Twenty Eight Weeks

In the world of preterm labor, twenty-eight weeks (gestational age) is an important place to be.  The survival rates for a baby born at 28 weeks are pretty good:  90-95%.  And so, as the baby boy I’m carrying turned 28 weeks on Saturday, Mike and I celebrated by actually getting up the courage to look at bedding for him.  What for most expectant parents is a completely innocuous task was a big deal to us.  A big bridge to cross emotionally, and we patted ourselves on the back afterward.

It’s been a hard road, harder than I even anticipated, and it’s definitely not over, but a sigh of relief has been breathed in our household; the tension that has been released is palpable.  No matter what happens, this baby will not be another “micro-premie.”  And so we’re beginning to actually think to ourselves, we may just bring home a baby boy this June.  This may not be an “if” situation, but a “when” situation.

We’re still on high-alert.  I don’t think anyone could go through what we did and ever feel totally comfortable with being pregnant.  Small aches and pains (to which I’m no stranger) send me flying to Google.  Buying a few outfits for the baby caused me to cry in the middle of Baby Gap.  And the worst:  whenever I feel myself bonding with this baby, I feel guilty.  Guilty that it somehow means I don’t love or remember the baby boy we lost.

But we’re working to get over these issues and we’ve even started telling Scarlett she’ll be getting a baby brother.  And so, while I know we’ll never be completely ready to have another tiny infant in the house, perhaps we can start to prepare a little now.

Scarred

Scars.  I have several on my legs, mostly remnants of my aggressive soccer-playing style as a kid.  But one.  One on my knee.  The freshest.  The darkest.  I got it a few days before we Lost The Baby.  We were at an indoor pool with Scarlett and I took her down a three-foot slide and landed on my knees with that awkward grace only top-heavy, pregnant women can have.  It hurt.  It hurt like hell.

Three days later, in the middle of the night, I woke up because of a “gush.”  An incredibly tiny sensation that a small amount of water had gushed out of me.  So tiny, it may have been imagined.  So tiny, it couldn’t be important.

But many hours later, as I sat in a pool of relentless, briny, amniotic fluid on the hospital bed, Mike and I were being told that my water broke.  It’s called PPROM (Preterm Premature Rupture Of Membranes) and it’s pretty rare -- it occurs in 3% of pregnancies.  And because our baby wasn’t viable, there was very little hope that he would survive.

We then spent the next several hours talking to people.  High-risk OB’s, neonatal doctors, labor and delivery nurses, hospital social workers.  Percentages and statistics rained down on us.  Surrounded us.  Suffocated us.  But the only thing that mattered was this:  We were losing our son.  A son we had never met.  Never held.  Never heard cry.  A son that was otherwise healthy, but who couldn’t survive.  And even as I sat there, barely able to comprehend, to acknowledge, to FUCKING GRASP what these people were telling me, I could feel him kicking inside of me.

I spent three days in the hospital, but it felt like years.  Years of torture and emotional hell.  And now, I want those days back.  Those days when I was pregnant, and I had my baby inside of me.  Even though he would soon be lost, I had him.  Right there, in my womb.  He was alive and he was mine.  And now.  Now I have his footprints that I haven’t even gotten the courage up to look at.  They’re sitting in a box in our closet amongst cards and ultrasound photos and my hospital bracelet.  And his ashes.  A tiny, silver urn just two inches high with a blue bird on it.  A bird taking flight.  Leaving us.

It’s been three months, and I still have this scar on my knee.  Dark and purple and blotchy and utterly painful to look at.  My son is gone.  He was in and out of my life in five months, but this scar is still here, hanging on.  It will probably fade.  Eventually.  But for now, it’s a part of me and my body and my story.

The Battles

Recently, my sister-in-law sent me a blog post by a mother of a toddler close to Scarlett’s age.  The post was entitled, the Battle of the Bottle.  It was funny and her words rang very true as I, too, am battling the bottle with Scarlett.  And losing.  The post made me think of all the other battles I’m fighting.  And losing.  Here are a few:

·         The (related) Battle of the Sippy Cup

·         The Battle of Eating in a Seat or Highchair (as opposed to grabbing a handful of goldfish and walking around while eating)

·         The Battle of the Diaper Change (note: this is a particularly heinous one)

·         The Battle of the Second Nap (she’s so tired! Why doesn’t she realize she needs this?)

·         The Battle of Leaving the Park

·         The Battle of Not Leaving the Cats Alone (especially when they eat, which is apparently fascinating)

·         The Battle of the Stairs (is there some kind of baby-homing device located in the stairs?)

·         The Battle of Eating Something More/Different Than Simply Fruit and Cheese

·         The Battle of the Bath (oh how I love my husband for putting on his bathing suit and getting in with her while I perform “bath time triage,” scrubbing down body parts that need it the most so that we can abort immediately upon signs of an all-out meltdown)

·         The Battle of Letting Me Pee (I’ll be right back, honey, I swear.  I really just have to close the door.  Okay, bye!)

