a book about parenting. Christ. Last thing the world needs. And also, I would add this: once you figure out how to be a family together… you need to refigure out how to be a couple-dyad-lovers-of-whatever-configuration within the family. But more on that in a bit. There are yellow leaves on my Common and Nothing By The Book‘s Rerun Summer is almost over. And what a summer. If you want to have a peek at its public-publishable moments, stroll through my  Instagram (NothingByTheBook) because I won’t be recycling summer memories in the fall.  September has its own delicious and terrifying agenda.

Be good. Or at least, interesting.

xoxo

“Jane”

The ultimate secret behind parenting: it’s evolution, baby

A friend expecting his first baby actually asked me for parenting advice. After I picked myself up off the floor (most of us, before we have children, know everything about parenting. Everything. Sigh. I miss that time), I gave him a big email smooch and hug. Even when childless, he thought our kids were super-cool and all the whacky stuff we were doing with them made total sense for him. He wanted me to spell it out for him in anticipation of his own journey. Here’s what I wrote. (Language warning for the sensitive of eye and ear: we’re university friends, he and I, and the way we talked about politics, education and philosophy back in the day contained a lot of four letter words. When it came to talking to babies and being a parent… well, old habits and all that.)

2008… As for baby advice, one day I plan to write a book, and in the meantime, my short-hand advice is this: no child should be raised by the book (not even my book). We’ve consciously parented off the beaten path, centering our practices and behaviours around the self-evident truth that children are human beings and should be treated and respected as such. Many of the things we’ve done are “attachment parenting” (watered down mainstream guru of approach is one Dr. William Sears, widely published) principles—baby wearing, sleep sharing, extended breastfeeding—but really it’s not what you do that’s important, it’s who you are as a parent. As a person, really. Now that our kids are older, I absolutely think the most critical part of the parenting journey is maintaining that focus on fostering attachment and bonding between parents and children and siblings, and casting anything other people call “discipline” within that context.

That means, among other things, that we don’t punish our children. Not by withdrawing privileges, not by disguising punishment by consequences, not by trading negative stuff for excessive positive reinforcement and rewards. Doesn’t mean we don’t periodically get angry, frustrated and yell. It doesn’t mean we don’t correct undesirable behaviour—but we don’t time out, send to room, cancel plans etc. But I’m jumping ahead: we can talk about all that when you have a toddler or preschooler.

First, you’re going to have a baby, and that means your focus for the next year is going to be all about keeping that teeny weeny creature alive, healthy and happy, and you’ll find a way to do it. You want to know what the real secret of parenting is? Ready? Here it is: humans have done it for fucking millennia. It’s not that hard. Actually, it’s not hard at all. One of the things that makes it hardest is the legion of self-proclaimed experts preying on the insecurities on new parents in order to sell books of dubious value.

What makes it hard, also, is that so many of the structures and rhythms of life today don’t fit children or families. That’s the biggest adjustment, I think, of post-baby life. We don’t socialize or live as families—we do so as age-segregated units of peers. Why are parents so focused on getting babies to sleep through the night? Two reasons: 1) because the parents need a good night’s sleep wake up at 7 a.m. in the morning and go to work for 10 hours. But even before that, 2) because they want “their life”—time to do adult only things.

Well, surprise: once you have a child, you transform from a couple into a family, and the predominant mode of life should be family life. I believe that’s one of the self-inflicted stresses of post-partum, people wailing “When do I get my life back?” You don’t. You’ve got a brand new life now, with a brand new person in it—and you can move forward and create patterns that work for the three of you, or wail and rant and make all three of you unhappy and estranged.

Everyone wails a little bit.

When that adjustment stage gets tough for you, meditate on this secret: humans have had families and found a way to make things work for fucking millennia. You’ll find a way. (Ours is dramatically different from that of our peers—we’re both working from home, for example, and we take our children with us to virtually everything. Flora’s thrown up on many a Bay Street suit, and there is Cinder pee on the carpet of most of my editors/clients. But I don’t advocate that as the only way—it’s our way and right for us, right? You’ll find your own—but do think in terms of creating new patterns and rhythms, instead of biding time until you can go back to the old ones.)

