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I was 6 days past my due date, and I could barely stand. Literally. My mother had flown in from New Hampshire, and we had spent a few lovely days sitting in the sun, talking, looking at the nursery, going through baby clothes, talking, and shopping. Well, I attempted to shop. Until this point I had been feeling pretty good, relieved that the baby had stayed put this far and the fear of doing too much and bringing on more pre-term contractions was gone.  In fact, I had become much more active, hoping to bring on my labor naturally.  But shopping when I was 6 days past my due date? Not the wisest idea.

It took me by surprise, walking through Pottery Barn, the sudden need to sit down. I could see the hopeful, excited look in my mother’s eyes… maybe this was the beginning! But no, I just needed to sit down. And stay down.  I had carried this baby completely in front, and my body just couldn’t carry it anymore. Literally, from the back, you could not tell I was pregnant, but boy when I swung my huge stomach around, make way! I was one of those women who people look at and think, “Is that even possible? How is she doing that?”  At 7 months people had thought I was due “any day now.”  By 41 weeks it just looked ridiculous, and my body was done with it.

The next day we went to my scheduled OB appointment. I have to say I really like my OB, Dr. Goldberg. She has always been the perfect balance of science and, well, normal. She doesn’t hype over things, but is still very thorough and practical. I always knew I wanted an epidural, but I’m confident that if I had told her I wanted to go au natural she wouldn’t have had a problem with that.  I have always felt that she had my baby’s best interest in mind, and that gave me a lot of peace. 

So at a full 41 weeks, I was not even one centimeter dilated. Major bummer. While she had refused to induce earlier than 41 wks, Dr. Goldberg does not like letting women go much further than 41 weeks, both because of the increased risk of needing a cecarean.  But I had reached the point where she didn’t want to wait any further, so I was scheduled to go to the hospital at 8:00 that evening (Thursday) to “ripen my cervix.” 

“You will get a treatment to make you dilate further, and then I’ll come in Friday morning at 7 to break your water. Be prepared for a long labor, since inducing usually takes a while,” she told us.  Great… This was really devastating news to me. My mother was scheduled to leave Saturday morning, and my baby might not even be born by then!! Given my tendency to want to plan and control everything, this was not encouraging.  I knew I needed to fully rely on God for this, since it was completely out of my control, and, as I learned in a Beth Moore study, beyond myself.

So we spent the rest of the day at home; I napped as my mother sat out in the warm February Tucson sun.  AJ ran the vacuum one last time, and I took a shower and did my hair, not knowing when my next chance to do so would be. We took one last look at our home as we knew it (read peaceful) and got in the car.  The trip to the hospital was slightly surreal, with my mother in the back next to the empty carseat, AJ at the wheel and me in the front passenger seat, trying to prepare myself for the unknown event that was about to take place. But boy, was I ready. 

We entered the hospital and I received more of the stares I had become accustomed to as we waited to check in (very obviously NOT in an emergency).  As was the case in Pottery Barn, after about a minute and a half of standing my body was about to give out, so I went and sat in the faux leather chairs for the remaining few minutes before they called us back to the delivery room.  The room was peaceful with wood-laminate floors, pale green wallpaper, high vaulted ceilings with a window and lots of wood trim; I had the strange feeling you get when you walk into a hotel room for the first time and thought to myself, Wow, this is where my baby will be born.  Continuing in the hotel-room tradition, AJ immediately set to unpacking our suitcase and setting up the iPod station, trying to get everything put away and settled as if we would be there for a week instead of a night.   I didn’t mind, as it gave him something to do while I was being hooked up to a heart rate and fetal monitor, getting an IV put in my left hand. That IV was probably one of the most annoying parts about my entire labor experience – I could not wait for it to be taken out, and it had only been in for a few minutes.

My mother stayed until I had been hooked up and settled in, and went back to our house at around 9:30.  We told her we’d call her in the morning and she said she’d come when she woke up and would hang out with us the next day.  At about 9:40 the nurse, a kind, portly woman with a gentle voice, inserted the cervidil, which looked like a small piece of paper and would supposedly cause me to dilate.  I informed her that eventually I would like an epidural, but not until my pain level reached a 7 or 8.  She wrote that down and then told us to get comfortable and she’d check back in on us periodically, and to push the call button if we need anything.  AJ turned on the TV and set the channel to NBC to watch the Olympics; he then joined me in my bed as men’s halfpipe snowboarding and men’s figure skating kept us entertained. 

I was starting to doze off when at about 10:00 I felt an odd sensation and heard/felt a muted “pop”. I sat straight up.

“Um, oh my gosh, um, I’m leaking!” I said.

“What do you mean, you’re leaking?” AJ replied.

“I’m leaking a lot! Oh man, it’s not stopping! Geez!” I pushed the call button twice.

“Can I help you?” the voice over the intercom said.

