Firstborn

I’m a poet at heart. But I haven’t written real poetry in two years. Here is a first attempt to get back into things. A prose poem. Prose poetry is weird. It’s basically prose with a poetic feel. In other words, it’s whatever you want it to be.

My baby girl is almost two. And she’s not even my baby. I mean, she is my baby, I gave birth to her, but she already has a younger sister, such a young age too. My oldest is almost two and my baby will be one soon after. Having two so close together might seem like a disaster, and I admit, I’ve often felt like I’ve been struck over the head by some disaster, that had I known about the sleepless nights, the constant waking of one, then two, then one, then two (not to be outdone by her younger sister), how lack of sleep would drive me mad, change everything I’ve ever had and known to be true – who’s that person looking back at me in the mirror, and how did her face become so fat? Had I known…you know it wouldn’t matter.

My little girl is almost two. And just last year she was one and I was giving birth again, dreading to leave her for the few days I’d be in the hospital, away. We’d never slept under different roofs. One – what an age, what adorable admiration they shed on you, before their will is so developed that they protest and stomp their feet…at one, the threshold of baby and toddler so delicately balanced, a precious liminal age to see. My husband brought her to the hospital to welcome her new sister to the world, she peered into her crib and didn’t understand, though when we came home all together, she had trouble sleeping. But lately she has grown to love her, I mean really love her, to hug her (without intention to crush) and it’s soothed my heart that hurt for her.

My big girl is almost two.  And how the years have flown, but the days are slow, so slow. I never set my alarm anymore, no need, either she or her sister wake me up before I’m ready to face the world, before I’ve had the time to recoup my strength for another day. They like to alternate, haven’t yet achieved that sisterly harmony that I pray for. And I do pray for it, if hope is prayer, because my formal prayer has lagged in these tired times. But I hope and pray that they be best of friends, and that the jealousy and competition, inevitable, will not overwhelm, strike them over their heads, that as parents we will somehow master the art of mitigating the hurt that another can cause. Of course siblings can be best of friends but the older one, my baby, who knows if she will harbor feelings of betrayal, and if the younger one, so cute and cuddly, will feel second-best in life. These are worst-case scenarios, but a mother always fears…

But on my daughter’s second birthday, I’ll put the fears on pause – abra cadabra, disappear!  I’ll celebrate them both, I’ll celebrate myself, my husband, our triumph of keeping these babies alive, and happy, clothed and fed, and even though the age of two is heralded with the prefix Terrible, I’ll remember that all my hopes and prayers have gone into her, that ALL of me has gone into her, and even though she’s my firstborn, she will always be my baby first.

Mellowing out

I have mellowed out.

While some of my first blog entries, about a year ago, dealt with the woes of fading friendships and falling off the face of the planet, today, I am in a very different place.

Last year, I felt that I had been making such efforts at maintaining my friendships, and when I didn’t feel reciprocation, I was hurt and angry. This year, my ability to extend myself is much, much less. I have two kids under the age of two, and my days are filled with diapers, tantrum-control, going to the park, crying and laughing at the little moments that make it all worthwhile…

And so I’m not hurt, not angry, I’m simply grateful for the few friends that have stuck around and who manage, through the littlest things, to keep me sane and cheer me during this blessedly difficult time.

I’m not sure how this change happened. Maybe it’s because the friends who have stuck around made me forget about those who didn’t; maybe it’s because now that my oldest is 20 months, we hang out in the park with other mothers and it’s not so lonely; maybe it’s because I’m growing up. Probably all of these things. All I know is, a year’s time has taught me to appreciate the caring, and forget about all the rest.

So it seems like I’ve finally come to terms with being a mother. No, nothing will ever be the same again. And that’s okay. It’s like Robert Frost says, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

Crying it out

I am so tired.

I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a year a half. Haven’t slept more than four hours straight in over six months.

I’ve been grouchy, fuzzy-headed and generally not myself.

And it’s all because of the little bundle of joy I brought home with me from the hospital six months ago. And she truly is a bundle of joy – like, seriously, how could she be.this.cute. I don’t know, but she is. She is this cute, and she is that bad a sleeper.

