Birth Story, Part Deux

So I left you lying awake in the wee hours of the night listening to my baby's heartbeat. On those machines, the heartbeat sounds squishy, almost like a needle being scratched across a record under water. Already my birth was not going the way I wanted, with an IV stuck in me and a baby monitor I couldn't take off. It confined me to the bed, excluding trips to the bathroom, and when you take childbirth class you're advised to move around and change positions. With inductions, at least at Mount Sinai, they want you hooked up to the baby monitor so you can only change positions in the bed.

C said he'd be back at 7a but seven came and went. My OB wasn't expected to come in and start the party until 8a so I wasn't really anxious for C but I was bored. Finally around 7:45 or so I called to find him in the car looking for the parking garage. He got to my room moments before Dr. A who actually showed up at 8a sharp. Dr. A looked very clean, shaved and reeked of cologne. When he left the room, I asked C if he noticed the distinct stink of men's frangrance but C hadn't noticed. I wondered if this was how Dr. A prepared to deliver babies, after all it was a special occasion.

Dr. A's first order of business, after checking to see if my cervix had dilated with the help of the supossitory (it hand't), was to break my water. He pulled out what looked like a knitting needle so I smartly looked away. C sat in the chair beside the bed eyes fixed to the TV. I didn't really feel anything, just a sudden wet feeling. Dr. A looked at the bedsheet, said "Good, it's clear" and left the room under the pretext of seeing what happened.

Some time passed and I continued to feel like I was peeing all over the place when it was just amniotic fluid, but nothing else happened. After about an hour and still no contractions, Dr. A decided to start the pitocin. He urged me to get an epidural sooner rather than later as it was a busy day and I might have to wait an hour for the anesthesiologist. The anesthesioligist, a bald guy named Itomar, had already made his appearance, asking if I'd like to try a different drug, one that he assured me worked, for a hospital study. Dr. A said there was no harm in participating in the study so I decided to do it, but I wanted to wait until the contractions actually happened before I screamed for Itomar.

Nurse Shirley started my pitocin drip through my IV and shortly thereafter, the real contractions started. I felt a deep squeezing sensation in my abdomen. It hurt, like I was getting punched, but it wasn't that bad. Dr. A showed up, saw that I was contracting and asked if I wanted my epidural. I said I was okay, Dr. A looked annoyed and left the room. C and I used a few breathing techniques to get me through the contractions and I tried to soldier through as the contractions got stronger, more painful and closer together.

After about an hour or two of this (I'm really not sure of the time frame) I gave up my fight against drugs. I'd love to say I lasted in the ring longer but I didn't make it through two hours of labor without drugs. I know women who've had day long labors and no drugs and I admire them, but I'm not them, I wanted drugs. When Itomar's assistant came in to go over all the details with me, I was making so many faces she called for a higher dosage. While they were sitting me up for the epidural and I was hugging the nurse to not only stay in position but for comfort, I was spraying the floor with amniotic fluid. It was a regular Niagara Falls in that hospital room. I was crying and Itomar and co were saying "Don't worry, you won't feel anything soon!" but I was mainly crying from embarrassment. I hated C to see me like this.

I didn't feel the long epidural needle. Truth is, the IV and the pee cath they inserted bothered me more than the long epidural needle which I never saw. And afterwards, it was great looking at the monitor and seeing a huge contraction that felt like a mild hiccup.

Dr. A returned to see if I'd dilated again. He had to wait for a contraction so he sat at the foot of the bed, C still in the chair and me, lying on the bed with my legs spread for the doctor. Actually, I found it all funny, how much propriety goes out the window during childbirth. Unfortunately, I still wasn't progressing so Dr. A increased the pitocin and told me he was leaving for the office and now Dr. T would be take over. I was relieved as I prefer Dr. T.

"I'll be back again by eight but hopefully you'll be post-partum," he said and I hoped so as well.

Hours passed and nothing changed. Dr. T, a tiny, very youthful looking woman, bounced in wearing a lavender business suit and noted I still was not dilating. The pitocin increased, I opened my legs for another inspection, the monitor showed I was contracting like crazy, Itomar returned for another shot. Around 3:30, Dr. T said put her hand on my belly and said, "I don't think it's going to happen."

The labor, she meant because obviously I was going to have this baby.

"I think we need to do a C-section."

"Why," I said, crying like a little girl. I felt like a failure. "Your body was made to this," my friend Meredith had said. Apparently not.

"As we've been saying all along," Dr. T said calmly. "This is a big baby and I don't know if you've looked in the mirror lately but you're a small person."

"Why does that matter?" I said. "I was a big baby and my mother still managed to give birth."

"When the baby's too big, it doesn't drop low enough to put pressure on your cervix and you don't dilate. You're contracting nicely. We can keep going with this but it's been a while and you're still at three centimeters."

"Okay," I said, afraid I'd go home to wait it out only to have to return for a c-section on Thanksgiving Day. "Let's do the section."

Things happened very quickly from now on. Papers were signed. Itomar left for the day, an event that caused a blind panic, but he was replaced by another doctor who assured me that the hospital made sure all the anesthiologists were bald so I'd feel comfortable when one left for the day. We had to wait for an operating room. Of course, now the contractions were getting more painful and we had to wait for the surgery for more anesthesia. Now that I'd decided the section was happening, I wanted them the contractions to stop but they don't just because they turn off the pitocin drip.