“Um, I’m pretty sure my water just broke,” I replied. “Can you send a nurse in?”

“Your water broke?” AJ exclaimed, “Are you sure?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sure. No question here,” I replied, getting slightly high from adrenaline. Things were starting!!

The nurse came in, and asked me with a twinkle in her eyes, “What have you done?” and took a swab of the fluid “just to be sure it actually was your water breaking.” I knew it was (duh), and it didn’t stop gushing until quite a while later.  The nurse told me to just relax and keep hanging out, that it probably wasn’t going to change the course of things.

Within 5 minutes I started having my first real contractions, which I can only describe as having a huge needle stuck through your lower abdomen and pulled out through your back over and over again.  Uncomfortable at first, I just focused on watching Shawn White accept his gold medal for snowboarding. Within ten minutes they were coming every 90 seconds, and lasting about 30-60 seconds each.  By 10:40 they were every minute, and getting more painful with each one.  I pushed the call button and asked for an epidural. I couldn’t believe I could tolerate only 40 minutes of contractions! What a wuss I was. Such a disappointment, but boy, I was in a lot of pain!

The nurse came in and laughingly asked, “what did you do this time?” and looked at my chart. “Wow, you’re really going strong! Let’s check to see if anyting is happening yet.” It was. In forty minutes I had dilated from half a centimeter to seven.  I jokingly said that I was not as strong as I thought I was and thought I would’ve lasted longer before getting an epidural, and the nurse replied, “Honey, you just dilated 6 centimeters in forty minutes. I can promise you that you are at a pain level of 7 or 8, so don’t feel bad.”

The next fifteen minutes passed in a haze, mainly because I was so concentrated on getting through the contractions until the anasthesiologist came.  I vaguely remember nurses standing in front of me, telling me things, and I recall thinking, “Don’t they know I am not hearing a word they are saying? Why are they talking to me?!? Can’t they see I am DYING here!?!?” I have a foggy memory of sitting up and leaning over while the epidural was administered and I honestly can’t remember how long it took to take effect.  But once it did, oh man, I thanked God for science. The relief was overwhelming, and I could finally catch my breath. I was dilated to about an 8 at that point. 

AJ and I settled in again, and I promptly started to doze off. Unfortunately, about twenty minutes later I started feeling the contractions again, but this time only on my right side. It was a very odd sensation, the same amount of pain as before but my entire left side felt fine. I called the nurse and described what was happening, and she called the anasthesiologist, and they both threw around the word “bolus” which I later learned just meant an extra shot of whatever your IV is dripping. The bolus took effect and my right side became numb again, thank goodness.  This whole scene was repeated about four times throughout the remainder of the night, which in turn left my left side completely numb. Have you ever heard that someone who is missing a limb sometimes thinks they can feel that limb itching or moving, but it’s really the mind playing tricks on them? That is what I felt like. I would wake up and think that my left leg was straight on the bed, then I would look at it and it would be bent at the knee. It was the most bizarre sensation I’ve ever experienced.

The epidural slowed down my progress quite a bit, and we were able to get twenty-minute snatches of sleep until about 5:00 Friday morning (I had been in labor for about 7 hours), when the nurse checked me again. I was at over nine centimeters and fully effaced, which seemed to surprise the nurse.  She immediately called my doctor, who had been planning to come at 7:00 and break my water.  Haha – surprise! Dr. Goldberg told the nurse “Don’t let her push until I get there,” got out of bed and started making her way to the hospital.  We waited for about an hour and then I noticed the epidural was wearing off again. I asked if there was time to get another bolus before I began pushing, something I am very grateful I did.  Bolus administered, the nurses and doctor started prepping the room for delivery.  AJ managed to prop my left leg up (complete dead weight) and the nurse held my right leg (half dead weight).  I started pushing at about 7:30, with Glenn Miller and His Orchestra playing their sweet tunes in the background. (We received several complimentary comments about our choice of music.) 

After about twenty minutes of pushing, Dr. Goldberg said “I see a dark curl!” and I immediately thought, “A dark curl?!? How on earth does my baby have a dark curl? She’s supposed to have blonde peach fuzz!” and kept pushing. AJ told me later that I actually fell asleep between pushes, which would account for my very foggy memory of the whole ordeal.  About twenty minutes later (forty minutes of pushing) the baby started crowning.  The nurses and doctor kept suggesting I look in the mirror, so they brought it over.  I looked at it once and didn’t look at it the rest of the time; I wanted my labor memory to remain romantic and clean, and the sight in the mirror was anything but.  I had been pushing for about an hour when the doctor said, “The head’s out!” and I gave two final pushes and heard the miraculous sound of a baby crying.  Victoria Grey, with her full head of dark hair and perfectly shaped rosebud lips, was laid on my chest and I held her for about thirty seconds before they washed her off and measured her, etc.  The baby that my body couldn’t hold up anymore weighed a whopping 8 pounds, 12 ounces, which explained why I looked like I had a beach ball in my stomach. 

