On Becoming a Mom, again.

I wrote about how I felt during my last few days of maternity leave with Wolfie, and so I only thought it fair to write something similar for Poppy. 

What a strange, beautiful first few months with my daughter. My daughter!

It was a pregnancy and maternity leave like no other, smack in the center of global pandemic, horrible wildfires and brutal heat waves, all of which persist to this day. The morning sickness was relentless,

the sleepless nights steady. The only similarity between the two postpartum time periods is that both involved a supreme court justice confirmation hearing (weird) and the fact that I have not made a baby book for either child, never scheduled a newborn or family photoshoot, and you guessed it, I still have not made a wedding album. Oh well. 

Early on during the pregnancy, I confessed to Dean that I didn't feel like I was bonding as much with the baby as I did when I was pregnant with my son. I admitted feeling guilty - already the second child was

drawing the short straw.

How wrong I was.

Poppy. My bond with you is unworldly. Two star souls gently bobbing around the cosmos. You are so snuggly; always want to be held. Never fussy and rarely do you have trouble settling yourself to sleep. 

It's impossible, but...sometimes I think, on some other level, you are aware of your demeanor. And it's as if you are making up for the stressful and scary pregnancy. 

It was around week 29, when  I finally stopped throwing up everyday, that we had a big scare that sent us to the ER. I was loaded up with steroids to help you grow, but never really had a definitive answer as to what sent me there. Shortly after that first trip to the hospital, I returned for an extended stay. Because of the pandemic and the restrictions enforced to minimize risk exposure, it was just me. No visitors but lots of doctors and specialists coming and going, explaining scenarios to me without enough context.

Lots of information and worries pinging around in my brain without my husband there to navigate the conversations and discuss follow up questions with me. 

I wasn't lonely. 

I met so many nice nurses who spent time talking with me and reassuring me. 

But I was sad. 

I missed Wolfie. I couldn't walk the halls because of the pandemic, and I had

to be connected to a heart monitor 24 hrs a day. Confined to my bed. It was boring and tedious, but I did what I had to do. 

You arrived five and a half weeks early, but for me, you were right on time. 

The doctor on call wanted to administer medication to stop the contractions all together. "It's too early. We need to keep that baby in.  I'll be back in a bit to check in," she said. When she closed the door I told

the nurse I didn't want to do it. I politely, but sternly refused. I knew it was time for you. I felt so sure of it. I empathized with the doctor, and I told her so. I remember saying, "You seem conflicted about this. And I need you tell me why?" She couldn't decide what the next course of action should be. Finally, as if conceding, she dropped her hands to her lap and said, "Have you ever been in the NICU? It's so sad. You don't want to be there. It's too early." 

But still, even then, even after that conversation, I knew. 

And I wasn't scared. 

Finally the doctor said, "Let's just see if these slow down. Don't you want to go home? You don't want to be here another week like before." 

But you persisted. And I listened. I told the nurse I wanted to see how this played out. 

Afterwards Dean turned to me - his face in disbelief. 'You did it Em. You stood your ground.' What happened next was rapid, organized, chaos. I was carted into the OR for surgery

within 30 minutes of the discussion with the doctor.

You spent 5 or 6 days in the NICU, and when the time came, sooner than initially anticipated, the nurses didn't want you to leave. They had all fallen so in love with you, sweet Poppy. Dean and I had to take

turns visiting you every day; we weren't allowed into the NICU at the same time with Covid-19. Before I was discharged from the hospital and you were in the NICU, I felt so grateful. You were safe and cared for, and I was able to have a few precious nights of rest and recovery.

Wolfie was my first pregnancy. But you, Poppy, are my last. 

I am grateful beyond words to have been able to get pregnant and deliver two beautiful children. But pregnancy was hard on me. Hard on my mind and my body. I figured out the mental health piece about a year postpartum with Wolfie. And now I am getting consulted on how to repair my core - which has all but been replaced with scar tissue. Another surgery down the road awaits. Sigh. 

