Windows

I’ve begun to look at life as a series of windows. Windows of time, I mean. Temporal spaces we inhabit with unique roles to fill in each one. Exactly 13 months ago, I was riding shotgun in my dad’s car, five months pregnant, tearing up as I explained to him that I wasn’t reaching my professional goals. “I’m just not where I thought I would be by age 32,” I explained to him. “And here I am getting ready to have a baby, which means my career will most likely come to a screeching halt.” Dad took it all in, like he always does. We sat for a few moments in silence.

“Your job is just different now. It’s no less important, even though right now you may think it is. There is so much wonder ahead for you.” I believed him, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I should have published, or at least translated, a great novel by now. My company should be more successful (whatever that means). I should have traveled more. I should be more than I am. I continued to spiral, feeling like I hadn’t reached my apex yet, like I should have done more before deciding to have a child. I was resisting the window.

The weeks following Lyla’s birth, I started to understand what my dad had so simply, yet articulately, conveyed to me that day. As the months passed, I learned about the wonderfully all-consuming role that is motherhood. I learned what it feels like to go days without enough sleep, without a shower (much less time to think or write). I learned what it feels like to love unconditionally and fully, to feel more needed and more purposeful than I have ever felt before. This is the window in which I exist right now. When I fall into bed at the end of the day, I am overcome by a different kind of exhaustion than I have ever felt before, the kind of exhaustion that is the result of another human relying on you for each and every need. Exhausted from the intimacy, from the intensity of it all, yet unable to stop looking at this breathtaking little person sleeping so soundly. What a crazy beautiful window.

That said, it’s also a challenging window. It challenges me to examine who I am and what I want from life. There are many parents who are happy to swap their own dreams for the dreams of their children. I honor and respect them. For better or for worse, I am not one of them. There’s a fire in my gut that won’t quit. I need to write, to create, to do. I need to pour myself into projects that move me. I need to use my resources and make the time so that I can accomplish these things, for my own good, for the good of my family.

This window also challenges me to think about the long-term happiness of another very important person. I want, more than anything, to see Lyla discover her passions, to thrive in the moment, to feel a chill run down her spine when she hears a certain melody, when she sees the Matterhorn for the first time, when she reads (or creates) a theory that blows her mind. If I’ve learned one thing these past six months, it’s that she is a curious and open soul, someone who’s ready to take in (and take on) the world. This thrills me to no end.

It might be difficult, and it will definitely be messy at times, but I’ve decided we, the Bouchard three, can have it all. Three passionate souls, striving for our dreams, feeding each others’ interests and passions, truly sharing and rejoicing in not only who we are to one another, but in who we are to the world.

There will be times when my role is to help my husband and daughter become their best selves. There will be other times when I can focus on my passion projects. The windows will continue to shift, and perhaps overlap at times, but the essence of who we are will provide a sense of continuity, a through line.

I will continue to live in a state of gratitude: gratitude that I have not yet reached my apex by any stretch of the imagination, gratitude that my notions of success and happiness are constantly being challenged, gratitude that I have the opportunity to inhabit these incomparable and gratifying windows.

Rising to Fatherhood

Michael’s first “father moment” happened five years ago, even though he probably doesn’t realize this. We were at Bloomingdale’s, registering for wedding gifts. The saleswoman brought us a variety of wine glasses. As she touted the quality of the dazzling collection of lead crystal before us, Michael interrupted her suddenly, dare I say harshly. “Did you say lead crystal? NO. No way. Take these away.” My mom stared at him wide-eyed, still trying to figure out her son-in-law-to-be.

“You didn’t like any of those?” I ventured.

“Lead crystal? No. Drinking from those could screw with your reproductive system. Why chance it?”

I was dumbstruck. At that point, kids were a definite “maybe,” but here he was, concerned with the wellbeing of my reproductive organs (granted, his approach was a little rough around the edges, but the mark of a good father was clearly there).

Michael and I weren’t sure we wanted to be parents. We knew we had the resources (emotional, intellectual, material, etc.) to be good parents, we just didn’t know if we wanted to. When we remind each other of that now, our past ambivalence seems ludicrous. But that’s the place we were in— for years. Our decision to get pregnant was based on that nebulous concept of “readiness.” We both wanted it, but the nature of our desires and our thought processes were very different.

