One! Sing-u-lar sensation! ... is still singular

Single parenthood sucks. Wow. Stunning revelation, hunh? It's hard, it's exhausting, it's imperfect. (Actually, in my case it's closer to rarely reaching a level of self-acceptance.)

It is tossing and turning at 2:30 in the morning while analyzing decisions and paths and ultimatums. Perhaps even decisions, paths and ultimatums from a week ago. Or a month.

It is constant wonder about which particular act will ruin the kids forever.

Single parenthood is vows to never ruin the kids forever.

It is saying goodbye to your children once a week. Every single week. And sending them off in some cases with the person you once loved more than you ever thought possible, and then hated more than humanly possible, and now have a balanced insanity with.

Single parenthood is coming home late at night after work to the toys and clothes and books and all the reminders of your babies ... except your actual babies.

And turning on the TV or going online because you can't sleep through the missing of them.

Going through the motions. Lather rinse repeat. Waiting for something to break the cycle. Wondering how many have gone through this path before you and come out clean, because nothing in life is original or unexperienced. Wondering what will be next you never could have anticipated, but anticipating it all the same because perhaps it will be that critical change you wished for to create a new life for your family and for yourself. That one new thing that you did-thought-said-typed to change. It. All. Forever. Happily. Ever. After.

Because guess what? When you stop waiting for IT, IT will happen. It cannot be repeated enough, that mantra. Or apparently it can't be, because damned again if someone hasn't repeated it to you. Such bullshit.

And it's self-perpetuating. Because your kids will always come first (as it should be), no one will ever measure up. Because you put their interests above all else (as it should be), your own true personhood is delayed and then lost. As it should not be.

It's also a yearning to be with your children all the free time you have. To ignore everyone else or activities that don't involve them. Because you're doing this by yourself while working full time, the time spent is never, ever enough. And it's not just some guilty sense. It's true craving to be with them because they're the highest purpose ever and how could you not WANT to be with them all the time? How could you not rejoice in the joy of them? Delight in their changes? Meet them anew all over and over again?

It's probably not a whole lot different from parenting as a couple, I suppose. Only you're left to bear everything alone. There's no one to back up your parental decisions, but more vitally, no one to back YOU up. Your bed, assuming a child is not sleeping in it, or a cat, is cold when you climb in. Your worries unvoiced and lingering.

There's no one to chide you that it's all better during the daylight hours.

To reassure you in a way you might actually believe because of the source.

It is, in the middle of bountiful love, lonely.

Who is strong enough to take this all on, to love my children as I do? How could I ask that of someone? And yet I'm willing to love someone else's children, should I be lucky enough to meet a fellow lonely single parent who happens to be my perfect mate.

Sensational.

Amazing, this parental life

When you become a parent, it becomes this exquiste balance of hope and terror.

You expose yourself to the very ultimate in fear. You open your heart and your mind and your every utter fiber to the very real immediate possibility of devastation. How do I explain, really, this potential agony? Every detail you read in the newspaper becomes your own possibile scenario.

And it resonates.

So deeply.

The little 2-year-old boy still strapped in his car seat when the car he's riding in rockets on rain-wetted leaves irretrievably into the river is a little boy who will visit you in your dreams. To tell you it's OK. And that you need to protect your babies closer.

This true deep love is powerful and terrifying. Have I conveyed that specifically instead of in generalities?

What if I tell you that it only compounds? Builds?

You have another child and all of the possible terrors multiply.

And then. Yes. It gets worse.

Because THEN your friends have babies, too. And this love that you've become incapable of controlling suddenly expands. Takes these babies in, too.

Isn't that impossible? Right?

Except.

Yes, except.

I am a firm believer in balance. Ying/yang, goddess/god, the whole thing. And here it is, in full utter glorious example.

Parenting is soooo good!

I am the first mama in this entire damn world to mark these milestones. Mine, mine, mine. My every amazing beings.

Ferocious devoted love! Glorious depths, physical joy!

The way these babies smell, the way you breathe in the scent of their hair, their skin. And oh, that skin! Soft, gentle, unfettered skin! Delicate brushes of lips against it, to preserve it as you simultaneously consume it!

Every bit of these children has never been explored before. It's cliche, like possibly and likely all of this, but nonetheless the absolute truth.

Yup. You have fallen in love. Love beyond explanation, because it is this love that leaves you utterly vulnerable. Remember?

With reward. The reward of words. The reward of milestones. The reward of devoted, passionate love.

Passionate love for your child. Your creation.

Yes, babies, this is my love for you.

And I am at once terrified and grateful.

She's 1!

Or I guess I should point out, 1 and two days. Wow. I wondered if I'd write on her first birthday, just a quick line, but figured I wouldn't have time. I was right.

There was so much going on, getting ready for her party and doing other house stuff. So the actual day passed, and I didn't really feel its effects like I thought I would. You know -- living in the past, the "this is where I was in the hospital exactly one year ago" stuff. There was just too much to revel in in the present to let myself become preoccupied.

Then today came. The family and I went down to the waterfront for trick or treating, as we do every year. Last year, it was on Sunday, the day after I'd been discharged and just four days after my C-section. But I still went, even in my dazed over state. I was really tired and not moving so quickly, but determined to do it for L even though a member of our family wasn't with us.

This year, she was:)

There's a water fountain by the aquarium that draws L every time like a bee to pollen. He can't spend enough time there. So I was sitting on the bottom level with the baby while he and my sister were playing up top. And I started to think about the previous year. And I held Ella closer to me. And snuggled my face into her shoulder because I was crying all of a sudden.