Around 4:50 we were given an operating room. It's a good thing it all unfolded as fast as it did or else I would have panicked from the sheer ritual, the unreality of what was going on around me. Dr. T left to change into scrubs. Dr. Bald gave C scrubs and a mask to put on. Shirley, the nurse, wheeled the bassinet for my baby out of the room. I was sat up for some more drugs and then my legs and stomach were prodded to make sure I was suitable numb. I couldn't move my legs at all and at another time I would have minded.

As they wheeled me to the OR, Dr. Bald told me the room I was going to had good kharma, as his daughter was born there. This little detail gave me tremendous confidence in my surgery, knowing that a doctor chose to have his own child in this hospital. They had to transfer me from the hospital bed to the operating table and I unfortunately, couldn't help them. Finally Dr. T, a resident, Dr. Bald and some other guy had to physically lift me and put me on the table. Two side tables were wheeled up and I had to stretch my arms straight out in a Christ on the Cross position. C came in wearing his mask and what looked like a shower cap and was ushered to a chair beside my head. He grabbed my hand and a curtain was draped to block either of us from seeing the action. Behind the curtain, I could hear the doctors chatting and laughing like they were gathering at the lunchtime salad bar.

C says they were joking about Dr. T having a baby but I can't tell you what they were saying. Dr. Bald kept whispering "You're doing fine" and "almost there" in my ear.

"Okay, we're almost there," some one said from behind the curtain.

I hearad Dr. T say "I'm gonna kill you!"

Was she talking about me or was my little baby, who didn't want to come out, being difficult.

"With c-sections it's fairly common for them not to cry at first," Dr. Bald said reassuringly. "So don't be afraid if you don't hear anything."

I squeezed C's hand and looked up at the ceiling. I didn't feel anything, it didn't seem so bad.

"Oh here's the head," Dr. Bald said, then to C "you want to see the head?"

Dr. Bald grabbed the camera and snapped a picture of Eliza's head coming out while C peered over the curtain. I thought this was a mistake as C pukes during "ER" reruns but somehow the thrill of the moment sustained him. I still cannot look at the photo of her head coming out. I don't want to see myself cut open.

I heard what sounded like a small baby cough.

"Was that the baby?" I asked.

"Yes, Lisa," Dr. T said over the curtain.

Then I heard a deep breath followed by what can only be described as massive wailing. So much for Dr. Bald's warning. Already I could tell, this baby had what my father would later call, "very healthy lungs."

A lot more commotion followed and I remember a team of people running with her to a warming table over to my left. The first thing I remember seeing on her was her legs which looked rather long and chunky, not like scrawny newborn legs at all.

"Oh my God," I said, nearly sitting up before Dr. Bald pressed me down. "She huge."

"She's a big girl," some one said. C went ran over with his little hairnet and started taking pictures as Eliza continued to wail rhythmically from the table. I felt a lot of pushing and prodding now, my surgery wasn't over. And now it was different, now I felt it. C stood over the table, excited and I felt abandoned. I wanted to be standing over that table with him but instead I felt hands by my ribs and strong pressure as they put me back together. I started to cry.

"It hurts, what are they doing?"

Dr. Bald took my hand and assurred me it would be over soon. The extra doctor I never identified came up and whispered something in his ear. I think he told Dr. Bald to give me more drugs. I was really yelling so C would come back to me but he was too excited by his new daughter.

"Ten fingers, ten toes!" C yelled from across the room.

"It hurts," I cried.

And then it was over. They wheeled me into a recovery room. C told me later that when they did Dr. Bald told him they'd given me a heavy dose of anesthesia and I might not remember the rest of the night but I do. Not as clearly as I'd like to but I don't think that's because of the drugs. So much happened that night, I think it would be impossible to remember it all as much as I'd want. There were several other women in the recovery room, two talking loudly on the phone. As we entered the room, one of the doctors whispered about some one's mother calling to C. It turned out to be my mother and C left to step outside and call her. I lay on the bed and waited for them to bring in my baby. Dr. Bald came in again to tell me they were doing her vitals and everything looked great.

Finally, Shirley brought her in to me. I don't remember it like I want to, I wish I could say I remember every detail of her face. What I do know is I looked at her and her face was exactly what I expected. She wasn't a stranger at all but some one I'd known all my life. It was like meeting an old friend I'd somehow lost touch with and now we were going to pick up where we left off.

"She's beautiful," I said and Shirley agreed.

"The most beautiful one I've seen tonight," she said, though she probably said this to every mother.

Shirley handed me a slip of paper with my daughter's weight and footprints on it. Eliza was eight pounds, eleven ounces, born at 5:31 pm. On the left side of the page it said "happy birthday baby girl."

"Hi you," I said as Eliza looked up at me, her bright blue newborn eyes surprisingly calm and alert. She seemed to know me, studied my face then turned her head towards the ceiling light. I traced the curve of her tiny button nose with my forefinger and studied her little red lips, her round cheeks, the bulk of hair peeping out from the little blue and pink striped knit hat she wore.

