Fever

Aliza has her first fever.

I knew something was off with her yesterday. We had travelled to the beach house to be with Grams and Gramps, Auntie Beth and Uncle Scott. Aliza was fussy and crying in a very un-Aliza way. In my head I was thinking that something wasn't right, but I chalked up her behavior to a long car ride (stupid I-95 traffic), a change of scenery and a baby that naps inconsistently.

Well, today she seemed off again. Not crying as much, but sleeping during the day way more than she normally does and then not eating as much as she normally does. Aliza does many things well, and one of them is eating. We brought her home and she slept in the car, then continued to sleep once we got home. Unusual, but she had a busy weekend. Then when she woke up I tried to feed her and she felt HOT. And she fell asleep instead of eating and continued to sleep in my arms for a solid hour and a half. Finally, convinced her heat wasn't from being in the car, or being outside, we took her temperature and discovered she did, in fact, have a fever of 100.3. I gave her some Children's Tylenol and snuggled her close. Then I started doing that thing that all moms do--especially new moms...second guessing. Maybe I should have taken a rectal temperature, maybe I shouldn't have given her the Tylenol, maybe I should do something to cool her down, maybe the fact that she's not eating and sleeping a lot is an indication of something more serious.....so I called my sister who reassured me that I had done everything right and told me to call the pediatrician, if only for my own peace of mind.

So, we called the pediatrician, as well as our respective Moms to gather some advice. Everyone said the same thing- keep an eye on her, keep the Tylenol in her system, don't worry. Call again if the fever gets really high but keep in mind it might spike during the night.....OK.....

She finally ate (much to my relief--on many levels) and we got her ready for bed. While on her changing table (I swear it is one of her favorite places) she was "normal" Aliza, smiling and talking, kicking her feet and waving her arms, just like she does every night. This was reassuring to both of us, we were assuming that if something were really wrong, her behavior would be an indication. And now she is resting in her crib. I suspect she will be sleeping very well tonight, and I will not be sleeping well at all.....

Schedules

There are a few things that I now know for certain. Things I knew before but, now, having a baby around, I really Know.

My newest life lesson is one of these--one that I knew but am now experiencing. Schedules. Or lack thereof.

Aliza introduced me to that lesson early on--arriving three weeks early and completely eliminating any prospect of resting before giving birth. Now she is teaching me all over again. At three months she is not on any sort of schedule. Actually, I shouldn't say that--she does sleep VERY well at night time, but even that is not consistent. One night she'll wake up at 3, the next at 5, the next at 6:30. It's all over the map really. Her days are much the same--one day she'll take a nap in the morning, another one in the afternoon.....the next she won't nap all day long.

At our last doctor's appointment I had asked about this, wondering if I should become one of those moms who tries to force a schedule on a baby. This seemed counter to every maternal instinct I have, but I'm new at this so I figured I'd ask a professional. To me, it make sense to follow Aliza's schedule--if she takes a nap in the morning, obviously I let her. If she doesn't, well, I don't force her into one. The doctor agreed with me; telling me that it's OK for her to not have a schedule quite yet and as long as she's eating and sleeping well then I shouldn't worry (not that I was).

So, Aliza is, as I suspected she would be, the boss. I let her lead, and, for now at least, I follow.

Three and thirty-two

Aliza is three months old today.....and I am 32 years old today. We spent yesterday afternoon exactly the way I wanted, eating yummy food, surrounded by family, outside in our yard. It was an absolutely perfect day....And here is Aliza at the end of the day, sharing her thoughts with us!

Wicked good

On Wednesday my sister, Mom and I made the trek to NYC to see Wicked. This was a tradition we started a few years back with my Dad initially--no, not seeing random musicals, but giving the gift of time. Time with us, that is. We started it with a Father's Day canoe trip down a river in MA, and then the year after did a kayaking trip on the Sound and have since gone on quite a few adventures together. Then we started it with my Mom with trips to the city to see the ballet, or massages--more girly things.


Anywho, the day ended up being far longer than I had originally thought. My longest away from Aliza, but her daddy handled it like a champ. Of course, it helped that she slept for over three hours. Why in the world does she sleep for over three hours for him, and nothing close to that for me is beyond me, but they had a wonderful day together, and for that I am glad.