Once she was clean and I had been stitched and was able to sit upright, I told the nurse I wanted to try to feed her for the first time. I took Tori to my breast and waited to experience the ultimate satisfaction of nurturing my baby outside the womb.  But she didn’t latch. She fussed a little and looked fairly confused. The nurse said that it was common and that the baby will get the hang of it once she recovers a little.   My mother came in and met her granddaughter for the first time – something I am so grateful was able to happen… after all, according to the plan, the baby might not have been born until after my mom had gone home.  AJ’s brother, sister-in-law and daughter came in to say hello, and I was falling asleep every two minutes.

I was hefted into a wheelchair (dead legs, remember?) and wheeled out with my baby in my arms.  I left her with AJ in the nursery for her to have her first bath, have a few tests done, etc., and then went to my room and promptly passed out.  I was awoken about an hour and a half later (it was about noon) when AJ wheeled the baby into our room.  Our baby. It was a crazy thought. And there she was, just lying there, perfect in every way, innocent of all things worldly and waiting for us to make the next move.  The nurse came in. And another nurse. And then another. I didn’t realize how many nurses could attend to you at one time – the baby nurse, my nurse, the vitals nurse (or perhaps I’m making that one up but I swear there were three that came in…) They poked and prodded me, and one asked me if I had torn a lot. I replied that I wasn’t sure… She looked at my chart and said, “Oh yeah, you tore. It says it was a third degree tear.”

I had no idea what that meant, so I asked her. She replied, “Well, a fourth degree tear is all the way through. So you tore just a tiny bit less than that. Gonna be painful for quite a while.” Lovely.

The baby nurse asked if Tori had eaten anything, and I told her I had tried to feed her before but she didn’t latch.  So we tried again.  And again, Tori just fiddled around, whimpered a little, and seemed genuinely perplexed by the whole thing.  The nurse told me not to get frustrated, and that Tori would figure it out soon enough. 

We had a large spattering of guests come and go; AJ’s family, his grandmother, friends from church and AJ’s childhood.  I only vaguely recall those visits (sorry guys!).  Throughout the day I tried repeatedly to feed Tori, but she never latched.  The nurse took her glucose level to determine if she still had enough in her system, and her levels seemed fine, so we just kept trying and waiting. My worry level was starting to rise – Tori had gone 12 hours without eating anything – I had heard so much about how neccessary it is for a baby to eat every two hours on the dot after they were born, and my daughter hadn’t eated ANYTHING yet.

We went to sleep. Or, rather, we tried to sleep.  AJ had witnessed Tori choke on her spit up while in the nursery, and apparently she had turned blue before they whacked her on the back and the pink rushed back in.  I’m so glad I didn’t see that in person, but the story was enough to make both of us absolutely paranoid that she was going to choke in her sleep.  So we didn’t sleep much at all that night.  Every three hours I woke up, woke up the baby, and tried to feed her, again with no success.

Saturday came, and the pattern started again. Visitors, trying to feed, etc.  The lactation consultant, a grandmotherly woman named Margaret who had an endearing Irish accent, had come in a few times and strongly recommended that I “kangaroo” with Tori - snuggle her little naked body up against my bare chest.  No problem here – I loved doing that!  The idea was that it would help Tori bond with me, and she would recognize the scent of breast milk.  What breastmilk? I thought.  My milk certainly hadn’t come in!

By Saturday night we still hadn’t had any progress feeding her, but the nurses still seemed to think it was ok.  But my mind was going crazy – it had been 24 hours and she hadn’t eaten anything! Even I, a full grown human, would be hungry after that long! And so we began another long, restless night.  At about 3:00am, after another unsuccessful attempt to feed, I broke down. Don’t get me wrong, I had certainly cried my share up until this point, but this was crazy-eyed, borderline hysterical sobbing.  The baby nurse looked at me and said, “You need to let me take Tori to the nursery. You need to sleep. You aren’t any good to her this way.”  So my baby was wheeled out, and guilt crept in.  Feelings of abandoning my daughter soon lost to the desperate need for sleep, and AJ finally got a few hours of solid sleep. I almost felt human when I woke up, only to realize it was 8:00am and I hadn’t seen my baby in over four hours.

As I was thinking that, she was wheeled in.  We attempted to feed again. No progress. I realize now that I hid my emotions fairly well – in my mind I was panicking, pushing away thoughts that there was something really wrong, and my baby was going to starve to death.  I have never in my life been so worried, so overwhelmed with my lack of control, and so desperately in love with anyone. 

We had a few more visitors, friends bringing gifts and flowers and wanting to hold the baby.  I really couldn’t participate in their excitement or happiness because my mind was overwraught with a hedged feeling of despair.