"I'm your mama," I said and she looked back at me, her head nodded forward as if to say, "I know."

Meeting the Grampies

Anyone who knows me (meaning the two friends who are reading this blog) knows I have a close relationship with my grandparents. Yes, despite my status as a middle-aged Mom both my grandparents are still alive. We never associated with my father's parents so I grew up thinking I only had one set of grandparents. I still do. And no, I'm not the oldest grandchild, in fact far from it. I just happen to come from "good stock" as my mother says, my grandfather is six months shy of his 100th birthday and my grandmother is going on 92.

On the day Eliza was born, my grandmother fell while taking down a sheet from an indoor clothing line. She was in the basement of her four story house, lying on the floor for quite a while before my grandfather realized something was up, came downstairs and I assume called 911. She broke her hip and was carried out of the house on a stretcher, not to return, where they performed surgery on her the following day. Her odds of surviving the surgery were 40/60. The doctor who did it said "I'd never operated on anyone so old." She was never expected to walk again but a month later, she was up with the help of a walker, doing laps around the old folks hospital to the applause of her fellow patients. When she went in for her surgery, now knowing she had a new granddaughter who was named after her, and was told she might not survive, her only fear was that she would not meet her new great-granddaughter. My daughter is very special to my grandmother as she is the first child born to my grandmother's family since me. My grandmother only gave birth to one child, my mother, who only gave birth to my brother and me. My grandmother's brother had one daughter who opted to not have children. Since my brother is autistic, it's unlikely he'll reproduce. So it was up to me to carry on my grandmother's family.

This past President's day weekend we strapped Eliza into her little car seat carrier and drove the 370 miles to Pittsburgh. My mother rode in the front seat while I sat in the back, staring at my daughter. C drove, ready to jump out the window as he listened to my mother and myself tell the same stories about this cousin and that aunt for the 40th time. Eliza slept the entire way, her face pitched forward and bobbing, as though some one was repeatedly wacking her on the back.

We got to my Grandfather's house, no longer my grandparents house because my grandmother no longer lives there. Upon release from the hospital, she took a small apartment in an assisted living facility. My grandfather met us at the door, snatched the baby from C's hands and told C "Move your car right up to mine. Right up to the bumper." My grandfather doesn't live in a safe neighborhood and always makes sure he allows enough space for the drug dealer next door's SUV. I wasn't keen on handing over my daughter to a 99 year old but he didn't give us a chance, simply grabbed the baby and ordered C with an authority C could only obey. Not knowing what to do, I simply followed C outside to start hauling up my mother's bags.

C muttered something about being unhappy handing the baby off and I agreed but neither one of us was about to take her from my grandfather. Later, C told me that Pap (what we call my grandfather) was very careful when he handed Eliza back to C and that the old man could hold our daughter any time.

After the bags were unloaded at the car was successfully kissing the ass of Pap's car, I noticed the house smelled like piss. And so did, I'm sorry to say, Pap. Gram had taken her chair out of the living room so the space under the window seemed oddly empty. The light in the bathroom was uncharistically dim. When I opened the refrigerator, I smelled rotting eggs and noticed several tupperware containers still marked by my Grandmother's handwriting. Remember now, Eliza is three months old now so that food had been there for three months. Eliza needed to be fed so I went into the dining room, opened up my shirt and struggled to hold her steady while she squirmed on the tiny wooden chair. I chose the dining room for privacy but Pap kept coming in to get a key or putz by the window so I'm pretty sure he got a fantastic view of my oversized tits. I was hungry and anxious to get to Gram's so my mother called the hotel C and I were staying at to find out how late their restaurant was open. I could hear C, who never gets sick, hacking from the living room. Already, this was shaping up as a stressful trip.

Done feeding my fussy, squirmy daughter, I scrapped the idea of changing her into the green velvet dress my mother was so proud to have purchased for her and decided to take her to Gram's in her pink fleece coveralls. We left my grandfather, who is always confused by the idea of anyone spending money on a hotel (remember this man lived through the depression, strapped Eliza back in the car seat and took off for my Grandmother's. Eliza chose this moment to have a complete screaming meltdown. Eliza is a fantastic baby--she rarely cries unless she's hungry, very tired or something is hurting her. This was the first time C had heard her cry for "no reason" in a while. He drove while my mother directed him. I sat in the backseat trying to console my daughter with no luck. I guess after sleeping in the car for seven hours and arriving at our destination, Eliza was trying to tell us "no more car, no more travel." And here I was, so anxious to show her off I was strapping her in for another ride. After this, we'd have to drop my mother back off at Pap's, then proceed to the hotel. Gram's apartment facility is two blocks away from the house I lived in on North Craig Street my senior year in college but I took no pleasure in this drive down memory lane as my daughter wailed beside me. I become very discombobulated when she cries like that and nothing I did, the singing (which contrary to everyone else's complaints my daughter enjoys), the toys waggling in front of her eyes, the shushing in her ear, calmed down my little one. It was terrifying as I realized we still had another stage in our journey. C made a joke about by the third kid, you really don't hear the crying and my mother laughed.