She is super-good natured and high-energied, so that even when she’s exhausted she doesn’t  get grouchy, she just fusses a bit and rubs her eyes. Her babysitter, experienced chareidi mother of four, says she’s never seen anything like it.

Thank God.

Thank God, baby is happy and healthy.

She just doesn’t sleep.

Maybe I should have  sleep-trained her months ago – four months ago, to be exact, when she was two months old, because it was then that I started to develop similarities to Oscar the Grouch. And by sleep-trained I mean made her cry it out. But I had thought she was too young, and so we waited till she was four months. Now she’s six months, and obviously, something has gone awry. She still wakes up 4-6 times a night. (Not to mention my older daughter, my “big” girl, all of one and a half years old, who has also been sporadically not sleeping well.)

The problem is that we’ve been too tired to train the little one. It’s easy (ha – as if crying it out is ever easy) to do it when it’s ten o’clock at night – my husband has not yet gone to sleep so he is able to put her in a portable bassinet in the kitchen, the furthest room from the bedrooms, and let her cry. But try doing that at three in the morning! It is so energy consuming, and most nights, we don’t have the energy.

The other problem is that my heart’s not in it. Hearing your baby cry desperately for you in the middle of the night is heartbreaking. Hearing your baby cry, and cry, and cry is a pain as intense as childbirth. All you want to do is pick her up, but you’ve been taught by society that the baby needs to learn to sleep on her own. Sure there are those who speak out against it, but when those close to you tell you that crying it out is the only way to go, it’s very hard to go against them. Especially when, like me, you are.so.tired.

It’s no surprise to me that a man came up with crying it out – Ferberizing, they call it, after the doctor who came up with it. Ferberizing. It sounds like something you should do with a vacuum cleaner, not something you should do to a baby.

Besides, what does a man know of a mother’s feelings for her baby? A man, even a father, cannot possibly fathom the deep attachment that comes from carrying a baby inside yourself for nine months, going through hell to push it out, nursing, and then – letting the baby cry? Unthinkable.

And yet, I’m on the brink now, of losing it, of losing myself. I have no energy to research or try different methods. I’m at a loss, and I know that cry it out yields results.

My husband said to me that at this stage of my life, as a wife and mother of two kids, I can no longer think of what’s good for me, what’s good for him, what’s good for each one of our daughters – I need to think of what’s good for our family. And I believe this to be true.

And what’s good for our family – any family – is a functional mother, one who has energy and is not one big grump.

So, as many mothers before me and I’m sure many mothers after me, I will let my baby cry. And hopefully, not only will it work, but also, time and sleep will ease the pain from my baby’s cries.

When tragedy strikes

Last night I lay awake in bed unable to fall asleep because I couldn’t stop thinking about the terrible tragedy that happened in Connecticut. The victims. The parents. The heroes . The monster. The incredible cruelty of it all. And finally, because I couldn’t chase it from my mind, I said to myself, Okay, instead of thinking about this tragedy which has nearly destroyed my faith in humanity, think about something good, something faith-restoring.

So I rummaged through my mind, and I recalled some recent acts of kindness that people have done for me which have made me feel like, “Everything will be okay.” While these acts of kindness certainly don’t erase the tragedy, they are the only things that give me a chance at living a life of hope and light, and not one of darkness.

Here is one example of kindness I experienced recently:

My husband was out of the country on business for a few days. The first night he was away, a friend came over to hang out (and help entertain my fifteen month old). The second night, a different friend. The third night, my mother-in-law came over and helped me bathe and put the girls to sleep. I also had different friends calling me and checking in to see that I was managing. I know that for each person, it was a phone call, or just one night of their lives and not the biggest deal – to me, it was support when I was lonely, calmness amidst a storm of two babies, and, by making my nights easier, they gave me energy to be a better mother in the morning.

It might seem like I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. It’s just like when you’re having a bad day and someone smiles at you, it can make all the difference in the world. Or conversely, when you’re having a bad day, and someone scowls or snaps at you, that too can make all the difference.