I called him at work on September 23^rd, 2010, unable to wait until he got home to tell him I was pregnant.  “Congratulations!” he exclaimed. Congratulations? He came home that afternoon with a 9-month supply of prenatal vitamins, embraced me in the kitchen, buried his head in the crook of my neck and we swayed, just like we did the day Lyla came into the world.

It was a long ten months between our kitchen embrace and our labor room embrace. And our journeys during those ten months couldn’t have been more different. While I completely trusted my intuition and body’s innate knowledge (for the first time in my life), he downloaded any NPR report on pregnancy and childbirth he could get his hands on, intellectualizing everything. While I let tears roll down my cheeks at each ultrasound, falling more and more in love with my child with each flip and flicker, he stood inches away from the screen, sending a barrage of questions toward the ultrasound tech. Whereas I became a mother the moment I saw the coveted two lines on the pregnancy test, he spent ten months rising to fatherhood, one step at a time.

I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for a partner to watch his or her loved one’s belly swell, feeling that little force of nature rise to the surface and kick from time to time. Likewise, I have no idea what it must be like to watch the person you love most in the world enter into the “birthing zone,” grunting, squatting, pushing, refusing your help, bringing your child into the world.

A good friend of mine once said, “A real man is one who can watch his child come into this world.” As I delivered Lyla, Michael’s face was as close as it could possibly to her entryway. I remember feeling extremely proud of him in that moment. I remember falling even deeper in love with him the first time I saw him hold his daughter, seeing him completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of what had just happened.

A few days ago, Michael and Lyla were snuggling in the living room. When I came in to ask if she needed to be fed, he was cradling her head in his hands, singing “I’ve Got the Whole World in My Hands,” sotto voce. I watched them. I cried. My heart swelled. A real man rises to fatherhood. And he has.

Food Source

Written in conjunction with Blog Action Day 2011.

About 4 hours into a relatively short 8-hour natural labor with my daughter, I turned to my sister after moaning and swaying through a particularly arduous contraction and said, “I feel like that cow in the birthing barn at the State Fair.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s a mammal thing.” She was right, and at that moment, I had no idea how intimately connected I would be to my mammalhood (mammalness? mammalitude?) during the coming months.

Before I became one, I didn’t really think about what it would be like to be a food source.  I just figured breastfeeding would be what it would be, end of story. As it turns out, I was right not to over think it. There was no way I could have ever comprehended what it means to be the sole provider of nourishment to a quickly growing human. Along the way, I’ve discovered many things about my place in the world as a food source.

As a food source, I have to trust my body.

The first time I nursed Lyla, it was simultaneously the most natural and the most daunting thing I had ever done. After the postpartum high wore off, I remember thinking, “Wow. It’s all on me. I’m the one who needs to make sure she gets enough food.”

Lyla was a good two weeks overdue, so she came out waterlogged and full of meconium. As all of this passed out of her system, she lost weight quickly. I was pressured by the pediatrician to give her formula. I resisted, knowing this could compromise the success of our nursing relationship. Instead, I trusted that my body would do what it was made to do. Sure enough, it did. My daughter continues to thrive on what I alone can give her.

As a food source, I am envied.

“She loves you so much. She eats what you make. I wish I could give her food, too.” These words were uttered by a bleary-eyed papa as he watched me nursing the babe to sleep one night. Michael has always been in charge of the food in our house; he cooks, grocery shops, and researches food trends/practices/realities to keep us in good health and eating extremely tasty food. The fact that I’m the only one who can feed Lyla has been challenging for him, since feeding people is one of the primary ways in which he shows friends and family he cares about them.

As a food source, I am tired and sore.

There are times when exclusive, on-demand breastfeeding kicks my butt…hard. At the same time, I wouldn’t have it any other way. There is only a short period of time in which I can do this for my daughter, and I know these days will pass quickly.

As a food source, I am more aware of my choices.

It’s mind-blowing how many nutritional options are available to me every day. I realize how fortunate I am; I live in a place where I have access to the best quality food anyone could hope for and I have the means to acquire it. This is a privilege and also a responsibility. Being a food source to another person has made me think more about what I put in my own body, ultimately making me a healthier and more engaged person. It is my responsibility to help sustain those who are working to provide healthy, fresh food so that eventually these opportunities will become more prevalent and accessible to all. It is also my responsibility to help open up access to food choices to those who do not have the means to purchase nutritious food for themselves and their children. We’re all in this together.