We got an early train and headed into the city for a light lunch, before catching the 2:00 show. If you've read the book then you know that the premise is the life and times of the Wicked Witch of the West--before she became the Wicked Witch of the West and chased after poor, innocent Dorothy and Toto. I was struck by a few things while in the theatre-- the first being that there are people out there who think it is appropriate to wear shorts, t-shirts and flip flops to see a show. Call me old-fashioned but I believe that you get dressed up to go to the theatre. Church too, for that matter, but that's a post for a different day. The second is that I really really really love being at a musical, or any show really. I have my parents to thank for that. They started bringing us to shows at a young age, exposing us to the arts not only through dance lessons and music lessons, but by bringing us to see shows too. I forgot how much I love the theatre experience. Everything about it feels a little bit special and a little bit magical.

Of course, the best part of the day was spending time with my Mom and sister. As we get older, these moments, these memories, are more and more special and more and more cherished.

Friendship

Yesterday I hosted my first ever jewelry party. I had invited about 25 people and only seven were able to make it so we had a small crowd for a sunny Sunday afternoon. There were a few people that were coming to my house for the first time and meeting Aliza for the first time. So I found myself running around making sure that the house was very clean. Russ even caught the fever and went outside to mow and sweep. He even cut back the rose bush that has been encroaching on our little patio area AND picked up a garbage bin full of crab apples. (What is the point of a crab apple tree? Seriously. You can't eat them or cook with them.....they don't flower nicely or smell pretty....all they do is make apples that fall all over your lawn thus making it difficult to mow or walk.)

For some reason, I was particularly anxious about the opinion of one person. I have no idea why because she isn't necessarily one of my favorite people (I know that sounds mean but when someone talks about you behind your back to people who are bound to tell you what is said....well, that person is no longer on my favorite people list). I anticipated her walking into my house and instantly judging. She has one of those cookie cutter houses, decorated beautifully, with a pool and a hot tub and a perfectly manicured lawn that she loves to show off.....whereas my house has character. It is old and cozy and just perfect for our little family of three. However, when I thought about it from her eyes, and when I thought about what she potentially would say to colleagues of mine about my cozy little house....well, it made me a little anxious and threw me into a bit of a cleaning frenzy. It was a new feeling for me honestly. I've never felt the need to impress someone that I know is going to judge-and judge negatively- no matter what I do. And I, even in the midst of the cleaning frenzy, knew that what I was doing was absolutely ridiculous. I have nothing to prove, I love our house and I'm proud of the work we've done to it, and I stopped caring what this person thought about me awhile ago; realizing instead that we are different people with very different priorities and goals and work ethics. I realized yesterday that I felt like I was in high school all over again. I wasn't cool in high school and really had no desire to be. I had my close friends and that was enough for me. But, of course, deep down, don't we all want to sit at the cool kids table just once?

When everyone had left and I thought about the afternoon, all of my frantic energy seemed even more silly. There were people there that are my true friends....people who told me they loved my house and they thought Aliza was adorable--and they meant it. I was reminded of what I learned in high school: friendship is about being able to be yourself, and having people that love you just for that.

Nonnie

I have been missing her a lot lately. Maybe it is because of Aliza's baptism. In fact, it probably is because of that.....but lately, I feel her absence deeply. My Mom cried in church during Aliza's baptism. I turned around and saw her and knew, instantly, why she was crying. I was having a hard time holding it together myself, and, in fact, spent some time crying later that night. I wished she was there with us. I wished she could see what a beautiful little angel Aliza looked like. How proud Russ looked. How happy we all were. I wish I could have just one picture of my Nonnie holding my daughter....

Maybe this is blasphemous but I believe, deep in my soul, that my Nonnie helped Aliza to come into this world. See, we had been trying for awhile. Thirteen months to be exact. And I prayed and I cried and I hoped and I wished. And finally, I started talking to Nonnie about the whole thing. I talk to Nonnie still. Is that odd? Somehow it doesn't feel odd to me. Anyway, it was when I started talking to Nonnie--asking her to bless me with a baby-- that I became pregnant. Not right away, but only a month or two after. One of my regrets, when Nonnie lay sick and dying, was that I couldn't tell her I was pregnant. I had some cousins that got pregnant during those last months of her life and they were able to share that news with her and I remember feeling envious. Wishing I could give that gift to her because I knew it would make her heart happy. However, I have no doubt that she is watching over me, and Aliza.

