Birth stories

I can tell by the gentle whoosh of air that the title of this post just sent about half of you dashing out the door. Which is fine. Birth stories aren't for everyone.

For those who are left, here is a great birth story I just read. I cannot remotely relate to it, but then again I can. As can anyone who has given birth. (Just read it...it's funny. Great blog.)

My birth stories are kind of dull. I had moments of timing contractions, sure, but they didn't come to anything. There was no gush of water, no frantic dash to the hospital. No dramatic entrance, no raised voices. Each time I gave birth, it was more like a doctor's appointment. I sat in a waiting room, then was calmly led to another room to be prepped, then wait some more. I even had time (and the pain relievers) to be bored.

Nobody talks about boredom in association with childbirth. Certainly not one of the parents, and definitely not the mother. But I'm here to tell you I was bored during labor.

I've known people who know every detail of their entrance into the world. (I am one of them.) I've also known people who barely know what town they were born in.

Most of what fiction tells us of childbirth is the same tale, over and over. The water breaking. Mayhem. Slapstick comedy, or violins and drama. Screaming, too...always screaming.

I didn't scream. Not once. I cried, both times. But that's as close to the stereotypical "lady in childbirth" as I came.

I think it's important that we mothers tell our stories, rather than letting writers retell the same tired yarn over and over. Because not all birth is the same. Because there is too much secrecy about it. (I had to find out from a comedian that there was a good chance I'd poop during labor.* Seriously...this is need-to-know information, people.)

My kids will know everything. I went through a lot to bring them here, and I want them to know that. I am hoping they will have children of their own someday, and I want them to know what to expect.

Besides, every superhero needs an origin story.


*I didn't, by the way. One of the bennies of the hack-and-slash approach to childbirth. There aren't many, so you take them where you can.

Because everyone deserves a second chance

Anya and I were reading her "big sister" book.

Me: You are such a good big sister.

Anya: Yeah.

Me: I always wanted to be a big sister, you know, but I never got to be.

Anya: Oh yeah?

Me: Yep. I used to ask for a little brother or sister every year for Christmas. But I never got one. That's why I am so happy that we have baby Kai.

Anya: Yeah. But you will be a big sister someday!

Me: Um...I think that ship has sailed. Mimi is too old to have babies now.

Anya: But when I am a big girl, I will have a baby in my tummy, and it will be a girl, and it will be you! And then you will be a little girl, and I will have a baby Kai in my tummy, and then you will have a cute-cute baby brother! And then you will get to be a big sister.

Me: Really?

Anya: Yep!

Me: Well, okay then! I can't wait.

I'm sick, but not really

I've felt like crap all week, but haven't gone to the doctor. Mostly because I'm not sure what, exactly, he'd do. Because I'm not really sick; this isn't a virus or anything. It's allergies.

See, here's the thing. When I was in college, I had this kind of crap a lot. I was outside all the time, plus the campus is in the middle of the city, so air pollution was an issue. Also, I chain-smoked, because college. In other words, I was surrounded by allergens constantly. When I say I went through this a lot, I mean I spent pretty much all semester congested and miserable, with a sinus infection and bronchitis and perhaps an infected ear or two. Month after month after month (with summers off, thankfully). For years.

Going to the doctor on campus was free, so I did (duh). Only they really could not help me most of the time. I was either not sick enough (they'd tell me to take Sudafed and get some sleep, which of course did not stop the progression to infection) or too sick I required heavy-duty decongestants and antibiotics they did not have on hand), and had to go to a "real" doctor).

After I got out of school, I mostly went to the minor med, because they were open after work and because my old GP's office kept tossing out my records when I didn't come in for a few months. They, too, would occasionally tell me I was not sick enough for them to help me. So now I have it in my head that I have to be "sick enough" to go to the doctor.

I'm not sure that's the case with my current GP; I think he'd find a way to help me. Except with the breastfeeding, I'm not sure he can help me at the moment. What I need is something to dry up this mucus. But I can't have anything like that right now.

I have drainage, and the sick, achy feeling in my head and chest that comes with a low-level infection, but no clear signs of "hey, I'm sick and require antibiotics." So I'm self-medicating with some Flonase left over from my last illness and sleeping a lot in hopes that this junk will somehow right itself, or at least tip me far enough into Evidently Sick that I can justify taking off work to go to the doctor.

