A story of motherhood, ongoing. A tale of the trials and tribulations of me, as a wife, mother, and woman, just trying to make it all work out in the end.
I was looking at Finleigh the other day as she smiled her goofy newborn smile in her sleep (big, open mouth, just goofy) and thinking about what she may be when she grows up. This is something I wonder about my girls all the time...I'm sure most parents do. You look at your sweet baby, or your big kid (made to seem even bigger and more grown up in comparison to the new one) and imagine if they'll be mothers, teachers, lovers, friends.
It was a sweet moment.
And then, this sweet, smiling baby in my lap puked. Exorcist style, projectile, shooting out her nostrils puke. All over me. ALL OVER. Sweet moment FAIL.
Such is life with a newborn...who's no longer a newborn. She's 4 weeks old, a month on Thursday. Where did the time go? I wonder that as I look at this baby who is smiling at us all, cooing and gooing, napping and watching and taking it all in. She smiled for the first time this week: at Ryan. Moments like that are why we have more children; watching them interact is what it's all about.
And watching; I've been doing a lot of that lately. Observing, quietly, often through the lens of my camera, and learning more about my kids as I capture them on camera.
My kids. I still get a kick out of saying that. Or my girls. It's kind of like when Michael and I got married, and for months, got a total kick out of calling each other "my husband" and "my wife". And everytime I say, "my girls", Ryan reminds me that we're "our girls". She's always chatting with Finleigh, reminding her that big sister's here, that big sister loves her, and singing to her.
Speaking of the big sis...her funnies for the week:
hand santizer = "hanitizer"
"mommy, I'm polishing off daddy's oatmeal right now"
"papa, the table's all jacked up" (a favorite phrase in our house)
And as is tradition in this family, she arrived with quite the fanfare.
I kept joking with my midwives that I wouldn't even recognize labor until my water broke, since that's how things started with Ryan. They thought I'd be OK. Heck, I was really only joking. I TEACH this stuff...c'mon. Contractions 5 minutes apart, lasting a minute or more, for more than an hour, hard enough that you have to breathe through them. Well, I had those contractions, but they didn't really hurt, and I didn't have to breathe through them unless I was sitting down. That probably should have been clue number one.
Let's back up a bit though...
Saturday (3/20) I decided that I was pretty much done being pregnant, and I was just about ready to do ANYTHING to get this kid out. I mean anything. I bought castor oil. But I didn't take it. I ended up just chilling on Saturday, going to the park, napping, going to a birthday party for Ryan's friend, falling asleep early.
Sunday (3/21) Operation Get Baby Out in full effect. We had no plans, as we'd kind of expected to have a baby by this point. So, off I went to walk, without the Peanut. She walks too slow, and I wanted a bit of time to myself. I headed to Redmond Town Center...I had a 30% off coupon for the Gap, and they had the one and only pair of jeans RE likes on sale. Got those for her, walked a LOT more, did some stairs, then got bored. Felt some cramps while I was walking, but certainly nothing that would stop me. So, I headed to Ben Franklin, and wandered around there for a while. Stopped at a drug store to buy an enema (told you, about ready to try anything), then headed to Trader Joes. Still crampy, but not bad at all. Grocery shopped, and got everything we'd need for the week. By this point, I was tired, so I headed home. Michael and RE were still out (they'd gone to run some errands too), so I decided to get Ryan's spring clothes all washed and ready to go. Then I facebooked (what else would I do?). Michael and Ryan got home, and we made one heck of a dinner (steak with beet and kale risotto - amazing).
After dinner, I couldn't sit still, and my back was really sore, but of course, I chalked it up to having been out all day. So, I folded the laundry, swept the floors, vacuumed, straightened the baby's stuff, cleaned the kitchen, then went off to do that one other thing that gets labor going...you know the one. Well, that might just have been the kicker. Contractions were a pretty consistent 5 minutes apart after that, but they still didn't really hurt (aside from that darn sore back). I sat on the ball while we watched TV and just kind of chilled out. Around 11, we thought maybe we should call the midwives just to give them a heads up that labor would probably be happening at some point that night. We called at about 1130 and my MW suggested I try to get some sleep. I was in bed by midnight.
