The last few weeks have felt a bit blurry, like a marathon. I took the girls to NYC to be with my parents during Christmas, while Viking stayed behind to spend some time with his Dad and brother.
As always my mom and dad were kind and general champs about having so many people in their tiny apartment, but also as always, it was really nice to get back to my comfy - albeit messy- house. Samantha would NOT SLEEP in her pack and play and since we were sharing a room - with Niblet, and I couldn't let her cry because the neighbors wouldn't take a crying baby very gracfeully, well, it was fucking exhausting.
I spent some quality time with one of my oldest best friends. "She's [Niblet] 2.0!" said my friend R, as we strolled around Bryant Park's holiday market. "Wait she's even more [Viking] than Niblet was, that smirk she has, those blue eyes..." he continued. Yeah, tell me about it. It was surreal walking around NYC with a baby in a carrier attached to me. I used to stare longingly at women in the City during wintertime, with their babies all tight and snug.
When we returned to Baltimore we were as close to saying AAAAHHHHHHH as any tired family could. And we spent some time with Viking and did a day trip to Winterthur, the DuPont family mansion in Delaware, taking one of Nibble's friends with us.
So here's a thing I've alluded to before: My clinic was in Delaware was chosen because it was the only clinic that was easily accessible to me which offered people seeking healthy eggs semi-anonymous donors. In other words, she could potentially be contacted by Samantha when Samantha is 18. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about Samantha's genetics. I think about it them often as I think of Niblet's I suppose - will Niblet need x, w, z health screenings based on her family history, for example. I do often look at Samantha's nose with wonder because it's the only clue that she is spring from a different genetic tree. But this kid is so obviously blended into her paternal line, it's really not something I get hung up about.
But this weekend I really wanted to eat at the Mexican restaurant Viking and I lunched at while I was cycling. I was a little emotional about it, Viking, not so much, I'm not sure it registered the same way. Have I mentioned that all I wanted to eat before and during that pregnancy was Tex-Mex? Niblet and her friend who joined us completely balked but being the hungry grownups in the car who really wanted fucking enchiladas, we prevailed. It was a weirdly comforting meal, eating at a place where the whole science-y shebang of Samantha's conception really began. I know there are DE moms who struggle with their feelings about not having a genetic link to their babies, I guess I got lucky. While I don't shout our third-party reproduction to the hilltops, I'm really at peace with it.
But the cycling itself is like a dream. I saw an Instagram picture I posted of myself years ago, taken at a work retreat I attended when I was self-administering injections on the sly. I was cleaning out my bedroom and found a stash of needles. Many people know I used IVF to have this baby, I'm completely honest about THAT. Hell, a few weeks ago a woman in the grocery store who was sharing a bit too much on the checkout line asked me if I came by my baby naturally. Nope, I had a little help I replied. (BTW, I told Niblet about this conversation, and my 9YO astutely commented: She probably really needed someone to talk to. God, my child...)
I will probably be more open about using DE too, but not for some time - I am maintaining a personal rule that it is no one's business until Samantha herself understands it and comes to terms with it.
To be honest, I feel something like survivor's guilt from these experiences. Sure, it took six years to have this baby. Sure, I experienced grief and lows from my losses that still punch me in the gut today. But I have a baby. A beautiful healthy girl who is starting to cruise around the living room and can say "cat" who even charms her very tempestuous tweenaged sister.
I hope beyond hope that I do right by these children that I am insanely fortunate to have.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
All she left behind
We lost my mother-in-law last week to breast cancer. She was 80 years old.
The last few weeks have been rough on my house. We visited her each weekend the past month so she could see her grandchildren. Viking was by her side for much of the time, she had decided against intervention, having undergone radiation and a double mastectomy ten years ago. She was fortunate to have the means to have a hospice nurse visit her daily. Late last week my father-in-law had to go into the hospital himself - it was a prostate scare, he's fine, but his being admitted meant that she could no longer be at home. She was transferred to a residential care unit at their retirement community and died later that night. It was peaceful and she was not in pain.
Niblet took it hard, and realized that she carries memories of her grandmother that her sister will never have. Viking is as good as could be expected, he has good days and bad.