Watching her take everything in in that very wise, observant way she has, looking at the sun sparkling in her hair and eyelashes, kissing her cold-reddened cheeks ... and then thinking about the activity of the past two days and how well she did with everything ... And then knowing how much she loves me. ME. How she reaches out for me all the time. How she becomes upset if I set her down or hand her to anyone else. And watching her brother play ... As cheesy as it sounds, my heart was so full of love and gratitude. And this brought the tears.

And then I noticed the guy fishing for coins out of the fountain.





I started to get so mad as he moved from place to place, fishing out the coins. I didn't care about whatever dire need drove him to do it. I only worried that he was stealing people's wishes! Parents walking by with trick-or-treaters would look then be taken aback, pulling their children abruptly away. I just sat and watched as my tears dried. Thoughts raced through my head about chastising him. But he looked pretty grouchy and I wasn't about to step in it.

So I started to think, OK. The wish is made when the coin is tossed and the person walks away. He can't be stealing wishes, and if the money helps him, then who am I to become so judgmental?

And then he came closer.

I looked into the water by us, and there was a big silver coin. I knew he was coming for it. He set his pack down and rolled up his sleeves, right next to us. He reached into the frigid water and swooped it out effortlessly. Pulled his clutching hand out, shook the water off and rolled his sleeves back down.

And reached over.

And gave Ella the coin.

As a birthday approaches ...

... here's a present for you!

March of Dimes

Hi stranger!

So as Ella's birthday fast approaches, I'm reminded of a yearly event sponsored by the March of Dimes: The NICU Day of Gratitude. It's a day where NICU families and staff reunite to see how far the babies have come. Last year, it was held about a week after Ella's birth. It was comforting for me to meet some of the families who had already endured the experience I was yet to face.

I'm sure you already know about the work of The March of Dimes. If not, I've added a handy link at the top of this page. And I've also posted a brief synopsis of Ella's story on the site as part of a nationwide "quilt." If you follow the link, you'll be able to search for her and to leave comments.

NOTE: I don't know if her story's up just quite yet, so please check back. It might need to go through official channels first. In the meantime, click around and read some of the other babies' stories. You'll see how special Ella really is in this world.

*Are You Covered?*

Hi, my name's Kerrie and I write over at Sanity Department. I'm participating in Absolutely Bananas Monday Writing Prompt about Embarrassing Moments. I already posted one over at www.sanitydepartment.com, but I'm writing a guest column here at Ankle Rolls. Enjoy this humiliating moment and then check out my Alarming Situation over at Sanity Department. Thanks!

Over the summer, me, Mr. T and T Junior went to the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw. We're both part Scottish, so it's something we try to attend every year. T Junior was handling the crowd and the noise of the bagpipes very well.

But, after an hour or so, it was time for him to eat. This was going to be my very first public breastfeeding experience.

We found a spot near the rear of the fairgrounds in an area where there was nothing going on. There were no booths or exhibits, just a lonely, empty bench. Perfect.

I told Mr. T to go enjoy himself while I fed our son.

I got out my privacy shawl and put it over my head. I know what you're thinking: Why didn't you just take a bottle? The answer to your very obvious question is: I'm not sure.

Anyway, breastfeeding a wiggly baby without a Boppy is no easy task. It's even harder when you can't see what you're doing because you are wearing a shawl trying to block others from seeing what you are doing. To make things more complicated, T Junior didn't really like being under this hot shawl. (He likes to observe his surroundings.) I kept having to make him latch again and again, but I couldn't see so it was difficult.

Finally, we got coordinated. He was eating and I was enjoying the music of the opening ceremonies featuring all of the pipe bands, maybe more than 100-pipers and -drummers strong. Even though they were far away, the music was loud and beautiful. A little breeze was blowing. It felt good.

T Junior was still eating when the ceremonies ended. The wind was picking up and I kept having to hold down one side of my shawl (the important side).

Then, to my shock and horror, I saw ALL of the pipers and drummers coming my way. There were lots and lots of men heading directly at us. I struggled to keep the wind from exposing me as EVERY member of ALL of the pipe bands passed right in front of me.

Figures.

A call for submissions

I hereby extend this call for guest writers for my blog. You may write on any topic you wish. And if you don't volunteer, I'm coming after you.

Heartbeats

My biggest fear in this life is losing my children. In fact, I'm certain that no one has visualized more horrible ways their children could be hurt than I have. I have a very vivid imagination, and random strangers snatching my children from my very arms is only the base level of my imaginings.

I don't know how I would survive their loss. They are my love, my life, my dreams, my compassion, my everything. It's not just about me, though:) These nouns are what I wish for them, as I try my best to guide and teach and love them for the day I have to set them free. (Not that I won't call ALL. THE. TIME.)

About a month before Ella's birth, my dad and I took a trip to the East Coast for fun. New York and outward. As we were leaving Gettysburg, Pa., we were seriously rear-ended, shoving our rental car into the back of the one in front. We all got out, the driver behind a young college girl profusely apologizing. Then I saw the passenger in the car ahead get out: She was very, very pregnant. Due, in fact, in a week.

The poor college girl had rammed into two pregnant women. What are the chances? Then all her friends started walking by the accident scene on their way to school. Poor thing.

I went to the hospital as a precaution, not really believing anything was wrong but also worried about back issues because we were hit HARD. The nurse brought out a stethoscope and listened for my baby's heartbeat. And couldn't find anything. A couple more nurses came through, and a portable heartbeat-listening-machine (the scientific name for it) still produced ... silence.

Despite their gentle reassurances about old equipment, my terror grew. And tears. The kind, kind, kind doctor came in, told me he was certain the baby was OK, but that they were bringing over a better device and they were going to do an ultrasound as well. That he wasn't at all worried but because I obviously was, he wanted to do what would make me feel better.

