second-time mommy

Dear Eli,

When Sophia was about a year old, your Daddy asked me for my thoughts on when we'd have another baby.  To his surprise and dismay, it spurred on a rush of tears from me and I had trouble verbalizing why.  It wasn't that I didn't want to give your sister a sibling, because I absolutely wanted to; we had always talked about wanting more kids.  It was that I loved every second of motherhood and couldn't imagine losing out on experiencing all of those firsts with her and only her.  I didn't want to miss out on any more time while it was just the three of us.  I guess the simplest way to explain what I was feeling is that... I was unsure how I could possibly learn to share my heart.

Today you are three weeks old, which means we've arrived at your original due date.  I remember when we had scheduled my induction, time seemed to suddenly speed up -- the weeks were flying by and there didn't seem to be enough weekends to get your nursery reorganized and all your little clothes washed and folded away, and the car seat in or the pack and play set up.  And while I had wished for more time then, now that you've been with us I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Today at 3 weeks old!

Even a bit early, you came in to this world at 7 lbs, 0.35 oz, and 20.25 inches long.  We wonder how much bigger you would be today!  You had a full head of thick, dark hair, the feel of it much like your dad's now.  (My OB was trying to describe it while I was pushing you out and encouraged me to 'reach down there and touch his head,' so I actually did and freaked myself out a bit).  The resemblance to your big sister as a baby was uncanny.  There are numerous similarities, but slight differences too.  You have long fingers and "Jana finger toes," which one day you'll understand once you meet your aunt.

Your sister vs. you... twinning!

"Hi, I'm new here. Are you my Mommy?"

Aunt Jana finger toes

You were born during an extremely interesting time.  We are in the midst of a pandemic, where the safest thing for us to do is to socially distance ourselves to stay healthy.  Timing-wise, we had planned to be home-bound anyway, but the most difficult part is that our families are still unable to meet you.  Fortunately for technology, you made your debut via FaceTime and Zoom to extended family on your Yeh-Yeh's birthday, and even through our kitchen window with your daddy's parents, but we're hoping that one day soon that your grandparents and great-Nan and aunts and uncles and many others that love you will be able to see and feel you in person.

Zoom with extended family

Happy 69th birthday, Yeh-Yeh! (on 3/31/20)

Your sister, though, who is around... She is absolutely in awe of you.  The hospital wasn't allowing visitors, so to our disappointment we had to wait until after discharge to introduce her to you and she was crazy excited to catch her first glimpse of your face.  Every day she diligently washes her hands (singing "Happy Birthday" twice) as soon as she comes home so that she can hold you, and some days she refuses to let you go.  We've included you in her bedtime routine so that she can feed you or have you at her side during storytime.  Last night, she stayed up until 9:30 because she was waiting for me to read to her, so I convinced her to join me in the nursery where I fed you and read to her as she flipped the pages for me.  Learning to multitask!

Singing "Rock-A-Bye Baby" (and other songs she makes up)

Right now you are napping (sort of) in between meals, so I thought I'd use this precious little time I have to tell you about yourself and these first few weeks.  You are by no means a quiet baby, which is why I said you were "sort of" napping.  Most times you are making some kind of noise -- a creak (to which Sophia has affectionately nicknamed you "the creaky door"), a grunt, a gurgle, a sneeze, a cough, a short cry -- so I check in on you and your eyes are closed or fluttering.  When I burp you, you're humming along, so with each pat there's an alternate sound and it makes me laugh.  You're active in your sleep too.  Sometimes you've wiggled almost perpendicular from where I had laid you down, your legs up in the air and your tiny fists at your side.  You seem to be able to nearly roll to one side already.  Like your sister, you manage to always kick off a sock or flail away a mitten or wiggle off your hat.  We seem to always flop your ears back whenever we put your hats on, and have determined that the shape of your ears are a mixture of both your dad's and mine.  Diaper changes usually involve a small foot right into your own mess and subsequent crying, which at times can escalate until it appears that your lips and cheeks are vibrating, while I try to minimize the poo splattering and potential fountain of pee on other things.  (Yes, I've been reduced to using those words).