We got to Gram's apartment, parked in an enclosed parking structure and Eliza quieted down as soon as I unstrapped her from her car seat. We followed my mother, who'd been here before, to a glass door marked "residence." Mom hit a buzzer, an unseen woman said "yes" and my mom answered, "We're here to see Elizabeth Conderato." The door buzzed and we stood outside two elevators. When the elevators finally came, my daughter now burrowed and half asleep in my arms, we got on and rode up to a Mezzanine. There we signed in, were given a token for the parking garage, and got back on the elevator and hit "4." My lucky softball number, now the floor my Grandmother lived on.

"Place seems nice," C said as the elevator doors closed at it was. I know my mother doesn't like it because the other people there are far more, shall we say, gone.

As we got off on four, we passed a lit fireplace, a common room with a group of people in wheelchairs watching a movie on a big screen TV and my Grandmother's neighbor's room, marked "Madeline" something. I noticed this because Madeline is the name of C's oldest daughter. We came to the next door marked "Elizabeth Conderato" and knocked. "Come in," sounded softly from inside.

Grandma sat in the reclining chair she'd brought from home covered with a thick blanket. The room was stifling hot, like the thermostat was set at 85 degrees. Her feet were propped up, a walker sat in front of the chair, and the TV blared wheel of fortune. My grandmother turned her head towards us in slow motion. She saw me, saw Eliza and there was recognition but no light. No smile, no joy, she didn't sit up and hold out her arms. Instead, she only looked tired. I felt like crying.

We quickly shrugged off our coats and Mom and I sat across from Gram in the loveseat while C took the small wooden chair beside Gram. I bounced Eliza, now recovered from her backseat breakdown, on my lap.

"See my baby, Gram," I said. "Isn't she gorgeous."

My grandmother nodded, her eyes barely open. She stared at Eliza, seeming perplexed by our presence.

"What time did you leave?" she asked. I told her ten. "Did you stop by your grandfather's first." My mother told her we had. "How'd he look?"

I shrugged, holding the baby up higher for her to view. "Like Pap," I said.

"You eat," she asked. I lied and said we had. "See my baby?" I said again.

"What time did you leave," she asked again. I repeated my answer. Some one on Wheel of Fortune must have lost a round because that sound of bottoming out whistled from the TV. I'd pictured this moment in my life more than other girls pictured weddings, proposals, Oscar night speeches. I wasn't even sure if I'd wanted children but I'd so dreamed of holding up my baby to her and watching her face open up as she curled the baby in her arms. "My granddaughter," she'd say. "My little girl," cause in the dreams that baby was always a girl.

And now my dream had come true but this wasn't playing out how I'd wanted. Would it have been better, back at Pap's in that old house with dim lighting and the smell of urine?

Finally, she took a long look at Eliza and said, "She seems big."

"She is," I said, excited she'd noticed. "She's very long."

"How much does she weigh?" My grandmother is obsessed with people's weight. Who's gained weight, who's lost weight, who likes to puke down the toilet.

"Twelve pounds when I last checked." I said.

"What time did you leave," she asked again.

Quickly, I planned and executed our escape. It was after 8 now and none of us had eaten dinner. My grandmother didn't protest, in fact seemed relieved. Eliza was quiet as we first drove Mom to Pap's, then found our way via a circuitous route, to the William Penn Hotel. I didn't say much, what could I say? That the moment was a disappointment? Could I really say that to C who only had one surviving grandparent? What's the first question people ask when I say my grandmother's in the hospital? "How old." And when I answer there's that look, that almost smugness, that feeling of "Well they've had a good long life." And my response to that is always the same, "I know they can't live forever but that doesn't mean I don't want them to."

We checked in, went up to our spacious room. I was holding the baby while C was getting ice or something, I just remember I was alone in the room when the bellman came up with our bags and the head of housekeeping set up the pack-n-play. The two guys flirted almost, then told me their friendship went back 25 years. 25 years of working in this hotel, that's a long time. I tipped the guys with the money C left me and sat down on the bed with my daughter. She looked up at me and smiled. It was time to feed her again. I got comfortable on the bed and lifted up my shirt. C's loud cough proceeded him into the room.

"Let's order room service," he said. C hates room service, thinks it's way overpriced. "It's too dead around here to even think about going out. This town is dead."

It's true. Pittsburgh is a dying city. With no steel, it's tried to reinvent itself as a convention center, a tourist city, a city with high profile sports teams. There's a long strip mall plaza on the Monongahela where J&L Steel used to be. A corporate plaza replaced the torch at J&L near my grandparents. While in college, I wrote a short story about my grandparents and their neighborhood, called Hazelwood, which died in the sixties with the riots. One of my classmates referred to my story about the "decay of my grandparents along with their neighborhood."

Eliza sucked hungrily, a new life, full of fire.

So I hid. The next day, I spent most of the morning with C, driving around looking at gas stations. C is a real estate appraiser and managed to get a Pittsburgh based assignment to write reports on 16 gas stations in the Pittsburgh area. What we though would take two hours now looked like it would take 16. I called my grandmother who sounded too tired for my visit anyway. I cried in the backseat, upset by the fatigue, the resignation in her voice. Finally, by later afternoon, C and I headed towards Oakland, the neighborhood of my Alma Mater, now the neighborhood of my Grandmother. We stopped at some sandwich place for lunch. I don't remember what it had been when I went to Pitt. C bought my steak salad while I fed Eliza. In 16 years I'd gone from beer bongs to breastfeeding in public. A young couple beside us made it clear they disapproved of this activity while they were eating. The poor girl got an eyeful when she happened to turn in our directions just as Eliza began to spit up. As C and I got back in the car, Eliza screaming while we put her in the car seat, the couple walked by holding hands and I said something about us being an advertisement for birth control.