At about 5:00 on Sunday afternoon, we tried to feed Tori again.  Margaret and the baby nurse watched my technique, (they had told me repeatedly already that I was doing everything perfectly, that we were just waiting for the baby to do her part), and AJ left to get a breast pump because my milk hadn’t come in due to lack of stimulation.  What normally happened during our attempts to feed was that Tori would fuss, cry a little, try to get her little mouth over my nipple, cry some more, wiggle around, repeat. We would try this for about 10 minutes until she either got hysterical or fell asleep.

This time was different. I put her up to my breast, and… nothing. She just lay there, completely uninterested. Not moving. Just vacantly staring at something I couldn’t see. No wiggling, no crying, no fussing. She had given up, and in that moment I knew true panic.  The baby nurse took my defeated Tori away to test her glucose levels, and Margaret started asking me questions.  Had I been tested for diabetes? Did I take any drugs during my pregnancy? Was my blood pressure normal throughout my labor? Did the baby ever have any difficulty during labor? And so on. 

“We need to bring in the pediatrician,” she said, and left the room.  Left completely by myself I started sobbing hysterically. My baby was exhibiting all the “failure to thrive” symptoms I had read about.  AJ came back into the room with the pump to find me sitting alone, my boobs exposed, sobbing, no baby to be seen.  Poor guy.  I tried to explain what had happened, but within two minutes there were about six people in our room: the pediatrician, two lactation consultants, and three nurses, one of whom had brought Tori back in.  I assume Margaret had already briefed the pediatrician about the situation, because she asked me to try nursing Tori again for the doctor to see.  So I tried, and my baby remained limp and uniterested.  I saw Margaret and the doctor exchange a look, and said to me, in slow, clear sentences, “We need to make sure your baby can eat. That she can physically swallow. We need to give her a bottle with some formula in it. Is this alright with you?”

Was that alright? Was that alright?!?! My baby hadn’t eaten in almost 48 hours and you think I’m going to be one of those women who is afraid of “nipple confusion” and refuse to let my baby have a bottle?!?!

“Of course – I just want her to eat something, whatever it takes,” I replied, trying to keep my hysteria to myself. 

Margaret took Tori, and put the bottle up to her mouth, and I could see the serious-faced pediatrician was watching the baby very closely. In fact, everyone in the room was watching Tori very closely, myself included.

And my baby started eating. She drank almost a full ounce right then and there. And I started crying new tears, tears of relief.  The pediatrician immediately smiled and said, “OK, she’ll be fine. If she takes a bottle like that, she’ll be fine.”

I knew even as they were happening that those five minutes were the longest, hardest five minutes of my life.

We stayed an extra day in the hospital, twenty four hours that were filled with learning a routine we would need for the next three months: waking up, me attaching myself to the breastpump and pumping while AJ filled the bottle and fed the baby.  We put a sign on our door asking visitors to leave us alone (in a nicer way, of course) and spent that night and day recovering from the last 48 stressful hours. 

On Tuesday morning, armed with the hospital-grade breastpump and enough formula samples to last at least a week, we put our tiny, precious, dark-haired baby into her carseat.  When we finally walked out into the unusual Tucson rain, I knew I never wanted to spend the night in a hospital again, and that those first few days of Tori’s life will never be remembered with the bliss and joy so often described by other mothers.  But my baby was with us, alive and thriving, and I knew the best was yet to come.

I never thought I would see you as often as I have; your whirring has become a constant companion these last few months, much to my chagrin. I am grateful to you for enabling me to provide my daughter with very nutritious breastmilk in her first months of life. But I am not sad to see you go.  To me, you have been the only negative thing about having a child. You represent all that went wrong.  You have taxed my body beyond its limit, and have taken the joy out of long showers. You symbolize my failure for not being able to feed my daughter naturally, and I have cried many tears while using you. You are currently making me feel guilty for putting you away. You have made me eliminate all modesty, and you made the first three weeks hell. You have been a weight on my shoulders so consistent, I’m sure it will take a while for me to stand tall once more.  But again, without you, my baby would not have gotten any breastmilk. At all. So thank you, for that.

I am not sad to see you go. The desire to put you away and never look at you again overwhelmingly defeats any small guilt I have for not giving my daughter breastmilk any more.  So, wretched and blessed pump, I will see you in a couple of years, and we can then hopefully have a normal relationship, the kind I was expecting when I bought you.

Sincerely,

Susan

Having learned to love to read during the past year, most mornings I would promptly settle down after breakfast with a book, content to sit and read my summer away. And most mornings my sister and brother would promptly harass me to go outside and play with them.  This day was no exception.

“Don’t be so lazy, Sue.” my sister said. “All you do is sit there all day.”