At 1am, I woke up to a strong contraction (argh, that sounds like one of the things I read my labor classes...so rote). I laid there through it, because this had happened before and they'd faded away. But this one was long and strong. And the next one came pretty close...I think about 3 minutes apart. I tried getting on all fours, but it was horrible, and I was alone, in the dark, stuck in an awful position. I could barely move, but knew I had to get Michael. I hollered, but he sleeps like a brick and didn't hear me. I had to find my way out to the living room...I did, but barely. I made it to the dining room table and bent over it. I told him he had to call the MWs...we made that call at 1:37am.
I made my way back to the bedroom, since leaning over was the only comfortable position I could stand, and I'd rather lean on the bed. Michael bustled around getting the bed made up with the table cloth under it. Meanwhile I'm contracting every minute or so, lasting longer than a minute (time was pretty irrelevant at this point). My thoughts were a jumble of "ohgodthishurtsican'tbelievei'minlaborhowmuchlongerwillthislastthishurtssobadholyshit". I really had no idea how long this would all last. At some point, I realized I was pushing a bit...crap. The midwives weren't there yet. I yelled to Michael (no idea where he was, probably right by my side, but I really couldn't see anything) that I was pushing. He threw the second plastic cloth under where I was standing, which was a smart idea, as the next little push broke my water. Honestly, one of the thoughts I had at this point was something to the effect of "oh my god, I'm doing this, we're doing this, all by ourselves, and it's totally normal and this is birth and how it's really meant to happen, and I'm pushing with the urge, and no one's telling me what to do or how to do it and this is birth". The next push, which felt like only seconds later, really broke my water. And I mean full on huge gush of water...followed almost immediately by a little head. A head? What?! Where were the MWs?? Yeah, not there yet. Michael supported the head, and I yelled, "oh my god, is that a head? I think that's a head!" Michael replied that yep, it's a head, and was I ready to push out the rest of our baby? Nope, let me breathe for a second. I felt the next contraction, and with it, an amazing urge to push. I guess Michael helped guide the baby's shoulders out, one at a time, turning her a bit and helping her join this world. She squeaked, then cried, then really let it wail. I kept telling her to cry for mama. He handed her to me, but the cord was a little short, so we were in kind of a strange position. He had to help me up to the bed, as I started shaking from adrenaline almost immediately. Not sure how we got up there, but we did, and I flopped over, ecstatic, amazed, awed, and completely blown away. We didn't even really bother to check the sex, we were so overwhelmed with what we'd just done, together, alone. We were still alone. We checked - a girl! I'd known from the get-go...the moment the stick turned pink we were having another girl, but of course, I wasn't positive until she was in my arms.
Finleigh Esther was born at 2:04am on March 22, 2010. At home. Caught by her daddy. While RE slept (yes, slept through mommy yelling and screaming and moaning). And the midwives and friends drove.
Patty arrived first...Michael greeted her at the door, and told her that the baby was here. She was disbelieving. And then, apparently, a little panicked. But upon arriving in the room, realized all was OK. It was great to have her here...she got me a pillow, found some blankets for me, and just kind of held my head until the midwives arrived.
Lindsay got here the same time as the midwives...she was also in shock that the baby was already here. Well, so were the midwives, really! Lindsay started taking pictures almost immediately, since that was her job. I'm bummed there were no pics of the birth itself, but it was such an awesome experience I wouldn't trade it.
The midwives were a little concerned, of course, wanting to make sure the placenta came out...it was now about 20 minutes after birth and the placenta really showed no signs of wanting to separate. We gave it a few more minutes...then they had to do some manipulating to get it out, but it came out, cleanly, and without any excess bleeding, so we were all set. They checked me out, and were I think a little surprised to find that all was totally fine.
By this time, Finleigh was nursing, so we let her nurse, and chatted about what had happened, and laughed and talked until she was done and ready to be examined. We woke up Ryan at some point in here. She was super excited to meet her sister, and since she missed the whole placenta/umbilical cord thing, she was really into watching her get weighed and measured. She weighed in at 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and 20 inches long. A full pound and an inch and a half bigger than Ryan was. They hung around for a little while longer, and around 4am, everyone left. Patty helped get Ryan back to sleep, and Finleigh and I settled in for the rest of the morning to sleep.
Around 730, we woke up to Ryan wanting to make sure her little sister was really here. I'm sure she thought it might have been a dream. I know I was wondering the same thing myself...