But I'd roll the dice and sacrifice it all again. I really would. 

Thank you for being the sweetest baby in the whole wide wild world. Thank you for gifting me a son and a daughter. And please know Poppy, that even though our extended days spent together are over for now, it's okay. Because you are my daughter. Forever!

Pregnancy During a Pandemic

In the beginning, I didn't think too much about being pregnant during this pandemic. The severity of the pandemic was changing daily, if not hourly, and the many consequences and parameters now set in place were not yet part of our lives.  Quickly though, the rules associated with quarantining and sheltering in place became more explicit, and the days stretched into weeks, and then months. 

It was earlier on, at the height of the daily news briefings, that a new realization started to sink in for me. There wouldn't be a trip home to show off my belly and accept a few days of doting from my parents and sisters. I was thinking about when I came home to see my family during my first pregnancy - my dad, adjusting the pillows on the couch as I napped, mom taking me shopping for my first maternity clothes so I'd be more comfortable. Gestures they would likely do anyway, but being pregnant and back home in my parent's house for the first time, they seemed more significant. 

 And more recently, I keep pestering my little sister about when she will be finished with a sewing project she is going for me. What she doesn't realize though, is the reason for the urgency. I keep thinking about when I receive the package, and how I will be able to touch the fabric she had touched before me. I honest to god think about it all the time. I picture myself smoothing my hand over the drapes she sewed, and it makes me feel closer to her. And I wish I could see my older sister. I wish I could hug her and let her know that I worry about her, living in a new state, not yet able to meet new friends or get a real feel for her town. 

Now, I prepare for the fact that my parents won't be able to fly across the country to see us when the baby is born - at least not safely, and certainly not without worry. But it hasn't been until recently that I feel an intense sadness - grief almost - when I consider it. Part of the sadness and panic relates to just how helpful they were when my son was born, and adjusting the plans and expectations we had all mapped out for the birth of my daughter. I'd had a very difficult recovery from the birth of my son. My mom essentially gained a newborn in me during those two weeks postpartum that she and my dad were staying with us. When my husband was busy attending to our son, it was my mom who helped me down to and up from the toilet, and in and out of the shower, wrapping my shocked and swollen body in its towel and helping me lift one leg at a time into my clothes to dress. It was my dad, tenderly arranging ice packs on my feet after I waddled, exhausted to the couch, and it was him who rubbed my back at the dinner table as I fought through fever chills and pain. 

The other part though - the larger, more looming part is the unanswerable.

I have the answers to the tactical. I know my husband will take care of me. He is inexplicably calm, resilient and focused when things are challenging. Despite his bravado, his tender heart is as big as his personality - and he will keep our ship on course. And I already know it will be 4 months later when he will finally allow his body to catch up on sleep, and his mind to rest. It breaks my heart, the sacrifices he will make. Breaks it, but in a good way. I also know our son's nanny will provide help and assistance to us that we will never be able to replicate or reproduce on the same level for her. We will hug her goodbye at night, close the door and shake our heads - how did we get so lucky? How can we ever extend back the same level of assistance and kindness she has given us? And I also know - at least I have to believe- that this time will be easier. That my mind and body are more prepared for what's to come.

So. It's the questions I don't have answers to that cause an instant, physical reflex, the kind right before a cry. My nose scrunches, my eyes squeeze shut and my throat closes briefly. 

When will my parents meet my daughter? When will they see my son again? 

Will they have the chance to develop a relationship with my children, like they do with my nephews who share the same coastline as them?

I don't know. 

Some nights, while my husband sits with my son in his room as he falls asleep, I'll push the screen door open and shuffle out to the back yard. I take a deep breath in, and stare across the valley and up into the twilight sky. I whisper into the air: I miss you. I miss you, I miss you. I. MISS.YOU. I miss you. 

And for a brief moment, I feel a cathartic sense of calm float over me. Another day has come to an end. Another day closer to giving birth. Another day with more insight into vaccines and restrictions lifted. Another day to come.