Day 74

     I think like many people in this world, I have struggled over the past week to find the words to articulate my dismay with the world around me. I still have not found them.

     My Facebook newsfeed and Twitter feed are both full of anger, disgust, and confusion. I am truly fearful for our future, and not just because of the terrorist attacks. I am also afraid of the dark hatred I have seen on display, much of which is based on bias, gross generalization and misinformation.

     How do I raise my children in a society such as this? The inquisitive 5 year old who loves his friends of various races, genders and religions. The impulsive 2 year old who gives hugs and kisses to everyone he meets. The precious baby I carry within me who is the definition of innocence. How do I explain this world to them? How can I keep them loving and accepting children, when everything around us screams "Be Afraid!!!"? 

     This post is not so much about the events of Lebanon, Afghanistan, Paris, Nigeria or the many other places around the world where terrorists have inflicted pain. Nor is it about gun control, immigration or foreign policy. Rather, I want to return to the focus of this blog- Beauty.

     It's hard to find beauty in times such as these. How can there be beauty when innocent people die? When families are torn apart? When daily life is disrupted by terror? When extremists are seen as the ambassadors of over a billion people? When people are so fearful that they are willing to watch children die? How can we ever recover? 

     I've always tried to be an optimist. I choose love over war. Kind words over hateful ones. Education over ignorance. It feels like less and less are following this path. This is what scares me. 

     I wonder what I can do to be an agent of change and peace. What can I do to combat the evil that is enveloping our world? It feels impossible to do anything of significance. Posting an article on social media won't change the opinions of those who have already made up their minds. Changing a profile picture won't bring back lost loved ones. 

     How can I live a beautiful life that I am proud of? One that my children can look back on with respect and admiration?

     I will love the people around me- my family, my students, coworkers, friends and neighbors. I will demonstrate tolerance. I will speak kind words. I will be considerate to those who are struggling. I will listen. I will make eye contact. I will smile at strangers.  I will enjoy the little things. I will engage in the world around me. I will be an agent for good. This is the way I can affect change.  This is beautiful.

     Tonight I will start my own war on terror and hatred by holding my son and singing him to sleep- by choosing love. 

Please join me.

Day 73

     I'd like to preface this post by stressing that I am speaking from my experience and there is NO judgement being passed on how anyone else delivers their baby. This is my journey to come to terms with circumstances out of my control. 

     Twenty weeks pregnant as of tomorrow and officially "halfway" through this pregnancy. Today being #tbt, I was contemplating an old photo to use when a link came across my Facebook newsfeed- 10 Unexpected Things to LOVE About Childbirth. This struck a nerve and I knew I had to get a few things off my chest.
   
     When I went to childbirth classes during my last few months of pregnancy I remember looking around the room and silently judging the other moms. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I did. During the session on c-sections, I completely zoned out and whispered to my husband that we didn't need to pay attention because I wouldn't be having one of those. I was going to have a natural, med-free childbirth. I was going to feel the primal urge to deliver my child into the world. This is what my body was designed to do. C-sections were for other women, not me. The instructor gave us the breakdown of the percentage of c-section births and I looked around the room and mentally picked out the other couples who I thought would be having them. Maybe my birth experience was karma paying me back for being so judgmental.

Our first picture as a family of three

     Lucas's birth came via emergency c-section after 27 hours of labor, preceded by a few weeks of bed rest and medication to prevent an early delivery. The bed rest seemed so ironic as I waited over a day for any sort of labor progression.

     In the moment when Lucas's heart rate dropped and everyone rushed into the room, my doctor said they needed to get the baby out and I didn't argue. My hopes of the natural birth I had dreamed of were gone, but I needed my baby safe. I watched Jim dress in the blue scrubs for the operating room. There were nervous jokes. Would Jim pass out? I had never had surgery like this before. Would I be able to see the baby? We didn't even know what we were having. Would I ever wear a bikini again? The things you think in moments like these. What follows is my stream of conscious more or less. It's still fresh in my mind over 5 years later.