Aliza is sleeping in her crib for the first time tonight. We had been talking about doing this for awhile, wanting her to be comfortable with her crib before the alarm has to be set for that early morning wake up call. I knew it was coming....I wanted things to be set though; I wanted a fan for her room (she's used to the air conditioner after all) and I wanted something that played music and flashed lights for her crib (she's used to that too, although I think she'd do just fine without it). I think that maybe I was stalling the transition a little. Tonight we visited some neighbors and Aliza, after not napping all day, fell asleep in my arms while we were there. So we decided, rather spontaneously, to put her in her crib for the night. I did it. I put her in her sleep sack and lay her down in her crib.

And then I got a little sad. I'll admit, I love having her right next to me at night. I love waking up and leaning over her bassinet to be greeted by her happy baby smile in the morning. I love that I can check to make sure she is breathing in the middle of the night without having to get out of bed. I love that she is the last thing I see when I close my eyes and the first thing I look at in the morning. I know she is fine in her crib. In fact, I suspect, once I'm used to it, I will sleep much better with her in the next room rather than breathing and sighing and cooing and coughing right next to me. But I miss her being in her bassinet already. And somehow, this too, makes me think of my Nonnie. I just know that she'd have something to say that would be wise, and maybe just a bit funny, and would somehow make me feel better. Because she was, after all, my Nonnie.

Baptism pictures

I'm sure I'll have more once my photographer brother sends me the amazing shots he took....but here are just a few pictures from Aliza's big day!

Proud godparents: Uncle Scott and Aunt Tina

Even prouder grandparents: Grospapa, Nonna, Grams and Gramps

Very proud Mommy and Daddy, with their beautiful little angel.....

Faith

Aliza's baptism is coming up soon. I started the process back when I was still pregnant, and spent little time thinking about the whole thing other than to know, without doubt, that I wanted her baptized at the church where we were married. We attended our baptismal class when I was still pregnant also, and I found it to be rather uninformative in a very disappointing way. Now that her baptism is right around the corner I find myself thinking about faith, and religion, and spirituality and all of those intangibles that are in some way-large or small-in everyone's life.


I was raised a Catholic. My relationship with the church, and with my own faith, has not been the easiest of journeys. The first major bump in the road came when I was a first year in college and a high school friend died in a car accident. I was angry. I was angry in a way that came from living a life that was filled with light and laughter and love and blessings. My parents did an amazing job sheltering us from the world and so this, this inexplicable, sudden, shocking, tragic death rocked me to my core and made me question so much of my world, and most especially my faith. I became angry at the people that said the platitudes--things like "God needed another angel" or "It was her time to go." She was 17. She hadn't been drinking or doing drugs or speeding. The two other people in the car walked away without even a broken bone. And my friend died. I didn't get it and I was pissed. I wanted an answer, I wanted to know why....

It took me awhile to figure out that there was no answer. It just was.


My second major bump also came in college....after my friend died I avoided church for awhile. Then I started to go back to it--slowly. I admit a part of it was for the social aspect--my roommate and a number of close friends were Catholic. Then I started going to a liturgical group on campus. We'd talk about upcoming readings and help the Chaplain with her sermon. It was a time where I came to struggle and question and wrestle with the bible and I enjoyed it. Until the other members of the group would say things like "if you don't believe ____ then you aren't really a Catholic" Wow. I didn't understand this....I was on this journey and taking some pride in not having blind faith. In questioning and struggling and discarding those beliefs which didn't make sense to me. To hear someone say that I wasn't truly a Catholic because I didn't believe every single teaching....well, that confused me and made me wonder if maybe I wasn't a true Catholic. This time it took me awhile to figure out that you could talk to a hundred different people who called themselves Catholic and discover that they each had their own set of beliefs.

After college I started going back to church with my mom and dad. I love this time that I get to have them all to myself. I love that Sunday morning has turned into my weekly dose of calm and reflection. A time where I get to stop and breathe and stand in awe at the blessings I have in my life and start a new week feeling lighter. I imagined, years ago, bringing my child with me to church with my parents....and now that dream is a reality.