Maybe later today, if I don't feel better, I'll go in just so I don't have to suffer all weekend if there is something to be done.

Love and money

Couples often fight about money. It's been an issue in past relationships for me, so I understand. For instance, that was the main reason offered up to me by my wasband when we had a pregnancy scare and he asked me to consider abortion. He didn't want the child cutting into his spending money. (I wasn't pregnant, so it turned out to be a nonissue. And a year later, I wasn't married anymore, either.)

I've never been in a relationship in which my partner and I saw eye-to-eye about money. But with one brief exception, I've always had my own money, so it's not been as big an issue for me as it is for some. And in my current relationship, I have what may be the perfect scenario: I make the lion's share of the money, and my partner is more frugal than I am. (In most ways, anyway.) That means I get to make most of the big financial decisions, and don't have to rein him in much. We have had some silly arguments, mostly about how long leftovers are still good (I would never, ever bring home fries from a restaurant to eat later, for instance, and consider most refrigerated leftovers contaminated after three days). But for the most part, he trusts my judgement and doesn't blow my budget.

Now if we just had a little more money, we'd be in good shape. But who doesn't think that?

I won't say we don't fight. We do. Just not about money. It's...nice.

Remembering

It was on a bright day of midwinter, in New York. The little girl who eventually became me, but as yet was neither me nor anybody else in particular, but merely a soft anonymous morsel of humanity --this little girl, who bore my name, was going for a walk with her father. The episode is literally the first thing I can remember about her, and therefore I date the birth of her identity from that day.

-Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance

While I do agree that we are what we eat in the physical sense, in terms of personality I think we are what we remember. I love the above quote because it reminds me of my first memories. A thousand little slices that made up my earliest days.

I have memories of injuries that extend up to, but do not include, the moment of injury itself. My memories then pick up a while later. (My memory of sticking a paper clip in a light switch, for example, ends with "a real bright light," to quote the homeless guy from Terminator. It picks up with me on the couch seeing colored halos around everything.) My brain has thoughtfully edited out the pain, while leaving enough to let me know that it freaking hurt and to never do that again.

My favorite early memory, though, is of a sunny morning when I was around 3. I'd snuck outside early, while the sun was low enough to shine directly in my face, to play on my swingset. As I pumped my legs, I discovered that squinting my eyes created a halo of circular rainbows around my vision. I can remember it all so vividly, even now: The warmth of the sun on my eyelids, the cool air rushing past my scabbed knees, and the rainbows in my eyes.

Age and knowledge have since revealed those rainbows to be merely the sun striking my eyelashes. But I prefer to think I carry tiny rainbows with me wherever I go, and if I squint my eyes right, they will return even on the gray, rainy days.

The people in my neighborhood

One of the unsung benefits of working from home is that it gives you insight into a world you miss while you're at the office: Your own neighborhood. All the people that keep things rolling while you're away. I'm coming to appreciate these people in a way I never did before.

My mail carrier has a smile and wave for everyone. When my daughter was a toddler, she used to love waiting in the driveway around mail delivery time, and our mail carrier never disappointed her. When I worked in an office, I couldn't have picked my mail carrier out of a lineup.

One day recently, we didn't get the mail out soon enough and missed pickup. On her way back past (we live on a dead-end street), she noticed our flag up and did a U turn to collect our outgoing mail.

I've heard bad things about our trash collection company, but aside from the fact that we never get pickup on holiday weeks (even though our collection day is Thursday, which is almost never a holiday...sure, that makes sense), I have no complaints. Once, R didn't get the can to the curb in time, so the truck passed us. R ran out to set the can out, and one of the collection guys got out to help him manually empty it into the truck. Another morning, some trash fell out while our can was being emptied. The collector (same guy) hopped out to pick up the trash and pop it back in our can before moving on.

These are little things, sure. But they're things that keep my household going. Small acts of consideration. Evidence that people in often thankless jobs do, indeed, give a crap.

With all the negativity we are bombarded with on a daily basis, I need moments like that. And if I worked in an office, I'd miss them.

