Thoughts on growing older...

I am sitting in a theater watching an R-rated movie with my 18 year old daughter. As the previews begin to roll, my mind wanders, and at this precise moment it hits me. I am now the parent of an adult child. Surely it was only yesterday that she was my little girl and we were sitting together watching a Disney movie, laughing at animated characters and sharing a bag of popcorn. Now, as I look to the woman on my left, I marvel at her beauty and presence. I see my youth in her features. It is a bittersweet moment for me.

When did I become old enough to have a daughter sitting here with me watching an R-rated movie without thinking about covering her eyes at the questionable parts of the movie? When did I become the woman in the OB-GYN waiting room who is there only for the GYN functions and never again for the OB functions? Where did all the years go?

I loved her childhood and think I did a pretty good job raising her considering I didn’t know how to put a diaper on a baby when she came home from the hospital. Somehow, the natural maternal instinct kicked in and I never looked back. For someone who did not know how to be a mother in the beginning, I quickly took on the ferociousness of a mother lion protecting her cub if anyone even thought of harming my child. Just as those early months were the beginning of our mother and baby relationship, our relationship is now once again transitioning to a new place. Neither of us have been there before but we are learning along the way.

As the movie starts I am still caught in this confused state of how it feels to be the parent of an adult.

When people see us together, they often comment that she looks just like me. At first whenever someone would say this I would wait, expecting my daughter to roll her eyes or give some other type of nonverbal disapproval of this observation. Unbelievably, she never does this. She actually seems quite pleased to have people point out this similarity to me. What an amazing thing! We have managed to make it through the teen years with minimal fighting, and she still loves me. In fact, anyone seeing us at the theater would think that we are best friends. I think this new relationship is taking shape.

The mother lion in me never stops being a mother lion. Each time she heads off to college after a weekend at home, I caution her to “drive safe” and “call when you get there”. After she leaves from her weekend visits, I wander to her empty bedroom and straighten her comforter and feel the sense of loss of her presence in my house. I know that as her future grows, my place in her life will change. Our relationship has already started to change. This is a difficult reality to face.

Recently we were playing a board game in which she needed to come up with a word describing a hero that began with the letter “M” . Her answer was “Mom”. Yes, I’ve definitely done ok with this mothering thing.

The movie ends. I look at my daughter and she looks at me. I feel like I am sitting there with one of my very best friends. She is no longer the little girl with the ponytail and freckles. She is now a dynamic and creative young woman with her own opinions and beliefs. I couldn’t be more proud of her. I am finding that just like I loved her childhood, I am now starting to love her adulthood even if it means that I am growing older.

I smile and think to myself, a couple more years and I might get used to this.

Peggy McNeal

Meeting Updates

THANK YOU Emily and Peggy for attending the second meeting... We started to get into the writing and also brainstormed on how to spread the word. I think we are off to a promising start!

The next meetings are scheduled for:
February 14 Saturday at 9 am at the Bean Cycle and
February 26 Thursday at 7pm at 811 Peterson Street

Please bring a writing piece to share less than 500 words. Our topic is gender, but we will listen to any topic that inspires you.

Happy Writing,
Elisabeth

Battle of the Sexes

I was reading the NYT Sunday and was struck by an article in the STYLE section about the realities of previously well-off families in the NY area who have taken an economical hit and now have found themselves in the situation of the husband not working and the wife going back to work after being able to be stay-at-home moms. The article implied that this situation was working to increase the numbers filing for divorce. Not because the women resented going back to work, but because the men failed to take on all of the responsibilities of stay-at-home dad while unemployed and were now “clickers”, meaning they sat around the house watching TV all day causing frustration and resentment on the part of the woman. As I read parts of this article out loud to my husband he wondered aloud “what about their love for each other?”

I was able to relate to this situation. As a part-time stay-at-home-mom and a part-time OB/GYN I have assumed full-time household responsibilities. And although this makes sense (both due to my available time and our finances), I still become frustrated after I come home from a day at work and find dishes in the sink or clothes strewn everywhere. Like the women in the story I always expect that stuff to be part of the “stay-at-home” package, but it rarely is.

What is it about this part of “homework” that is so undesirable, overlooked, unrewarded, and undervalued? Is it the manual aspect or the dirty aspect or the temporary aspect? Is it the bleach-antifungal-antibacterial nature? Or is it that men are just lazy when it comes to this stuff. Apparently, this is the last great divide (at least in my household) to true equality of the sexes. I will continue to fight this fight, not because the housework is too much work for me, but because my husband needs to appreciate me and all the “little” stuff I do to keep things running smoothly. And he usually does...

Baby Browser

My son is adopted from S. Korea and we are "white". Although he is only four now, I worry about the day that he realizes he doesn't look like us (and they say that day will happen). We talk about his being from Korea and his Birth Mom all of the time, but the idea is still like Santa or the Tooth Fairy - he will believe whatever we tell him is true.

My family is addicted to our Wii. They love Mario Party and there are many mythical creatures of unclear species that you can choose as your character. One of them is Browser - part gorilla and part dinasour. My son likes him because he is big and growls. Last night as I kissed him goodnight he said "goodnight mommy Browser" to which I replied "goodnight baby Browser". For now, we are of the same and that it good.

FIRST MEETING!

Thank you to Emily and Suzanne for attending the first meeting of the Writing Mamas Salon in Fort Collins. Our next meeting will be on January 29th at 7pm. Please contact me (elisaaron@aol.com) for location details or any other information. Please bring several copies of a writing sample to read aloud.

