Good News/Bad News

The good news is that the baby has reached a new developmental milestone: exploration and discovery.

The bad new is that my lingerie and books are scattered across the room.

Give What You've Got

I knew he was going to be a human. Intellectually, I knew it. First you do the "baow-chic-a-baow-wow," then there's nine months of pregnancy, and bam! A baby human. That is the way of nature. Ducks have ducks, platypuses have platapi, and humans have humans. But somewhere deep inside my psyche, I truly expected to give birth to a blob.

Listen. I'm not a geneticist! I'm not a biologist! I'm not a painter! Nor am I a sculptor! So when that OB carefully held up a tiny, perfect little body that wiggled and coughed and blinked, I gasped with fear. "That can't be my child, " thought I. "My child is a bulging, globular blobby thing that once resided in my belly. It rolled and flipped inside of me for fun and caused a lot of trauma to my gut, but we had a good time. A blob - that's my baby. But that thing you're holding up? That's an actual person. A living, breathing individual. Oh wow. Yeah, he's actually making crying noises now. Obviously equipped with some sort of vocal contraption. Yep, definitely not my baby, because, you know what? I actually don't know how to make vocal boxes....or brains, or hearts or livers, or femurs, or toes, but this kid apparently has all of those things. Yeah, why don't you guys go and take him over to that table? Yeah, better just go over there and I'll just be over here...having a cow. Haha...little joke there. Oh my heck, oh my heck. George! Don't freak out. What do you mean don't freak out?! A miniature person just popped out of me! Oh my word, oh my heck. Oh my replacement curse word!"

On and on went my internal dialogue as they cleaned off the baby. But sanity eventually prevailed and I became excited to see my son. I have a son! The hormones were going nuts inside of me and I was suddenly filled with excitement and anticipation to hold him. And finally they brought him over and carefully laid him on my chest...and he was terrified. Coughing up tiny bubbles, gasping for air, and eyes darting to and fro in search of relief. This baby did not return my enthusiasm at our meeting. The NICU nurses pulled him away from me a few moments later because the truth was, my baby didn't need me at that moment. He needed medical attention beyond my instincts, beyond my skills, beyond me.

I’ll admit it. It hurt. It hurt to have him taken away from me. Not that I was mad at the NICU staff for saving my baby’s life. I wasn’t mad at them. And I wasn’t mad at the baby for having some respiratory trauma. No. I was mad at myself, because somewhere inside of me, I believed it was my fault. Maybe I did something during labor. Or maybe my body did something wrong. And even if I didn’t do anything wrong to cause the problem, I sure didn’t have the skills to fix the problem. My baby didn’t need me. And that hurt.

While receiving “hoorahs” from family and friends, I was as happy as could be. I looked at pictures of Handsome giving the baby his first bath, I stared in awe at the baby's wide open eyes. He was so cute, he was so beautiful, he was so real. I couldn’t contain my pride and my excitement. But as Handsome wheeled me around the corner of the NICU so I could see by baby again, my heart pounded with anxiety.

"Here he is," the nurse smiled as she waved us in his direction, "and he's as hungry as can be. He's ready for his mama to feed him."

Right, right. I'm a mama. I'm his mama. I'm not an aunt. I'm not his mom's friend...I AM HIS mom.

They set him on my chest and I held my breath. What will he think of me?

The little boy looked around slowly. His movements were soft and gradual. He was soft and wrinkly. And then we locked eyes. We stared for a few seconds and I frantically searched for any indication that he recognized me. I spoke to him and caressed his little, perfect face. He stared back at me. And then he did something I didn't expect...he furrowed his eyebrows.

I'm not kidding! The one-hour-old baby furrowed his eyebrows at me. And it wasn't a little spasm furrow either. It was a full-on furrow as if to say, "Who the heck are you? I'm starving here! Can someone please get this girl out of my way and get me something to eat?" Then he started crying. 

At the order of the nurse, I opened my hospital gown and stuck the poor thing up into my chest and prayed for a blasted miracle, because, let's be honest, I ain't never had no food come out of there before.