"When my mom thinks everything is cute... including my hiccups."

Yet in your quiet moments, you are the sweetest boy.  You can lie down awake and look at the world around you, sometimes with your noisy commentary.  Your hiccups come on as frequently as they did while you were in my belly, and somehow even those are adorable.  I love how you fit perfectly in that small space on my shoulder, cuddled up in a ball with me rubbing your back.  That was one of my favorite memories with Sophia, and time had passed too quickly before she had grown too big for that spot.  But for now, I don't even mind that it's right where my port is, because I know to cherish this moment that I can snuggle with you there.  Sometimes when I touch your cheek, you do this smirky thing in your sleep.  Other times you open your eyes and look at me, and I tell you I'm your momma.  The first time you did that, it was almost as if you recognized me and were asking, "Are you my mommy, the one who was talking to me all that time?  The one telling me to stay with you, through it all?"  Yes, it was me, and I'm so glad you did.  Yesterday I told you I loved you and you smiled in response, and when I repeated it and you smiled again, my heart melted.  I love every baby smell, and sneak whiffs of your hair, whether freshly washed or matted under your cap, and don't even mind your milk breath when we're doing tummy time, or even more still when I know you need a diaper change.

Nighttime is your party time.  Your sister would hardly nap during the day but you're the opposite.  Usually around 10-11 pm, you're wide awake and ready for a feast.  And boy, can you eat!  We were able to obtain generously donated breastmilk from a couple of friends, and you are mowing through it.  Whenever you're really hungry and becoming impatient, your mouth flaps open like a baby bird and you start sucking on your hands, so we do this funny bit where I'm trying to get the nipple in your mouth before you snap it shut again while prying your hands away.  Today you actually grabbed on to the bottle and could essentially feed yourself.  Do you even need me anymore?

"Hey ladies!"

"I'm so hungry I will feed on my hands. Tasty."

"I got this."

I'm enjoying this time with you.  With Soph, I was constantly vacillating somewhere between joy and terror... the goal was to keep her alive, of course, and I obviously didn't want to fail at that.  This second time around, I'm a bit more confident since I've decided I kind of know what I'm doing.  Beyond that and my treatments, fighting through the fatigue (of having a newborn or chemo, who knows which), late night/early morning feedings, napping when you nap or prepping for your next feeding... the blur and humdrum routine of it, the peace and simple joys of motherhood again, of you needing me for a little while longer... I'm happy, I'm content, and I'm savoring it all.

And I realize now, after all those years since that night when I thought I couldn't share my heart -- I was wrong and silly to believe that.  My heart is wide open again, and you, my sweet, darling, amazing, miracle son, have a huge place in it.

Love,
Mommy

plea...se

Please stop asking me if I'm expecting.

In the last 24 hours, I was asked by two different people who I know whether I am expecting another.  Another what, you ask?  A baby.  Yes, a baby.

In the first case, we ran into someone while eating lunch, and the woman flat-out asked me, "Are you expecting another?"  At first, I thought she meant if the open seat at our table was going to be occupied.  In fact, I almost pulled out the chair for her, until I saw the look on my husband's face -- somewhere between disappointment and hurt for me -- and my heart sank.  Oh.  She meant that.

The second occurrence happened at work.  It came with a gesture towards my belly, and having just experienced the mortification of answering the same question the day before, I recovered and moved on quickly.  "Oh, no, it must be the shape of my dress," I replied, and I even flicked my dress for good measure.  The weather has warmed up enough for flowy dresses, and I guess that's an immediate indication of pregnancy.  But inside I was thinking, "Really?? Who asks that?"