I'm thankful for the big things, sure. Job, home, family. But you can't overlook the power of little acts of kindness.

Eat days

This year marks a momentous occasion: I am taking over part of the Thanksgiving preparations.

Not just kicking in a casserole or lending the use of my oven. In addition to baking my homemade mac and cheese, I am making the dressing and the pumpkin pie.

The pumpkin pie, especially, feels sacred. Like it's an honor to be allowed to prepare such a dish. I feel like a kid who gets to sit at the grown-ups table at last.

Part of this new order is just shifting our thinking. Though I am not just an adult but a mommy (and middle aged, for pete's sake), my parents still think of me as a kid. (And always will...I have no illusions about that.) So I have to remind them occasionally that I've been feeding and housing myself, paying taxes and keeping the lights on, for 20 years now. And occasionally, I have to say things like, "I'm making part of Thanksgiving dinner this year." Because they're not going to ask me to do that...I'm just a kid.

Mom's RA is better this week, but she has her ups and downs. She's in a bad flare lately, and winding down on her latest prednisone pack. Which means she never knows from one day to the next if she will be able to dress herself. I figure asking her to cube a loaf of bread and roll out a pie crust is a bit much, considering.

Also, I've come to realize that Mom doesn't really like to cook. She likes traditions, and food is one of those. But the actual act of cooking is not one of her favorites. I, on the other hand, love to cook. (It's washing the dishes I'm not crazy about.) So it just makes sense that I take some of the load.

When Anya was younger, she told Mimi that holidays are "eat days." Nobody goes to work; everyone goes to Mimi's house to eat. Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the eating season. Hopefully I (and my oven!) are up to the task.

Old and improved

I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but my daughter has varying yet specific uses for the terms "old" and "new."

a) The usual: "Mommy, this car is old. You need to buy a new one." (Because it has a leak we can't fix. And to her, it is an old car; when I bought it, she was in utero. But she says this about everything. Why fix something when you can buy new? How very American of her.)

b) New equals young: "Mommy, you old. Anya is new." (Anyone older than, say, 10 is old.)

c) Old equals sick. "Mimi is new! I can stay at her house!" (She loves sleepovers with my mother.)

I get a kick out of her telling me I am new, but of course that is only in the context of illness. In all other contexts, I am so very old.

I would like to say I shrug this off, but when actresses younger than I am are hawking old lady cream, it gets to me. Especially since I am starting to see some signs of aging. Probably not so many as I think, but this face is not my face, and I can't blame it all on the breastfeeding baggage. That merely erased my cheekbones. No, this face has more underchin than my face. It is developing undereye bags at an alarming rate. (And I already had dark circles to deal with.) My eyes themselves are red most of the time -- not sure if that's age or allergies, but it doesn't help. And then there's the lingering melasma and fine lines, which I had almost made peace with, dammit. Add my crazy hair, and half the time I'm not sure who the heck is looking back at me in the mirror.

I have total mom bod. I will have mom bod until I finish breastfeeding, which as far as I am concerned is nowhere in the near future. (No periods vs an extra 15 lbs...gee, I wonder which one I should choose?) I have postpartum hair, which looks extra weird to me because I colored it. (I like the color...it's just still a shock to have hair this dark. Even with no gray, my hair wasn't quite this dark. Or maybe it was just shinier?) In short, I look in the mirror and am mildly disgusted by what I see.

I guess it's not necessarily bad, any of it. I just don't look like me.

I don't feel as old as I look in the mirror, though. Which makes it that much worse.

I know I just need to adapt. Find some decent concealer, maybe pick a new hairdo, get some clothes that are a little more flattering to my new figure. Stop wishing I looked like I used to and start working with what I now have.

But man, I miss me.

Fall mornings

Some of my favorite mornings are those in which the house is chilly because we forgot to switch the AC to heat the night before. This only happens in the fall, and that's why I like it -- because it's a fall thing. If I were to wake up in December to a house that was 67 degrees, I would whine. But in October or November, I'm happy to wake up with a cold nose.

No, I don't really understand it, either.