"Drop your shoulder," the nurse commanded as she pushed it down, "Straighten your back and loosen your grip. You need to relax or the milk won't drop!" All this was said as I sat exposed in a room full of random nurses watching while I tried to carefully hold onto a very tiny and a very fragile person who was, apparently, my child, and who was also, apparently, supposed to eat FROM ME! Talk about an existential crisis. And then the nurse suddenly grabbed my breast.

She repositioned me (aka the bottle) until the baby "latched on." But the poor kid couldn't get anything out because, surprise! I wasn't relaxed at all.

So that was the second meeting with my child - just like the first meeting: awkward. 

The following days were very interesting. Handsome and I visited our baby in the NICU every third hour for a week. The hospital allowed us to stay in an empty room, which meant we could spend a lot of time with the baby, but the awkwardness between the baby and I remained. 

I remember staring out a window between NICU visits scrutinizing my thoughts in hopes of figuring out what the heck was going on with me.

It's not that I didn't like the baby. I liked everything about him! But that was the problem: I didn't know very much about him at all. How could I love someone I didn't know? The awkwardness was a familiar feeling and I realized that it was the feeling I get when I meet someone for the first time. You see, I'm not a very socially gifted person. I’m not like, hey! You’re cool! Let’s be friends! My aunt explained it best when she described me as a toddler: "Anytime she met someone she didn't know very well, she gave off the vibe: you are not my friend." Of course, once I get to know somebody, I have a much easier time interacting with them. But it takes me a LONG time to get to know someone. 

But you know what? It's more than getting to know them. I have to know that they think I'm worthwhile. I want them to consider me to be their friend before I consider them to be my friend. I want them to love me first.

A little complicated, I know, but that's pretty much how all of my social relationships have been formed throughout the years and it hasn't been a huge problem. Okay, elementary school was painful, and dating was a little (a lot) weird, but other than that, I've gotten through okay...until I had a baby. 

Because here's the thing about babies: They need to be loved by their mamas - immediately. Moms don't have the luxury of waiting until the baby loves them back. They don't have the luxury of evaluating if the relationship between her and the baby is going to be mutually beneficial, because, first of all, it’s not going to be mutually beneficial relationship - that’s the point of parenthood, and second of all, babies need to be loved. They just do. 

I did love my baby! I did. But I kind of didn’t. Don’t get me wrong; if anyone looked at my baby the wrong way, I turned into a psycho monster bodyguard. But I was afraid of the baby. I was afraid to love him. I mean, there he was in the NICU. Yeah, it was nothing to be worried about, but guess what! I was worried! He could die. And if not in the NICU, maybe somewhere else. Something could happen when I least suspect it. But even if he lived a full and healthy life, what if he hates me? I’m a pretty weird person. What if he’s ashamed to be associated with me? Or what if he disrespects me? What if he hurts my feelings? I can’t just love this little person I know nothing about.

Handsome saw my turmoil and gently prodded an explanation.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I just want to be a good mom. I want to take care of him. I want to love him so much. But- ”

“But what?” Handsome urged. There was a long pause as I searched my thoughts and tried to truly understand myself.

“He doesn’t love me.”

“Of course he does.”

“No he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what love is. He doesn’t know how to love yet. But he needs to be loved. And I do know how to love, so I have to love him…but I don’t want to love him.”

Handsome touched my arm and simply asked, “Why?”

I sat there for several minutes trying to figure it out.

“Because I want him to love me first. It's terrifying to put myself out on a limb not knowing if my love will be reciprocated. Or maybe it's because I'm afraid he might die. I might lose him. I don't know.” And all of that was true, but there was something deeper that I was afraid to face.

Handsome sat patiently as I built up the strength to admit what I was feeling.

And then I whispered, “I’m intimidated by him.” Tears filled my eyes and started streaming down my cheeks and I looked up at my husband. “I’m intimidated by my baby.” I breathed in slowly and then burst into sobs.

I could barely speak. “I’m intimidated by a 7-pound miniature person that poops in a diaper!” More sobs. “Because he’s more than that. He’s amazing! He’s perfect! He’s going to do incredible things. He’s better than me. How can I be the mother of someone who deserves a perfect mom? How can I love someone who deserves greater love than what I can offer!?” 