We got to my Gram's and I went up alone while C left to go look at more gas stations. My Mom and her cousin Carm were there. My grandmother seemed more awake, almost girlish. Already, this looked a lot better and I was happy. Eliza took a monster poop and I stripped her down to change her diaper. In the Miami like heat of the room, she seemed happy naked so I left her in her diaper. My grandmother leaned forward in her chair to watch Eliza squirm and wiggle on the changing mat. My cousin's Mike and Trish showed up with their two kids and everyone began the ceremonial gawking. It was fun as I struggled to breastfeed in relative privacy and Trish's four-year-old daughter kept barging in to say, "What's she eating?" At this point in time, I feel like most of my cousins have seen my boobs.

Then everyone left and it was just Gram, me and Eliza alone. Excited by some one-on-one time, I turned off the TV and tried to find out if Gram was happy in this place.

"What do you want?" I asked her.

"I want everyone to get along," she answered. "I don't want people arguing over where I live. I don't want your grandfather to be unhappy."

"Forget everyone else, what do you want?"

"I want harmony."

"Gram, you're not answering me, do you want to live here?"

She nodded slowly. "I like it here. They baby me and at my age I like to be babied. They clean, they change my sheets, they help me in the shower. I don't have to cook."

"Okay Gram, that's all I needed to know."

I held Eliza up for her but Gram fell asleep. Eliza was sleeping against me so I went in the bedroom and put her on the bed. Still only clad in her diaper, I covered her with my sweatshirt. I came back into the living room to find Gram snoring. I sat with her for a while and watched her sleep. Bored, I stole into the bedroom to call C, who was now on his way. Gram must have heard me talking because the TV clicked on. I came out of the bedroom and she looked up at me.

"Where's the baby?"

"She's sleeping."

She nodded, asked where C was. A few minutes later, he knocked on the door. He and she made small talk about Pittburgh. I peaked into the bedroom and looked at Eliza, still asleep, her arms stretched straight out to the sides in her little Superman position.

"Gram," I gestured. "Come look."

Gram lowered the footrest of her recliner and reached for the walker. Slowly she made her way up (this was the first time I'd seen her stand) and inched her way into the bedroom. She looked at Eliza for a long time. C stood in the doorway behind us.

"She looks like a little angel," Gram said, staring down at her. "You think she's warm enough."

I nodded. Gram reached down and covered her a bit more with the sweatshirt. Eliza stirred but didn't wake up.

C said something later, something along the lines of "you think she's in such bad shape and I saw a 91 year old woman with a broken hip, getting up with her walker when she's clearly in pain just to look at her granddaughter sleeping."

And he was right. I keep saying Gram complains too much about the loss of her hearing or how her back hurts too much when she should focus on the fact that she's still doing great for 91. I guess now it's my turn.

So many other stories from that weekend, about the little old lady with a walker who crashed our family dinner and couldn't get her bag of potato chips open. About finally showing up at my Grandmother's with Eliza in the green dress. My grandfather standing outside the door of the facility saying "I come to see my wife" into the intercom. The superslow elevator at Schenley Gardens, where you know no one's taking the stairs, to get up to the fourth floor. About the influx of my mother's sister's family, the coos of "most beautiful baby" and the little cousin who said, "she's eating you."

But let me leave you with this, the image of my grandmother, who now probably weighs less than 80 pounds, standing over my daughter in the dim light of a nighlight and looking at Eliza, her walker in front of her, her lips curled up in a slight smile.

Phase Two

I realized today that Eliza's already entered a new phase of her babyhood.

In the beginning, she was so tiny and she wanted to be held all the time. This sounds very romantic but since I was alone so much, particularly in the beginning, it was somewhat unrealistic. I had a shared room at the hospital which meant C could not stay the night. When Eliza was wheeled into my room for her feeding each night, I could not put her down in the bassinet and expect her to be quiet. One night, desperate to go to the bathroom but not wanting her to wake my poor roommate yet again, I actually peed with her attached to my breast.

And it was like this once I got home except there was no baby attached to my breast in the bathroom. That was one experience I vowed never to repeat.

I enjoyed holding her but it was frusterating because I'd be sitting on the couch or the bed holding her and I'd see laundry that needed to be put away or mail that needed to be tossed out. My mother came for a few days, I had a doula in the beginning and they helped but in the end, it was mostly just Eliza and myself alone. C had a very busy week at work and kids in another city to visit and I didn't mind being alone with Eliza for long periods of time, in fact I almost liked having her all to myself. Various friends stopped by, one right after the other and they'd hold Eliza while I ate or push her stroller so we could go for a walk. I was often anxious to get rid of them so I could get back to my life of just me and my girl. I'd arrange myself on the couch with the phone, the nursing pillow and the remote and I'd be pretty set. The only tough times would be when I was microwaving my meals or trying to pay some bills which yes, I'm sorry to say, the hospital bills practically preceeded my return home.