… When revisiting the past, it’s always interesting to see how one’s perspective has changed. I cringed throughout my re-read of that infamous “Why isn’t it natural” post. In this case, no cringing. I would still give the same advice again. The secret of parenthood: humans have done it for millennia. Addendum: no child should be raised by the book.

A Nepalese woman and her infant child.

Before Ender

… or what the psychic said

The cards were laid out on the picnic table, and the psychic was looking at them pensively. “Interesting,” she said. “Well, I’d say you’re definitely going to have another child. A boy—but not at all like Cinder. Very artistic, very creative—I see him as an artist, a musician? And I see him as… well, this is an intrusive question, but did you lose a baby? Because I see him as someone who’s tried to be born to you before and it didn’t happen, and he’s trying again.”

Well. You know me. Smart-ass cynic, and psychic predications and tarot cards are a fun amusement, and nothing more. But I was a little shaken. It was the summer of 2008, and Janine Morigeau, neighbour, friend and Tarot card reader extraordinaire, was giving us short readings in the sunshine of the Common. I asked the question that had been pressing on me for some time, “Would Sean and I have more children?”

I’ve always wanted more—he not so much—but after our experience with the pregnancy that gave us Flora, we were loath to do it again. And ever since we lost our little baby that would have been born sometime in July 2004, we’ve intermittently talked about adoption. In the months immediately following the miscarriage, I was so shaken and broken and empty, I didn’t think I could face the risk of that again. And when Flora started to grow in me, the first months of the pregnancy were marred by an overwhelming fear that I would lose her… to be replaced, in the second half by the scary—fortunately, as it turned out, utterly erroneous—results of the ultrasound that I would lose her after she was born.

Throughout 2008, we talked and pondered and weighed. By the time Janine read my cards that summer, we had made a decision: no pregnancy, but more babies. Adoption. And for various reasons, we made the decision to adopt from “the system”—i.e., Alberta Children’s Services. We filled out the paperwork (there was a lot of it), took the pre-screening tests, and, in October and November 2008, took the intensive Adoptive Parents Preparation Course.

The first parts of the course had us—well, me anyway, I think Sean was more cautious from the start—fantasizing about our new, bigger family. We wouldn’t adopt just one child, but two. Why not? We had so much to give: so much love, a wonderful family-and-friends support system, a lifestyle absolutely suited to help children “with issues” thrive.

And then we got to the final day, a session focused entirely on FASD. Now, even going into the process, we were not nearly selfless enough to plan for an FASD child. We knew that even a very young child from the System would come with issues, with trauma, and would require extra love, work and effort… but we did not think we were equipped to deal with an FASD child. The seminar on FASD cemented that. To their credit, the Alberta Children’s Services people did not try to soft pedal the issue. “Strategies, Not Solutions” was the title and theme of the presentation. They discussed environments and structures that help FASD children and their families cope… but that was the language. “Cope.” “Manage.” “Support.” It was god-awful.

And then there was the statistic. 30 per cent of the children in the system are already diagnosed with FASD. 90 per cent come from homes in which maternal drinking is/was a factor. I couldn’t get passed those numbers. We wanted a young child—preferably a baby. But where FASD is involved, early intervention just doesn’t mean what you’d think it ought to mean.

I was shattered. It was funny, because entering the process, I was much more enthused about adoption than Sean—he had his two perfect babies and all was fine with his reproductive world. At the end of the seminars, he was more comfortable than I. We would be excellent adoptive parents, so good for one of these troubled children. He saw the FASD risk—but it didn’t paralyze him as it did me. It paralyzed me completely. The couple who led the seminar had three biological children and one adopted FASD daughter, the youngest child. They were in their 60s now, and she an adult—and they were still actively parenting her. And when they died, her siblings would have to parent her.

I couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t bequeath that to Cinder and Flora.

A part of me still regrets this decision: wishes I could have been more selfless, more giving. But, but. So it was, the decision was made.