So there it was.

I couldn’t love my baby because I felt like I wasn’t enough. My baby deserved someone better than me. And here’s the reality:

It’s true. I’m not enough. And my baby does deserve someone better than me. Quite honestly, I’m going to screw up my kid in some way due to my inadequacies.

That’s life. The baby was born and now he has to deal with life. I thought I could protect him for at least a short time before he had to experience the flaws and pains of existence, but I didn’t realize his first encounter with imperfection would be me.

So I accepted it and grieved. And by “grieved” I mean, “I had a complete melt down”: “Noooooo!!!!!! What were the fates thinking!?!?!?! My mistakes are going to affect this innocent kid for the rest of his life! Nooooooo!!! Pain! Suffering! Despair!!! AGONY!!!!”

Whoa. I forgot how crazy you get when your postpartum hormones rebalance. It was a painful thing to accept. It still is painful. But this isn't the end of the story.

Luckily, I’ve accepted another reality. A reality that is waaaaaaaaaay more important than anything else. And that reality is this: a moderately imperfect mom is a million times better than no mom at all. My baby doesn't need perfection. He needs me. 

Amidst this swirly, whirly tornado of conflicted self-evaluation – I knew the answer. I’ve always known the answer, but I didn’t really know the answer until the answer became relevant.

I needed to love my baby.

Which meant I needed to have a little come-to-Jesus with myself:

“Okay, George. It’s time to pull down your barricades and love that baby. No calculation. No preconditions. Forget yourself and love. that. baby.”

So I did. I gave him everything I had, and, frankly, it wasn’t much. I didn't initially feel that overwhelming and irrepressible affection other mothers describe upon first meeting their babies. But I did want to take care of my baby. I wanted to make sure he was clean and fed. I wanted to hold him and snuggle him, and give him kisses, not because I received any obvious benefit from those actions, but because I knew he needed that closeness. I wanted to give him assurance that he had a mother. I wanted him to be safe. I wanted him to grow and be happy. I served him as best I could. I reached out even though I knew he couldn't reach back.

And as I did I realized that maybe love isn't just about overwhelming and irrepressible affection. Maybe love is also about sacrificing and serving regardless of whether you personally gain or lose.

Once my baby was 7-months-old I finally felt like I had bonded with him. That overwhelming and irrepressible affection finally appeared. I felt bad that it took so long, but I've since learned the bond between parent and child forms uniquely in its own time. Nevertheless, I am glad to know that love is not just about that bonding affection or admiration.

Throughout his short little life I've admired my baby for his energy, spunk and determination. I've admired him for his deep curiosity and his deep, blue eyes. I've admired him for having his dad’s zeal to take risks. I've admired him for everything he is today and everything he will become.

But admiration is only observation. Love requires engagement. It requires self-sacrifice. It requires everything I am.

And “everything I am” doesn’t require me to be perfect. It just requires that I give what I’ve got. And whatever I've got, no matter how inadequate or flawed, counts as love.

Loving my baby is not about my abilities or inabilities. It's not about his traits, accomplishments, or personality. It's not about his returned love or lack thereof. It's not about how much value he brings to my life.

He could give me sweet little kisses and pretty flowers, or he could give me kicks and screams and smacks in the face. He could deeply appreciate my sacrifices, or he could rip me to pieces for my unrelenting faults. And although the choices he makes and the choices I make will forever affect the other for good or ill, they will not affect my love for him.

And that is the beauty and pain of motherhood.

I love him because he is mine.

*thanks to my sister, Catherine, for introducing this lullaby to me.
*also, thanks to everyone for forgiving the rawness of this recording. You don't have to have a great voice to sing a lullaby, right? :)
*press the orange button twice once the song has finished or it will repeat over and over again into the eternities. The lullaby is nice, but not that nice...

Dude's First Laugh

First giggles...

It's Worth It

I heard her crying downstairs.

"Mom?"

I ran down the steps and found her curled up on the carpet sobbing while Rachmaninoff blared in the background, compliments of our new CD player.