It. Took. Forever.

I was so scared, and for the first time contemplated what it would mean to lose the pregnancy I hadn't yet accepted. It's so common a scenario as to be stereotypical: Not knowing what you have until it's gone.

Obviously, the heartbeat was found, the baby once more vividly alive on the ultrasound, another set of pictures for the scrapbook.

How do women who lose their babies cope? How do they survive? It takes a strength I simply cannot imagine. So often after Ella was born and came home, I was lucky enough to be told the stories of strangers, strangers who in the course of telling me their pain and joy became mothers and members of my circle of family.

Rhythms of connections to the past and present and future. Understanding. Of the babies born too early who did not make it. Of the extraordinarily close calls. Of the past losses that present technology would have saved.

Thank you, to all of you, for sharing your beautiful, intimate stories. I hope that my being there for you for those tiny, tiny moments is accepted by the universe as a way of expressing my gratitude and giving back in so many ways I have been given. All of these heartbeats — gone, beating and still to come. I hear them and I feel them.

And on that hospital gurney in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, I felt my own baby's heart beating. And I fell in love with her for the very first time.

Another question, another day

I'm wondering if I'm the only person who does these two oddball things, and perhaps what they mean. I *have* found over time that NONE my own unique idiosyncrasies are either my own or unique, so that should count for something.

First. I used to do this when I was little and bored on a car ride. As we'd drive along the street, I'd mentally draw a line between a car on one side to the car on the other. The moment the line connected, I'd mentally blow both cars up. Sometimes I still do it, but mostly I'm plotting how I could REALLY blow up the cars that are actually being driven.

There are two variations to this mental imbalance. The first is drawing mental lines in between poles or signs on the sides of the road and clicking them off, and the other is drawing mental lines between cars.

Still with me?

This other is a recent manifestation perhaps derived from when I was with my ex. The first couple of years, I had the only car between us and because it was an insane car, I drove everywhere. My ex always picked the radio station (I'd say 75% of the time it was the same one) and I never, ever changed it. So that's a bit obsessive, but sweet, too, in my sicko mind.

The recent peculiarity is this: When I get home late at night from work (and I only do this then), I click off my radio before pulling into my driveway. But I can't turn it off on a "bad" word. It has to be something good or fun or some such. So if it's, let's say, "Stupid Girls" by Pink, I wouldn't be able to turn it off on the word "stupid," but "girls" would be fine. And if I don't get it turned off in time, I HAVE to wait for a new "good" word.

There you have it. A brief glimpse into my head.

Scary, ain't it?

Now what?

So you haven't heard from me in a bit because I'm trying to think about the direction of this blog. Should I continue the same track, now that the suspense is gone and you all know my story indeed has a happy (joyous) ending? Certainly, Ella's story doesn't end here. She's now a marvelous 10 months old, almost crawling (if that darn arm wouldn't just STICK there when the legs go from behind!), babbling and so on. Just as happy as can be, too.

The ironic thing is, so many times along the way in writing this, I would be frustrated by my self-imposed structure because something would strike me and I would want to blog about it. A few times, I did. But mostly I didn't, and now that I have the freedom, so to speak, to do so, I can't think of a single blasted thing.

Perhaps I'll throw some random bits out here, a few pictures for now. Because I have a good thing going here, and I don't want to stop now.


This is Ella's LAST night in the hospital! I'd decided I wanted to have the "traditional" hospital experience, so she and I roomed in that final night. Looking back, I'm not sure what the heck the attraction was for me. Capturing some of what was lost, I suppose. But I didn't get a lick of sleep. Hmm. Perhaps it was EXACTLY like a "real" experience, lol. But it was kind of sad, too. I think I wanted it to be just me and her, but I realize how lonely it was that night. And when I left the next day, it was just Ella and I and a nurse walking us out to the car. No family, no friends, no flowers and balloons and being pushed in a wheelchair. But I did get Ella. And so the baby and I made our way home together to start our new life.






Here's a funny, rare sight: Ella in her own bed! You know it's early on (the first day, in fact) 'cause she's so tiny, hunh? Now her bed's a nifty storage place for stuffed animals. Sometimes, she visits them to play. See that quilt under her? I bought that from an Amish woman in Intercourse, Penn. (hee hee)




The Morning After. I'd prepped for the night by having a stock of breast-milk filled bottles at the ready. And boy did we need them!




First bath. Not happy. Not at all.




Yo! Be-yotch! Bring me my bottle, check. (You can't see the thick rope of gold chains tucked under her chin.)




One of my favorite photos, hands down. Look at them adore each other! It's a small hint of the love to come.




Look how big the bonnet is on her head. She's wearing my favorite outfit of the time. It's now part of a shadowbox: A little pink pair of quilted overalls fits perfectly inside an 11"x17" shadowbox. A little pink pair of quilted overalls that once were too big for my daughter.




Yes, it was THAT engrossing!




Shhhh! My babies are sleepin'.

BIG NEWS ALERT! ... with multiple pictures!

Yes, yes, you've been so patient. Good job. Now, it's back to the desperate race to catch up with the present. Speaking of presents, I have one at the end of this p-oh-oh-st.

Dec. 17: To see Ella:) 3 13 1/2 ounces. She nurses and roots.

Dec. 18: To see Ella-Bean: Just for 1/2 hour. 3 14 1/2 ounces:) Back after work for a couple of hours. Tried breastfeeding ... and she is 4 pounds, .06 ounces. (Don't believe me? I was THERE! See?)



Dec. 19: To see Ella:) Briefly before work to drop off milk. She's doing well w/bottles.