But I very, very badly still wanted more children, and Sean very, very badly loved me and wanted to make me happy even if the idea of me pregnant again terrified him, and by January 2009, a little Ender was growing. Best as we can tell, he got made in beautiful Mazatlan, which would account for his sunny disposition.

The pregnancy was awful. I spent the first two months of it flat on my back or crawling on all fours as my ligaments loosened and my joints left their proper spots, and the last two months, between the slipped SI joints, dislocated pelvis, and pinched sciatic nerve—that left most of my right leg with no feeling in it—barely able to walk. The last five weeks of it, sleepless, exhausted, in prodromal labour. And in one incredible, amazing moment, it was all over, all forgotten, none of it mattered, and I’d do it again, again, again, if the end result was anything like this: my beautiful, beautiful, perfect Ender, my third most miraculous of miracles.

This is the story of his first year. This post was originally written as the introduction to The Story of E, our 2010 Family Christmas Book. To read about how Ender joined us, go to The Last Three Minutes.

Why Ender’s Ender

Ender turned one today, and never was a first birthday celebrated with more enthusiasm. Austen and Flora ooo-ed, aaa-ed and crooned over their baby brother all day long. All week long. All month long—all year long. They really are amazing, amazing, loving siblings.

Now, you’ve probably noticed Ender is not an ordinary baby. I never thought either Austen or Flora was a high-maintenance, high-needs baby—one of my core parenting beliefs is that babies cry to communicate, and need to be held, carried, cuddled and adored as much as is possible. Both Austen and Flora were fairly content babies. Ender, during his first year, has been a ridiculously happy baby. He’s happy when he wakes up. He’s happy when he gets tired and sleepy. He’s even mostly happy when he’s sick. He smiles and laughs and ga-ga-ga-s at everyone. He’s singlehandedly responsible for a huge baby explosion in Calgary and environs in the summer and fall of 2010. People would hold him, fall in love hopelessly, and go and make one of their own.

Why is Ender this little ray of (mischevious) sunshine? One astounded person—who apparently spent very little time paying attention to what was going in my life during this pregnancy!–told me it must be because I was so cheerful and happy when he was in utero. Ha! The best thing I can say about my mood for all but the two middle, pain-light months of the ordeal was that most of the time I succeeded in not inflicting too much of it onto the rest of my family. Ender certainly does not reflect my mental state during his first months of creation.

But he does reflect this: most mornings, when he wakes up, he is next to at least one beating heart, and frequently three or our. When he opens his eyes, and looks around, there are people who love him everywhere—not just mom, not just dad, but a Austen and a Flora, and those two often faster and more responsive to the baby’s wake up gurgle than the parents. He has lived, from his first day outside the womb, surrounded by people who love him. And his nuclear family is just the beginning. He knows his neighbours, and has been loved and cared for by them since he was born. And not just occasionally: they are always in and our of our house and we in and our of theirs. He’s fallen asleep in Lisa’s arms and on Janine’s knee. He’s been rocked to sleep by Paul, fed by Sabina, chased around the playground by Jen and Sara. All of our children have been loved and spoiled by their grandparents, but the relationships between the grandparents and the children took time to build. Ender inherits all of them, all seven years of rituals, games, and comfort. He doesn’t have to get to know certain people: he picks up on Austen and Flora’s cues and accepts them. They love and trust, he cares and trusts.

Happy birthday my precious third miracle. I’m so very, very, very happy you decided to join our family. You complete us, and you make us better. We love you.

39 Weeks And 6 Days

39 weeks and six days of gestation—our third baby is almost here—and I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom at 2 a.m., retching. The nausea comes on suddenly in the night, apparently unprompted by anything other than my body deciding to experience a few more pregnancy symptoms before it’s all over. It hasn’t been the easiest of pregnancies this time around—if I’m brutally honest, there have been considerable stretches of it when my answer to the question, “How are you feeling?” was an unequivocal “Never felt worse in my life, dear god, how much more of this can I endure?”—but it’s been relatively nausea free. I’m making up for it this week.