She was listening to the Adagio Sostenuto of the Rach #2. The woodwinds and the piano had just erupted into that epic nostalgic waltz accompanied by the tragically mournful string aria. It's a genius musical triumph where the wistful joy of hope is perfectly interlaced with the reverent sorrow of experience.

As I walked into the living room I could almost see bright lanterns hanging against a backdrop of a warm summer evening, my parents holding each other close, alone on a pier underneath the shimmering stars. I blinked and the scene evaporated into a colorful smokey haze that swished away revealing my mom lying on the ground next to her tool belt supplied with Mr. Bubbles, sponges, and a toilet brush.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

Surprised, my mom glanced up at her pre-teen daughter and rolled her eyes, a little embarrassed to be found.

"Why are you crying?" I whispered, obviously distressed to see my caretaker in pieces on the ground.

She stared up at the ceiling with tears dripping off her cheeks. "I'm crying because...because it's worth it, George."

Mom was a little dramatic. Come on, Rachmaninoff? But she wasn't dramatic in the wo-is-me-everybody-fawn-over-the-kingdom-of-my-vanity kind of way...that was me, because I was 13. She was dramatic in the life-is-a-passionate-adventure-so-juice-every-moment kind of way.

"Umm..." I stood there awkwardly.

Her gaze lingered for a split second longer in the land of the sentimental, the state of being where one connects experience with meaning, and then she turned away, ready to face reality equipped with a renewed dose of Nancy hermeneutics.

"Everything's fine," she reassured, "And she shook her head and closed her eyes. "It's just that...It's just that life is really hard sometimes," she breathed in and then relaxed. "But when I listen to Rachmaninoff...it reminds me that life is worth it. You know why?" She suddenly opened her eyes and stared at me, looking right past my bright blue mascara, into my soul. "Because life is full of beauty despite all the gunk - and, in fact, sometimes life is beautiful because of the gunk. Because even gunk can be transformed into something beautiful. Life is hard, but it's worth it."

I'm not sure what specific circumstance my mom held behind her words at that moment, but I know she was thinking about my dad. Though they were madly in love, it had not been an easy marriage. They had both brought their own demons into matrimony and...demons suck.

Anyways, they made it work. They more than made it work, they had a vibrant, engaging marriage built on promises renewed daily. It was beautiful.

But when I knelt across the alter with my soon-to-be husband, I forgot all about my mother's words and proceeded to systematically freak out. At that moment I suddenly realized that I didn't love him completely. I was holding back. Crap. The guests were clothed in white linen and lace, crystal droplets hung from the ceiling, a chorus of happy sniffles attended the sealer's touching words, a garland of measured peace filled the room, and the bride was about to make a break for it. I could just see myself:

I would frantically jump up and yell, "Handsome! Let's get out of here!" snatch up my skirt, and scope out the nearest exit. Handsome would raise his eyebrows at me as if to imply, "Are you serious?" Grandma would faint, my sister would let out an exasperated sigh and slap her hand against her forehead, the sealer would roll his eyes and snap his book shut, and I would grab Handsome's hand, kick open the french double doors exposing my garter, and we'd take off down the hall, kissing the marriage thing goodbye.

But what kind of bride runs out on her wedding ceremony with the jilted groom? A gamaphobic hippie bride, that's who. Oh...and me.

Except I'm not a hippie, and I didn't run. I got married.

He made me so happy! Happier than I had ever been in my entire life. I wanted to be with him for the rest of forever, so obviously I wanted to love him completely, but I couldn't. I was too afraid. What if he was taken away from me? People I loved had been taken away from me before, and I guess my heart was a little broken. What a cliché.

But, I took a gamble. I didn't really know if my heart was capable of loving completely. I didn't really know if I believed deep love was worth all the gunk that comes with it. But I married him anyways and I loved him as much as I could. Handsome knew I was holding back, but I guess it was worth the risk for him as well.

Not the fairytale love story you're used to hearing, right? Isn't the wedding supposed to be the climax of perfect love? Whelp folks, sorry to disappoint, but this is a post-nuptial fairytale.

So we returned from the honeymoon and began to build a life together. It was awesome!...but we noticed some little hiccups right off the bat.