At this point, I know it's cliche, but I can't imagine our household without Finleigh. She's a part of us, and an amazing part. She's certainly brought Michael and I closer together...who knew when I started dating him in high school that someday he'd be catching my babies!?
Welcome to the world Finleigh Esther. We love you.
The holidays, were, as always for us, a blur. I keep trying to find a way to capture some semblance of slow in a season that seems to thrive on fast, but so far, I've had little success. Between being pregnant (and getting ever moreso with each day), planning for travel, and trying to make most of our holiday gifts, there seemed little time or energy left to enjoy the quiet.
But we made it, we've survived, and as I type, I sit in my parent's living room, thinking about how strange it is to be back "home" when it's not really home anymore. I miss being home. I miss being home for Christmas. It's been lovely to spend the holiday with my family, but it's been hectic.
It all started with the plane ride, always a highlight for Peanut. Though I think she likes the idea of flying much more than being trapped on a plane! The next day, we had pictures taken with the ever fabulous Lori of Images by Lori. If you live in Pleasanton, or anywhere in the Bay Area, really, go see her next time you need family shots, kid shots, belly shots, baby shots, etc. She's truly, truly amazing. Ryan was a grump, but Lori still managed to get some great shots of her, and not only did we get fantastic belly pictures, but Ryan's 4 year pictures as well (it's only a month shy).
Wednesday we went to the Nutcracker in San Francisco. Amazing, as I suspected it would be...the dancers are phenomenal, choreography to die for and costumes were amazing. Ryan, unfortunately, was a little bored. I misjudged her abilities to sit through things like that, plus we met up with Uncle Mike and Aunt Allison as we were going into the show, so I think she was just super excited to see them and had a really hard time sitting still. She ended up dancing in her seat area for most of the show, humming along to the music. Each time a song came out that she recognized, she's whisper-shout "Nutcracker music!". She was also disappointed that she wasn't going to be onstage. I'm not sure how, but she was under the impression that she was going to be on stage in her fancy dress. Maybe in a few years...If I take her again next year, it will probably have to be a children's performance, or at least something a lot less pricey!! Traffic was awful coming home, and Ryan cried for about 40 minutes on the way home. WAY out of character for her...she's usually so easy going. We survived though, and she stayed up far too late playing with her Aunt and Uncle.
We did Christmas Eve as our big food/present day, and had a blast. Michael and I took over the kitchen, and cooked up quite a meal. Mike and Allison brought a fantastic butternut squash soup along with an apple crisp dessert, and helped us in the kitchen. The four of us had a great time, and it was another opportunity for Michael and I to spend a little more time with our sis-in-law. We're so glad she chose to join our crazy family...
Ryan loved opening presents from everyone, including the highlight of the day, her new bike from her Aunt and Uncle! The bike is awesome, and she loves riding it. It's a big girl bike, 2 wheels with training wheels, and we're still working on a plan to get it back to Seattle.
Christmas Day we all crept downstairs to see if Santa had in fact come to Nonna and Papa's house...he did!! Mommy and daddy are mean, and made her wait for us to brew coffee before we'd let her open anything, but she was patient. And as she was slowly opening her gift, she was telling Nonna and Papa all about how she asked Santa for a cash register and she realized what she was opening. She got SO excited, shouting that Santa did get her letter, and did bring her what she'd asked for and it was so cool and Santa is so cool, etc, etc, etc. It was sweet to see her so excited about all of it. She's at such a cool age for all of this. She got lots of other fun gifts from Nonna and Papa, and mommy and daddy. She also enjoyed handing presents around to everyone else.
This morning, we headed over to Vic's in Ptown for a fantastic breakfast. Standard issue eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast and yum, was it good stuff! We'll be heading back tomorrow for brekkie with a crew of old friends, some of whom we haven't seen in ages. We love how we can connect with this group, and it's like no time has passed, and yet we all mesh seamlessly into one another lives, still. We're older, chubbier, have kids now (or don't, and to be fair, some are thinner), and yet, are still entirely relevant to one another. It's really astonishing to see how connected we've stayed over the years.
And in the end, it's that connectedness that makes the holidays what they should be. Whether busy, slow, mellow or crazy, connecting with friends and family is what it's all about.