Now I wonder what Aliza will learn from the church. Interestingly, my husband does not attend church, and, of course, I have never pressured him to do so. Because he is the amazing person that he is, he supports me--even getting married in a Catholic ceremony because he knew how important that was to me. He also supported the decision to raise Aliza Catholic, even though he himself doesn't believe in much of what the church has to say. Whenever we talk about faith I find myself frustrated with him. How do you explain a belief system that you have spent your whole life learning and defining? Especially when so much of it is indefinable....He approaches faith and spirituality in an intellectual way--talking about the history of the church, analyzing the beliefs that people hold. And I approach it in an emotional way--knowing what I believe comes from my own struggles and questions. Knowing that when my friend died, it was, at the end, my faith that helped me through it.

What's most interesting is that I actually believe my husband to be a rather spiritual person. Not in the believing in God sort of way, but in the way he lives his life. He is a good man. And he has a good soul. You can spend less than five minutes with him and learn that right away. And when I think about Aliza, and raising her in the church, I realize that what I really want for her is to take away the most important of lessons: to be a good person in everything that you do. I believe my husband is a good person, without being raised in the church. And I try my hardest to be a good person. So I hope that she finds that, in the church or out.....

Happy baby

Stats

At her one month check up, Aliza had the following stats:

Weight: 9 lbs 11.5 ounces

Height: 21 inches
(Both of these put her in about the 75th percentile)

Head circumference: 35.4 inches (that puts her in the 5th-10th percentile-- apparently she has a very tiny head. But it's growing, so that's OK. And frankly, I don't mind that her head was tiny, especially when she was delivered without an epidural.)

Today, at her two month check up, she had the following stats:

Weight: 12 pounds 2 ounces

Height: 22 1/4 inches

Three years ago....

Three years ago today I wore a white dress and said those two magical words that entwined my life forever with Russ'. Russ, in keeping with a tradition he began when we celebrated our first anniversary, documented our year together with a poem. Here it is:

Year Three:

Aliza Maria Sherman

Not long ago, on a day in September

We welcome hope to outshine our fear

A non-descript day flips to one we remember

Embracing the knowledge our child is near

On a day in May, with your hand in mine

Our prayers now answered by way of this gift

In this young girl I first see divine

Together, our future in our arms we lift

With father's eyes and her mother's kind heart

She begins her first chapter in our historical manse

Wrapped in blankets made with love from the start

A place where she will learn, love, and dance

But her life started far before this tale

On a day three years to this very date

When I pledge my life in every detail

Until the hour of my own life grows late

I don't think I could have said it any better....

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen things I love about Aliza:

(Of course, there are a TON more than 13, but Thursday 2,571 just sounds weird. And these are in no particular order...)

1) Her pinky toe. This may sound odd, but it is the cutest, teensie-weensiest little thing ever. It's about the size of a.....well, I honestly can't think of anything it is the same size as. Smaller than a piece of corn. Seriously. It's just adorable.

2) How, when you put her down on her back, her arms automatically raise above her head and her little hands clench into fists. That's how she sleeps--arms up above her head.

3) When she is eating she makes cute little noises. Contented little "eh, eh, eh..." sounds. It makes me smile every time--even at 3 in the morning!

4) In the morning, when she first wakes up, she kinda hangs out in her bassinet, looking around, checking out the world. And, if I'm lucky, as soon as I say her name or come into her field of vision she'll give me the biggest, happiest smile. As if she is just so thrilled to see me in the morning. It melts my heart....

5) When she is done eating, she pulls herself away from me and sometimes she smacks her lips. As if to say "Yummy, Mom!". If she doesn't smack her lips then she has her eyes closed and her little lips pursed.

6) Reading her bedtime stories. She looks so intent. Like she is really listening and understanding and processing the story. OK, OK, I know that is the teacher in me, wanting that to be what is happening, but she's definitely paying attention!

7) As she wakes up she makes cute little grunty noises. And she stretches and wiggles. Then she'll fall asleep again for a bit, then wake up all over again and make those same noises. It takes her a little while to really be awake and the process is just adorable.

8) Pretty much anytime her Daddy is holding her. Those are the moments I think my heart might just explode with love--for both of them.

9) Her constant look of surprise. You can hold a spoon in front of her and it's the most amazing thing ever. Her little mouth makes an O shape and her eyes get all big and she'll just stare and stare.

10) The way she is changing every day. The other day I noticed her eyelashes...I'm not sure when this happened but they are darker and longer and curlier than they were even two days ago. And her eyes--they went from this slate gray/blue color to a lighter blue. I'm hoping they stay blue....