·         The Battle of Letting Me Do Anything (clean the kitchen, do the laundry, read the paper, get on the computer, do a crossword)

There’s got to be many more battles I’m losing fighting, but these are the few that come to mind first.

So, while life often seems like a series of battles (against a brilliant, Machiavellian war strategist), I guess I could also say that sparring with this particular little cutie is well worth it.  And what’s that quote about losing the battle but winning the war?  Hopefully, I’m still winning the war.  But I’m not so sure about that….

My formidable opponent:

Party Animal

Tonight is date night.  Actually, it’s more than just date night because after dinner, Mike and I are meeting up with about three different groups of friends for a night of total debauchery that seems so twenty-something.  In a good way.  And I’m really excited about it because it’s been so long since I’ve been out with a bunch of friends.

But, see, I’m tired.  I woke up at 7:30 this morning with Scarlett and it’s been a pretty hard week because she’s been under the weather/possibly teething.  So I’ll admit that there’s a part of me that wishes Mike and I could just stay at home and watch an on-demand romantic comedy and got to bed at, oh, say, ten o’clock.

I remember when I was in college, discussing with a friend how our parents were so, like, old and how, like, absolutely crazy it was that all they would do on a Friday or Saturday night was watch a movie or read a book.  We marveled at it as if we were anthropologists who suddenly discovered a new species that was part human but definitely part something else.  And if we had time, we could sit in the bushes with our binoculars and our notepads and watch them in their native habitat, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them yawning or feeding itself.  If we had time, that is, because we already had three sets of plans that night, four if you counted the kegger down the street advertised on a flyer in the cafeteria.

So now it seems that I am part of that species.  I have mated and produced offspring and now I care for my young.  All week long.  Of course, if I was honest, I’d have to admit that my admission into this species has been gradual and probably started sometime after law school.  But I also think that it hasn’t yet taken me completely, so that on nights like tonight I can still pretend to be human and no one will ever know that I can peel off my skin and underneath is evidence of my entry into … adulthood.  Real adulthood.

So, for tonight, I’m going to embrace the fact that I am still part human and go out, drink a Red Bull, and be a true party animal.

And pray that Mike wakes up with Scarlett tomorrow morning so I can sleep in.

Scarlett Doesn’t Walk

Scarlett turned one year old exactly two weeks ago.  She’s not walking.  I know that all babies develop at their own pace and that she’s not even close to being a “late” walker at this point.  I also know she likes to walk holding our hands or the furniture, which is a great sign that it’s coming soon.  But I always assumed she’d be walking by now.  She crawled right on pace and was pulling herself up soon after that.  And plus, she’s got to be advanced, right?  I mean, look at her parents.

A couple weeks ago I saw the Dr. Phil episode in celebration of his granddaughter, Avery, turning one.  (Yes, I watch – and enjoy -- Dr. Phil, so no cracks about it!)  Avery is just a few days older than Scarlett and he’s had a few episodes about Avery that have nicely tracked my experiences with Scarlett.  For example, there was an episode where they filmed an ultrasound to find out Avery’s sex in utero.  So they were finding out she was a girl around the same time I found out Scarlett was a girl.  And then of course the episode right after Avery was born was right after SJ was born.  So it’s been kind of neat to follow along.

Until now.  Although Avery is only days older than Scarlett, she seems months older.  Avery can walk short distances in between her parents.  Avery says “oh-oh” when she drops something on the floor.  Avery can do calculus problems in her head while simultaneously reciting the Star Spangled Banner. 

Scarlett can’t do any of that.

Last weekend we took Scarlett to an indoor play space and there was a boy there who was just a few days older than Scarlett.  He could walk, use a sippy cup, and mimic the sound his mom said when she told him he was holding a truck (“Uck.  Uck.”).  Scarlett tips the sippy cup upside down and chews on the bottom and has a vocabulary that sounds pretty much like this no matter what she’s intending to say: “jikl jikl bikkl dikkl.”

I don’t know why it bothers me so much that these babies can do more than her, but I really feel desperate to have her walk (and say a few words and use a sippy cup and try changing her own diaper for once).  I know, intellectually, that her inability to walk is meaningless and doesn’t suggest she won’t excel and be really smart in the future.  Right?

I guess it means I have my own insecurities about being a mom that are triggered when I think that maybe SJ isn’t learning something she should be or isn’t catching on as fast a she should be.  As if it’s my fault she’s not walking or can’t use a sippy cup because I should be working with her on it more. Or, if I get really deep into my psyche, that it’s my fault she’s not walking because I gave her bad genes or something.  Oh the craziness that spews from a new parent’s mouth!  I know it’s crazy!  But it’s hard not to feel that way.