One theory is that I love fall so much because I hate summer. I'm happy to wake up cold because for far too many months, cold was a distant memory. But I also remember feeling this way as a child, when I lived someplace with more evenly balanced seasons and thus did not have such strong feelings about summer. I even kind of liked summer. Probably because triple-digit days were a rare occurrence.

Thinking back on those childhood fall mornings brings up a wave of memories. Nothing specific -- no people or events, no particular outfit,* just a feeling of what it felt like to be me as a child. The dusty smell when the heat kicked on. The crisp smell of the air outside, tinged with the smoke of burning leaves. The chill in my chest and nose when I breathed in. The warmth of the sunshine through the chill. Soft flannel and warm sweaters, cold ears and fingertips. I loved them then, and I love them now.

It occurs to me, looking back, just how many fall mornings I have experienced. And, if I am indeed at or near my halfway point in this life, how very many fall mornings I have yet to look forward to. 

Yet somehow, it doesn't feel like enough. It will never be enough.

*Family joke. When I was a child, I had a near-perfect memory of pretty much everything that had ever happened to me, down to what I was wearing at the time. When I started to lose details in these memories, I lost the outfits first. So I would describe an event or a memory to my parents, then ask them what I had been wearing. They found this extremely amusing. I didn't truly see the humor in it until I became a parent myself.

Everyday photos

Going through the memory card on my camera is always an adventure. Ever since my daughter learned how to use the camera, she's become obsessed with taking pictures. And she learned how to use the camera before she turned 2. Yay point and shoot.

At first, what I ended up with after one of her photo sprees was 200 blurry photos of kneecaps and far-away faces. I still need to clear a lot of those out. I can probably free up a gig or so on my hard drive that way.

Now she's taking better pictures, but her subject matter is still...interesting. I just discovered that while I was making those mini pumpkin pies, she took 12 nearly identical photos of my mug tree.

There are also 20 or so photos of my rear end, taken while I was searching for the leaf cookie cutters. Which I will not be sharing, thank you. (Though I must say, it doesn't look as large from her angle as I thought it would.)

But then there's this adorable selfie.

And this slice of everyday: Her brother letting me know he wants out of the high chair.

Pictures like these are why I let her use the camera. It gives me a taste of life from her level.

I delete the blurry pics, and the duplicate pics, but leave the rest. The mundane images: The kitchen cabinets. The couch. The floor. These images are of her childhood home, and someday she may want to remember it just as it was.

Some of my favorite pictures are those that show what my world looked like when I was small. My mother's yellow kitchen curtains. My parents' cars, parked on the gravel driveway I dug through looking for rocks with fossils in them. The tree outside my bedroom window. I don't have photos of some of the things I wish I did: Mom's daffodils, for instance. And the sandbox my grandfather built for me. Those exist only in my mind now. But there are other photos. Little scraps of the girl I was, that someday I will share with my own kids.

Everyday things matter. Which is why I let my kid take photos of them.

Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?

When I told my daughter that Poppy was going to be 68 today, her reaction was comical.

"Ew! Yucky!"

Yucky?

"I no like 68! Yuck!"

"But that's how old he is."

"No! No 68!"

"Okay, how old should he be?"

No hesitation. "Four!"

I'll give her that. Four was an awesome age. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

"But so many good things happen when you get older. If I'd stayed four, I wouldn't have you. If Poppy had stayed four, he wouldn't have either of us."

"Sixty-eight is yucky!"

I personally can't speak for 68; I have a few years before I get there. But the ages I wouldn't repeat are far behind me, and the ages I'm becoming keep getting better and better. So I have high hopes for 68. I hope it's half as good for Poppy as my 40s have been for me.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Letting go

There is a dried yellow rose on my dashboard. It is from my grandmother's casket. On the drive home, it perfumed my car, while the sun dried it to perfection. I need to get a box to keep it in, because it's time to put it away.

Time to let go.

I did not have the best relationship with my grandmother. She could say things, unthinking or not, that cut to the bone. And did, often. At least to me, and to my mother. I've heard anecdotal evidence that we were not the only victims of her sharp tongue. On multiple occasions in his life, I heard my grandfather tell her to shut up -- necessarily so.