As a food source, I am powerful.

Each time I look at my daughter, I am awed by how much she has grown. I am grateful to my body for providing what she needs to thrive. There is so much power in the female body. Not only can I nourish her physically, but also emotionally as I cradle her, sing to her and speak softly to her. The nursing relationship is so complete, so full.

As a food source, I am humbled.

I am humbled when I think of single mothers who nurse to exhaustion. I am humbled by mothers who nurse multiples and those who tandem nurse. I am humbled when I think of women who go without so that their children will have enough to eat. I am humbled by women who go to the hospital every day to nurse their sick infants. What strength, what perseverance, what love.

As a food source, I am connected.

Every day, I feel connected to the sisterhood of women who feed and nurture their children, not only at the breast, but in other ways as well. When I feed Lyla, I think of the women who have fed children in various ways over the centuries. What an amazing gift we have. What an awesome responsibility.

35 Years: Musings on the Power of Love

For Barb and Dan Westmoreland on their 35th wedding anniversary.

My parents are a power couple. No, not the kind with his and hers BMWs, inflated egos and power suits— the kind that lovingly changes lives, one person at a time. Tomorrow they will celebrate their 35^th wedding anniversary. For those who know them well, this milestone of love and commitment comes as no surprise. After all, Barb and Dan’s marriage is a microcosm of how they live their lives— with gusto, compassion, and devotion.

A few weeks ago, I came across a photo of my parents on their second date (to the Renaissance Festival) in 1972. My second comment (after mocking whatever mismatched…er…”fashion-forward?” polyester apparel my dad was sporting—you know, obligatory daughter stuff) upon seeing it was “Wow. It’s amazing to think that you had a life before us.” I was only half-kidding. It blows my mind to think of my parents meeting, dating and falling in love. I can’t fathom the fact that, just like the rest of us who have made commitments to partners, they went through that heady period of truly getting know each other—the good comes first, of course, followed by the not so good—the exhilaration, the vulnerabilities, the anxieties, the desires, the setbacks, the personality flaws that you finally decide you can work with, the love that you can’t imagine living without. Even though I’ve seen the photos and heard the recording of my dad’s emotion-filled voice singing to his bride, it’s hard for me to imagine them taking this major step in their lives together— committing to be there for each other, to have and to hold, from that day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do they part.

That’s because, when it comes to the Barb and Dan I’ve known my entire life, this sense of love and commitment has always been a given. Their relationship is not perfect; I’ve never seen one that is. However, the bedrock is solid. I’ve seen them withstand some intense challenges over the years— dying parents, struggling friends, and I know there have been periods when Annie or I stressed them to the max. They’ve always rolled up their sleeves, dug right in, and dealt with the problem at its root. As I look back on those times, the thing that strikes me most is their partnership. Whatever challenge Mom was facing became Dad’s challenge, too, and vice versa.

It’s been wonderful to watch my parents grow as individuals (taking on new projects, becoming interested in new things, refining their skills) and as partners, especially over the past few years. Their relationship has never stopped evolving. I am inspired by their ability to pour themselves into their work, passion projects, friendships and families. I am even more inspired by the way they support each other, making it possible for each of them to achieve greatness in so many ways.

Not a day goes by that I don’t recognize how fortunate I am to have grown up with such loving, engaged parents. I know that 99% of why I am happy and fulfilled today has to do with my parents’ influence. I also realize that this process started the moment I was born, and I was reminded of this fact a few months ago.

Several weeks after I gave birth to Lyla, we were over at Mom and Dad’s. I gave Lyla to Dad while I went to use the restroom. When I came back out to the living room, Dad and Lyla were nowhere to be found. As I was looking for them, I heard muffled giggling coming from Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I opened the door slowly and saw that Dad had snuggled Lyla up next to Mom as she was waking up from her nap. Mom was sleepily playing with Lyla’s little toes and cooing loving words in her ear. Dad was lying on the other side of Lyla, stroking her head. When he saw me at the door, he jokingly said “Go away! This is our baby!” and turned back to his granddaughter. I disobeyed his “order,” and as I watched them with her, it dawned on me that this is what my first days on earth must have looked like. It was like staring into a time capsule. My eyes filled as I thought of my parents sharing all of the love they had as a couple with their first child, then a second child, and friends, and family and eventually the communities they both serve.