11) Her hiccoughs. I feel so badly for her when she has them because her whole little body vibrates from their strength, but they are so cute. Kind of squeaky and louder than you might think.

12) Pretty much anytime she is snuggling with me, which is often. She is cozy and warm and drapey and smells good and all of the amazing things a little miracle baby ought to be. I especially love when she falls asleep on me. It's the coziest, most peaceful thing in the world.

13) Her name....this may sound silly but her name feels really special to me. She is a little bit of Russ' family and a little bit of mine and a little bit all her own. And I love that.....

Weighting

For the first time in my life I've become slightly obsessed about my weight. Actually, not so much my weight because I don't have a scale so I have no idea how much I weigh. I guess I'm more obsessed with my clothes. All the cute summer skirts and shirts that I can't wear because they don't fit my post-baby body.

I knew this would happen. I knew that it took nine months for me to gain the weight, and it would take awhile to get it off again. I also knew (and if you saw me that last month you would totally agree) that since the majority of my weight was in my belly (my God the thing was HUGE) it would take even longer for my belly to shrink to its pre-baby state. But knowing ahead of time and actually living it are two very different things.


I'm doing what I'm supposed to do--exercising, trying to avoid junk (although being home so much is dangerous. Too much temptation to just eat all day long), drinking lots of water etc. And I am shrinking. My husband had a new nickname for me lately--the incredibly shrinking woman. I've already even gone down a size. I refuse to buy a ton of new clothes. Why bother, I figure, when I won't wear them for long. This means that getting dressed in the morning kind of sucks. I have two pairs of maternity shorts that I still wear even though they are rather large. And two shorts I bought at Marshall's that are now too big of a size so they end up sagging in a most unattractive way within minutes of putting them on, and one pair of shorts that are my current size. That's it. It seems like a lot, but really, when you are wearing shorts every day, having only one pair that actually fits you..... Let's not even talk about shirts. My sister warned me that it would be difficult to find tops that fit across my newly enlarged chest as well as my protruding belly and she was right. I haven't even bought any new shirts, relying instead on the few t-shirts that I own that happen to fit me right now, and the three maternity t shirts that I bought for our February vacation. And the maternity shirts just emphasize the belly. So I try not to wear them if I know I'm going to be out in public.


So far my jeans have been the Test. I figure, when my jeans fit me again, and when I look good in them again, it means I have returned to my post baby size. Because we all know how unforgiving jeans can be. A few weeks ago, I couldn't even get them over my thighs and hips, forget about actually buttoning them. The other day, I tried again. This time, with much wiggling and grunting, I got them all the way on. Granted they are tighter than they ever used to be, and my rear fills them out in a way it never used to, and I couldn't even think about zippering or buttoning them.....but they were on and I'll admit I took some pleasure in that fact. I took even more pleasure in taking them off and putting on my cozy, loose, maternity shorts though.

The point I'm trying to make in the midst of all of this rambling is that it is amazing how clothes can make you feel. How a pair of shorts that actually fit can make you feel almost like yourself again. And the ones that don't can make you feel like a blobby bum. I'm looking forward to the day when I don't feel like a blobby bum....hopefully sooner rather than later!

Firsts

First time in a car seat:

First nap with Daddy:

First time meeting her oldest cousin:

First nap with Mommy:

And one of my favorites--first bath (which she loves).

Addendum

There were a few things I forgot to mention in my last post--things I most definitely want to remember....
I forgot to mention what an amazing birthing coach my husband was. Despite the fact that everyone seemed more worried about him than me before this process began, he was better than I would have even hoped. Supportive and sweet and not in any way irritating, even in the midst of the worst of the pain. He was given specific instructions by me--repeatedly--that he could not do the big sighs that he is famous for, and true to his word, not a single sigh escaped his lips. He cheered me on, held my hand, didn't complain when I practically broke his fingers, fed me ice chips with a shaking hand and was, in general, the amazing man I know and love.

He also gave me not one, not two, but three presents. He had gotten one for each stage of labor, but I went through the stages so quickly that he only ended up giving me one of the gifts prior to birth and the other two after Aliza was already born. The first was this, then this, and finally, this. I know, WOW!