Every time I travel, I am struck by the ethnocentricity of American tourists (yeah, yeah, myself included). This is not only when I travel to an area where English is not the main language, but even when I’m traveling within the US. Michael and I just spent a week in Puerto Rico, which, though technically a US territory (or colony, depending on my mood), is a very Latin place. Spanish is the primary language, and I speak just the tiniest bit, having favored French in high school (dumb move, I see now).
But at least we tried.
When we walked into Puerto Rican restaurants, we didn’t assume that the waiters spoke English, or that the food would be anything we recognized. Isn’t that the point of traveling? We wanted to try new things, eat traditional PR food, drink local coffee, try local brews. Case in point: first night there, we asked the bellhop where to get good coffee. His reply was quick and finite: There’s a Starbucks just a few blocks down. We responded with: No, REAL coffee. We know it’s grown here and we want local coffee, not crap. He laughed, and pointed us to Pelayo, which, as it turns out, was FANTASTIC. Local flavors, local coffee, yummy frittatas and empanadas and cafe con leche. We went back a few times. And yes, we spoke extraordinarily broken Spanish to the nice girls at the counter. I can ask for coffee! Thankfully, seeing our attempts, they answered us in English. But, like I said, I try not to assume.
This was the restaurant recommended to me by my first class seat mate: Archbishop of San Juan Roberto Gonzalez. It was a little out of our price range. But nonetheless, I sat next to a regular celebrity. Me, a lapsed Jew who spent 4 years in Catholic school. Hhmm.
The other thing that struck us almost immediately was the pace. It’s so slow! Not that that’s a bad thing…we could stand to learn a thing or ten from puertorriquenos. At restaurants, they give you plenty of time to peruse the menus while you drink your cocktail or coffee, plenty of time to enjoy your appetizers before your meal comes, and the waitstaff leave you alone entirely to enjoy your meal, only stopping if it appears your drink is empty, and to enquire your reaction to the food. Eating a meal can easily take 2 hours, something unheard of in American restaurants, by and large. And every place is like this. No one hurries, except to cross the street (if you value your life and limbs, that is).
The first day, we wandered the streets near our hotel, the Condado neighborhood, and found it to be touristy and a little trashy. We got caught in a torrential downpour, as we both forgot that a little rain in that part of the world usually leads to a LOT of rain in short order. Whoops. We dashed across the street to a French bakery, and gratefully accepted the pile of napkins they offered us to dry off with.
Did I mention our room was on the 10th floor overlooking the ocean? Michael’s got the hookup, and man, were we hooked up! We slept the first few nights with our glass door open (heck, it’s the 10th floor, no one’s coming up) listening to the waves. Then we realized that the mosquitoes were going to eat Michael alive if we continued that, so we had to stop. Bummer.
The following day, we headed to Old San Juan, the site of the early history of the area. We walked several miles of Forts and streets, ending up exhausted. We spent a while wandering through forts of San Cristobal and El Morro, absorbing all of the history each had to offer. Michael in particular enjoyed the military history of the forts. I’d had no idea the streets of Old San Juan would be so amazing…I love cultural history, and this was a city that was not lacking. The old homes, with dark wood shutters and brightly painted exteriors were so Carribean, so coastal, I instantly fell in love. Just looking at the way these homes have been kept up, refurbished and refinished, one can see the passion of these people. The streets were alive with color and people. We found several old churches (SJ has a rich history with the Catholic Church), and though we didn’t go in, we were able to admire them from the outside. The white stucco (I think it was limestone of sorts) contrasted so beautifully with the blue skies. Combined with the religious iconography, I couldn’t help feeling like I was looking through my camera lens at a Dali painting. Too bad my camera isn’t awesome enough to capture what I could see through it. Someday soon, I’ll have a “real” camera.
We stumbled on a food fair as we walked through town, though we were too tired to take advantage of it that night. We were again struck at the passion of the Latin culture, and the marked contrast between American culture and Latin culture. Americans are SO reserved, except where it’s acceptable: in nightclubs, bars, late at night. Latin’s seem to let loose day and night. We went back to OSJ on Saturday, after spending all day laying on the beach. Silly me forgot to put sunscreen on my legs, and ended up super crispy, so I donned a loose skirt and tank top and out we headed. I was always amazing at how put together the women were, despite the humidity. When I walk out in to humidity like that, I’m instantly damp, makeup melts off my face, and my hair curls like nobody’s business. The locals must be used to it. They wore makeup that stayed put, hair that stayed straight, and more clothing than I could stand in that heat. I presume one gets used to it when one lives there, but being a West Coaster, and not at all used to humidity, I was amazed (and a weensy bit jealous).