Indeed, something powerful was happening in that photo from 1972. Perhaps unbeknownst to them at the time, my parents were laying the foundation for a beautiful life. Not just for themselves, but for so many others.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Seeing People

Lyla doesn’t just look at people. She sees people. As I watch her meet someone new, I am struck by how she studies his or her face, mentally cataloguing each eyelash, wrinkle and freckle.

Her expression is stone serious at first, and then begins to soften as she senses the humanity behind the physical exterior. The corners of her mouth twitch and gradually expand into a big, toothless, drooly smile. She takes in each sound and facial movement with the utmost curiosity, striving to understand the fascinating being in front of her.

Last weekend, we took her to the Mill City Farmers market. As I was perusing produce, I felt Lyla’s head turn and her gaze landed on a little girl sitting in a stroller next to us. The little girl responded in kind, staring intently at Lyla. Since Lyla was wrapped onto me in the Moby, I bent down to facilitate their interaction. They cooed, drooled and smiled at each other— smiles so big that the edges of their mouths quivered in joy. My swift crouching movement caught the eye of the little girl’s mother, who began watching this precious interaction, just as captivated as I was by their wordless communication.

The little girl’s mother and I let them continue their smile-fest for several minutes before going about our farmers market business. We passed the little girl and her mother several more times that morning. Each time, without fail, the girls would greet each other with a smile of recognition— like long lost friends.

I find all baby communication to be touching, but this particular interaction resonated with me on a different, deeper level. Lyla’s farmers market friend had Down syndrome. As I reflect on their interaction, a hot flush of shame rushes to my cheeks. I had seen this little girl at the crêpe stand, about ten minutes before Lyla’s eyes met hers at the produce stall. Upon noticing her, my second thought (after “what a beautiful little girl”) was “what a challenge it must be to raise a child with Down syndrome.”

Why? Because, for better or for worse, the lens through which I view the world is covered by various filters, and tinted by my life experience– what I’ve heard, seen, and think I know. Lyla’s lens is crystal clear, and its focus is razor-sharp. When she looks, she immediately sees the good stuff. The important stuff. The human stuff. Where I saw a mother’s challenge, she saw an intriguing person.

If only I took the time to truly see and try to understand those with whom I interact on a daily basis. Imagine what a better, more compassionate, more sentient person I would be. Imagine the accuracy and depth with which I would be able to write about the human condition; to share my observations with others.

As I watch Lyla meet new friends, I feel as though I’ve been missing out. I don’t know when we “lose” this pure curiosity, this ability to suspend judgment and truly see. I think it’s still in me. If I keep watching my daughter, I know I’ll find it again.

On Writing and Parenthood: Thèmes du Jour

I have something to confess. Each time I sit down to write a blog post on pregnancy (don’t worry, you won’t be seeing any of those for a while), birth, or motherhood in general, I feel a pang of dread. Dread that I’ll be labeled a “mommy blogger” (you know, the kind that reviews strollers or dedicates full blog posts to spit-up) or be viewed as a monothematic writer (let’s face it, I’ve been called worse). Not that there is anything inherently wrong with either of those labels, they’re just not what I aspire to be.

I’ve always written what I know (standard advice in the field), and this blog serves as a receptacle for all of those thoughts that are either too personal or too obscure for the venues in which I typically publish. The very personal lessons I’ve learned from my daughter are what have caught my attention the past three months. In the days I’ve spent with her, I’ve not only learned who she is, she’s also revealed to me various facets of humanity. She’s reminded me of beliefs I’ve always held that had become buried under years of quotidian concerns. Life has become a celebration, and my creativity has flourished thanks to her innocent revelations and reminders.

A dear friend of mine (who also happens to be a world-class writer and editor) recently introduced me to an organization called Pen Parentis. The members of this diverse group don’t necessarily write on parenthood (in fact, most of them don’t). Their commonality lies in the fact that they are all parents and writers— a powerful combination. Powerful because, in my experience, parenthood informs my writing (on a variety of topics) and the perspective required to be a writer helps me to better understand the world(s) of parenting, these intimate microcosms we build and exist in each day.