“Yeah, Sue,” my brother chimed in. “Don’t be so lazy.”

They continued to make these astute observations until I finally broke down and put away my book, leaving the Babysitters Club to wait for me until the evening.  We put on our bathing suits (why wear anything else?), threw on some shorts for modesty, and out we went into warmth.  As was our routine, we immediately went to the garage and got out our bikes and started riding around the circular dirt driveway, keeping to our own traffic laws and speed limits, slowing down near the house and speeding up when we passed the second tree.

After doing this for a while, we then turned our wheels to ride up and down our long driveway, competing to see who could go the fastest.  Frustrated that my sister always won, my brother and I claimed boredom and we paused to catch our breath and determine what to do next.

“Let’s go swimming.” Drew said.

“Nah, it’s too early. Let’s do that this afternoon.” Cath replied. “What about playing badminton?”

Knowing she would easily beat us at that game, too, Drew and I readily declined.  “Let’s play town,” I suggested. “I’ll run the post office, and Cath can run the gas station. Drew, you can, um…”

“I’ll be the policeman!” Drew exclaimed, getting excited about the idea.

“Alright, let’s do it.” Cath agreed, knowing that running the gas station meant she’d make lots of money.

We gathered in the “town square”, the name we gave the circular dirt driveway, to divvy up our “money.” Piles of small rocks had been collected on previous days; the smaller ones were worth five cents, the medium ten, the largest twenty.  We each got an equal amount, shoved them into our pockets, and away we rode to open up our respective shops.

My sister went to the garage to set up the gas station, dragging out the empty gas containers our dad used to fill the lawn mower tank, and standing up the air pump and hose to act as the gas nozzle. She then drew the word “GAS” in the dirt with a stick and was open for business.

Drew decided to make the large grassy field his police station.  Cath and I argued that it was a stupid place to have a police station, but he insisted it be there because he was the police officer and he needed a lot of space. Basically he just wanted to run around, so we didn’t put up too much of a fight.

The Post Office was located in the wooded area at the base of our driveway, and a long, fallen pine tree made an ideal counter and row of mailboxes.  My task as Postmaster General entailed, well, basically whatever I wanted it to entail.  This morning I decided that I would deliver the mail, and tell Cath that there was a package waiting for her at the post office.

I got on my bike and rode around the Town Square a few times.  Drew immediately followed me and tried to give me a speeding ticket, but I ignored him as usual and stopped at the gas station. 

“Hey there,” I said.

“Do you want some gas?” my sister asked.

“Sue, you were speeding!” My brother interjected.

“I’ve got your mail here,” I told Cath. I handed her several large, dark green maple leaves and a few acorns. “Lots of mail today. That will be fifty cents, please.”

“Thanks, here you go,” she said as she handed me some rocks. “You’d better get some gas soon, because the price is going to go up.”

“Sue, you were speeding!” my brother whined.

“Okay, fill me up.”

She stuck the air pump nozzle to a bolt on the back of my bike. “Shhhhzzzzzzzzz,” she said. “Wow, you were really low! You almost ran out of gas! That will be one dollar.”

“What?!? That’s not fair, you can’t charge a whole dollar! That’s like ten rocks!” I protested.

“I can do whatever I want,” she replied, using her I’m-older-than-you-so-I-can-do-whatever-I-want voice.

An argument ensued, with me refusing to pay ten rocks for gas, my sister refusing to let me ride away on my bike until I paid, and my brother insisting that I come to jail with him because I was speeding.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” my brother complained.

“Yeah, this is boring,” I agreed. “Let’s go swimming or something.”

Cath was clearly annoyed. “You guys are such babies. You don’t even know how to play town! You have to pay me or I’m never going to let you ride your bike ever again.”

Just as I was about to open my mouth to yell “Mom!”, our mother called from the front door that lunch was ready and would we please come inside and stop the bickering? 

Realizing we were hungry and getting hot, we were grateful for the excuse to stop playing town.  We let our bikes fall to the ground and ran to the house, mail, speeding tickets and the price of gas promptly forgotten.

I’m not sure why no one mentions these things, but now they’ve been mentioned.

In early June, we found out that I was pregnant. I distinctly recall looking at the little pink lines on the test, and handing it to AJ. He gave me a huge hug and kiss, and couldn’t seem to get the grin off his face. I was in slight shock… We had been trying to get pregnant since January and suddenly it was real. I remember we sat down immediately and prayed; we dedicated this baby to the Lord, and thanked Him for the blessing He had given us. I cried. AJ cried. And our journey began.

Two weeks later, we went to the gym and I started my normal workout routine, running to Led Zeppelin and trying to comprehend the fact that I was pregnant. Two minutes later, I started bleeding.  I’ll never forget standing by the huge glass windows, trying to hide behind a fake ficus tree so no one would see me crying as I waited for AJ to walk me to the car.  We immediately called my doctor, who told us to come in the next day for an ultrasound.  I was a wreck the entire night, thinking for sure that I had miscarried.