Right now I know I need to just take a deep breath, sit back, and be patient and let her develop at her own pace.  This is easier said than done, but for Scarlett’s sake, I will try. 

At least she was way cuter than those other babies.

The Illegitimate Mom, i.e., "Title Post"

                I call my blog the Illegitimate Mom because it pretty much sums up this dyad of feelings I’ve had since becoming a mom a little over a year ago.  The first is that of being legitimized in society for being a mom.  I mean, I am no longer just a chick.  I’m somebody’s mom.  And, see, there’s this whole bevy of privileges that flow from it.  Like when I arrive somewhere late, I just slap my kid on the counter and say, “oh, sorry I’m late, it’s been a very hectic morning.”  And I kind of nod over at Scarlett who innocently eats her Cheerios and I get instant legitimacy because everyone knows that moms run late and it’s not their fault.  But here’s the thing – I was late before I had a kid.  A lot.  But it doesn’t matter.  Because now that I’m a mom, I’m a legitimate member of society.  Hell, I’m a contributing member of society.  It’s okay to cut people off, not brush your teeth, take up two spots in the parking lot and not bus your own dishes at Panera.  Because I’m a mom and oh, what, am I making society better by being a mother and raising a child?  I think so.  What are you doing with your life, snotty woman who gives me the eye because I took up two spots in the Wholefoods’ parking lot?

                But here’s the funny thing.  I also feel like a mom-imposter.  A momposter.  (?)  My daughter is a year old now, but I still feel somewhat uneasy in the mom skin.  Like I’m just pretending to be a mom.  I recently got a medical procedure done (I’m okay) at Northwestern Hospital and it happened to be one year and a day after I gave birth to Scarlett.  So it was hard not to be nostalgic and to think about Scarlett’s birthday as I lay on the bed.  I wanted to mention it to the nurse who was attending to me but I literally thought that she’d be surprised that I was a mom and she’d say, “You are a mom?  You?”  I was under some heavy sedatives at the time, but that’s beside the point, because I feel that way often.  I regularly imagine that people think I’m just the nanny when I’m out and about with Scarlett.  And when I’m not with her, but I’m looking at baby clothes or toys or something, I’m convinced everyone thinks I’m looking for a gift for my niece or a friend’s child, and I almost want to just tell everyone, hey, this sippy cup I’m buying is for my daughter.

                So, I guess you could say that the very thing that legitimizes me, that anchors me into this world, also feels like a sham.  And now that I think about it, that’s a pretty strange way to live.  But that’s me.  The Illegitimate Mom.

My Shampoo Smells Like Baby Food

My shampoo smells like baby food.  Actually, to be perfectly precise, it smells like baby food that has been spit up.  This is what I think to myself every time I wash my hair.  And, upon thinking such a thing, I also think to myself, Gosh, I’m such a mom.  I love being a mom.  I really do.  And when my husband sees me do something with my daughter that’s really cute, and he says, you’re such a mom, I feel this little glow inside and I get very happy. 

But for some reason, when I think it now, after applying shampoo to my hair during a time that is supposedly my “me-time,” I feel like “mom” is a pejorative word.  I think it’s because in that instance, it brings up images of a frenzied, tired, disorganized woman with spit up on her shirt, wearing two different colored socks, letting her toddler eat the cat food because, well, it won’t kill him, and throwing together cheese sandwiches for dinner because there’s no time to make anything else.  I guess you could call this the “Roseanne Barr” mom, the prototype of which was obviously created in response to the “June Cleaver” images of the fifties.  You know the type, the woman who wears heels, a skirt and pearls every day, keeps a perfectly clean house, has perfectly clean babies, makes a four course meal for dinner every night and is pleasant and smiling through all of it.  Clearly, these images were in dire need of some kind of realistic response.  This Roseanne Barr image is, in my opinion, much more healthy and realistic.  And from a quick, unscientific Google search, it seems that many moms have identified with this archetype and wear it as a badge of honor.  And they should.  But, to be honest, that’s not really who I want to be.  I don’t want to be hurried and hectic and overtired and unconnected.  Of course, I don’t pretend to be able to strive to be June Cleaver, either.  I just wish there were images that fell somewhere closer to the middle from which to draw.   And, while we’re at it, I wish I could “have it all.”  And anyone who tells me I can have it all can shove it all up their ass, because it’s just not true.  I wish it were, but it’s not.  At least, not what “all” stands for to me.  I can’t be a successful attorney at a prestigious law firm and a good mom.  I just can’t.  And I’m so obsessed with Scarlett that I don’t want to be away from her for that long.  So, having it “all” is actually physically impossible within current time and space restrictions.

So, I guess I have to change my definition of what “all” is.  Or at least what I want.  And that’s where I find myself wishing there were more images of women who are mothers but who don’t wear spit-up as a badge of honor.  I’m not saying you never get spit-up on you, but just that you wash it off soon afterwards….