I’ve decided to cast off the yoke of dread I feel when I sit down to write about the creative fodder—gifts, really— sourced from this awe-inspiring journey called motherhood. I will forge ahead shamelessly, unabashedly, as a writer-mother/mother-writer, since I know that someday I will crave anything that reminds me of these intense, beautiful days. I’ll return to writing about some of my other favorite topics soon, but for now, I’ve decided to dedicate the slim spaces in my schedule to writing about what I am living, feeling and learning today. Art, feminism, literature, politics and education will have to wait for the time being. Or will they? As I’m learning, each of these realms informs the views I bring to parenting.

As I reflect on my first three months of being a mother to a babe outside the womb—the strange smells, new sleep schedule, lack of personal time and my painful, shifting postpartum body fade into a nebulous, low-level hum and a select set of crystalline moments remains in the foreground. These are thèmes du jour that captivate me and compel me to write. I will continue to put pen to paper (or fingers to laptop, as it were) and get them out into the world.

On Vulnerability

I tip-toe over to my daughter’s cradle and furtively place my hand on her belly to feel the rise and fall of healthy breathing (a common new mom compulsion, or so I’m told), a gesture that elicits what sounds like an exasperated sigh from my already very independent 2-month-old. I breathe my own sigh— one of relief, that is— and curl back into bed next to my husband. I watch Lyla squirm a few times, furrow her brow, and sigh again before settling back into a comfortable position. Each squirm makes my heart ache in the best possible way, and I close my eyes and sink back into this new state of being— one I can only describe as a state of vulnerability imbued with incredible strength.

I rarely think of myself as a vulnerable person. I will admit that I’ve been vulnerable at times during my life, but it isn’t a term I frequently use to describe myself. I’ve always associated vulnerability with weakness, something one (especially women) must fight against in order to be successful in life. This philosophy had served me well for many years— at least I thought it had until I discovered the beauty that lies in allowing oneself to become completely vulnerable.

The events surrounding Lyla’s birth taught me exactly what I had been missing all these years. With each movement felt or heartbeat heard during my pregnancy, I fell deeper in love with the powerful little being growing inside me. As I labored to bring her into the world, I felt both my body and soul open to the possibility of loving more than I had ever thought possible. This opening, this complete surrendering, left me more vulnerable than I have ever been in my life. In the first days at home with her, I kept her on my chest constantly (unless her dad was holding her), needing to feel her near, needing to show her how much I loved her.

As the days passed, out of this feeling of vulnerability came the knowledge that I was a capable mother. As my physical strength improved, so did my mental clarity and emotional energy. Combining instinct with research, I continued to care for my child, a process I had begun ten months earlier. As I nursed her, bathed her, and took her out into the world, I felt both invincible and completely exposed. This vulnerability/strength dichotomy is inherent to my experience as a parent. Each day is trial by fire, and I come through it feeling more confident, more aware of my daughter’s needs. I fall even deeper in love with my child, which leaves me feeling vulnerable… and the cycle starts all over again.

Before I became pregnant, I had a conversation with a good friend who described parenthood as being completely willing to sacrifice everything for one’s child, even one’s own life. I didn’t doubt this was true, it was just that I had no context for this type of emotion at the time. I understand it now. I understand it on a visceral level, and I know that this desire to protect and ensure the survival of one’s  child is in and of itself and act of strength.

When Lyla was two weeks old, I was invited to sing back-up on one of my dad’s songs at the Compassionate Friends International Conference. This organization exists as a support network for parents who have lost children at any age, due to any circumstances. This year’s conference was organized by my beloved aunt, who lost her daughter (our dear cousin) in a tragic car wreck sixteen years ago. Dad and his musicians were asked to kick off the morning walk to remember with his song “Walk in the Light.” As the song began, I looked out into the sea of parents who had gathered to remember their sons and daughters. Many of them had pictures of their children on their t-shirts. I ached for them. I also admired them more than words can express. In their eyes I saw the utmost pride and love for their children—these souls who continue to live on in the hearts and minds of their loved ones. I saw incredible strength, strength that I cannot even begin to imagine. Just as it was difficult for me to understand parental love before I became a mother, it is nearly impossible for me to fully understand the type of strength it takes to carry on in the memory of a child who has left this world.

What I do know is this: It is only through allowing ourselves to be open and vulnerable that we experience true and deep love. Of course, this state of heart-wrenching, exhilarating, all-consuming love is not just reserved for parents. It is accessible to anyone who dares allow him or herself to enter into this precarious and sublime state of vulnerability. From what I’ve witnessed so far in my very new journey as a mother, out of this vulnerability comes unimaginable strength, the strength to care, to act, to love unconditionally every day of our lives, whether our loved ones are still with us or not.