     They roll me into the OR. Things happen fast. The sheet goes up. Was something on fire? Why did I smell burning? Jim tells me not to worry. I feel vague pushing on my abdomen and then there is crying- from all three of us. A boy is born. I can't see him. Jim is with the baby. I'm strapped to an operating table with the contents of my insides exposed. Only a sheet separates me from an open belly. The baby is crying. Single Ladies was playing on the radio. Is it weird if I sing? Where is the baby? Can I see the baby? The nurse brings him over to me and places him against my cheek. I cry. They take him away and Jim goes with the baby. Does he look like a Lucas or is he Sam? Lucas! His name is Lucas James. OK. I have a baby boy. I begin to panic. Why can I feel pushing? I'm uncomfortable. SHIT, I'M HAVING SURGERY! What if something happens? I'm a mom! I never held my baby. I want my baby. Panic. Panic. Panic. I start to thank the doctor for taking care of me. I trust him. I know he did what was right. This was what we needed, right? He assures me. The priority was the safety of the baby and me. I am OK. Am I OK? This isn't what I wanted. Can I go back? Did this just happen? Wait, it's over? Can I hold the baby? Where is the baby? Where am I going? Recovery room? Will I see the baby? How is the baby? Jim comes to me and tells me the baby is great. The family is out there looking at him. I want him. I WANT MY BABY! I grew him. He's my baby why can't I see him? I need to recover for a bit before they bring him to me. I'm alone. Where is the baby? I cry. I tell myself I should have paid attention to the c-section session. The woman in the bed next to me is nursing her child. We are separated by a curtain, but I hear her. I can't believe I failed. 

     I've never let go of this experience. I felt so betrayed by my body. This wasn't supposed to be my experience- this was for someone else. In the years that passed, I listened to friends tell stories of their labors. Some where quick, others drawn out. Some were medicated, others were not. Some were vaginal, some were c-sections. I compared myself to every one, never judging others (I learned my lesson) but I was judging myself. Was I less of a woman because I didn't experience a "normal" delivery? Was I a terrible person because I couldn't let it go? I would get so frustrated with myself because I know that I had a beautiful baby boy and without that c-section, things may have gone very differently. As the weeks after delivery turned into months and then years, I distanced myself from my negativity (with the help of a fantastic therapist). I embraced my amazing child and was thankful for modern medicine, which allowed the delivery to be safe for both of us.

     When it came time for my second birth, I had hopes for a VBAC but those soon vanished as complications arose during the pregnancy. I went into the c-section prepared, experienced and in a much better state of mind.
     As I prepare for the months ahead, I know baby number three will be delivered via c-section. I also know that I am a damn strong woman. I did feel a primal urge with the previous deliveries and while it may not have been the desire to push, it was the desire to make sure my child was safe. There is nothing stronger than that feeling.


   

Day 72

     No Shave November? How about No Pants November?

The only view in which I can see my feet over my belly

     18 weeks down, 19 more to go (until I'm considered full term and safe to deliver). Almost halfway there and I'm now experiencing a fall/winter pregnancy. I'm surprised to feel this way, but I find it much more difficult than carrying during the hot summer months.
   
     The reason? I have to wear pants.

     In the summers, I wore breezy dresses and skirts and never had to worry about squeezing my expanding belly (and other areas) into constricting clothing. Yes, I know yoga pants are wonderful, but on the occasion that I must be out in public to pick up my kids from school or bring them to soccer, I'd rather secure this body in something a little more structured. I'm not sure if the first image I want to present to the other kindergarten parents is my bottom half challenging the ability of my spandex to keep it together...

     Once I'm home, I now go pants-less or wear my loosest pair of leggings. However, I'm getting to the stage where nothing is loose and it will only get worse. I guess this is one of the positive sides to being home on disability- not too many people see me. My pants-less way of living only has to offend my family. And let's be honest, my children would rather be pant-less too.