The reality is, a monster made a terrible, terrible difference in so many lives. He destroyed families, innocence, he almost destroyed God Himself. So in the face of this tragedy, in the face of Evil personified, the only way I know to fight back is to be a person who changes lives for the better. Who, like the people who helped me so much, can start a chain reaction of kindness that can be passed from person to person. Who, through doing small acts of kindness, to friends and strangers alike, can bring light and hope into the world.

I hope I am up to the task.

Guest post by Yael Ben-David (fellow pregnant woman)

Over the course of my adult life, my weight has generally fluctuated between 115 and 125 pounds. I was about 117 at my wedding, 124 before I got pregnant, and have never gone over 135. Today—in the middle of week 32 of my first pregnancy—I weigh 164. That’s right—I have gained 40 pounds and they say you gain the fastest towards the end, so I can only expect to go up and up from here.

In May 2009, The Institute of Medicine (IOM) made changes to the guidelines concerning weight gain during pregnancy. The last recommendations had been released in 1990 and many things have changed since then about the childbearing woman. Taking into consideration the demographics of the current childbearing woman, the IOM made their new guidelines using the World Health Organization’s (WHO) body mass index (BMI) as the starting point. For women like me, who were a normal weight before pregnancy with a BMI of 18.5-24.9 the recommended weight gain guideline is 25-35 pounds.

Oops.

Now I know these guidelines are general, so what about my specific case? Well my obstetrician said in his opinion I can safely gain 20 kilos, about 45 pounds. Well that’s better, but I’m still headed towards maxing out. My obstetric nurses are not at all pleased with my rate of weight gain and boy do they let me know it. I’ve tried to explain though that I’m not doing anything wrong—this is just how I carry! I eat right, live an active lifestyle, and even joined a weekly prenatal exercise class. I sleep enough, drink enough water, and all my other indicators (e.g., blood pressure, edema (or lack thereof, in this case), glucose tolerance test results, etc.) are completely normal/healthy. So I’ve convinced myself, if not the nurses, that I’m just fine the way I am and there’s nothing I ought to do differently, nothing to worry about, this is just me and it’s fine.

But my confidence is slipping. And I feel guilty about it.

This guy at work calls me “Big Mama” and I kind of love it—I so want to live up to that motherly role, that carrying the weight of raising the next generation concept, that in charge of the foundation of the future role, that go-to makes-it-all-better type, that nourishing headquarters of humanity idea! But most of the time I just feel fat.

I feel unattractive and kind of like a failure because I’m not one of those women who look exactly the same as before pregnancy save having swallowed a basketball. But then I feel ashamed for not being proud of this amazing thing I’m doing—bringing a new life into the world. Shouldn’t that be enough for me? So many women long for that and can’t have it, and here I am wishing I was thinner? Who am I to contradict nature? How dare I not accept wholeheartedly what this journey entails! This is a blessing. But alas, I still feel fat.

It doesn’t help when people say, “Wow, you’ve really gotten big all over!” Or, “That picture you just posted on Facebook really isn’t representative—you look much bigger in person.” Or, “Now I see it… I didn’t see any swelling in your face until this week.” Or, “People probably think you’re farther along than you are because you look so tired. Are you tired?” [No—I was not tired when she asked. I actually had put on make-up with extra care that morning and thought I looked particularly together…] Then there’s, “In my family, we were all big babies—at least 5 kilo—and I have to tell you, it looks like you’re carrying at least that!” Or, “How are you week 32??? You look week 42!” Or, “When are you due—in a week or two?” [No, in two and a half months.] Or, “Are you both due the same time?” [Indicating myself and a woman a full trimester ahead of me.] Or, “You’re only going to get much bigger.” [I can thank my mom for that last one. She claims I’m carrying just like her and so she certainly doesn’t mean this in a bad way. But I do not find it encouraging, nevertheless.]

Maybe that’s part of why I’m so focused on my size—it’s all I ever hear about! No one looks me up and down and says, “Wow! What a miracle! Do you feel so blessed? What an honor! I can’t wait to be/miss being/am so loving being pregnant.” Heck, I don’t even hear, “You’re glowing!” It’s either, “You’re huge,” or “You’re not that big.” And so I feel focused on all the wrong things, and then guilty about that, and the vicious cycle is quickly spiraling out of control. And so I’ve decided to focus on what I’ll do about it.