Dec. 20: Meet R (w/her L) at hospital at 12. To see Ella:) 4, 1.7. Has runny nose, though. I feel bad.

Dec. 21: To see Ella:) Stayed a few hours:) 4.3

Dec. 22: To see Ella:) 4.5

Dec. 23: To see Ella:) 4.7. Nurse says maybe 2-3 weeks!

L holds her!



Dec. 24: To see Ella:) w/L. 4.8. She takes 10 cc nursing:) (An aside: Here's some L brilliance: L: "I'm a nut and I'm very valuable." Me: "To who?" L: "Squirrels.")


Dec. 25: To see Ella:) with sister. 4 9.6. Here's the exciting news: She pulled out her feeding tube and they left it out!! She take full feeding by nursing (for an hour!!) To see Ella:) after work for coupla hours. 4 10.6. (Note: One of the nurses tells me I need to start clearing out some of the things Ella's accumulated — photos, clothes, pictures, etc. I'm kinda offended, but I do it. She also tells me I should come to rounds later that morning, but since it's like 3 a.m. and rounds are at 7 a.m., I decline. I'm such a dumb ass. Read on.)

(Here's Sister holding Ella, for first time, on Christmas Day:) Small on purpose.



(Here are FIRST photos of my baby girl without ANY TUBES, WIRES, ETC. !!!!!!!!!!!! :)





READY FOR IT??? Dec. 26: Today when I call, (nurse) Christine says, "You're not going to believe this ... (dramatic pause) They're talking about sending her home Friday." MAMA INSANITY ENSUES!!

I do go To see Ella:) later, but only after visiting many, many, many baby stores and give official word at work:

My maternity leave has begun!

Confession

I'm waiting to hear from L (who's at his grandparents') so I can talk to him specifically about the C.D.I., but in the meantime I have something I need to tell everyone before I get back to Ella review. It's not easy to say this, so I'll just have to spit it out.

Deep breath. OK. Here goes.

I listen to country music on the way home from work.

I know! I know. sigh. I could have just kept this secret, but it's been weighing on me. Heavily.

I feel so ashamed.

sob

And I realize now that it's probably something I need to let go of. Listening to, gulp, country music and being a naturally depressed person ... well, it's just sick. Sick!

I have to say it likely began in Mexico. When L and I were in Puerto Vallarta on a day-trip pirate ship adventure, the "pirates" had Big & Rich's "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" blaring from the so-authentic loudspeakers on the ship. Being in a sun-drenched locale full of slightly dressed sexy people, hearing a provocative song ... well, let's just say I was intrigued. So after we got back to the States, I added the song to my iPod. Yes. I paid MONEY for a country song.

And once you get a taste ... well, it was impossible. Sure, I can use the excuse that my radio dial had been programmed to another station that switched formats to become a country station. But am I just fooling myself?

I tried! I really tried to stick with the alternative station I love so much. But my fingers would twitch on the drive home from work. And the public radio station at that time too often discussed heavy topics I didn't want to hear, having been at work all day. And the alternative station at this time was a bit, well, too alternative.

So what I like about country music is that it tells a story most of the time. Yes, there's the same-old, same-old maudlin crap, but there's some funny shit, too. For example, some lyrics:

She said, "I'm going out with my girlfriends"
margaritas at the Holiday Inn
oh mercy ... my only thought
was tequila makes her clothes fall off

I told her put an extra layer on
I know what happens when she drinks patron
her closets missing half the things she bought
tequila makes her clothes fall off

ch....she'll start by kicking out of her shoes
lose an earring in her drink
leave her jacket in the bathroom stall
drop a contact down the sink

them pantyhose ain't gonna last too long
if the DJ puts Bon Jovi on
she might come home in a tablecloth
tequila makes her clothes fall off

Funny, hunh? How about:

I’m the son of a 3rd generation farmer
I’ve been married 10 years to the farmer’s daughter
I’m a God fearin’ hard workin’ combine driver
Hoggin’ up the road on my p-p-p-p-plower
Chug a lug a luggin’ 5 miles an hour
On my International Harvester

Three miles of cars layin’ on their horns
Fallin’ on deaf ears of corn
Lined up behind me like a big parade
Of late to work road-raged jerks
Shoutin’ obscene words flippin’ me the bird

Well you may be on a state-paved road
But that blacktop runs through my payload
Excuse me for tryin’ to do my job
But this year ain’t been no bumper crop
If you don’t like the way I’m a drivin’
Get back on the interstate
Otherwise sit tight and be nice
And quit yer honkin’ at me that way

OK. Sometimes, they're really really sad, like this one about exes trading the kids:

Every other Friday
It's toys and clothes and backpacks
Is everybody in?
OK let's go see Dad
Same time in the same spot
Corner of the same old parking lot
Half the hugs and kisses
There are always sad
We trade a couple words and looks and kids again
Every other weekend

And then there's this one. It always gets to me. (Wonder why.)

Got my face pressed up against the nursery glass
She's sleepin' like a rock
My name on her wrist
Wearin' tiny pink socks
She's got my nose, she's got her mama's eyes
My brand new baby girl
She's a miracle

The cookie dough incident

OK, so this has nothing to do with Ella, but it's really weighing on me and I need to do something to relieve the angst, if possible.

L requested for his treat cookie dough during my last grocery trip, and I complied. So last night, I went to have a glob or two and discovered just three left. Out of the whole package.

It had been a long, busy day, the baby was to bed and I wanted to just sit with my kid on the couch, each of us with a book in hand, nose in book, and eat something crappy for my fat ass.

Three cookie dough globs in the whole package.