Because around fourth grade I decided that I was a feminist and I was never going to cook for my husband....ever. But as a single in college, Handsome decided that cooking meant going to Wendy's and The Cheese Cake Factory every night. This created some issues. "Why do I have to be the one in charge of cooking!?" I moaned. Handsomeexcitedly looked up from his homework and I could see in his eyes he was thinking, "Wait, is she giving up the cooking role? Yes! I'll totally take over!" And then we were both swooshed away into that alternate reality where Handsome was in charge of cooking.

"Yaha!" came the shouts of the table guests throwing their mugs of root beer high in a toast of gluttony (but not gluten-y, because Handsome's a celiac). The table was dressed with puddings, pork pot pies, stuffed birds, gilded apples, stewed potatoes, and a roasted pig on a spit. "How we shall handle the matter of payment, sir?" Handsome's personal chef would inquire.

"Just put it on the tab, Archibald. Ha-Ha!"

"Right-O!" exclaims Archibald, "And here's some Jello-O! And some gluten-free cake, and gluten-free cupcakes, and gluten-free pizza, and little gluten-free sandwiches shaped like dolphins, and-"

"Okay!" I'd yell, and we'd fly back into reality. "Never mind! I want to be in charge of cooking AND the budget!"

And then we were suddenly swooshed away into the reality where I really was in charge of cooking...the reality of last week: "Yes, we're having food storage pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner...again."

We're still figuring out the role thing - and don't tell me both people should be equally in charge because...yeah right. We all know that one person is always a little more in charge. This role issue has pretty much been the single source of all of our "fights." We finally decided that all the roles are, in fact, equally both of our responsibilities, but each role needs one manager to direct it. To be "in charge" means that you are empowered to first, create a vision, and second, delegate tasks based on that vision in order to accomplish it. So we sat down together and divvied out roles based on what was best for us as a couple, not what social pressure dictated. And guess who's in charge of cooking and cleaning? Me. I actually "called" the roles because, turns out, I'm pretty particular about how they get done, but Handsome definitely provides his two cents and his helping hand. It was a decision we made together.

And that's what makes marriage so great: Doing hard things together. We hate cleaning, but some of our happiest memories come from cleaning on Saturday mornings while blasting Nickel Creek, Coldplay, and Hercules throughout our 480 square foot apartment. And for some reason, we always end up dancing in the kitchen while we're making dinner. Drudgery's not so bad with your best friend. 

But it's not all drudgery. After we had been married awhile, I wanted to write a song for Handsome on the guitar. It was a surprise! But he walked in on me while I was composing it, dang it. I could have just pretended to merely be playing the guitar when he came in...something I did all the time. But, instead, as soon as he opened the door we made eye contact and my jaw dropped. While staring at him I threw the guitar against the guitar stand and we both turned to watch it teeter before falling with a loud harmonic bang. I turned back toward him alarmed and then bolted across the room, slid onto the bed, and stuffed the lyrics under my pillow. I slowly lifted my head and sheepishly looked over at Handsome. After split second of deafening silence we exploded into laughter.

Oh my gosh, we laughed! We are always laughing. We've spent so many late night hours giggling because of jokes only we appreciate. We've spent hours divulging secrets and creating dreams based on the delusions of our looming grandeur. Sometimes we're mad at each other, sometimes we're fascinated with each other. We take turns doing the dishes and giving massages. I'll hold Handsome in my arms when he's troubled and Handsome will hold me in his arms when I'm blue, and we count our tear-stained sleeves as beautiful gifts. He has a habit of randomly showing up with Cosmic Brownies and yellow flowers, and I have a habit of giving him the absolute best Christmas gifts EVER! Budgeting, sweeping, kissing, ooh-la-la-ing, crying, arguing, laughing, dancing, and sometimes just sitting there quietly, holding hands - it's all part of our life together and it's beautiful.

But always in the back of my mind, a little thought whispers, "Don't get too comfortable, because this could end at any moment." 

So I've kept my guard and life has continued.