I'm working through so many emotions. My MIL was viewed by the world as a saint. To some extent she was. All of her outer life was lived for her husband and children. I mean all of it. She had many views that were a relic of the 50's. My brother-in-law liked to joke that his parents stopped evolving in 1962, just before the British invasion. I was something of an alien to her: a Jewish New Yorker. That I was a lawyer wasn't so shocking. That I was a former dancer who continued dancing even after my professional days ended was ("Why would you pursue something that caused injuries? You really danced every day even when you went to high school? Are you sure Niblet is safe pursuing ballet as you did?") I remember once lamenting not being able to get out of the house when Niblet was born and colicky. I missed seeing other women. I missed decompressing in a dance class, I missed enjoying a meal where I didn't have to try to eat while feeding another person.
"Those days are over for you right now," she said to me. "Your needs have to be put on hold."
I recall being so resentful of this at the time. I was nursing and up every 2 hours. I needed a shower and a massage. Was that really so selfish?
Looking back I have *so* much more sympathy for her. She was, in fact, alone when she was raising her first son, her husband away in the Navy. She was isolated. I'll bet money she suffered from PPD without a support network, it was just what a young American mother was expected to do.
She had an inner life that most of us could only really scratch the surface of. She looked like Grace Kelly (for real, she was stunningly beautiful as a young woman). She loved gardening. Writing letters. (I've both vented and joked a ton about some of those letters on this blog, they were at times hilarious in their formality, and at times infuriating). She once told me she was interested in anthropology and would have studied it more in college if she could. She wasn't interested at all in clothes or fashion or jewelry. She enjoyed classical music, and could play piano, though she never did in front of us, even when we got our own piano - as it happens my FIL was a trained music major in college conservatory, and I imagine she stopped playing once he came into the picture. Playing piano for an audience - even family members - was HIS thing. She was an awesome swimmer, once a lifeguard in her teens. She was fiercely in love with her husband and devoted to her sons. And loved her grandchildren. Both of them, despite her misgivings about my decision to have a second. Babies made her smile.
She was also a hoarder. Oh man. The boxes. I mean BOXES.
But she gave me my Viking. With all of his flaws (the hoarding tendencies inherited from her FO SHO).
Her obituary was short - she was a wife of 57 years, mother to two surviving sons, grandmother to two grandchildren, sister to two surviving brothers. That's it. She refused to have a funeral, my BIL attributing this to her "unwavering modesty."
In Judaism we say of the dead, "May their memory be for blessing." Never have these words rung more true. Her legacy is captured in our memories and it's our responsibility to ensure it lives on.
The last few weeks have been rough on my house. We visited her each weekend the past month so she could see her grandchildren. Viking was by her side for much of the time, she had decided against intervention, having undergone radiation and a double mastectomy ten years ago. She was fortunate to have the means to have a hospice nurse visit her daily. Late last week my father-in-law had to go into the hospital himself - it was a prostate scare, he's fine, but his being admitted meant that she could no longer be at home. She was transferred to a residential care unit at their retirement community and died later that night. It was peaceful and she was not in pain.
Niblet took it hard, and realized that she carries memories of her grandmother that her sister will never have. Viking is as good as could be expected, he has good days and bad.
I'm working through so many emotions. My MIL was viewed by the world as a saint. To some extent she was. All of her outer life was lived for her husband and children. I mean all of it. She had many views that were a relic of the 50's. My brother-in-law liked to joke that his parents stopped evolving in 1962, just before the British invasion. I was something of an alien to her: a Jewish New Yorker. That I was a lawyer wasn't so shocking. That I was a former dancer who continued dancing even after my professional days ended was ("Why would you pursue something that caused injuries? You really danced every day even when you went to high school? Are you sure Niblet is safe pursuing ballet as you did?") I remember once lamenting not being able to get out of the house when Niblet was born and colicky. I missed seeing other women. I missed decompressing in a dance class, I missed enjoying a meal where I didn't have to try to eat while feeding another person.
"Those days are over for you right now," she said to me. "Your needs have to be put on hold."
I recall being so resentful of this at the time. I was nursing and up every 2 hours. I needed a shower and a massage. Was that really so selfish?
Looking back I have *so* much more sympathy for her. She was, in fact, alone when she was raising her first son, her husband away in the Navy. She was isolated. I'll bet money she suffered from PPD without a support network, it was just what a young American mother was expected to do.