I took a bite of one.

And then L asked me if he could have them.

At this point, I totally lost my temper. In true asshole fashion, I shoved the package at him and launched into dramatic tirade about how I never get anything for myself, that I have to share everything, blah blah blah. I then basically threw the half-eaten blob onto the package and told him to eat it all.

Is it normal to shove your problems down an 8-year-old's throat? How about a day after the child has turned 8? Yes, it had been his birthday the day before.

After some back-and-forthing with him telling me never mind, he ate the two blobs. But it doesn't end there.

I tried to make him eat the half-eaten blob as well.

And then I made him cry as I told him he had to eat it.

At some point, I came back to understanding exactly what a fucking wretched thing I was doing (not to mention stupid. You force kids to eat vegetables, not cookie dough) and I quit. This is the shit that haunted children carry with them into therapy sessions. Crazy-ass mothering.

So I quit yelling at my little boy. After I made him cry.

For being an 8-year-old boy who wanted cookie dough.

Some questions

So I've been wondering about a few things, probably all of them things I could find answers to if I actually decided to make the effort. But I haven't. So here are a few.

1. Newborns are screened for a certain number of genetic illnesses/predispositions to those illnesses. At what point was my daughter screened? Or was she?

2. Does the fact that Ella's dad puts her to bed with the radio on mean she's going to be one of those people who always has to have some kind of noise in the background to calm down and focus?

3. Because of when my daughter was born, she's going to be one of the oldest kids in her classes. Is this going to result in her being the illegal-substance/item-buyer for her underage peers?

4. Being born 3 1/2 months early not only put Ella into a different Zodiac sign, it also put her in a different year according to the Chinese calendar. What do I go by when it comes to determining her astrological inclinations? When she was physically born? Or when she was suppose to be? This is a big question for me, ironically bigger than any of the other issues.

And JUST where have you been, young lady?

Here and there and a bit of everywhere. Some time off with family. Busy time for birthdays. Did you miss me ferociously? Is it weird I'm asking this question when no one reads my blog? Does this mean I'm talking to myself? Does it matter?

Ahhh, the profound mysteries of life.

Dec. 10: To see Ella:) 3.4 1/2. SHE NURSES!!! :) Residual is a cc of my milk! (Definition time. Residual is the amount that's left in the baby's stomach after she eats. The nurse uses a syringe to suck out the contents of the stomach through the baby's feeding tube, note how much is there, then return it. Pretty horrible, isn't it? It's so they know much the baby is getting to eat.)

Dec. 11: To see Ella:) 3.5. Nurses more; takes 1/2 of feeding via bottle:) SO cute!


Dec. 12: To see Ella:) Just for a bit. She's 3.6 :)

Dec. 13: To see Ella brfly:) 3.8. Then after work. 3.9.

Dec. 14: To see Ella:) 3.9. Nursed brfly. (Son and I ate dinner at hospital. And DRESSED the baby in actual clothes. So cute! I've never had dress-up tendencies, but how could anyone resist this little "doll?")



Dec. 15: Ella:) 3.10 (I didn't stay long at all, just dropped off my milk because I was sick. I was so devastated not to be able to see the baby. I felt so awful.)

Dec. 16. Ella:) TO CRIB!!! 3 pounds, 12 ounces (lots of smiley faces)



And here's a final photo to show ... it's Christmas time! Isn't she gorgeous?

Hey! That kid looks like me!

Let's keep catching up, OK? I can't take much more of the sadness right now (being Tuesday and all, the day I reabandon my children ...)

So we were all the way up to Dec. 1. Time flies. The boy, sister and I went to see the girl as usual, but it started to snow. Heavily. So we headed out much sooner than usual.

Dec. 2: To see Ella:) 2 pounds, 11 ounces. They gave her a bath last night and didn't tell me :(
(**I'm all about keeping things chronological, but I need to expand on this AND get through more days, so I'll catch you up on this entry in a minute. If you're patient and hang out till then, I'll make good on the title of this entry, too. **)

Dec. 3: To see Ella:) Back to 2.10, but doing well. She's very active — she turned self around last night in bed:) Very alert holding her. They took NASAL PRONGS OUT!! for time outs:)

Dec.4: To see Ella:) Up to 2.13 Eye test — everything looks great:) Nasal canula out:)

Dec. 5: Starting back to work. To see Ella:) 2.14:)And after work to see her:) (Boy, that sucked, going back to work part time. Have you figured out yet that I might feel that way?)

Dec. 6: To see Ella:) 3 POUNDS:) Sign on Isolette:) Maybe 32 wks we'll start trying to nurse.


Dec. 7: To see Ella w/Dad:) 3.1 I can bring clothes! Next bed change likely to be to a crib, nurse says!

Dec. 8 To see Ella:) She totally pulls back head to check me out. (Editor's Note: I think I might've said this already happened. A thousand apologies. This is REALLY when it happened.)

Dec. 9: To see Ella:) (Jumping in again. This week, in my planner I've made notes about Ella's room. I'm getting it ready for her. Wow.)

**OK. Time to update the bath thing.

So when I showed up the next day, I found a small stack of pictures on the shelf next to Ella. I leafed through them, then realized they were OF Ella. I was confused, thought maybe they were from her dad ... then I realize they were of her getting a bath.

That rippling/ripping sensation wrenching down my gut.

I asked the nurse, and yes. They gave her a bath after we'd left because of the heavy snow. I was, to put it mildly, devastated. All along, they'd told me about how I'd get to do certain things with Ella, like nursing her, putting clothes on, bathing her. I was looking forward to every first I could have, since so many had already been stolen.