We will walk in the light of their memory,

Run with hope in our hearts,

Fly on the wings of love all our days…

All our days.

(Excerpted from “Walk in the Light” by Dan Westmoreland)

Breast Interests

“Mama Jen?” Dad said quietly from the hallway. “I think she’s still hungry.”

I was already headed in her direction. She had been crying for two minutes or so and, as any breastfeeding mother can tell you, my milk ducts had already responded en force.

“I’m sorry. I know you need to work. She ate the two bottles you brought, but I think she needs more.” My parents had kindly offered to watch my 5-week-old daughter so I could carve out a couple of hours to spend in front of my laptop finishing up a project for a client. In anticipation of my work night, I had pumped two bottles, the only “liquid gold” I could manage extract between Lyla’s nearly constant feedings.

I sped over to the chair where Mom was holding Lyla, rocking her and soothing her with a voice I hadn’t heard since I was a child. “She needs her mama right now,” Mom said with knowing eyes. Bending down to scoop up my red-faced babe, I briefly cursed myself for thinking I could maintain a vital career and be the type of mother I wanted to be. Clearly I was failing on both counts.

Lyla and I retreated to my parents’ living room and her hungry little lips latched onto my heavy breast. I tried typing with one hand while cradling her in the opposite arm. When that proved too tedious, I began making a mental list of all of the things I needed to accomplish before the week was out— maternal, personal and professional tasks. I felt my blood pressure rise.

When I was only 3 or 4 months pregnant, Mom asked me if I was planning to breastfeed. She beamed when I responded with a resounding “of course!” “You’ll love it,” she cooed, slipping into a dreamy, nostalgic state.

I do love it. I love that my body can produce everything that my quickly growing daughter needs. I love that I can give her something that no one else can. I love that we have moments throughout the day (and night) that are reserved for just the two of us.

But some days I’m just a human couch with milk spigots (my sister’s apt description). On those days, each time I try to perform basic hygiene or get out of my mismatched pajamas, each time I try to respond to an email, each time I try to go to the bathroom, pleading little sounds and eyes draw me back and we nurse…and nurse…aaaaand nurse.

I am grateful for the ability and desire to breastfeed my daughter. I am also grateful for a lifestyle that allows me to do so. I work primarily from home, and most days I am able to complete that work and have plenty of time to spend with my darling “nugget.” Both my husband and I have worked hard to be in a position where I can work part-time from home in a fulfilling career and mother Lyla in the best way I know how.

What’s more, I have an incredibly supportive husband who cooks, cleans and never misses a chance to interact with his daughter. Even though I know we have worked hard to get here, I still can’t help but feel like I won the lifestyle lottery. Most days I don’t feel like a woman “oppressed by motherhood” (French writer Elizabeth Badinter’s theme de préférence), nor do I feel like I’m somehow less of a mother for maintaining a career (a common American maternal anxiety). I feel like a pretty great mother, actually.

Then why have I felt so “off” these past few days? So torn? Searching for the answer, my mind traveled back to the conversations about breastfeeding I’d had with my mom before Lyla was born. Well, she didn’t work while she was breastfeeding me, I reasoned, so there you go. All she had to do was concentrate on me and my needs. She must have been happy with that. But I knew deep down that wasn’t true. My mom has never been the “housewife” type. She’s a woman of action, a woman of vision. I know there were times when she felt cooped up when she was at home with us. I also know that she loved that time in her life more than words.

How did she do it? The answer came to me as soon as I asked the question: she has always been wonderful at living in the moment. For better or for worse, I have always excelled at speeding ahead into the future, relying on multitasking and overloading my schedule to get to the next step, the next level— either personally or professionally.

That was it. In the best interest of my daughter, and in my best interest, I would have to swap out my lens, to adjust my perspective.

So, I’m taking a page out of my wise mother’s book and trying my darndest to stay in the moment. Yep… easier said than done, but this truth reminds me of the importance of trying: If there’s anything lovelier than my beautiful daughter nursing merrily while never breaking eye contact with me, I have yet to experience it. I know these days will pass too quickly and someday, like my mom, I’ll speak of breastfeeding in rhapsodic terms.