I will do nothing differently between now and the birth as far as eating and exercising. Between preparing to defend my Master’s thesis in medical neurobiology, making arrangements for maternity leave from my lab, the upcoming holidays, and physically feeling like a wale who swallowed an elephant in Saharan heat, the last thing I need is to take on another source of stress. Besides, I really am doing things pretty okay as is. I will work on my mindset. I will remind myself that this extra weight is supporting a life—and not just any life—my baby!  I will remind myself that my new shape is uniquely feminine and that that is beautiful. I will also get a bit more strict about keeping my legs shaved and nails painted. The last thing I need is to fall into the trap of, “Well I feel ugly and don’t deserve to feel polished anyway at this weight, so I won’t take care of my appearance in any way” which clearly feeds on itself and lands me in a very bad place.

I will also plan for afterwards. I have goals: I will reach 125 pounds by three months post partum and 115 by six months. I will walk at least an hour a day starting no later than one week postpartum and join a weekly postpartum exercise class as soon as medically cleared (when the bleeding stops/up to about six weeks postpartum). I will eat a lot of vegetables, some fruit, and vegan proteins. I will eat no sweets or red meat and only a little chicken and fish. I will eat only low-fat dairy and generally stay away from carbs, making occasional exceptions for whole grains only. And I’ll continue to drink lots of water. When I go back to work, I will always take the stairs—never the elevator, and I will walk 15 minutes to my bus to work instead of taking the bus across the street from my house four stops to reach it. I will lean on friends for encouragement, asking them to walk with me or as soon as I’m able, schlep me to their Zumba/yoga/Pilates classes with them.

This phase in my size will end and it will end happily—with a healthy child, Gd willing, and an empowered mother who knows that her changing shape was meaningful and important and put positive energy in the world. That’s the goal.

Doulas – Necessities or luxuries?

I’ve been hosting an internal debate recently with two opposing sides of my mind doing their best to confound me. One side says, “Yes, definitely get a doula for your upcoming birth!” and the other side says, “What are you, a wuss? What do you need a doula for?”

For those unfamiliar with the wonderful world of pregnancy, doulas are people who are trained to help women while they’re giving birth. They’re not medical professionals, more like, professional supporters. They encourage you, massage you if necessary, help relay your needs to the hospital staff, etc.

For my first pregnancy, I had a doula – I was terrified, and didn’t know if my mom would be able to fly in from the States, so there was no question about it. (Even though I have many kind family members living in Israel who offered to be with me during the birth, I knew I’d only feel comfortable with my mom. Or a vague stranger, like a doula. It’s just the way I am.) My doula was great – she calmed me, helped me breathe through the contractions and followed up post-partum to see how I was doing.

Unfortunately, she’s unavailable for my second birth.

(Actually, I had booked her for the birth, but she called me three days ago with a family emergency that necessitated her flying to the States. So I found myself, only days before my due date, doula-less.)

If she was available, I wouldn’t be holding this debate, but starting from scratch has caused me to rethink things and ask the million dollar question – is a doula something I really need?

The part of me that says yes does so because even though it’s my second birth, each time is different, plus my mom definitely won’t be here, plus it’s just better to be safe than sorry at a time of extreme vulnerability.

The other part of me feels like “better safe than sorry” is not a good enough reason to spend over 1000 NIS (yes, doulas cost between 1000-2000 NIS a pop, no pun intended). This other part of me feels like my confidence has been under-minded by a society that tells me that I’m not capable of giving birth without a thousand people cheering me on (my husband will be by my side plus nurses plus midwives). It feels that I’ve been sold the MasterCard Mentality – the idea that the only way I can attain my goal is to spend money.

I call this the MasterCard Mentality because of those commercials, you know, the ones in which an all-knowing narrator lists prices for different items, then ends with some sappy cliché like, “Peace of mind? Priceless.” (And then hits you with, “There are some things money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s MasterCard.”)

(I chose this commercial only because there’s a baby in it)

Yes, Peace of Mind is certainly priceless.

But will a doula guarantee that?