Yet so many people have good memories of her. She was kind to them. Generous with her time and her money. And, honestly, she was kind to me. She never doted on me the way my kids' grandparents dote on them, no. But she never missed my birthday, or Christmas. Her efforts to give me gifts as a child were often misguided, but she did try. She also gave my children generous gifts. One of her last acts was to send my mother a birthday card.

I want to hang on to the good things she did. Holding a grudge against her for the things she said to me makes my stomach hurt. I do not want my last memories of her to be bad ones. So I have deleted the last email she sent. Soon, I will put away the last card she sent, and this beautiful flower that does nothing but remind me of seeing her body in that coffin.

I did not respond to either the email or the card. For that, I am sorry. She was so lonely. But I could not for the life of me come up with a nice way to respond to the harsh messages they contained. So I put it off. Too long.

I did not want to respond in kind. Because I suspect we were more alike than she ever dreamed. I see a resemblance in her personality, my father's, and mine. A tendency to say things that aren't intended to be hurtful, but sometimes come out that way. A blunt, duty-oriented approach to life. A preoccupation with things being fair that leads to incessant comparison (I have since abandoned the concept of fair, but I used to share this obsession, so I get it). We may not have been peas in a pod, but we were certainly cut from the same bolt of cloth.

I know that my words and actions are sometimes misconstrued to be hurtful when I intended nothing of the sort. I know my father loves me and wants what is best for me, even if that doesn't always come across in his words and actions. Is it so far-fetched that my grandmother may have felt the same?

It's what I choose to believe, anyway. I like us both better this way.

So I am letting go. Of the hurt. Of the resentment. Of the guilt. Of the might-have-beens. Of her.

Goodbye, Gran. I love you. Rest in peace.

Celebrating the seasons

I find myself working to establish seasonal family traditions. The Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's trifecta is pretty well set, though I have tweaked it over Anya's lifetime. I'd started out trying to implement a tradition I had with my parents (giving a small gift for each of the 11 days preceding Christmas*), but it's evolved into a longer time range with smaller presents thanks to the advent calendar I made last year. And there are other activities, which do not involve gifts. We do Zoo Lights. Starry Nights. We visit Santa. We bake cookies. We eat Thanksgiving dinner with both families. We decorate the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and take it down around Little Christmas, January 6. I take a picture of Anya (new this year: Anya and Kai) in front of the tree in a Christmas outfit for our Christmas cards. Actually, I take about 50 pictures, and never quite get the one I want -- though I always get one that captures her personality perfectly.

I have personal celebrations, too. A quiet reflection on the year that starts with 10Q in the fall and culminates in my revising my goal list and recapping my year on PopClogs. I try to start the year in the manner in which I intend to continue -- full of energy and hope and good intentions. It usually falls apart by March, but I mean well.

I love these traditions. They pull me out of my head, out of my to-do list, out of my present worries and future plans. They make me focus on what's in front of me: A loving partner, amazing kids, and an imperfect but pretty awesome life. I need that.

That's just one season, though. Just a month, really. I need that sort of pause all year round. So I have been slowly testing other seasonal celebrations. For fall, I've made the following list:

• Go to a farmer's market
• Bake mini apple pies
• Walk in the park and collect fall leaves
• Visit a corn maze
• Go to Zoo Boo
• Pick out pumpkins
• Carve/decorate pumpkins
• Bake mini pumpkin pies
• Make soup
• Do a leaf-based art project
• Make an autumn centerpiece for the kitchen table

I've been working on this for a month and a half now, and it's really helped me savor the season. Which is nice, because it's my favorite season -- I would really hate to miss it.

Gets me to thinking, though. I should make lists like this for the other seasons. Things that I want to be sure to do and make and experience. Things I want to share with my family. The highlights reel. Because time often gets away from me, and you never know when your last chance to do something will be.


*A tradition I started as a child, I must confess, in order to get a few presents early. It was a lot of fun, though. And yes, I gave presents back.

Making memories

R started his new job this week. He works 5:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Saturday through Monday. So he gets up...early. Which means we go to bed early, even by my standards -- and I have been working towards reviving my habit of rising before dawn.

Maybe it was the early bedtime, or the fact that I am sick. Or perhaps I simply no longer remember how to sleep. For whatever reason, I awoke at 4 a.m. Saturday. I got up at 4:30 with R, and saw him off to work.