And finally, the last addendum--her name. Russ and I knew, all along, that we wanted a family name. We wanted, ideally, one name from each side of the family. And I knew that I wanted to name her after my Nonnie. Both of us being teachers, there were automatically some names that we would never ever use. So, we both threw names out, back and forth. I honestly don't remember how we came to Aliza--a name from his side of the family. Elizabeth, with a slight twist to make it unique. I do know that at first I thought he was spelling it with an E--Eliza. And it was over February vacation, sitting on a beach, that Russ clarified that he meant Aliza. Once he said that I was sold. We started calling her by her name from then on. And, no, we didn't have a back up. Although I fear that she has been relegated to a life of people spelling or saying her name incorrectly, as it has already happened numerous times. But, for now at least, she shares the same initials as her Mom, which I think is pretty darn cool.

A baby story

It's funny that my last post was about my last day of school....when I wrote it I (obviously) had no idea that in just a few hours I would be meeting my daughter. My plan to spend at least a few days relaxing and doing random house projects rather abruptly ended at midnight on Friday....

I stayed at school late on Friday. I'll admit, I had a hard time leaving. I found myself cleaning and organizing even more, stalling the inevitable saying goodbye and somewhat enjoying the peace and solitude of my classroom....I got home late and was so drained from the day that I fell asleep, on top of the covers, by 9:00. At 12:15 I woke to a weird sensation....it felt like I was going to the bathroom in my pants. Half asleep, I stumbled to the bathroom, confused as to what was going on. I thought for a minute that my water had broken, but recalled a neighbor who told a story about losing control of her bladder near the end of her pregnancy. Since I wasn't experiencing any contractions, I thought that perhaps I was doing the same thing....even started thinking how I could tell this story to family and friends. After changing my clothes, I went downstairs and got Russ, who had fallen asleep on the couch. I told him I thought that maybe my water had broken. I admit, I felt like an idiot. This is one of those things I thought I, as a woman, should just know. He asked me what I meant, how come I wasn't sure...I explained that it felt more like I was peeing my pants than anything and that I wasn't having any contractions. We decided to wait, and we both went upstairs to go to bed. As I stood in my bedroom, mopping up the slight mess I had left, another puddle appeared on the ground. I looked at my husband--mostly asleep on the bed and asked, "See this? What is going on?" I still didn't fully comprehend that my water had broken. Apparently I needed it spelled out for me a little more clearly.....Russ went to sleep while I stuck a towel between my legs and went downstairs to clean the kitchen.

Yes. It's true. I cleaned the kitchen at 12:30, with a towel stuck between my legs. It was while I was scrubbing out the bathroom sink around 1:00 that the thought grew....the thought that this was insane, and what the hell was I doing?!? I woke Russ up again and told him I was going to call the doctor, which I finally did at 1:15. She called me back fifteen minutes later and I explained what had happened. She instructed me to come to the hospital so we both threw on some clothes and headed out. Before I did, I opened the mail. (Clearly I was not in my right mind.) But I did find the pictures my brother had taken the week before of my pregnant belly. Russ and I were still thinking this might be a practice run, so we decided not to call anyone, hating the thought of setting off a false alarm within our respective families.

On the way to the hospital I finally started experiencing my first contractions, but, admittedly, they were not much stronger than the Braxton Hicks I had been experiencing the last several months. We got to the hospital and parked in the wrong place, much like my sister had done when she was in labor. Walking around the block in, yes, the rain, my contractions started to feel stronger and Russ finally started timing them. We went through admissions and it was while in the wheel chair that it finally hit me: I'm having a BABY.

Once we got to the hospital room--now it is around 2:15, we called our respective parents. I assured my mom that there was no need to rush, but she wouldn't hear it and practically hung up in mid-sentence so she could leave--without my Dad because he was at a conference in Ohio and his one instruction when he left was "remember, don't have the baby while I'm away." Russ' parents were in Boston, so they debated about when to come but had initially decided to wait a bit and asked us to call them after the doctor visited. I got changed and hooked up to the monitors and settled in for what I assumed would be a long labor. Contractions were still ten minutes apart and lasting a minute.The doctor came in, and I was happy that it was someone from my practice. She didn't want to examine me because of the GBS, and instead assured me that all looked good based on the read outs and let me know she'd be back in a little while. My mom and sister showed up when the contractions were getting stronger and closer together. I desperately wanted to get out of bed, convinced that I'd feel better if I could sit on the birthing ball. I wasn't allowed to though because I still needed my antibiotics for the GBS. I was supposed to have antibiotics for four hours prior to delivery but the nurses were rather busy that night and assumed that, like all first labors, I'd be there for awhile. Needless to say, they weren't rushing to get to me--although I was in no way neglected. I finally got hooked up to an IV and out of bed. Contractions were now much closer together, about three minutes and lasting only 30 seconds. Right before getting out of bed, in the midst of a contraction, I started feeling a rather strong urge to PUSH. I was sure it was way too soon for such actions and even, in the midst of it all, said no a few times.