The next day AJ drove me to the doctor’s office, and I tried to hold it together as we waited amongst the other pregnant women. “Will I ever be that big?” I thought. “Will I be able to drive myself home if I find out I miscarried? When will we be able to start trying again?” My mind was a mess, but I think I looked fairly composed (let me think that, ok?).  Fifteen minutes later, we saw a tiny lima bean with a bright light blinking inside of it; at six weeks old, our baby was well and alive, and it’s heart was beating strongly. We never found out why I bled like that, but boy, was it scary.

Up until this point I hadn’t really noticed any physical changes, and I was starting to think that I was one of the lucky few who wouldn’t get morning sickness… Wishful thinking, Sue, wishful thinking!  One day at work, at about 10:30, I noticed that I felt this weird combination of feeling hungry and sick at the same time.  That feeling became my constant enemy for the next several months, calming down only if I ate little snacks throughout the day.  But I only threw up three times, each time after eating something like red sauce, and after I brushed my teeth. For some weird reason, brushing my teeth would make me gag to the point where I would lean against the sink, stare myself in the mirror, and say, “Don’t throw up, Sue. Don’t give in. Don’t give in.” I would hear AJ in the background, cheering me on, “Keep it down, Sue! You can do it!” Which of course would make me laugh, and that helped me (most of the time) to psych myself out of vomiting. 

I ate a lot of bagels, plain pasta, peanut butter crackers, saltines, and toast.  Not really so different from my normal diet, but whatever

We told my family when I was only 9 weeks pregnant; I had planned to go to Boston anyway, and this trip coincided with my pregnancy.  I had each family member call AJ (he had stayed in AZ due to work) and he broke the news to them on the phone.  Of course, my mother and sister promptly hung up on AJ and gave their attention to me, which I hope he wasn’t too offended at!

We told AJ’s family when I was 11 weeks, at a family gathering. I had bought a tank top and ironed on a patch that said “Baby on Board”.  AJ’s mother, Lynn, screamed so loudly that I started crying! Everyone was really surprised and excited for us, which was great. Funny how I thought for sure everyone would’ve guessed… didn’t they notice my shirts were snug? or that I wasn’t drinking any wine? or that my boobs were a little big? Nope. No one had a clue. Of course, part of that could be owed to the fact that AJ had blatantly lied to several of them

Over all my first trimester was filled with a slight anxiety, waiting to tell people until it was considered “safe,” till I my chances of miscarrying were really low.  It was also surreal, because, while I was nauseous, exhausted and moody, I didn’t really FEEL or look pregnant – something soon to change.

I’m excited to see my little daughter learn to play with them, to pet their fur and chase them around the house.  I’m looking forward to teaching both parties involved to be gentle, even if it means some of them being dressed up in pink doll clothes.  (Now, who would she learn that from, I wonder…) I’m excited to take pictures of my baby Victoria using the cat as a pillow, she with a smile on her face and he with a “I’m barely tolerating this” look in his eyes.

I’m sure at some point she’ll try out the cat food. I’ve already accepted this as fact, I just hope she doesn’t enjoy it too much…

I wonder (as Orrie jumps onto the couch next to Biscuit and me), will the cats still want to snuggle with us once she’s here, or will they be completely “paws off,” keeping their distance from the strangely smelling, bizarrely sounding little creature? Will they know she’s human, and will they know that she is part of our family, made by AJ and me?

Oh boys, you are in for a shock, so you’d better enjoy these relaxing days now, because they are numbered!

Through His grace I have been given you, to hold, protect, nurture and grow, at least until you’re taken from me.  You are a true gift, and I am undeserving.  Should you decide to bless us with your presence earlier than your peers, I will be eternally grateful for the short time I’ve been given with you, and I will, as I already do, lift you up to Him who can hold you best, Him who’s been holding you this entire time.  

My prayer is to feel you grow, to watch my stomach move with your movements, to imagine your calisthenics and gymnastics as you figure out how to control your tiny limbs.  I pray that when you take your first breath, it will be with lungs developed as a witness to the power of your Creator.  I pray that every ounce of water, every morsel of food I’ve ever taken will have gone directly to nourish you and prepare you for your grand entrance.  And I pray that your grand entrance will not be for quite some time.

You, my little swimmer, are a joy to me already.  I can only hope and pray that when you arrive, I will be able to teach you to love the One who has known you the longest, and to understand that it is only through His grace and mercy that either you or I are here, and that we have a hope that is beyond anything we can possibly imagine.  You, in your tiny state, have already been blessed by forgiveness, should you choose to accept it.  For now, I will accept that gift on your behalf. 