Happy writing!
Elisabeth

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 69. She died this past September. I forgot that it was her birthday until I wrote the date on a note at work just after midnight. I am an OB/GYN and was working overnight from the 7th to the 8th. Three healthy babies were born this morning and they all share their birthday with my mother.

I loved my mother and now I miss her terribly. There is a huge hole in my life that used to be occupied by her. There are no more phone calls or visits. There is no more criticism. There is no more connection to the city in which we lived together. I still cannot believe that she is gone. I still cannot bring myself to delete her number from my cell phone.

My mother was complicated and so was our relationship. She suffered from bipolar disorder and I believe that was a big part of her personality. That could make it difficult to be around her, it blurred boundaries and often made her act inappropriately. It spurred hour long converstions with my brother and best friend complaining about what she said-did-didn't do.

But she was still my mother and I loved her. And even though she never said it, I know she loved me. And with each birth and new beginning I witnessed this morning I know that life goes on and is worthwhile.

Happy Birthday Mom

The Birth Story of Miles

The Birth Story of Miles
Labor Pains and Birth Stories
Catlytic Book Press

I remember everything about that morning. I remember thinking “remember every moment as it will be the last time that you give birth”. The last time you are pregnant, the last time you will be in labor. Remember, so that you can tell him years later the details of how he came into this world. I remember that I was wearing a black V-neck T shirt and maternity jeans and black DocMartens. I remember leaving the house before my 2 year old was awake, kissing my husband goodbye, and driving myself to the hospital. I remember thinking about all of the possible things that could go wrong, but by the end I would return with my new addition.

The induction began in a routine fashion. As an OB/GYN myself, I had struggled over whether to try to have a VBAC or just go for the repeat cesarean section. I decided on trying to deliver vaginally so that I would be better able to take care of my two year old and keep her life disruptions to a minimum. I also felt that I should follow the advice I gave to hundreds of patients, that there should be one set of rules for everyone.

Eventually my husband arrived, now that our daughter was fed, dressed, and happily playing at a friend’s house. The day was calm and peaceful and we chatted about the future in relative peace. I got my epidural, my doctor broke my water, and things progressed. Ten centimeters dilated arrived right on schedule. I allowed myself to think that this might actually work, that I might actually deliver vaginally. That my decision to try to labor was correct and all was right with the world. My husband even mused that this was much better than last time as he excitedly prepared to start coaching me in the pushing process.

Then all of our lives changed although we didn’t even seem to notice while it was happening. The posterior wall of my uterus had ruptured and the baby died inside of the place that had helped it to grow and thrive. In retrospect, all of the signs that something was going wrong were there, but were not clearly seen at the time. Errors in judgement became the groundwork for new errors. The monitor recorded my elevated heart rate while my baby was dying inside of me in front of numerous witnesses. After pushing for an hour, my doctor became concerned about the baby’s heart rate and I was rushed back for an emergency cesarean section. As in most emergencies, my husband was forced to wait outside imagining the worst. I was intubated and so all memory was lost until I awoke in the recovery room.

I remember asking “is he alright?” My answer came as my husband bent over to hug me and started crying. The baby had died. Miles was dead. I wanted to see him and as soon as the anesthesia had worn off enough and I could keep my eyes open, I was given Miles. He was dressed in a ridiculous outfit that must have been collected and saved for situations like these. I undressed him and looked at all of his body parts individually. He was so beautiful and new and perfect. Then I placed his naked body against mine and just held him while tears poured from my heart. The thing that I remember most is how he smelled. Someone, someone who I never met or got to thank, had washed him, had made him smell deliciously clean, and then had lovingly dressed him. Someone had understood that this is what I would remember and that he was important enough to have gone through this newborn ritual. Someone had taken care of him, as I would have, while I was unconscious in the operating room. That same someone had also lovingly took pictures of him in various poses, dressed and undressed, to document the existence of my son. Although I do not wish to meet that person she must know that doing these things have meant more to me than words could ever express.

I needed to hold Miles again the following day. I needed to show him to my family (all of whom did not agree to look at him) to prove that he had been here. My sister-in-law picked up the corpse, dressed and swaddled, and held him close and announced to the world “I love you and I will always love you”. When I remember that day, it is this moment that that brings me the most tears. There are loving, open people in this world who feel deeply.

It’s been several years since the birth and death of our baby. He still lives among us, but life has gone on. I am thankful that this was not my first child. My daughter forced me to go on with the day- to-day needs of life. Her smiles and laughter have made us recover faster. The most difficult thing for me now is to look at pregnant women, which has made my profession a little harder to work in. I know in my head that most, if not all, will be bringing home babies. But I worry that they will not, that they could experience the same loss that I have. They are so full of hope.

We are expecting again. This time it is a child from Korea. He will magically arrive on an airplane without epidurals, IVs, or surgery. It will be a painless delivery, for me. As I look at pregnant women and see the possibility of future sorrow, I also look at the arrival of our new child as a great source of sorrow for his mother. How do you give up a child, how do you recover from that pain? I guess you just go on and a small part of you never gives him up. I still look at his picture everyday. I still think about my birth story every time I do a delivery. He is still with me.

If memories keep your hopes and dreams alive, I hope that my son’s mother will have some good memories to get her through the difficult days that lie ahead. A picture, a footprint, a loving glance. My wish is that his mother knows that he is safe and clean and loved. In honor of his mother, I will try to remember every minute of the day of his arrival into our lives, so that I can tell him how he came to live with us and be ours.