I also know that I have a great support system. When Michael gets home from work he’ll be there to play with Lyla while I do my work, or bathe, or have a glass of wine—whatever I feel is the top priority at that moment. When I greet him with un-brushed teeth, tangled hair and tired eyes, he’ll immediately know what kind of day I’ve had: a human couch day.

Today was one of those days. “She only sees me as a food source,” I lamented. “She doesn’t play with me like she does with you. She doesn’t smile at me as much.”

“Yes,” he replied. “But you’re the reason she’s so happy and healthy. You’re the reason she’s growing so well. Plus, I saw her crack a few smiles while you were talking to her in French this morning.”

“You’re right, she did like that,” I remembered as I stepped into the shower.

Yes.

Perspective.

Cascading Over the Precipice

Your birth was a series of moments that accumulated, stacking one on top of another, leading me up, up, up until I found myself cascading over the precipice, thrust into an exhilarating free fall before landing peacefully in another reality.

Saturday, June 25, 2:30pm

Your induction is scheduled for Monday. I will be nearly 42 weeks pregnant at that point (or 43 weeks, depending on which due date you go by), which, in terms of gestational timeline, is on the far end of the medical community’s comfort level. My OB has been wonderful, doing everything possible to give me the chance to go into labor naturally. Being induced was the last thing I wanted for us, but my thoughts are with you and getting you into this world in the healthiest way possible. I also know that I am exhausted and in pain. I’m not sure how many more sleepless nights I can endure and still be an effective laborer. I lean on your papa’s shoulder and say “I think I just need a little more time. Lyla and I can do this. I know we can do this.” I call my OB and she agrees to push back my induction until Friday, provided I come in each day for a biophysical profile. I agree, relieved. I make it my mission for the next few days to stay rested and nourished. I meditate and talk to you.

Wednesday, June 29, 12:03pm

I lumber upstairs to get dressed as your grandma is on her way to pick me up for lunch. For the past three weeks we have been calling you our mermaid, so content you seem to stay in your underwater world. I bend over to pull on the one pair of pants that fits (sort of) and notice a small stream of liquid trickling down my leg. Then a gush. Then a deluge. I squeal and burst into tears. You are coming, naturally, on your own. Your papa races back home to find me perched on the front steps with a drenched towel between my legs, beaming.

Wednesday, June 29, 3:08pm

I’ve been walking through the birth center for an hour, trying to get contractions started. The on-call doctor (not mine) started me on the dreaded “Pitocin timeline”—I have until 4:00 to show some cervical change before the cascade of interventions that I had wanted so badly to avoid will kick in. My cervix is only dilated to 1cm. I’m starting to have some contractions—not strong, but regular. I tell your auntie that I need a break. She lovingly tells me I need to keep walking. I do.

Wednesday, June 29, 4:11pm

My cervix is dilated to 3cm. I go to the bathroom and feel your head drop like a bocce ball into my pelvis. I immediately start cramping— hard. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Wednesday, June 29, 6:15pm

After walking for another 2 hours I’m having strong contractions. With each one I slip deeper into a place of concentration, a place of connection to you. I roll back and forth on the birth ball, flanked by your papa and auntie. Papa plays Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluia” and I feel hot tears stream down my cheeks. We’re there. We’re in active labor. You and I are doing this.

Wednesday, June 29, 8:05pm

I’m laboring hard in the tub. My body adjusts to the intensity of each contraction just in time to prepare itself for the strength of the next one. I breath, grunt, hum, vocalize. The vibrations of my voice feel soothing and give me more power to stay on top of each surge. (Little did I know they soothed you, too. I would hum in the same way to put you to sleep weeks after your birth.) I ask for your papa to come in. He sits on the edge of the tub, tentatively putting a hand on my shoulder, then quickly retracting it, unsure of what to do. His touch brings me out of my place of concentration, so I ask him not to make physical contact. I tell him that I just need him there. He doesn’t have to say or do anything. I feel his gaze on me as I work through each contraction.

Wednesday, June 29, 10:15pm

After a series of contractions that leave my thighs trembling, I abandon my current position (on my knees, draped over the end of the birthing bed) and sit for a moment with my legs dangling off the side. A wave of hormones and adrenaline hit and I start convulsing. Auntie and Doula Robyn hold my shoulders so that I don’t fall. The shaking takes me by surprise, but after it ends I feel more focused and energized. A contraction comes and I surge forward. I’m spontaneously pushing. The nurse checks me and I’m fully dilated. You are kicking more forcefully than ever. I’m not surprised when the nurse tells me that your heartbeat is strong and regular— you are tolerating labor well. We are both thriving in this moment.