She had an inner life that most of us could only really scratch the surface of. She looked like Grace Kelly (for real, she was stunningly beautiful as a young woman). She loved gardening. Writing letters. (I've both vented and joked a ton about some of those letters on this blog, they were at times hilarious in their formality, and at times infuriating). She once told me she was interested in anthropology and would have studied it more in college if she could. She wasn't interested at all in clothes or fashion or jewelry. She enjoyed classical music, and could play piano, though she never did in front of us, even when we got our own piano - as it happens my FIL was a trained music major in college conservatory, and I imagine she stopped playing once he came into the picture. Playing piano for an audience - even family members - was HIS thing. She was an awesome swimmer, once a lifeguard in her teens. She was fiercely in love with her husband and devoted to her sons. And loved her grandchildren. Both of them, despite her misgivings about my decision to have a second. Babies made her smile.
She was also a hoarder. Oh man. The boxes. I mean BOXES.
But she gave me my Viking. With all of his flaws (the hoarding tendencies inherited from her FO SHO).
Her obituary was short - she was a wife of 57 years, mother to two surviving sons, grandmother to two grandchildren, sister to two surviving brothers. That's it. She refused to have a funeral, my BIL attributing this to her "unwavering modesty."
In Judaism we say of the dead, "May their memory be for blessing." Never have these words rung more true. Her legacy is captured in our memories and it's our responsibility to ensure it lives on.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
It's been difficult to write
Writing has been a challenge. Ideas flow into my head on posts all the time. Then the realities of my day to day intervene and suddenly it's December. How did it get to be December?
I'm waiting for the day when I'm matter of fact about the fact that Samantha is woven into the fabric of my family. I'm still not there. I am and I'm not. We have this baby - this sick cute, hilarious, snuggly little baby in our home and she has her father's face and to a great extent her sisters face. And she's obsessed with me. OBSESSED, and I'm absolutely her favorite human and I'm starting to think it's not just the milk I still produce.
And sometimes when we're driving I share her origin story with her. It's something that I think will improve with practice. We want - no really *I* want for this story to be, well, a nothingburger in her life. The matter of fact hand of her genetics, not some scandalous revelation, or the topic of a very very special episode of family conversation. My eggs were damaged. I was fortunate to be donated some good ones. We made a baby. A baby that is biologically mine, even if genetically she isn't.
Niblet has good days and bad days, though mostly good. She is starting to allow herself to be charmed by this tiny blob with big blue eyes, rather than feel threatened by her. She's protective of her in ways that make our nanny both smile and sigh, but we are all generally still feeling the endorphin rush of "THIS BABY IS REALLY HERE"
But maybe it's the still not sleeping through the night, maybe it's the times we live in, maybe it's the climate report of doom, maybe it's the family stress where parents are getting sick while Viking in I are like gerbils running on a wheel.... I'm spent. And I feel guilty for saying that, like survivor's guilt.
I watched the movie "Private Life" with Paul Giamatti and Katherine Hahn, and OMG I was a fucking wreck afterwards. The pain of that infertile couple was too real, it all hit too close to home, and when I was done I realized just how lucky I was to have Samantha - and Niblet - in my life.
What have I done to be so fortunate? How will I ever be able to give my due to the universe for doing me such a monumental solid? I mean sure, raising empathic children who aren't sociopaths is a good start....
I'm waiting for the day when I'm matter of fact about the fact that Samantha is woven into the fabric of my family. I'm still not there. I am and I'm not. We have this baby - this sick cute, hilarious, snuggly little baby in our home and she has her father's face and to a great extent her sisters face. And she's obsessed with me. OBSESSED, and I'm absolutely her favorite human and I'm starting to think it's not just the milk I still produce.
And sometimes when we're driving I share her origin story with her. It's something that I think will improve with practice. We want - no really *I* want for this story to be, well, a nothingburger in her life. The matter of fact hand of her genetics, not some scandalous revelation, or the topic of a very very special episode of family conversation. My eggs were damaged. I was fortunate to be donated some good ones. We made a baby. A baby that is biologically mine, even if genetically she isn't.
Niblet has good days and bad days, though mostly good. She is starting to allow herself to be charmed by this tiny blob with big blue eyes, rather than feel threatened by her. She's protective of her in ways that make our nanny both smile and sigh, but we are all generally still feeling the endorphin rush of "THIS BABY IS REALLY HERE"
But maybe it's the still not sleeping through the night, maybe it's the times we live in, maybe it's the climate report of doom, maybe it's the family stress where parents are getting sick while Viking in I are like gerbils running on a wheel.... I'm spent. And I feel guilty for saying that, like survivor's guilt.