Who knows??? There are a thousand and one factors that affect a birth, all contributing or detracting from a woman’s Peace of Mind. And therefore, maybe I don’t need a doula. Maybe my confidence has been stripped because doulas are in-style, so I’ve been made to feel like they must be necessary. Maybe I’m just being a spoiled American who has confused luxury with necessity. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

This is how the debate has been raging, sometimes calmer, sometimes stormier, depending on the time of night I lay awake in bed thinking about it. (I have the same debate about epidurals, but that’s for another post.)

And as the debate raged on (for all of the three days that I’ve found myself in this predicament), I had a sudden thought –

What’s wrong with me?

Giving birth is probably THE most important experience in a woman’s life. EACH birth is important – and I’m debating having extra additional support because I’m afraid of acting spoiled? Because I don’t want to spend money? Because I want to be superwoman?

That can’t be right.

The gemara says that if a blind woman is giving birth on Shabbat, and she asks you to turn on the light on because it will make her feel better, you do it. Gasp. Yes, you violate Shabbat even though, practically, it makes no difference to the laboring woman, because in her head it does make a difference. And we do everything we can to ease a laboring woman’s situation. (Disclaimer: Talk to your rabbi before actually doing this.)

So I need to get over this lump sum of money that a doula will cost, this idea that I’m pampering myself and being sold something because, hey – maybe I am being sold something – something very expensive – but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. Giving birth is hard! So if I can get extra support, I should. And hey – I have the gemara to back me up.

Postscript: Between the time I began writing this article and the time I posted it, I hired a doula, an absolutely lovely woman who I will feel privileged to have at my birth.

But even though I’ve made my decision, I am still suspicious of myself that I am using the gemara as validation for being spoiled. Even though my doula’s price is at the lower end of the spectrum. Even though my husband has told me multiple times that Peace of Mind is worth it, and I shouldn’t worry about it. But I do worry, since that’s just what I do, but I ease my conscience by telling myself that for the third birth, I’ll be an expert, and surely I won’t want/need a doula then.

The end is near

I’m two weeks away from my official due date and it’s finally starting to hit me (like a ton of bricks) that I will have not one but two babies to care for.

And so even though for the past two months I have been wishing and waiting for this pregnancy to be over so I can regain some of my old physical agility (and by agility I mean the ability to bend over without saying oy), suddenly, I feel the need to slam the brakes of time and hang suspended in this moment forever.

Because right now, things are pretty good. My daughter is awesome. She is SO cute and SO sweet and blahblahblah no one is really interested in hearing someone go on about their baby. Suffice it to say that at 12 months, she laughs, interacts, plays and I can’t possibly express how much I love her.

She also recently started sleeping through the night (poo poo poo) – which makes a huge difference in my normalcy and ability to function. She had done so at various other ages, but teething and viruses got us off-track. Now we’re back on, and even though I still wake up in the middle of the night (because it’s only been three nights, and I’m worried – why hasn’t she woken up? Is she okay?), I think I could just as easily get used to not waking up.

And in general, I feel like I’ve reached an even keel. It took me a while to adjust to motherhood, but finally, I’ve got the hang of it! I can get a babysitter and go out with my husband at night (when my daughter was younger, I was too nervous). I’m writing again, something I hadn’t even dreamed of doing for the first six months post-partum. I have a pretty good handle on keeping the house clean, cooking and baking and am also enjoying my steady, part-time job.

So what am I doing, upsetting the status quo???

Am I insane???

My nights will be sleepless, at least for a few months. My daughter will most likely go through some sort of adjustment period that I can imagine will not be too much fun for anyone involved. I will also go through a period of adjustment, which, depending on how my hormones play out, will also be not-too-much-fun or really-not-fun for everyone.

Not to mention that I want to cry at the thought of my daughter raising her arms for me to pick her up, and me being unable to because I’m nursing or holding another baby – who I’m sure I will love as much as my current daughter, but at this point might as well be an alien.

So in between panicking at the thought of juggling two babies and being so desperate to just reclaim my body, I’m in a bit of a bind.

Luckily (I suppose), the choice is not in my hands. Time marches on, and there’s little I can do to stop it. Ready or not, my world is about to be rocked.

I should really just put aside all my worries and fears, and pray that the new baby will be healthy. That’s really all that matters.