Keep growing, little one.  Keep doing your somersaults and soccer practice. The best place for you right now is the place in which you are resting. So stay put.  I’ll do my part if you do yours, and in a few months we’ll meet face to face. Until then, know that I love you.

My siblings and I made our way outside, determined to play on the grass, soggy though it was.  It had been 5 months since we’d seen it and we welcomed it as a dear friend.  We explored the property, seeing what damage had been done during the blizzards and winds, amazed that everything survived, and even looked alive and wanting to grow.

The dirt driveway became a color we had never seen before; a dark, rich velvety brown, almost a black.  We quickly discovered that not only was it a different color, it had taken on a life of its own.  It seemed hungry to eat anything that stepped on it, and it particularly liked to swallow shoes.  After having learned the hard way, my father kept a pair of rubber slip ons near the door, and the rest of us wore our boots to the car and carried our shoes.

Easter Sunday came, and my family and I donned our best Sunday clothes.  My father wore his usual suit and tie, and my mother, through the use of ribbons and new tights, made Cath and me somehow feel that we were dressed better than normal, despite the fact that our dresses were second and third generation ‘gently used’ hand-me downs. 

We went out to the car, my brother wearing his boots as shoes, and my sister and I pulling our galoshes over our white-tights clad feet, carrying our Sunday shoes in our hands. 

The mud was at a prime that day, there having been several days of constant above-freezing weather: a deep thaw.  We slowly made it to the car, cautiously aware that to lose a boot to the black monster was to ruin your Easter dress.  We piled into the large brown station wagon, my sister and I sitting in the middle while Andrew climbed into the wayback.  And we were on our way.

My father managed to back the car out, but as he turned the wheel to start the drive down the driveway, we could feel something was wrong. The car was humming, but wasn’t moving.  My sister and I looked at each other as my father put the car back in reverse, and tried again.  We were stuck in the mud.  On Easter Sunday, when the regular attendees were supposed to arrive early to get good seats.

“Alright,” my father said, as we waited with dread, “Everybody is going have to help push the car out.” We all groaned, but we knew we had no choice. The air had taken on the tense, electric feeling that happened when my father meant business.

We stepped out of the car, and saw the damage.  The car was sunken into ruts about 8 inches deep, the black sludge relentlessly getting deeper with each spin of the tire.  We knew it was going to be messy, and our battle with the slop would be a long one. 

My mother got into the driver’s seat, and the four of us trudged to the back of the car.  “One, two… three!” my father counted.  I pushed as hard as my six year old arms could push, as my mother pressed on the gas.  The tires spun, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be to walk into church with mud on my dress. The car didn’t budge.  We tried again, watching the tires create new piles of mud around us as they tried to escape the suffocating darkness.

By that point my white tights were splattered in mud, but my dress wasn’t too bad. My sister’s was about the same. My brother was loving every second of it; he was convinced that somehow, in his four-year-old strength, he and his dad were going to move that car.

And we did. After about ten minutes of rocking, pushing, rocking, and pushing, we managed to get the station wagon out of its original ruts.  As the tires finally gripped, my mother pressed on the gas and drove to harder soil.  Fearing a repeat performance, she drove to higher, dryer ground as the rest of us walked behind, carefully avoiding getting our boots stuck.

We made it to Easter Sunday, albeit a bit late, and none of us told anyone about our experience fighting the black beast. I was  slightly embarrassed about the whole situation; how a big, heavy station wagon could be defeated so easily by something as innocent as wet dirt.  But from that point on, my mother always referred to spring as ‘mud season’… by the time the mud finally hardened again, it was already summer.

My stomach instantly revolted against the cereal flakes I was swallowing.  “Did she just say a Dash 8?” I thought. I knew she had. The plane I had never heard of until two years ago was now on the news. And everyone on board was killed.  Too impatient to wait through the commercials about vitamins and ads for the Wall Street Journal, I immediately went online and looked up the story at msnbc.com.

I couldn’t find what I was looking for, but logic started working… “OK, I thought, I’m two hours behind them. I would’ve gotten a phone call by now. Right? I would’ve gotten a phone call by now.” I heard the news come back on, so I moved back into the living room.   I stood there, holding my uneaten cereal, and listened to the blonde news anchor describing the events that had taken place in Buffalo earlier that morning.  And then I saw it; the headline written below the video footage said the word I’d been looking for: “Continental Flight Crashed Into Home.”  Continental. Continental. Continental.  I heard her talk about the 50 people who had been killed, the two pilots and three attendants, and I let out the sob I had been controlling for the last 4 minutes. Contintental.

It wasn’t US Airways.  It wasn’t my brother. It was 50 other poor souls, but it wasn’t Andrew.  It took all of 4 minutes for my heart to stop, my stomach to turn, my hands to start shaking, and my eyes to cry a few tears of relief as I reassured myself that it wasn’t my brother.  Boy, what a way to wake up.