So, as I held my baby and the pain deepened, I choked out to the nurse my despair. I don't know if she understood the depth of my sadness, but she was my favorite nurse and very sympathetic. She made a note in the chart.

Not a single nurse involved ever apologized to me, though they later explained that giving a bath was just an automatic for them, that they hadn't even considered how it would affect me. Except, my response was, if it was so automatic, why did they take pictures?

So, I'm trying not to remember that my daughter's first bath happened without me, but there IS the photographic evidence. And with that evidence came a stunning realization: She LOOKS like ME!

Here's Ella:


Here's me (with my mom ... who I look like in many ways.)


And because you've been so patient, here I am again, a bit older. Ain't I cute? I think I'd do just about anything to have that bonnet and sweater again.

A letter to my children

Guilt is the cancer of motherhood.

No matter how astounding you might be, or be perceived as, if you are a mother you are never, in your own mind, good enough.

I, my children, am no different. I love you, I would die for you, but I will never see myself as good enough for you. I will go to the grave lamenting the mistakes I have made (and will still make).

Son, I am forever haunted by the time when the young you was going through a hair-pulling phase. One tug too many, and I reached out, yanked your own hair. You looked at me in shock and betrayal, your eyes welling. And I died a little, knowing how quickly I could harm. I am sorry.

And daughter, the failure to believe in your tenacity, the loss of understanding mired in shock of reality, stole time. It's not that I doubted you; only that I never knew to believe. I am sorry.

So much guilt. Take, for example, the issue of going back to work. Without exception, men who return to work are celebrated, supported. They are taking care of their family, providing. On the other hand, it's still common that women who return to work are shunned. They are failing their families, abandoning their children for their own selfishness. And if there is no choice, say, if they must work to support those children? Well, then they failed in securing a decent husbandly provider.

And as much as I discredit this diatribe, this little worm squirms disturbingly inside my conscious. Am I doing the right thing? Will I look back someday and berate myself for not doing more to secure the time with you, even as I am so conscious now of making this choice? I have tried to explain my choice to you, L, so I can comprehend if it's truly the right one. I need to know how I am affecting you, if I am ruining you. Isn't it enough to have my love? Why can't we live in a tiny apartment that costs far less instead of a big house I struggle to afford? Whose dream am I trying to capture?

And Ella, my darling girl. I struggle, struggle with the terrible fear that you will lose the sense that I am the most important person in your life. That you were inside me, albeit for a brief, naive time. That you are a physical flesh and blood creation of mine. That I am Mama and there is no other person as vitally rich for you. Will you lose that knowledge, as I leave you in the care of others? How do I always and forever maintain that unreplicatable relationship? Will I always be truly special to you, or will your smiles for others come to mean as much as the ones for me? Will our bond be weakened?

I love you both so deeply, and the loss I bore as a child — still struggle to understand and overcome as an adult — affects how I struggle to prevent any replication of the pain.

Leaving each of you is a weekly loss. I go to work angry, discouraged, full of self-hatred. I want to be with you, only with you, I live my life FOR you, and yet I abandon you? For that is what it feels like: constant abandonment. It's difficult to see it any other way when it's what I went through as a little girl. (You see? It's so easy to mess up your children! And, of course, it's always the mother's fault.)

I am so, so sorry, my babies.

The solace I can try to offer to myself, though it will never be good enough, is that I am full of you. I am madly in love with you. I am acutely aware of how extraordinarily lucky I am that life brought you into my arms.

L, as you grow the natural separation has begun. I remember when you were a baby how I'd sometimes come home from work and just hold you forever, smelling you, stroking your skin, rubbing my cheek on your silken hair, kiss and sing to you. You still snuggle with me sometimes, but it's not as often and I understand. You MUST move from me. But you will always be my beautiful little baby boy, even when the day comes I must tilt my head to look you in the face.

And Ella, your babyhood prevails but your maturation is fully under way. You are a person! Isn't that a silly thing to say? But I see you and I know you, and I am so delighted by you.

None of this is exactly what I wanted to say and all of it is exactly what I wanted to say. Words are my living but are inadequate in a mother's hands.

I am here for you both always, my love is everlasting and unconditional, and I know you will understand this all more someday when the cycle repeats and you become parents.

Thank you for the gift of you. You two are the purpose of my life.

Mama

We now interupt your regularly scheduled reading (again) ...

... so I can go off on a subject wholly unrelated ...

I want you to meet Edith Macefield, who died not so long ago.

Ms. Macefield lived a pretty interesting life. But it was the very end of it that we've come to discuss today.

You see, Ms. Macefield lived in her tiny house, with the glass animal figurines in the tiny windows, until the very end of that life. What's remarkable is what she did when change came to her block. To become her next-door neighbors, in fact.

You see, a multi-use structure was to be erected on her block, to consume her block in fact, and everyone else sold their homes to make way for it. Except Ms. Macefield.

She held firm to her convictions.

But the noise! people said. Eh. She lived through World War II. A little noise wouldn't be anything.

OK, said the developer. We'll give you a million bucks. Eh. No thanks. What would she do with a million bucks? She had everything she needed.

So Ms. Macefield lived in that tiny house as the bigger building went up around her. She kept her home neat and clean, and the yard well tended with its one tree, and she parked her old blue car out front. And that's where it remains, even after her death.

No one, even the construction foreman who befriended her, knows what is to become of the tiny house.

Ms. Macefield, however, had a will. What's in it is still to come.

Don't believe this story is real? Maybe you think it's just a version of the 1942 tale by Virginia Lee Burton, called "The Little House: Her Story?"