She'd cry as soon as I put her down most of the time and this was difficult. I hated to hear her cry and wished I could just take a shower or put things away without feeling guilty for putting her down. Once she was a little bigger and I could put her in the bjorn, I'd "wear" her while I did household chores. There's still some remnants of beef stew along the front panel of the bjorn from a meal she and I ate together. I remember reading a post on Urban Baby. Basically, a very pregnant woman was asking what other women wished people had told them about motherhood. One woman responded by saying she wished some one had told her how much time she would have to spend holding the baby. I found her response startling but still refreshingly honest. Of course holding the baby is a privilege but sometimes you really resent it.

Well now Eliza, who's almost three months, really doesn't want to be held all the time. She's okay to lie under her little Elmo "gym" or sit in the swing and look around the living room while I write in this blog. It started in her crib. She'd kick her legs as she stared at her mobile and all I'd have to do was occasionally come back to rewind the thing. When I do hold her, after nursing her or while I'm watching TV, she wants me to stand her up or face her out towards the the world, away from me. I'll stand her little legs on my knees and she'll look at me, grinning and laughing while she bends and straightens her knees. When I try to curl her against my chest, she uses her strong little legs to push off. Already my baby is growing up. Already she is pushing herself away from Mommy.

And this is what parenthood's about, right? C and I feed her, clothe her and care for her all so she can learn to do these things on her own. I remember C once describing parenthood as a process of preparing them to leave the nest and so when something happens on schedule (in this instance, it was his oldest daughter's first outing with friends, no parents) it was "very satisfying." It is, I love Eliza's smiles, her powerful legs, her own satisfaction when I stand her up to look out the window. But I miss my baby, already feel an almost physical pain at the loss of the little girl who wouldn't let me put her down. She's not even three months and yet it's already unfolding too fast. Part of why I'm here is so I can remember this, so years from now I can look at this and recall things I would have forgotten otherwise.

The void I feel now though, the absence of this baby against my body, I have a feeling I will not forget. It's like the movement I can still feel, if I concentrate enough, of her inside my body flipping over. I made a body inside my body and then carried it against me when she came out. And now that little body is breathing and expanding and growing and yearning to move and crawl and make her own way out in the big wide world.

The Day Before

So we've suffered our little detour and now we're back to that Sunday before Eliza was born. After C and I left diner, our bellies happily full, we drove to Park Slope to walk around and look at real estate postings. C believes labor can be started by lots of walking and it was a gorgeous day so I happily agreed to look in the Slope.

"Park Slope is so far," I said. "Might as well live in Jersey."

"It's a great place to be if you have kids," he said. His daughter, now 13, went to the public elementary school when he lived in the Slope with his ex-wife in 1997. "You have the Park, PS (whatever) is great. I mean, we went to some kind of orientation and the woman who ran it said her kids both went to that school and now one was at Harvard and the other was at Stanford or something like that."

"Greaaaaat," I said. These terrifying stories are all too true in New York City. I'm already worried about not producing a superkid. "I think Park Slope is just as expensive as Manhattan these days."

"No, you can get more for your money."

And he proved to be right, at least according to the postings. However, not knowing exactly where the many apartments we saw were located, it's hard to say if we would get more for C's money there. The floor through two bedroom with high ceilings and lots of light might be advertised as Park Slope but in actuality be further out, say in Windsor Terrace. And that puts us out of the elementary school range which is one of the reasons we want the Slope in the first place.

But the apartments looked promising and suddenly I was full of hope for our new life as a threesome. I envisioned a lovely floor-through with lots of light and shiny hardwood floors. Maybe we'd even have a working fireplace. We then walked through the park and compared strollers. We saw more strollers in Prospect Park than dogs which is actually a rarity in New York. I've often said this city is much more dog friendly than baby friendly. Judging by what I see in our elevator, there's more dogs in our building than kids.

After a long leisurely walk in which I did start to feel some rhythmic cramping (maybe this was it! Maybe it would start on it's own!) we got back in the car and drove home. Now it was just a few more hours until we checked into the hospital. Hugely pregnant, we walked to a local French Bistro and had a fabulous dinner.

"Oh any day now," the hostess said when she caught a glimpse of my girth. A waiter came running over to help her pull the table back so I could slide into the booth.

"Get the biggest steak you want," C said.

C, a strict vegetarian, knows I'm anemic and must eat red meat to maintain my iron level. Especially before going to the hospital, I really beefed up on beef. I was distracted by a couple that came in behind C. The man was extremely tall, clad in a sweatshirt and sneakers, and seriously looked like a Pro-bowl football player. The woman wore a sparkley top, very low-cut to expose a spectacular cleavage. I told C it was too bad he wasn't seated where I was. He wasn't getting a great view of women's cleavage these days, at least not at home.

C is the no meat no fish kind of vegetarian but being that there wasn't one option that fit that catered to that kind of diet on the menu, he "went to the dark side" as he calls it and ordered fish. We both ate like it was our own version of the last supper. In a way it was, it was the last meal I would eat slowly and enjoyable until December 17, almost a full month later. People with kids will understand how impossible it is to eat and enjoy a meal once you have a child.