I watched the movie "Private Life" with Paul Giamatti and Katherine Hahn, and OMG I was a fucking wreck afterwards. The pain of that infertile couple was too real, it all hit too close to home, and when I was done I realized just how lucky I was to have Samantha - and Niblet - in my life.
What have I done to be so fortunate? How will I ever be able to give my due to the universe for doing me such a monumental solid? I mean sure, raising empathic children who aren't sociopaths is a good start....
Monday, October 15, 2018
I see you
So the thing is, the little spirit that was haunting me for so many many years is with us now, I believe that. I look at her big blue eyes and she looks back at me, and I truly believe that we both are just like, "gee, it's you. I'm so glad to see that it's you."
But for the mamas out there who are still reading my words, who are still in the thick of their grief and their hell - because it is indeed hell - I see you. I wear my eight stacking rings religiously these days, not because I am worried I will forget.... I will never forget. But they are comforting in a way, a tactile reminder of that hell. When I'm stressed and worried I fiddle with them - in staff meetings and other venues - and tell myself that I can breathe and put one foot in front of the other. I can plaster a smile on my face and continue on.
Today the smile is real, because she is alive. She made it to me. She is healthy and she is like pure light. But the pain is merely dulled. So many years lost. So many babies.
I see you out there. I am crying with you too. I am holding you in the light with so much love and so much hope for you.
xo
But for the mamas out there who are still reading my words, who are still in the thick of their grief and their hell - because it is indeed hell - I see you. I wear my eight stacking rings religiously these days, not because I am worried I will forget.... I will never forget. But they are comforting in a way, a tactile reminder of that hell. When I'm stressed and worried I fiddle with them - in staff meetings and other venues - and tell myself that I can breathe and put one foot in front of the other. I can plaster a smile on my face and continue on.
Today the smile is real, because she is alive. She made it to me. She is healthy and she is like pure light. But the pain is merely dulled. So many years lost. So many babies.
I see you out there. I am crying with you too. I am holding you in the light with so much love and so much hope for you.
xo
Friday, October 12, 2018
Haunting
I recently commented on a BBC birth board, offering virtual hugs and hope to a woman who just miscarried. She was blaming herself and I offered the 1 in 4 statistic. And yes, I noted that I refused to blame myself for my eight losses.
She replied and asked how I kept going.
I kept going because I truly believed that the spirit of the baby I was trying to have was haunting me.
I always worry that framing my perseverance this way makes me out to be a loon, but sometimes vocabulary fails us, and honestly, it's the most accurate way I can get my point across.
There's a movie out on Netflix now called "Private Life" and by all reports it's a horrifyingly accurate portrayal of a couple in their forties trying to have a baby, ultimately exploring donor eggs and adoption. The reviews of it on various support boards have all been positive so....
I downloaded it last night and wanted to check out a few minutes of it. The opening scene has Paul Giamatti stabbing Katherine Hahn in the ass with what is supposed to be a progesterone needle. Everything about the staging, her position on the bed, his apology for hitting a nerve, the bad of frozen peas, every fucking thing about the first four minutes of this movie told me I need to get in the proper headspace to watch it. It was TOO real. Not that I watch much these days, because S is only sleeping in 3 hours stretches at night right now.
I'll try to watch it this weekend and post a review, but keep in mind my inlaws are staying over this weekend, so watching a movie from start to finish is sort of aspirational. I gave Viking the heads up that he might want to see it with me, he loves Paul Giamatti. But I am also worried about being a crying mess from it.
She replied and asked how I kept going.
I kept going because I truly believed that the spirit of the baby I was trying to have was haunting me.
I always worry that framing my perseverance this way makes me out to be a loon, but sometimes vocabulary fails us, and honestly, it's the most accurate way I can get my point across.
There's a movie out on Netflix now called "Private Life" and by all reports it's a horrifyingly accurate portrayal of a couple in their forties trying to have a baby, ultimately exploring donor eggs and adoption. The reviews of it on various support boards have all been positive so....
I downloaded it last night and wanted to check out a few minutes of it. The opening scene has Paul Giamatti stabbing Katherine Hahn in the ass with what is supposed to be a progesterone needle. Everything about the staging, her position on the bed, his apology for hitting a nerve, the bad of frozen peas, every fucking thing about the first four minutes of this movie told me I need to get in the proper headspace to watch it. It was TOO real. Not that I watch much these days, because S is only sleeping in 3 hours stretches at night right now.