The kids do not sleep well without me. Kai woke at 5, Anya at 6.

Normally I would be bustling around, practicing yoga and cleaning and making plans for the day. But we were sick; my sinuses were too angry for down dog. I had hazy plans to clean, but was in no rush.

Instead, I played with Kai. Snuggled under a blanket with both kids and watched cartoons. Nursed Kai to sleep, then enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Anya -- we even ate at the table.

These are the kinds of things they will remember. Not whether the house was clean or my to-do list checked off. I make a point of scheduling big experiences -- zoo trips and museum visits and things like that -- but I tend to lose sight of the little moments. The snuggles. The meals together. The mundane moments that become cherished memories.

So while I need to clean and work out for my own sanity, I also need to make lazy time a priority. Their childhood memories depend on it.

Bring on October

I love spring. The air feels full of hopeful anticipation. The light is softer, the air warmer. Everything is buzzing with life. I am not an outdoors kinda girl, but spring makes me want to be outside. It's my second favorite season.

Autumn is my favorite. It feels funny to say that, because it's a season of...well, dying. Mold. Rot. But it's a pretty rot.

I love the colors. The smells: crunchy fallen leaves, dusty heating vents, cinnamon spice, squash. The crispness in the air. The blindingly blue skies. Heck, even the dreary rain is prettier in autumn, against a backdrop of amber and russet trees. I love that the endless, blazing days of summer gradually grow cooler, shorter. Nudging us to head inside, bundle up, eat good food, drink something warm. I love sweaters and flannel and blankets and boots. Just...everything.

Two signs of fall that I eagerly anticipate each year: My neighbor's tree changing color, and the reappearance of Orion. I haven't seen Orion yet, but my neighbor's tree is looking a little gold around the edges. Puts me in an autumn frame of mind.

Fall is a time of celebration around here. My parents' birthdays, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. Since I procreated with a goth, Halloween is a month-long celebration. (He would say it's a way of life.) I stretch Thanksgiving into a month, as well, because I like thanks, and food (though not, of course, turkey). Which leads up to December, the Month of Christmas. From October 1 until January 1, it's one long party at my house. (Okay, not really. But we have lots of decorations.)

I've come to recognize that I've fallen into certain annual patterns. August is my month of self-reflection and mental housekeeping, and has been since my 20s. (I just have to take a break in the middle to celebrate the birth of my first child. As is befitting of her nature, that takes at least a week.) September is a month of doing -- all that navel gazing in August gets me itching to take action. So I make lists and schedules and set goals and push myself. Or at least I plan to. Then October rolls around, and life fills up with creature comforts. What didn't stick in September typically rolls over to January, and becomes my resolutions.

This year, I'm entering October with more momentum than I've had in a while. I'm starting to feel like I have a handle on things. Which is probably a sign that the bottom is about to fall out, but I'm happy to ride the wave of optimism til it crashes.

Bring on fall!

Multitasking and memory

I have always had a frighteningly good memory. I can remember things that happened on my first birthday, for instance, and way more about my toddler years than anyone I know. I remember my childhood phone number. My address when I was 8. The birthdays of my high school friends and boyfriends. And loads more inconsequential stuff.

My memory used to be better; as a child, I had a nearly comprehensive memory of everything that had happened to me back to that first birthday, down to the outfit I was wearing on a given day. But my brain got full, and some of those memories fell out. Still, I remember a lot.

There are some things that, interestingly, I can never remember. Like the order of brackets and parentheses in a sentence; I always have to look that up. But I am able to hold a lot of information in my mind at one time. It's part of what makes me a good editor.

What I can't remember are little, immediate things. Whether or not I put the clothes in the dryer. What I intended to buy at the store. Where I was going with the story I am currently telling. Those sorts of things. The reason for this lapse is not age; it's multitasking.

I am never not multitasking. I multitask in my sleep. (Really, I do. I sort through emotional and mental baggage, work out problems, and feed a baby. All while sleeping. Sometimes I snore, too.) I am doing at least three things at once 24 hours a day. So occasionally I go all absent-minded professor. I think that's understandable.