A lot of people, that's who.  Sadly, I have been asked this question at work and elsewhere before, and even by this same person a mere week after I had miscarried in the fall.  I had thought that my way-too-detailed response in the past would have swayed them from asking again, but apparently not.  Is it open season on any woman of child-bearing age for the slew of inappropriate questions?

I would never ask somebody this.  Do you know why?  Because a woman's reproductive status is deeply personal.  Because I know many women, like me, who have struggled and fought to get pregnant for YEARS, who wish it were as easy as knowing it were up to them and they could believe a baby into existence.  Because when you ask this question, it's hurtful to anyone who has been poked and prodded and tested and scanned and has been waiting and waiting and waiting... and still waiting for that glimmer of hope or a break in the endless cycle of their bodies failing them.  Because even though I am open to talking about all these things, it still stings.

So please stop asking me if I'm expecting, or if/when I'm having another.

If I were to answer this question honestly, of course I would love another.  When Anthony and I first got married, we'd joke about having six kids or compromise at four, as if it were up to us.  Little did we know the infertility journey we were about to take.  Little did we know it would take us three years to conceive through IVF, that we'd lose our twins halfway into my pregnancy, that we'd experience a failed cycle two years later.  Little did we know it would take a third cycle to bring us our miracle baby, and not without pregnancy complications, or that we'd keep the happy news a secret until I was nearly six months along before telling our own families, out of fear for us and protection for them.  Little did we know that three years later, when I finally got up the courage, we'd go for that final precious frozen embryo, and that I'd get pregnant, but then I'd ultimately miscarry.  So the short answer?  I would love to have another baby.  But we don't always get what we want, do we?

Sometimes I wish I wouldn't shrug it off as ignorance.  Sometimes I wish I could give the long answer.  Sometimes I wish that I had the will and the tolerance to explain how hurtful this question is, but today I make my plea: Please. stop. asking. me. if. I'm. expecting.

Instead, ask me about my beautiful, incredible rainbow baby.  Ask me about how she understands, even at this young age, that she has siblings who are with her always but not physically here, and how she goes out of her way to include them in her every day.  Ask me about how she's given me the gift of motherhood and taught me to love far beyond myself.

Maybe she'll be our one and only (living) baby.  And maybe someday I'll be at peace with that.  And maybe, just maybe, I will share that with you in my own time.

reset button

Dear Sophia,

Nobody said it would be easy. This motherhood thing -- it's tough. It's tough because I care so much about this tiny human (who would be YOU) and doing what's right while not messing up and worrying that I'm missing something and realizing there's bound to be something I'm forgetting. It's a scary venture filled with self-doubt, second guessing, and the need to dig deep and hang on.

Your daddy reminded me yesterday that we all have our days. This would be our crappy, not-so-good days. Yesterday was one of yours -- which started out with you waking throughout the night, nursing on demand every 1-2 hours, refusing to nap at all during the day, and scream-crying in between (roughly 7 of the 11 hours you were up). I tried walking with you, carrying you in the sling, talking/singing to you, playing music and making you dance, lying down with you, snuggling, swaying, shushing, white noise... But you were inconsolable, and it left me with a helplessness I hadn't felt before. At one point I had to put you down so I could have a few minutes to collect myself (as in scream and cry it out). I told myself that I could handle it, up until I really couldn't. So I called in your Daddy at work for back up, and willingly handed you over when he returned from work.

I found refuge in a warm shower where the water swallowed the sound of your cries and until my fingers were nice and wrinkled. That was where I had a chance to regroup. I reminded myself that the only way you can communicate with me is to cry, to tell me that you're not feeling so great or like your silly smiley self, that at your age fussing is normal. And that I can't fix everything, even though I want to so badly.

I know this will probably be a struggle of mine throughout your life -- to protect you from harm; to want to kiss it and make it all better. And I know it's not possible, but it won't stop me from trying. There will come a day when I won't be around to tell you these things, so I want you to remember I'm never, ever giving up while I'm here and present. I just need a reset button once in awhile, and it's okay if you need one too.

Love,

Mommy