Sitting on the ball the feeling came again, even stronger. My sister asked me what was going on and I explained the urge. Thank goodness she was there because she immediately told a nurse, who, with a hint of skepticism, let us know she would tell the doctor. The doctor came in a few contractions later and asked me to get into bed so she could examine me. It was my first examination and upon finishing she looked up and said, "Oh my God." Which I think freaked my husband out just a bit. "You are fully dilated!" According to my sister, the look of utter panic on my face was almost comical and I informed the doctor, rather firmly, that I wanted an epidural. Like NOW. She told me it would be too late and I told her that I REALLY wanted that epidural. Apparently, by the time they even came up to administer it, the baby would be born. No epidural for me. And no time to panic about it because she was coming, drugs or not.

Now things were moving--the bed was transformed, my sister and mom left the room and the real work began. It was about 4:30 in the morning and the doctor gave me directions: tuck in your chin, hold your breath, elbows out and push through the contractions. One quick breath and push again. Being the good student that I am, I followed all of the directions. Again. And again. And again. And Oh. My. God. it hurt like nothing else I've ever experienced. There are no words, truly. But I kept going, and I'll tell you, I'm not sure how I did keep going. I think the only thought I had was that I will soon be meeting my daughter and I tried to hold that in my head through the pain.

Finally the doctor told me to do little pushes to minimize the tearing and even though, at that point, the head was crowning and my urge to push hard to just get her out was so incredibly strong, I again tried to follow directions. Actually, I thought the doctor was crazy to ask me to do little pushes, but, again, I follow directions well. This is when Russ, despite his earlier plans, decided to peek and this is when, after he did peek, I asked him if HE was OK. The nurses laughed at me then and told me that I'm crazy for worrying about him when I'm in the midst of delivery. I also got a mirror so I could see her head, and that might just have been what got me through the rest....knowing that she was so close....

A few contractions later and out she came, 5:51 a.m. Thank God it was a short labor because I honestly don't know if I could have done it without drugs if it were a long one. Did I mention it hurt? It happened so fast that Russ' family, who had decided to leave sooner rather than later, hadn't even made it into CT.

So, here she is, Aliza Maria, 6 lbs 9 oz, 21 inches long. Our little miracle.

Bittersweet

Today is my last day of work....even though our daughter hasn't arrived, my maternity leave officially starts at 3:45 this afternoon.

Interestingly, almost everyone around me keeps asking me if I am excited. I know why of course...at this point in the year teachers are all burnt out and exhausted. Overwhelmed with the assessments we have to give, the end of year goals we have to write, the data we have to enter and analyze for various reports, a room that has to be packed up, the gobs and gobs of money that has to be spent to buy gifts for everyone in creation and the preparations that have to be made now for next year...plus, you know, teaching a group of increasingly rambunctious students who believe that summer started the first warm days we have. The end of the year is a marathon not a sprint, and it is a non-stop one at that. So, I understand why the teachers around me are envious at the thought of me staying home, avoiding the crush of the end of the year and being able to relax instead of run constantly....

And I am excited. After a year of chairing two committees, serving on at least two others, serving as union Vice President, writing Reading Curriculum, taking grad classes, being pregnant and teaching in a rather demanding district, I am excited to just. stop. I am excited for random little projects around the house that I don't get to do in the hustle and bustle of every day life. And of course, I am most excited to meet my daughter for the first time....

But I'm also sad. So sad that I think I've cried more this week then I have throughout my whole pregnancy. (I know, I know, part of that is hormones....) I'm one of those teachers that LOVES to teach. I love the end of the year madness. I love everything about finishing out a year and thinking about next year...because this is when I start to think about next year. When I look at those second graders and wonder which of them will be spending a year of their lives with me. This is when I think about the students I have now and marvel at their growth and laugh about the stories from the year and how each one of them has left a lasting impression on my heart. This is one of the best parts of the year--and one of the best parts of teaching--the saying goodbye while simultaneously saying hello. The reflection on a year well spent, the eager anticipation of a summer vacation to come and the hope that comes with a new batch of students....