And then one day we had a little baby. That day and the months leading up to that day were filled nausea, leg cramps, unruly hormones, contractions and Hansome was right there with me. My lover, my coach, my friend. We grew closer than ever before as we helped bring the little bundle of love into the world. It was amazing. But once we got home with the little guy, and the initial excitement wore off, I started becoming aware of just how much our lives had changed.

Maybe it was because my progesterone levels had dropped 400 percent, but one night the thought occurred to me that the "just us" relationship was over. Tears erupted. 

It was over. I was filled with regret. Had I enjoyed it as much as I could have? Had I somehow poisoned the romance with my bitter fear? Did I even love him? 

I started piecing together memories of last two years in my mind and discovered something beautiful. Month after month Handsome had been carefully tearing away at my facade and barricade, reaching deeper and deeper into my affection. He forgave me for my relentless fear, he forgave me for my distance, and I couldn't help myself, but fall in love. And with the birth of our baby, the Handsome and George relationship had grown exponentially deeper. 

I was in love with my husband! I was in love with him, but because I had been so afraid that he would die, I didn't enjoy the love. And now the Handsome and George relationship was over! And even if it wasn't over, he could die tomorrow or the next day - either way, I had missed it. I hadn't appreciated our love when I had it, and now it was over. And with that thought, I broke into even more tears. 

Yeah, yeah...I take after my mom when it comes to the drama department. Handsome walked in and laughed out loud when he saw the mountain of tissues piled up next to me. He stroked the back of my head and asked what was wrong. I explained my sorrow and he replied, "I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here, I'm right here." 

He was right there. 

Wait a second, he was right there! He had always been right there. What an irony! I was so afraid of losing him that I wasn't enjoying the fact that he was STILL here! "I'm not dead, yet!" He laughed. And suddenly I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge returning from his visit with the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. Was there still time to enjoy life? Was there still time to enjoy loving Handsome? 

A few weeks later:

"George, look!" Handsome laughed, "The baby wants to sit up, he wants to be part of our world..."

"Part of our world?" I replied. Attached to the breast pump, looking like Madonna (if you've never seen the mechanics of breast pumping, count yourself blessed), I slowly turned and locked eyes with Hadsome. He returned my gaze with a nod, knowing what was about to happen. "He wants to go, where the people go!" I began singing, "He wants see, wants to see 'em dancing! Jumping around on those, What da ya call 'em?-"

"Trampolines!!!!!" entered Handsome's operatic vibrato! 

George: "Up where they...nuuuuh!" (forgot the words).

Handsome: "Up where they....laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

And together: "Up Where They Play All Day Nuh Nuh NUUUUUUUH!!!"

George crooning quietly: "Wish I could be....Part of their Woooooorld!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Sppppplash!" With a heroic imaginary splash Handsome lifted our little baby BOY out of the imaginary ocean water onto an imaginary bolder with our baby's imaginary mermaid fin and imaginary long flowing red hair sparkling in the sunlight.

So our love wasn't over! Our relationship still flourished, reaching new epic heights (along with our insanity, but that's a story for another day). Hooray!

But then...what if it ends tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next?

If Handsome was taken away from me, part of my soul would shrivel up and die, never to be revived again until I was back in his arms. Would the love and happiness I have experienced thus far be worth the possible pain that may be waiting just outside our doorstep?

______

I was holding the baby trying to finish the last of my oatmeal and he started fussing again. In order to soothe him so I could finish my eleven o'clock breakfast, I had iTunes playing Rachmaninoff. The Adagio Sostenuto of the Rach #2 came on. My baby suddenly stopped fussing and stared at the computer in awe. It was the part, you know, where the woodwinds and the piano erupt into that epic nostalgic waltz accompanied by the tragically mournful string aria. It's a genius musical triumph where the wistful joy of hope is perfectly interlaced with the reverent sorrow of experience.

And then, just like my mom had done years earlier, I started to cry.

Holding the baby in my arms I thought about Handsome and the love we had created and enjoyed. Then I snuggled the little baby boy and kissed the top of his head remarking "Life is beautiful, little one. Life is worth all the gunk you will have to go through. I'm sorry, you're gonna have to go through gunk, there's no way around it...but it's worth it."


Happy second anniversary, Handsome. I love you.