I've read articles in recent years that claim multitasking is bad. That it ruins productivity, accuracy, morale. Probably serves as a risk factor for disease and early death, too...everything does. But when you are a parent, multitasking is a part of life. (And life, as Facebook tells me, is the leading cause of death. For once, Facebook has a point.)

I am a little worried about age-related memory loss. If I have to write everything down now, what will I have to do then? Hire a personal assistant? Probably. Maybe I can pay one of my kids to remember things for me. After all, it's their fault I can't remember anything.

Enough

I am not the type of person who believes everything happens for a reason, or that things always work out for the best. Suffering is real, and I refuse to believe that there is a purpose for the extreme suffering some people endure.

But I do believe that things work out neatly sometimes. Maybe not as good as you'd hoped, but well enough. And I believe in recognizing and acknowledging those moments when they come to pass.

• The house next door to my parents that became available for rent for the first time in several years the month after my first child was born.
• The job that allows telecommuting, which I had been trying to obtain for years, that became available the month after I returned to work from maternity leave.
• The freelancing gigs I pieced together to keep us afloat until my job became full time and R found work.
• The job R found with hours that complement mine, so we can still be their main caretakers.
• The caterpillar that comes back to life just when you and your daughter most need an emotional win.
• The kind words and gifts from family and friends, too numerous to list, that came in just when I needed them most.

It is not all sunshine and roses. Bad days happen. Not everyone is supportive. At times, I feel it is all falling apart in my hands. Other times, I feel like I am on a treadmill -- no matter how long I walk, I get nowhere.

But we have enough. Thanks in no small part to these little happy coincidences.

Enough is fine with me.

What being an only child really means

My daughter comes into my office and slumps at my feet, head hanging. "Nobody plays with me," she says.

All the neighbor kids go to day care, Daddy is busy with the baby, and I work. Her grandparents play with her, but she can't stay over there every day.

Usually she deals with the lack of playmates pretty well. But she's getting older, and wants to socialize. She is lonely.

And my heart cracks a little. Because I have been that kid.

A few days ago, I walked into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Anya came in, rummaged in the pantry for a minute, then pulled out her Snoopy Snow Cone Maker. "Make snow cones with me, Mama?"

"Mama can't right now; I'm working. Daddy will help you in a bit." I took my tea to the office and went back to work.

A while later, I went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. The snow cone maker was all set up, and Anya was watching her tablet. Daddy was taking care of brother, who is teething and crabby.

An hour after that, the snow cone maker was still unused. Anya had moved on. Daddy and baby were asleep.

This is what it's like to be an only child. This is why I wanted a brother or sister so badly, even into my teens. It's why I wanted Anya to have a sibling.

Tell me your stories of sibling torture if you must. I grew up lonely. At least you had someone to fight with.

Kai is just a baby yet. I have hopes that, in a year or two, they will be great playmates. Most of the time, anyway. For now, though, she's on her own.

Which is why, when I finish with work, I set aside time to play with her, when I have a million other things to do.

(She did get her snow cone; by the way; Daddy made her a huge-huge one after Kai woke up.)

The people of Quora want to know about my c-sections

I posted about my first c-section on Quora. But this post has been percolating since I had Kai. I figured I would spare them the rant and go straight to my own page with it. Because as it turns out, I have more to say about c-sections.

The first Cesarean was terrifyingly fast. In the space of an hour, I went from being numb and artificially contracting, surrounded by a room full of people making uncomfortable small talk while they waited for me to pop out a kid, to peering over my outstretched, IVed arm at my baby, who was howling indignantly across a bright, frigid room while the medical staff tossed my guts back in and stitched me up. If I'd had time to think about it, I'd have had a panic attack. But there was no time to think. Until later, that is, when I would laugh at the question, "When are you having another baby?" When they perfect that technique from Eternal Sunshine, sweetheart, I would think. I never want to go through that again.

Three years later, I'd forgotten enough to decide to try again.

I kept my cool until I was actually on the operating table, shivering in a hospital gown that, despite my hugely pregnant size, I was swimming in. They had me straddle the operating table to give me the anesthetic, and I just lost it. Shaking and crying uncontrollably. Because I knew, this time, what to expect. Having a needle jabbed in my spine. Being cut open, insides shoved aside, a baby removed, everything tossed back in like packing to return home after a 2-week vacation in paradise.