After dinner we came home to a ringing phone and several messages from C's mother. Apparently she thought we wouldn't contact her once there was news and thought calling constantly was a great way to find out information. We turned off our phones, C grabbed my two bags (one for the labor room and one for after) that had been packed now for over a month, got into the car and made the drive to the Upper East Side. Being that it was after 10 on a Sunday night, we had no trouble getting a parking space right outside the hospital. After I reported to the second floor, I was given a clipboard with forms to fill out and we were ushered into a room not much larger than a broom closet. It was extremely hot and I remember the room was so small, there wasn't even a place to put my coat. I was wearing a coat from a short-lived TV show I worked on called "The Jury." The smallest size was always too big for me but in this instance, huge with child, finally the big size did matter.

The room we were in was adjacent to a nurse's aid room and C and I really seemed to be in the way. Finally a resident, a pretty woman with curly blond hair with a name like Jessica came and asked me a few questions. She promised we'd be shown into a room shortly and then disappeared. A sour nurse who spoke broken English arrived about five minutes later to usher us to the room. Closing a curtain to separate myself and C, she asked a few questions and entered them into a computer. Since either she or the computer was having trouble, she asked me several questions more than once. C reappeared and sat in a nearby chair. A nurse came in to stick me with an IV. This was the beginning of my panic attack, the realization that I would be hooked up to machines all night.

"Can I go to the bathroom with this?" I asked, not wanting to ever ask for a bedpan.

The nurse nodded, assuring me she was running a long enough line. After sticking me, which I screamed for (and I will say the IV was maybe the worst part of my "labor"), she then hooked me up to a baby monitor. I would be hooked up to this machine all night long. She showed me how to disconnect and reconnect the monitor for trips to the bathroom. I tried to keep calm for C but inside I was freaking out. I hadn't pictured my labor as much of anything, but I didn't expect to spend the night before it hooked up to machine that would make it impossible for me to sleep. I made stupid jokes, flicked on the TV and watched the last ten minutes of "Grey's Anatomy."

Jessica, the resident returned to insert a suppository that would soften up my cervix and make it "riper" for delivery. C sat in the chair focused on the news as Jessica stuck a thing up my you-know-what. This was probably the beginning of the end of my sex life with C as during this whole process he observed one indignity after another.

C left around one in the morning. He'd been willing to stay but it seemed stupid for him to spend the night in the chair when nothing was expected to happen until morning when my OB arrived to administer the pitocin. He left and suddenly it was just me alone in the room, the tv off, the machines beeping and the faint sound of my baby's hearbeat rattling steadily over the darkness.

CPR on the Fly

My birth story will have to wait yet another day due to my somewhat interesting afternoon. Today I took Eliza to my infant CPR class. This class was held at an upscale New York center that offers such things as lactation support groups (never done it), Mom and Me group (done it), french for a newborn group (never done it) and excercise with your baby. I chose this center due to it's close location and it's policy that allows, as they call it, "babes in arms."

Our session today was taught by a spry, 40ish woman I'll call Becky. I was one of only two women who brought her baby. There were three couples (one of these couples was still expecting), two other pregnant women, one nanny and several other career-looking Moms. I was one of the last to arrive as I've found getting out of the apartment for anything that starts at a certain time is quite challenging now. Eliza will never fail to decide she's hungry or indulge in a poopapalooza at that precise moment I'm trying to walk out the door. I entered the classroom, Eliza in Bjorn, and noticed small, surprisingly real looking baby dolls in front of each person. Gratified to see another woman with a babe, I took my seat on the floor and Becky started the class.

Becky had a lot of energy. This was apparent in the way she practically leapt from person to person and she passed out name tags and little booklets. She dove for her little dolly with the grace and poise of a young dancer with the New York City Ballet. She pushed down on the chest of her dolly with long, tapered fingers that have probably seen a lot of ribcages. With all this movement and sashaying, I couldn't fail to notice poor Becky's fly was wide open. We're not talking just unzipped here, we're talking gaping to reveal dark colored underwear open. It was impossible not to see it, not only for me who tends to notice little things, but by anyone merely paying attention because we were all sitting on the floor which placed Becky's fly at eye level. She'd sit on the birthing ball, legs spread and that zipper took the shape of an acorn squash. She'd lift her shirt to demonstrate the Heimlich Maneuver on her own belly (in quite good shape, I might add) and your eyes couldn't help but travel south.

Did I learn anything about infant CPR? I'd say between Eliza, who was quite good though she still required a good, long suck on each boob, and that gaper fly, I don't know that I did. I need to practice on Baby Tender Love at some point within the next week (this is my childhood doll that I still have an odd attachment for and C calls Chuckie). Maybe that's what I should be doing instead of writing in this blog. I can take you through the steps. First you try to wake the baby (and Becky doesn't recommend the shake and wake) by clapping, yelling and foot tickling. I'll say the waking techniques worked very well in waking Eliza who kept trying to nap on the floor mat in her little pink blanket surrounded by adults yelling, "Baby! Baby! Call 911!" and clapping. Then you tilt the chin back and pull the mouth open (a step all of us students could avoid as these dolly's mouths were permanently open), you press your left ear (if you're right handed) to see if you can hear breathing. If you don't hear breathing, you blow in two rescue breaths, then begin pumping the chest with just two fingers. The open palm is saved for children over age one, the double-handed chest press you see on tv shows like "ER," for adults.