“Where are we going to hang the outside lights? Where should we put our stockings? What if Santa really does come down our chimney and falls into the furnace?”  Our “chimney,” although made with real brick, led directly into a closet that contained our furnace and water heater.  This became a great concern of ours, and we pondered the ways we might be able to warn him.  “Can’t we leave the closet door open, Daddy? Please? Just for Christmas eve? He’s going to get stuck!” 

Eventually we dismissed it from our small minds and focused on a much more important issue: the Christmas tree.  We discussed it amongst ourselves, knowing that asking too many questions to my parents would get us nowhere.  Besides, we’d already asked them and they just said, “I don’t know yet.”  So in a rare moment of ceasefire, the three of us spent time downstairs in the bedroom we all shared and held meetings of great importance to converse about the concern. “When are we going to get it? We only have two weeks left! Where are we getting it from? Will it look best in the corner of the living room, or right in front of the big picture window?” After much discussion we agreed that the tree would look best in front of the window, because that way we could see the lights from the lake when we went ice-skating.   As days went by and still no tree, we became increasingly concerned.  How could we have Christmas with no tree?

The Saturday before Christmas arrived, and we decided we needed to perform an intervention.  The three of us approached my father as he sat at the kitchen table, eating his lunch of grilled cheese and potato chips. 

“Daddy,” my sister started, “Christmas is in 6 days.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” he replied, taking a big bite of his sandwich.

“Well, you see,” she continued, “we don’t have a tree yet, and well, we were wondering when we are going to get one…”

“Well,” my father said.  He paused for a minute, thinking, and took a drink of milk. ”Well, why don’t we get one this afternoon? We can go cut one down from right here in our own yard! Let me take a nap first, and then we’ll go out together and pick out the best one.”

So that was the answer to the weeks of anxiety.  We were going to get one from our very own yard!  Boy, were we excited.  Someone before us had planted a very small Christmas tree “farm” along the border of our property.  Really it was just a bunch of toddler pine trees planted, I’m sure, to create a natural barrier between us and the small strip mall next to us.  But we didn’t care – all we could think about was that tree. 

We gathered our snow gear; our most recent expedition to that part of the property told us that the snow drifts amounted to at least several feet.  Plastic bagged feet slid into boots, snowpants were donned, and our mitten clad hands were stuffed into our jacket arms.  We added our hats and scarves and were ready to go when my father woke from his nap.

We tredged into the whiteness, excited to be outdoors.  We each secretly inhaled the cold, fresh New England air, a personal moment for each of us as we associated the crisp scent of pine and snow with freedom from all other worries.  The sun was shining, a not-so-usual event, which meant we were nearly blinded by the glare off the snow and the clear, pale blue sky.  We ran ahead into the miniature forest while my father went into the garage to find his hand saw and the snow shovels. 

This was the moment.  Our first Christmas tree in our new house.  Which one should we pick???  We walked around, somberly considering each tree from all angles.  The first one looked good, but then we noticed the interior needles were all dry.  We raced to a tree that my brother had pointed which looked PERFECT from a distance, but an up close and winded inspection revealed an unfortunate asymmetry.  Then my sister and father located THE tree.  The shape was in true Christmas tree fashion – wide at the base and teeny at the top.  The branches were full and well distributed, and it wasn’t completely buried in snow.

My dad cut it down, and we dragged it to the house.  After shaking off the excess snow, we let it to dry a little outside while we set up the tree stand and gathered the lights and ornaments.  Then, after testing our patience to the extreme, we finally carried the tree into the house, dropping needles through the kitchen and into the living room. 

It was then that we started to notice something was amiss.  The tree, which seemed so perfect, so ideal in the great outdoors, suddenly seemed very small.  Too small.  In fact, the tree wasn’t much taller than I was, and I was only six years old. 

This was not good. Not good at all.  My brother and sister and I looked at each other, each of us thinking the same thing.  We have a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

“Mom!” my brother cried, visibly upset. “We won’t even be able to see the lights from the lake!”

“We’ll make it work,” my mother said.  Having played the role of problem solver for years, she knew the importance of keeping a good attitude.

“I know,” she said. “Let’s put it up onto something… How about the hassock?”

We gave it a try.  We hoisted the tree, lights, stand and all, onto the hassock and placed it in front of the picture window. 

“Yes, see? We’ll still put the skirt around it, and there! Our first Christmas tree, from our very own back yard!” How she did it, I don’t know.  But my mother somehow managed to soothe our distraught souls and make us content with a four foot tree propped up with a footstool.  We decorated the tree, hanging miniature disco balls, wreaths, tinsel, and macaroni ornaments while listening to Roger Whittaker sing “Mighty Like a Rose.”  Evening came, and we went outside.

And sure enough, we could still see the lights from the lake.