It's Happening

And it's just about all I can think of.  I'm gathering information, deciding where everything's going to go.  Counting my seeds, wondering just how many carrots I'll get to have homegrown this year, trying my hand at tomatoes, wonderful, delicious, useful and intimidating tomatoes.  The first round of seedlings are started and the first sprouts arrived yesterday afternoon, oh wonderful kale of course you're the first out of the ground.  I wonder who will come in second, I wonder which crops I'll be most impressed with this year?

 

   

 This was the first morning I found myself up before the rest of my family, I popped on my jacket, donned my mudboots and walked out into the crisp and bright morning air.  The ground was soft yet crunchy with ice beneath my feet and the morning was filled with promise.  Seeing the first garlic sprouts between the seaweed mulch and imagining my garden plan in action there.  I find myself wondering what will be the goals of the yard this year, I see little pieces coming together, and I find myself planning on so much more for this piece of ground that we work.

Pride

Today I turn 30.  Correction, today I turned 30.

Living in the past or the future, we come to milestones.  When the numbers change from a 2 to a 3, or 5 to a 6, it feels monumental.  Society makes these numbers monumental.  We are to come to these numbers with a feeling of dread or of fear.  However I don't feel those things.

I feel as though I'm 30.  I feel as though I have two children, a husband, a home, car payments, animals who rely upon me, family who respects me, community that I make a difference in, friendships that support me.  It feels just as one would hope.  responsibility, passion, balance: these are all mine and I hold them with pride. 

So when you ask me how it feels to be 30, I'll answer, "I feel proud."  I couldn't ask for more.

I Have Great News!

With pregnancy passing so has my eczema it seems.  Gone are the raw patches stretching across knuckles, fingers and backs of hands!  Gone are the itchy, debilitating raw patches!  Oh hurrah! Hurrah!  Hurrah!

I welcome back in to my life ease and ability.  Washing my hands becomes an easy task.  Washing dishes?  I can do it with gusto!  Digging in the garden this Spring will be a snap!  And oh, the greatest joy of all...

I can knit once again!!!!!!!!

Transition.

 
There are so many moments as our family adjusts to it's 1/3 increase in size that I feel how dramatically this foursome is changing us all.  I feel how quickly every routine, schedule and reliable moment of our lives has quickly shifted.  And what is that shift exactly?  And how are we different?  And how do we make the same time and space for individuality in all of that? 

The most needy person in this shift is, of course, Cecilia.  While, yes, she welcomes her baby brother, and exhibits pride and love and caring and comforting; I can also see how much she's struggling.  There are so many daily moments that feel like we're walking a tightrope. 

I am quite aware of her searching for the balance in life once again, for we're each just a little off track right now.  We're each floundering about trying to feel a morning, trying to understand filling everyone's needs at once, feeling around to see how it is that we each fit together exactly now that there are more of us.  Simple tasks take longer.  How do we all get in the car?  How to do we make and eat breakfast with a baby attached to me?  How do we fold the laundry, make the bed, brush our teeth, take a shower, go to the bathroom?  And how do our children each stay contented through all of these operations?  How do we all remain balanced?

As we awaken from our joyful bliss bubble, we walk straight in to a bog where we do not know the answers anymore.  Luckily we have a very bright lantern.  And quite thankfully our mud boots are warm.  For as many unknowns as there are to find answers to, and hours of sleep lost, and moments spent with a movie instead of a parent.  There are also baby dimples, playdough cakes, friends with open arms, hugs and kisses and tickles, and quiet morning snuggles with the sweetest family I've ever known.

The Best Parts of Labor, or, alternately, A Mother's Love.

This moment right here, that is what makes 43 tedious hours go blasting out of your head.  The hand around your shoulder, the weight being released, the tiniest of loving bundles in your arms.  The inhale and exhale of sweet, sweet relief.  The bursting of love through each of your veins.  Your toes calmly on the floor.  Waters out.  Head out.  Body Out.  Placenta Out.  Cord is cut.  I love you, I love you, We love you exchanged.

That lopsided bump in your belly is removed, no longer will the butt be out of position on the right side.  No longer will that bundle of feet be in your left rib cage.  No longer will your head be unengaged after a full night of climbing stairs, nipple stimulation, cohosh and hip pain.  The story of our baby is coming soon, oh so soon is now over, the excitement of anticipation passed.  The moments are real and they are here and must be savored at every sip.

We rejoice at healthy heart rates, at low blood pressure, at drinking gallon upon gallon of water.  We ingest what we can, a sandwich here, a mango there, a bowl of yogurt, an egg.  The naps are short, but deep, "how long was I asleep?" "20 minutes" "Oh, it felt like 2 hours."  The sleep of waiting.  Waiting for a contraction to start.  Waiting for a contraction to stop.  Holding on just a bit longer.  Just a bit longer.  Waiting for the baby to turn.  Waiting for castor oil to take effect.  Waiting for the contractions to get stronger, stronger.  And strong enough to get into that tub of warm, warm, buoyant water.   And peeing and peeing and peeing all along. 