I'll be missing out on so much of this....
But I'll also be welcoming our daughter into this world. And I know, without a doubt, that there is no greater miracle, no greater joy, than that....so it is with bittersweet, and mixed, emotions that I start, and end, my last day....

And the winner is....

Throughout my pregnancy I have had numerous interesting, and, at times, insulting comments made....however, I feel taht this one wins the grand prize. The Gold Star. The Comments to End All Comments. Here's how the conversation went:

S (a colleague): When is your due date again?

Me: June 6th, your dog's birthday. (This may seem odd that I said this but keep in mind that every time the woman asks me my due date she then tells me that it is her dog's birthday and then launches into a story about her dog that usually lasts a good ten minutes. This time I figured I'd cut her off a bit....)

S: Oh, I can't believe you remember that, it must have been horribly insulting that I said that to you!

Me: No, no, not at all....

S: Well, my dog IS rather adorable, and if your baby is half as cute as my dog then you will be very lucky....

I am not making this up.
She *actually* told me that I will be lucky if my DAUGHTER is HALF as cute as her DOG.

Showers!

Last Friday, at school, my team threw me a baby shower. Once again, I got amazingly generous gifts from the women that I work with. Once again, I marveled at how *everyone* takes such joy in a baby. I have had women who don't talk to me all that often, stop by my room to give me a hug and tell me how excited they are for me. Paras and interns give me gifts when we've exchanged only the casual hello as we pass in the hallway. And the women who are more recent moms give me the practical (but often more expensive!) gifts that they just know I'll need. And everyone, from the custodian to the kitchen staff, the teachers to the interns, stops often to ask how I'm doing, how I feel and if I'm ready. I know I've said it before, more than once even, but I am so incredibly blessed.

Miracles

I believe that miracles are all around us.....in a thousand and one tiny ways they are happening. If you are lucky, then you get to witness a Big Miracle. The kind that leaves you crying in disbelief. That makes you realize that there is just no. other. explanation. Other than a miracle that is.

I have now experienced two of these Big Miracles in my life. The first was witnessing the birth of my second niece. If you've ever been blessed enough to witness a delivery then you know what I mean when I say that there is nothing so Miraculous as the birth of a child. One minute she was someone we dreamed and wondered and hoped and prayed for and the next she was in this world, waving her hands and crying and already developing her own unique personality. I remember thinking, as I stood there watching my niece take her very first breath in this world, "how can anyone NOT believe in some kind of a God when faced with the birth of a child?"

Most recently I experienced another miracle. Russ' aunt recently had a brain aneurysm. Or rather, a "nest" in her brain that began to bleed out. And did so rather rapidly, so that in mere hours half of her brain was filled with blood. The outlook, at first, was grim. Say your goodbyes the doctors counseled, as they wheeled her into surgery. Next, the words, "well, she made it through surgery, but we have no idea how much of Her will be there, or what the damage will be." Next, "her vision and speech may be impaired, we are going to keep her in a medically induced coma for a few days." And finally, a mere 24 hours later, "she's going to take a nap, then we are going to get her out of bed and walking around." Even the nurse admitted that she had never seen such an amazing recovery. We drove up to see her and I swear, you would never have known (aside from the shaved head and bandages) that the woman had brain surgery less than 24 hours earlier. She was sitting up, her color was good, her eyes were clear and she was talking and joking. Joking!

Here's the thing- everything, and I do mean everything, conspired to make the worst possible situation into the best possible situation. She happened to be in Boston when her symptoms became alarming enough to warrant a 911 call. Surrounded by family, with a trained nurse by her side. She was rushed to Mass General, and a doctor there had the smarts to get her into surgery within 30 minutes of her arrival. She was also operated on by the head of neurosurgery. If any one of those things didn't happen as they did, the chances are strong that she would not be with us today....or she would not be the woman that we know and love. She is a walking miracle. A testament to the fact that there are some things in this world that just don't make sense. Yeah, you can argue science, medicine, technology even, saved her. But for me....I believe there was someone watching out that day. Someone who saved her life.