Sean, once again, feels helpless and frustrated. “Is there anything you need, love?” he asks from the bedroom. Between retches, I vocalize “No.” “Do you think the baby’s sitting on your stomach again?” he asks, sleepy but concerned. That’s our theory behind my intermittent night puking of the last week. Or has it been two? In response, I retch again—shut the door and turn on the fan to drown the noise.

It’s tough on Sean. He’d like to push a button on me to “fix it”—a back rub, a foot massage, a magic drink? I think this is why tough pregnancies are so tough on male partners—and in many cases marriages. They can’t fix it, they don’t know what to do, and they go from feeling helpless to useless to … worse.

It’s tough on me, too, of course… but different. Isn’t it? This last stretch—so exhausting, so frustrating, so painful, and we haven’t even hit the “hard” part of active labour yet—is tough, tough, tough and turning me into a big fat whiner… who swears she will never, ever EVER yearn for a baby in tummy again, she’s done, go ahead and get that vasectomy tomorrow if you wish, sweetheart, because I am not going through this again for anything, not ever… but I know that when that baby pops out, amnesia will start to set in. Perhaps not right away—perhaps it will take a few weeks or few months—but that “never, ever, oh god, how is it that I’ve been able to endure this?” feeling will give way first, to wonder and gratitude at the little miracle in my arms, then conviction that this of-me-now-out-of-me creature at my breast is worth EVERYTHING and ANYTHING, and finally, possibly, as he grows bigger and bigger and bigger, the longing to experience the miracle again, accompanied by complete denial of how difficult the last pregnancy was.

I finish retching, clean up, ponder the odds of being able to keep down whatever remains in my stomach if I lie flat, and go peek at my two out-of-me babies. One seven years and four months old today, the other four years and nine months. Almost seven and a half and five—I can’t believe it. My Flora sleeps on her side, both her hands tucked under her cheek, her mouth slightly open. Cinder’s upside down, legs on his pillow, head beside our—his—beloved puppy, 10-year-old Anya. He’s all legs and arms. He’s huge. He fills up the whole bed. My baby, who not that long ago—those seven years passed in a flash—swam within my womb. My first miracle.

As he falls asleep at night, I still whisper in his ear, “You are my first miracle. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me—you’ve changed my life.” (When Sean comes into the bedroom at those moments, the loveliest, most love-filled thing I can say to him is, “Thank you for my babies.” Does he understand what I mean by that, how much I love him for being their daddy, for helping me make them? I don’t know. I don’t know if any man, or any non-mother, can.)

My second miracle stretches. At bedtime and bath time today, we were playing baby Flora. She was baby Flora, swimming in the uterus—in the tub—until “pop! Out I come like an asteroid! I’m born!” I was, alternately, mama and Cinder—“Can you play two characters in the game, Mama? Just tell me which one you are, ok? Are you Cinder now? Are you saving me from rolling off the couch like Cinder did the time I was just born?” She’s so excited about the imminent arrival of a baby sibling. “I’m going to be a big sister, just like Cinder is a big sister. I mean big brother. And Cinder will be a double big brother. And the three of us will be triplets!”

My triple miracle. The nausea recedes farther. The uterus contracts, not too intensely, but not what you’d call pleasantly. It practices for the main event. I take a deep breath and rub it. “Come out, come out,” I tell miracle three. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m not sure if you can conceive how much love is waiting out here for you. A mama, a daddy, a brother, a sister… so much love.”

One of my out-of-me double miracles lets out a meowling noise, tosses and turns. I tiptoe out of the room. Turn off the light. Must make myself sleep and rest despite the turmoil in my body: must be able to take care of all my miracles tomorrow. We have books to read, games to play, pets to take care of, food to make, walks to take, messes to create and perhaps even clean up… a baby to welcome.

The hormones surge, and a level of delirium sets in. I write for a while, until exhaustion defeats both the nausea and the contracting uterus. To sleep. I hear the breaths of my children, my husband. My dog (she’s the loudest). Miracle three kicks and stretches. To sleep. To dream. To live.

30 September 2009

3:15 a.m.