The tears are real that are shed.  They are of frustration.  Of sadness.  Of fear.  And of grief.  They are complete, soul shaking heart wrenching release.  They are the tears you shed alone in your bedroom in the middle of the night with your husband on your side.  They are vulnerable.  These tears attack you, they flood you, they are primal.  You release them and in comes another wave.  Another contraction to fill your face, your shoulders and abdomen.  Goodbye tears, and hello to the job at hand.  The work of birthing this baby.

And the joyful moment comes, not of birth but of dilation.  The moment where you can no longer lay down, the moment when your husband goes to wake the midwife.  The moment 40 hours into labor.  The moment when he says "It's happening."  And "How do you know?"  And "She has the look in her eye."  And everyone wakes up and we see the depth occur.  We watch the burden shift.  And the decision is made.  And the weight is lifted.  And I smile, a genuine, real, miraculous smile.  And I get into the healing waters.  And then the surrender occurs.

For giving birth is transcending.  I succumb to a trance, my mouth opens, my eyes bug, my body shifts.  I bear my weight through an ankle and a toe.  I let go of my body and release.  The pain is all encompassing, transforming and temporary.  It is something that is complete in my body in those moments.  Just keep drinking the water, rocking the pelvis, reaching and releasing.  I cannot even see the baby at the end, I just know it is my journey.  My passage-way.  My experience to move this body through my own.  For I am a divine being.  I am a miracle, and in turn we are all miracles and I create that in my moment of birth. 

And divinity comes as my husband rubs my back.  As I push through my legs, my arms, this little soul just keeps coming.  And I can feel a head and a sac of waters coming.  Closer and closer with every monitored moment.  Closer and closer to when our baby will arrive.  And I can feel the head coming, I know how soon it will be.  I remember how briefly I will feel this way.  I am grateful for the small, deliberate strokes across my mid-back.  I am grateful for my feet resting against my husbands lap.  I am thankful for this beautiful pool of water.

And then.  Just like that there is a head.  A father watches as his child's head emerges.  Rest: one, two, three, four.  Relief and pleasure and kindness and happiness in the very middle of our home.  And push: two, three, four.  The bundle of shoulders and limbs and butt and tummy and knees and feet come plopping out in one great tremendous jumble.  Into a fathers lap and a midwives hands.  We rise into the oxygen all 5 of us, we all take that first breath, cry that first cry, untangle our bodies from one another.  All hands on deck, all souls delighted, all of us through a mother's legs, into a mother's arms, and over the wall of a birthing tub.

And there we are together.  Delighted.  Exhausted.  Full.  Tears get erased by smiles, get erased by joy, get erased by warmth.  To look at your face, at your baby, your love of your life.  The pleasure of friendship.  A homecoming for us each.  A love for us all.  A happiness that's shared and shared and covered and uncovered and here we are.  The one of us, the two of us, the three of us.

And the four of us as sister is reclaimed.  We see you are a boy, and here is your brother.  And you are a big sister.  And we love you.  We love you.  We love you.  We love you each and every one.  Our family complete, our family united.  At long last our family is here.  And we are at home and we are in love.  Because I love you.  I love you.  I love you. 

mamababy attachment

 
Into our nest, our cocoon, our bedroom with it's gray walls, new windows and patchwork comforter.  Under the flannel sheets, between countless pillows, up the stairs and behind a wooden door; that's where you'll find us.  We're snuggled in tight up here.  Gabriel and I; I and Gabriel.  Dada visits, stealing a cozy moment from his son when he can, a kiss from his wife in between trays of steaming food.  Ceci visits, a hand held here, a story read there, rambunctious twirls on the king sized bed.  But it's Gabriel and I who reside here.  Resident Mamababy: population cozy.

you & me

you're really good at cooking ribeye.  like the best.  i'm eternally grateful for that, and i only discovered it this winter.

The twists and turns of partnership are tight, they can be precarious, they can be significant.  At times they leave you so off balance you wonder how we can all survive the conversations and struggles of life with another person.  However, with the right person, with your person, the navigation system takes over, the desire to find one another through the dark shadows becomes greater than the ego and after many vulnerable moments one lands their heart right back where you've fallen in love once again.  For the safety in that partnership is that much greater than anything else, the trust, the care, the love, and the hairpin turns just require some white knuckles as we grip and navigate our way along the back roads of our shared lives.

I like this nautical definition for partners: a timber framework secured to and strengthening the deck of a wooden ship around a hole for a mast.  The idea of strengthening a man made hole to support that which allows us to sail forward catches me sweetly.  It tugs at my heart just the right way and brings me closer to understanding that which we do when we properly support another being on this journey.  Especially as parents, the demands of the floor of the ship and the rigging and the taking on of water, and defending from Pirates, and sometimes being Pirates ourselves becomes so great.  As a parent, just as a Captain you surrender your own needs for the sake of your crew, you sacrifice and sacrifice until you can get to port and restock, and navigating to port can be difficult in times of turbulence, so we all do the best we can.

But at the end of the journey I'm happy to have you by my side for every stretch of the way.