No. This story is true. Don't you believe me? How about now:

I take illegal drugs

I haven't really delved recently into the emotional aspects. I'm trying to catch up a bit, and racing through. But it wasn't easy, even with Ella's move to a lower-level NICU hospital. At this point, it was all still very numbing, and I suppose rather difficult to get a grasp of. Going into the experience, I was repeatedly warned it would "be a roller coaster." I came to hate that term, still do, I heard it so many times.

I was confused and still terribly afraid, and had no idea that I would be bringing this child HOME at some point. It was such a foreign concept, even as this child really became a person. The nurses would tell me later how worried they were for me, as every little thing resonated so deeply. I'd never been through this before. I didn't know what to expect, despite any kind of education. Part of me, I guess I need to admit, couldn't comprehend it someday would be over.

One thing that was happening had to do with my milk supply. Simply put, it was dwindling. It's a common thing with mothers of preemies. Although I was pumping, it wasn't the same. The body recognizes and responds to a baby, not a machine. So this potential loss was terrifying for me. Breastfeeding was something I could still preserve from everything that had been lost.

So I did a little digging, and discovered my options. Two drugs are known to promote lactation. One exacerbates depressive symptoms to the point one is ready to die. The other is not sold in the United States. Obviously, the first was out. So I turned to the Internet and found the second one, domperidone. And I ordered it. It came from Thailand. I had to wait. And fret.

So. Let's do some more racing through the calendar, and I'll even include a few photos.

Nov. 17 (first day at new hospital): Went with son, dad and sister to see Ella:) back on CPAP because they don't do high-flow oxygen; she's 915 g — 2 LBS!

18: To see Ella:) Held her but she's back to same issues with stupid CPAP. They're watching iron level, too. I feel so scared.

19: To see Ella:) 940 g, blood test excellent (EPO working!) Held her for a long time w/son


20: To see Ella:) 950 g. Back on CPAP after hard night.

21: Ella: doing well — esp. w/CPAP. 950 g.

22 (Thanksgiving, aka day after horrible root canal!): To see Ella:) On nasal prongs! 960 g. I her her for 1 1/2 hours:) She knows my voice — wakes up and listens and looks at me!


23: To see Ella:) 820 g (2 lbs. 4 oz.); held for hour 15 mins.; feisty — she peed on me while I changed her poopy diaper! :)

24: To see Ella:) 1040 g!

25: To see Ella:) Same weight. Held for long time. SO alert! Down to 1 liter oxygen.
(The SO alert note ... When I was holding her, she actually lifted her head and just stared at me! She's still 2 1/2 months before her due date, but this little baby girl LIFTS HER HEAD and looks me in the face, straight on, as if to say, "Hm. So that's what you look like." I was, to put it mildly, astounded.)

26: To see Ella:) w/son. To 1/2 liter oxygen; harder time, but good; 2.6 lbs.


27: To see Ella:) 2.8! Held long time — she watched me for long time. But having harder time again (like when first born). (Scratched out this day is a class my son and I were going to take called "Siblings are Special.")

28: No entry.

(But look at this tenacious girl!
They'd burrito-baby swaddled her, as usual, which she didn't care for.
So she somehow managed to stick her foot out the side!)


29: Dad over @ noon to see Ella:) Doing well — 2.9. She fountain pooped on me. Held her, too.

30: To see Ella:) 2.10. Held for long time. She's getting vocal!!

---
In the middle here someplace, just as my supply was down to almost nothing, the illegal drugs arrived from Thailand. And I started to take them. And they worked!

Time for a trip!

But first, one last picture from the first hospital:



I can just see her little brain ticking ... "Whoa. What is this thing here?!?"

She looks sad, though, I think. It's hard to see this image of a daughter who's still just skin and bones. And dark veins so visible through the tissue paper thinness of her skin. And eyes as big as her palms ...

sigh

So it's time for a trip. I promised, right? It's been 23 days here at this NICU, it's now the 16th of November ... although who's counting yet? My son and I have gone to see the seriously lame film "Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium," when I'm buzzed and paged repeatedly (silently! I'm not one of those annoying people, but I do have a critically ill child and have no qualms whatsoever leaving my cell on.) I can ignore the calls no longer, so head out into the lobby to return them ...

And discover they want to move Ella to a new hospital! She's not in need of such a critical facility anymore, and our HMO wants her back to its own hospital. Not to mention: This is the place she was SUPPOSE to be born; we'll have a semi-private room (it has space for one other baby, but remains vacant until about the last couple of weeks, so we have loads of space); and it's much closer to home (no crossing the water/dealing with city traffic.)

I mull and I ponder and I worry, but ultimately agree to the transfer. Because of various issues, I am not able to ride across with her (this is the same journey I took, in reverse, when I was still carrying her.) So my son and I go to wait at the new hospital to greet her. And wait. And wait.

Transferring a NICU baby requires some specific attention, including a dedicated pediatric nurse trained to care for such tiny, critical creatures. She's located, but what's holding us up is the ambulance isn't made to carry the kind of Isolette Ella's in. So there's some back and forth, a new ambulance brought in, so and so forth, and they're on their way.

Ella does well in the ambulance. We get word when she arrives, a couple of hours late, but THEN my son and I have to wait while they make all of the adjustments in moving her in, about another 30-45 minutes. THEN we go to see our girl in her new digs.

While we're visiting, I note in my calendar, she sucks her pacifier while I'm holding it so I feel her gums on my finger:) Plus she holds my finger!

The boy and I get her settled, although it's more about getting myself settled since we're both exhausted and needing to go home, meet some of the new nurses and eventually say goodnight.