I'll try to watch it this weekend and post a review, but keep in mind my inlaws are staying over this weekend, so watching a movie from start to finish is sort of aspirational. I gave Viking the heads up that he might want to see it with me, he loves Paul Giamatti. But I am also worried about being a crying mess from it.
Monday, October 1, 2018
Future gymnast
Check out this picture of 8 month old Samantha and bear witness to the reason I needed an emergency C-Section. According to Viking, this is exactly how she was positioned when I was laboring.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
New Normal and Atonement
Hello world. I'm an employer now, to a Nanny. It's been three weeks and I am breathing a huge sigh of relief. She's great. Both girls appear to love her, she's smart and compassionate and I am totally remembering now how I gravitated towards her during those foggy days of my maternity leave.
In short I got really fucking lucky that the universe placed her in my path and that I have the resources to make it work.
This week marked the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, our day of atonement.
I've been thinking about presence. How present are we in our day to day lives? When I'm scrolling on my phone in the wee hours of the night while nursing Samantha, what does that say about my connectedness to her in those moments?
I was thinking about the many times - like most parents - that I am scrolling on Twitter or FB or IG when sitting with my children. The moments I am missing and the behavior I am modeling.
And so when I asked for forgiveness in prayer, and set out my resolutions for the new year, they largely centered around my phone addiction. There was some other stuff too (like no longer angrily criticizing the Viking for his piss-poor cleaning habits in front of Niblet).... but honestly, thinking about the zombies we are becoming as a human race is more than a little frightening.
Also frightening is the bombardment of imagery and information and triggers. I scrolled past pictures of babies killed in Yemen the other night. WHILE I WAS NURSING.
I am here, alive and ostensibly healthy, with a beautiful home and a hot husband and my daughters stare up at me with their big beautiful eyes and I need to be present. In the moment. Either fully invested in the beauty around me or grappling with whatever they bring me - whether it's hunger cries, the need to be worn like a baby kangaroo, or help with Common Core math (which blows, btw).
So I asked for forgiveness for those days and night staring at a tiny rectangle that generally causes my cortisol levels to rise. I need to be present. I want and need to be connected to the people in front of me. The people I love so much, who I went to hell and back for.
(I came across this video on one of these late nights. It's utterly terrifying, and left me gutted, so seriously, you can choose to not watch it, hell in some ways I wish I never saw it. But I used to love MOBY, and the song is an earworm, and I think it kinda captures where my head was at this Yom Kippur).
In short I got really fucking lucky that the universe placed her in my path and that I have the resources to make it work.
This week marked the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, our day of atonement.
I've been thinking about presence. How present are we in our day to day lives? When I'm scrolling on my phone in the wee hours of the night while nursing Samantha, what does that say about my connectedness to her in those moments?
I was thinking about the many times - like most parents - that I am scrolling on Twitter or FB or IG when sitting with my children. The moments I am missing and the behavior I am modeling.
And so when I asked for forgiveness in prayer, and set out my resolutions for the new year, they largely centered around my phone addiction. There was some other stuff too (like no longer angrily criticizing the Viking for his piss-poor cleaning habits in front of Niblet).... but honestly, thinking about the zombies we are becoming as a human race is more than a little frightening.
Also frightening is the bombardment of imagery and information and triggers. I scrolled past pictures of babies killed in Yemen the other night. WHILE I WAS NURSING.
I am here, alive and ostensibly healthy, with a beautiful home and a hot husband and my daughters stare up at me with their big beautiful eyes and I need to be present. In the moment. Either fully invested in the beauty around me or grappling with whatever they bring me - whether it's hunger cries, the need to be worn like a baby kangaroo, or help with Common Core math (which blows, btw).
So I asked for forgiveness for those days and night staring at a tiny rectangle that generally causes my cortisol levels to rise. I need to be present. I want and need to be connected to the people in front of me. The people I love so much, who I went to hell and back for.
(I came across this video on one of these late nights. It's utterly terrifying, and left me gutted, so seriously, you can choose to not watch it, hell in some ways I wish I never saw it. But I used to love MOBY, and the song is an earworm, and I think it kinda captures where my head was at this Yom Kippur).
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