I knew what lay ahead: Weeks of pain, weakness, bleeding. Healing at the speed of frozen molasses. And I wanted more than anything to have an unmedicated vaginal birth. Sure, I'd heard horror stories about those, but I'd never had one. Sometimes the devil you know is scarier than the devil you don't.

The nursing staff was great. They took a moment to calm me down, and kept their patience even though I'd turned into a huge, whiny baby. Finally, I was numbed and stretched out, R was brought in, and the hacking...ahem, surgical procedure commenced.

I don't really remember much about the procedure. I remember fighting the anesthesiologist about the oxygen mask, because I felt like it was suffocating me.* I remember telling R that I loved him, but we were never doing this again.

And then I heard my son's first tears.

Just like that, it was bearable. All of it. I'd do it all again, just to hear those tears.

I hate that it takes so long to touch the baby when having a c-section. I hear some hospitals bring the baby close, so the mom can see him or her while she is being stitched up. Mine didn't. It'd have been easier for me if they had.

I tend to have a hard time recovering from c-sections. The first time, I was in agonizing pain for weeks.** The second time, I did much better; I shunned the compression wrap, so maybe that helped. But now I'm having pains that I can only assume are due to adhesions (because I am not letting them cut me back open to confirm, thankyouverymuch). It's the only reason I can think of that doing cobra pose would cause a bolt of pain to shoot up just one side of my abdomen. I'm also having considerable sacroiliac joint pain. Which is probably from the pregnancy, not the Cesarean, but either way puts a damper on my yoga practice.

Despite all that, deep down I know I'd jump at the chance to do it all again if I were just a little younger. I like the age gap between Anya and Kai, but by the time Kai is 3 I will be nearly 44. Which is pushing it in terms of having children. So, reluctantly, I am done having babies.

Would I recommend an elective c-section? Oh my god, no. Hell no. Never in life. If the baby will come out the hole the baby was meant to come out of, let it. But if you need the procedure to protect your health, the baby's health, or simply to get the baby out, by all means have it. It's not as bad as you think. (Neither is formula, but that is a post for another time.) It will be awful, but you will forget in time just how awful. And when it's all over, you get a cute baby.

And that is my c-section story.

*I am terrified of suffocating when I am pregnant. An oddly specific fear, I know.
**Yes, I took my all my medicine. Women who don't boggle my mind. I was not in the least too doped up to enjoy my baby, and they just filleted you like a fish, for heaven's sake. Take the drugs!

And then, you remembered

The voice in my head sounds an awful lot like Dr. Moon* since I became a mother.

Me: [shampooing hair] Oh, crap -- I forgot to get the leftover cash and ride tickets out of the pocket of my shorts.

Dr. Moon: And then, you remembered.

Me: I will get them out just as soon as I get out of the shower.

Of course, by the time I have finished showering, I have completely forgotten.

Several days later, I enter the kitchen and see a wadded-up dollar bill on the kitchen table.

Me: That's from my pocket, isn't it? That's the money I was going to get out before we did laundry.

Dr. Moon: And then, you forgot.

Me: So where's the rest of it? [go to the basket of clean clothes, discover the extra bills mixed in with the laundry -- but not the ride tickets] I don't see yellow paper shreds on everything. Where are the tickets?

Dr. Moon: And then, you remembered.

Me: [locate tickets in watch pocket of said shorts -- curled, and crisp, but still intact]

Snuck the cash into her treasure box,
but these are mine.

This kind of thing happens all the time. I've taken to creating multiple to-do lists on my phone, with reminders that pop up throughout the day. Not just stuff to buy or appointments, but things like "clean out the fridge" and "trim the kids' nails." Because if I don't do that, I end up with a fridge full of rotting food and a face full of scratches. (No, that is not a zit on my chin. The baby is in a grabby phase.)

So if you see me bent over my phone, don't automatically assume that I am playing Candy Crush.** Most likely I am looking at my list, trying to remember what it is I am forgetting.

*Obligatory Doctor Who reference.
**Like I have time for that stuff. If I manage to game, it's gonna involve a Sim or a REALLY big sword.