"Ella and Me"

"Ella and Me"

There once was two happy kids named L and Ella. They loved to play with each other every day. And they were brother and sister. Together they made a great team and made the world a better place for kids. Ella was a tiny baby and L was her older brother who watched over her. Ella had to live at the hospital for quite a long time because she was a preemie baby and very tiny. The nurses and the doctors helped Ella stay healthy and alive and kept her safe. L had to wait a long time before she could come home. He visited her often and read her stories so she would not be lonely. He thought that she was beautiful and loved her very much. To him she looked like a butterfly just coming out of her cocoon because her eyes were not open. He always wanted to be near her and someday when they were grown up he wanted to live next door to her and be her neighbor. Until then L would continue to visit her and he would tell other people about her and what it is like to be kept in the hospital. So that they will understand what it is like to be in the hospital and not be scared.

The End

These photos of awards and recognition for my son's story (brag, brag, brag as a mama should) are placeholders till I get a copy of the story up:) Story up 7/9/09.

Redefining humanity

Isn't it crazy? I mean, ALL of it. That my daughter was born into this world weighing less than a large container of yogurt? That within her tiny body was every building block, every miniaturized version of EVERY single physical element she will need to become ... become MORE?

Having Ella has changed my life, redefined my existence once again, in so many ways. My smug certainties teeter now, as I have been forced to re-evaluate just about everything in my staid world. What does life mean, even? When I come in to see this red being of skin and bones, ribs so starkly visible, to know everyone is working so desperately to continue this life? And then comes the point where it is made real, where this being ceases to be clinical and transforms into my daughter. That yawn and stretch was that very moment. And how magical to bear witness to it!

Of course, the guilt piles on, as I wonder how I betrayed her in my disbelief. I vow to never doubt this little child again, but how do I make up for ever doubting to begin? Even when I couldn't have begun to fathom how to believe.

There she is, so utterly human, enjoying this astounding stretch and yawn. If she is suffering, a thought I cannot bear, there is no evidence of this as she enjoys a most fundamental human pleasure. It's more than a mechanism of survival, more than an instinctual reflex. There is no possible way for me to explain how profoundly this affected me.

9. No entry.

10. To see Ella:) with Dad and son.

11. Ella: Nurse says she smiled. Had a good night.


12. To see Ella:) just me ... Got to hold my girl for 1/2 hour ! ! ! Took temp, changed diaper. She was hiccuping, too:)

13/14. Ella:) Increasing food to 1/2 milk 1/2 formula to increase calories. Also giving shot 3x week, 2 weeks to boost blood/iron (EDP?) I'll get to hold her more often after her weight goes up. She coughed 2x. I pumped there 1x.


15. To see Ella:) 883 g.; held her, changed diaper. VERY alert. PICC line removed yesterday. EPD shot yesterday for boosting red blood cells. Milk/formula is still 2/3-1/3 Doing well! Food tube through nose — her mouth is unencumbered now:) (I go to son's school for conference, which is the first time I read his story, "Ella & Me.")

The post where I go home ... and Ella becomes my daughter

So weird, to go home. So lost. Confused. Trying to cling to normalcy but not knowing what the word means, or who I am. I can't drive, but it's almost a relief because I'm not sure I want to go in to see this person who is surreal and not a person to my rational, silently screaming conscious.

I curled up for most of the day, alternately trying to sleep and alternately crying and alternately taking care of my son however I could and alternately trying to make lists and organize, organize, organize my life into sense again. But it was all lost, in the daze of my existence.

I took my son to our annual trick or treating event the next day, the 28th. So odd, to be walking around on the waterfront having undergone major surgery only four days earlier. This heartbreak ebbing in the back of my mind.

So let's move through some days here, sweep them out of the way so I can move forward virtually as I have in reality. I wasn't able to visit Ella every day because I wasn't allowed to drive. At least, theoretically. I started driving again on the 31st, against orders. But I didn't go every day at the beginning. I did call daily, though, several times sometimes. So here are my brief notes:

29: To see Ella — breathing on her own (w/CPAP), stopped my milk. PIC line doing well

30: Ella — was breathing all on her own while nurse was doing care; they took out umbilical cord line because she doesn't need it:) Trying my milk again. L over.

31: To see Ella:) Breathing well. Having Bs — Bradys w/heart. Cries. Breaks my heart. (It was so sad, so unhuman almost. Devastating.)

1: See Ella — meets S Doing well! Sleeping peacefully. 693 grams

2: Ella — Doing well; they've increased my milk to 1cc per hour, auto feed. She's at 703 grams:) (And here's a heartbreaking story: It is this night that my son goes to our French doors, opens them and starts outside. I ask him what he's doing. He tells me he's wishing on a star so that when we go to see his girl the next day, we will be able to bring her home with us. I gently tell him it probably won't happen, and he says, "But Mama, if I don't wish, it'll never happen.")

3: Ella:) (And as we leave, my son says sadly, "I guess my wish isn't going to come true." How do you deal with such understandings by the loves of your life? How can you cope with another overwhelming depth of empathy when every emotion is so fragile, so teetering already?)

4: Ella — 753 grams.

5. To see Ella w/son — Gained weight, but having hard day with oxygen and regulating food. (Scratched out this day is a midwife follow-up appointment. Note the photo below, of Ella being read a Halloween story by her big brother!)



6. R. over. To see before parent support group: Ella — Doing better w/new kind of oxygen. Concerns about possible infection. Monitoring closely, but taking no action for now.



7. Ella — Doing better and gaining weight. No sign of infection.




8. To see Ella Bean — 800 grams. Doing my better. I love my girl:) Stretching and yawning.


(THIS!! This right here! This is the moment the terror dies and this unknown form becomes human ... becomes my DAUGHTER!)