Thursday, June 30, 12:15am

I’ve been laboring down for two hours, letting each contraction guide my pushing. The spontaneous urge to push is the most powerful sensation I’ve ever experienced. I feel strong, in control, totally connected to you and my body. This is the hardest I’ve ever worked— at anything. You continue to kick as you glide down the birth canal. Auntie, Papa and Doula Robyn are taking shifts holding my legs and encouraging me. I know you are coming. There is no need to rush your arrival.

Thursday, June 30, 12:40am

The pace of my pushing changes. I hear someone say “I see hair!” and the tone in the room shifts. The nurse calls for back up and I realize that doctor has not arrived yet. The nurse asks me to resist the urge to push, to “puff” for the next few contractions. I “puff”, but the next contraction pushes your head through the opening. You are fully crowning. Everything in my being— in my universe– at that moment is telling me to deliver you into the world. The sensation is primal, it’s out of my control— I have become the pushing. With the next contraction I give a strong push and you come sliding out onto the bed— head, shoulders, body. We cascade over the precipice together.

Thursday, June 30, 12:49am

In the moment between delivering you and feeling your glorious little body on my chest, I’m in an exhilarating free fall. As you land in my arms, I feel myself land in this new reality. “Lyla! I’m your mom!” I exclaim through tears of joy.

Thursday June 30, 12:55am

I peel my gaze away from your lovely eyes for a moment to see Papa cut your cord without hesitation. He has a glow of pride I’ve never seen before. Your long fingers wrap around one of mine and we are both completely drawn into you.

Thursday, June 30, 2:20am

We’re back in our recovery suite. As I share the good news with your grandpa by phone, you stare at me through the side of your clear bassinet with those big, curious eyes. You are magical. Every fiber of my being wants to jump out of bed and hold you to me, but I don’t trust my exhausted legs and the pain from my birth injuries has begun to take hold. Your papa gets back from fetching our things from the delivery suite, gently removes you from your bassinet, kisses you on the forehead and hands you to me. The three of us embrace and I understand the meaning of perfection.

Monday, July 4, 6:50pm

You’ve been in the outside world for four, almost five days now. I’ve spent most of my time those first days holding you, learning your ways, taking you in. We are celebrating 4^th of July at your grandma and grandpa’s. You’re sleeping through your first raucous Blake/Westmoreland/Bouchard card game, snuggled in your grandma’s arms. I pick up a stack of photos your grandma took the day you were born. As I flip through them, my heart fills. I feel your grandma watching me from across the table. When I look up, our wet eyes meet. In that moment, I understand what it means to be a mother.

A Good Home

My arms are fully extended, straining to reach the keyboard on my laptop. My ample 42-week (or 43-week, depending on which estimated due date you go by) pregnant abdomen has become the focal point of our lives this past month. On a physical level, it’s been a month of strong contractions (prompting several “false alarms”), shooting pains, aches and sleepless nights. It’s also been a month of feeling our daughter kick harder and stronger than ever, responding to our voices and our touch— which makes her parents both proud and relieved on a daily basis. On an emotional level, it’s been a month of mood swings, anxiety, and confusion.

It’s been a month of doubting my body one moment and having the utmost confidence in its abilities the next. There have been difficult decisions, hours spent weighing risks and benefits. I’ve had to redefine what this birth could actually look like, which at times has felt like a process of giving things up. It’s been a month of fears— some of them unfounded, but no less real.

During this transformational time, I’ve also experienced incredible support from friends and family. Words have been spoken that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Last night, slumped down on the couch, head and body aching, I turned to Michael and said “Well, at least we know we’ll have this kid by Friday. I’m nervous, though. I never thought I’d have to be induced. I’ve been so committed to the idea of a natural birth, knowing its the best thing for both the baby and me; I’ve prepared for it for nearly 10 months.”

He offered his usual encouraging words, assuring me that I’d done everything right, that we’d researched every option, that we had amazing medical care and doula support. He grabbed my hand and I turned to find two wet eyes staring into mine. “Thank you for providing such a good home for our daughter for so long. Such a good home.”