The food was fantastic…we found an Italian restaurant called Fratellis that served yummy lamb, orchiette, and nutella raviolis for dessert. We wandered the streets for a while after that, just enjoying people watching, trying to guess who was American and who was local (it was pretty easy), and musing about whether we looking as much like tourists as some of the other tourists. As Michael and I always do when we travel, we imagine what it would be like to live in this place, to raise children in a new place. Could we do it? Could we defect out of the mainland US and live as expats in another country? Maybe if I could live in the green house…with the dark wood shutters and doors, and beyond the front living area, a courtyard. And maybe if it was at least on the west coast. After the grueling journey (14 hours and three flights), I couldn’t subject my family to this on a regular basis. Maybe, instead, I could bring the Carribean here…I’m plotting a dream home that includes a courtyard. The courtyard needs to make a comeback, and the PacNW is a good place to have one.
Sunday we hit the Museum of Art, which was, unfortunately, the only thing open in that neighborhood on a Sunday. We were both surprised at the depth and quality of the art. It was all Puerto Rican artists, and though much of it was religious, the more contemporary art was all social commentary, and it was fascinating. Thank God I married a man who enjoys art museums as much as I do! We’ll work on RE…for now, she’s too young to appreciate art like that, though I’ve tried, and will continue to try. For the admission price ($6 each), it was a great way to spend half the day. If we weren’t so hungry, we probably would have stayed longer. That night, we went for a walk near the hotel and found some live music at a local trattoria, so we ordered up some mojitos and enjoyed the jazz fused with beats from a DJ. Again, we commented on the life that seemed to flow from the community: kids dancing, old men dancing, people hanging out in the park at 11pm, talking, laughing, drinking (but not drunk). We tried to compare it to a late night in Seattle, and thought that if anyone was really out at that point, they would probably have been belligerent, rather than just enjoying what life had to offer without crazy drunkenness.
On Monday we headed back to OSJ…just to absorb the culture some more, and ogle the beautiful old homes. I’d read that Puerto Ricans were once famous for making lace, and I wanted to try to find some. A travel site told of a museum of arts and crafts that was in an old Dominican Convent, so we headed there.
It was closed. So was La Casa Blanca, the old governors’ mansion that was decorated with period furniture and artifacts. Bummer. No lace and no casa. But, we did find Michael a custom made panama hat, and me a beautiful silk scarf the colors of the Atlantic ocean.
And we noshed on coffee and empanadas in front of a café in a square, and watched as a young girl fed pigeons from her hand…she was so sweet to watch, and it all felt so very Mary Poppins (save the Marshalls that was behind us. Yes, a Marshalls).
Tuesday, we spent on the beach, and Michael swam in the waves. I huddled under the umbrella while a storm passed, and thought how fitting it was that it was grey, stormy and cool on my last day there. For dinner, we hit up the same trattoria we’d had drinks at the other night. The Italian food was amazing: smoked salmon crostini with raita, a sausage platter with pesto, and a crispy crust tomato pizza with gorgonzola. It was a perfect way to end the trip.
And now, here I am, 14 hours into my journey home, waiting to kiss and snuggle my girl when I land in Seattle. I’ve been on and off airplanes all day, and the only real fresh air I’ve inhaled was in LA (does that even count as “real”?). I cannot wait to be off this plane. Almost 2000 words in an hour…that’s what a boring flight, with no books left to read (I’ve started and finished 6 this week) will get you: prolific blathering about the vacation.
But what good is a vacation if you can’t take something back with you? What am I taking back? A nice tan (my NW friends may be jealous), a small jar of sand, seaglass and shells for RE, a few mosquito bites, and an appreciation for slowness. Not that I haven’t appreciated it before, I was just too busy rushing from A to B to really stop to slow down. That is the one thing I’d really like to take back with me. Oh, and I’m ordering this sign to put at the front door.
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