So I guess I learned CPR but as all this was went on around me and we happily practiced on our dummies, I'd look over at Eliza, who drifted off to sleep after being aroused by our fake cries, and wonder if I'd have the strength to be there for her if something like this happened. Becky likened taking this class to carrying an umbrella on a sunny day--take it and it won't be necessary. When my eyes travelled from the limp dummy on my right to my sleeping daughter on my left, it was with tremendous satisfaction I noted her tiny chest move up and down. She was flat on her back, her arms spread out straight to her sides (this is also the position they put you in when you have a c-section), her little head tilted to the right. At one point, while everyone was practicing on dolly, I glanced at Eliza and smiled feeling such pride in her own perfection. I felt Becky's eyes on me and as I met hers, she mouthed the words "So cute."

I will practice on Chuckie, I mean on Baby Tender Love tonight because I'm a worrier and because I want to be there for Eliza if she needs me. This Mom thing is an all-out kind of thing for me. I know I can't do everything, but that's not from a lack of wanting to. You go your whole life without a child and then suddenly one comes and then you didn't have a life before this little person got here. When I go out without her, I can't say I miss her per se, I'm usually happy to be out on my own. But I find myself wanting to talk about her to everyone. I gravitate towards pregnant women or people in the children's section at Barnes and Noble because now I'm a member of their kind of club. If I'm talking to a salesperson, say at the Babies 'R Us registry desk, I manage to get my new Mom status into the conversation. I'm still here, all of me that existed before her, no I haven't lost any of that. It's just that now the person I was before her needs her in order to stay the same person I was before. Make sense, probably not, but that's okay, who's reading this anyway.

About halfway through the class Becky went to the bathroom and I'm happy to report she came back with her fly zipped up. Was she embarrassed? If so, she didn't look it. She went on and on about car seat safety and don't put the bouncy seat on the table and make sure your child wears that bike helmut. So many things to worry about and yet right now Eliza's placed on top of a high bed in another room with out my hand on top of her. It's precarious, I know, she could pick today to roll over. So let me get to that bed now. Let me rescue my child from what could be.

Feeling Farty

Okay, you've read the above subject line and are afraid to open this window. I don't blame you, who wants to read yet another ode to baby gas? Surely my daughter has gas, I'll stand her up in a room full of people and watch as she grins athletically while she expels a fart that sounds like an erupting Mount Vesuvius. But that's not what this piece is about, no my daughter's gas is to be expected, is bearable and surprisingly, it's odor free. No this is an ode to the odor that surrounds my poor baby's mama. Yes, one of the things no one tells you about a c-section is that after they cut your stomach open, for weeks on end, yes you too can have killer gas.

I've just lost the few friends I have who've been reading this blog. They tuned in today expecting me to complete the lovely, violin-infused story of my daughter's birth. I hoped to write that today but a particularly smelly ride in a Babies 'R Us elevator, inspired me to go where most writers won't because they have more class than I do. I've always been accused of conveying "Too Much Information" and today I'm keeping up my end of that bargain. Today I'll enlighten you on one aspect of post-partum living that hasn't been covered yet, can drive the new mother crazy, and definitely affects everyone around her.

Go to one of the popular pregnancy and post-partum websites, as I have, to find out the cause of this gas and you'll find surprisingly little information. I know this because I've looked, I've wondered, I've tried to find out when this smelly scourge will end. I can only find scant information about how after a c-sections they won't release you from the hospital until you pass gas. Great, no problem there. In fact, most information about life after a c-section is centered on what you experience the day after the surgery. If you gauge your experience by the information you'll read, you'd expect to be completely cured by the time you leave the hospital. Oh, there will be some bleeding, you might have a hemorroid or two, but in a few weeks you'll be exactly as you were before. Great, you must think while reading a post-partum information kit. Can't wait to have that baby and snap right back to normal.

Regarding c-sections, one of my friends is fond of saying, "You get to keep your vagina." Okay, so you might not be stretched to accommodate something the size of a football but your once clean scent will be replaced by a not so fresh feeling. And by the way, my first postnatal sexual experience was more painful than the contractions. If C reads this, he'll be afraid to have sex with me again but that's okay. If he reads this entry he's not going to want to "do it" with me anyway.

Poor C. I'll be holding the baby and he'll start sniffing the air, then rip the baby from my arms and run to the changing station. You'd think after this drama plays out, night after night, with a clean diaper the usual result, he'd realize the source of that stink. Perhaps he thinks there's no way some one of my dress and demeanor could crank them out like any every day plumber. The poor guy, it's been over 2 1/2 months and I'm still as farty as ever. I posted on Urban Baby and found out this is a common occurrance. One woman wrote back and said she'd passed some terrible gas in the hospital and the nurse thought it was the baby. Like C, this woman's husband rushed to rescue his newborn from the plague of a dirty diaper. Like C, this man was stunned to find his baby's diaper poop free. This random woman assurred me the gas would go away but I never found out when.

On the enormous elevator at Babies 'R Us, I was so grateful to be alone. As I felt this elevator, large enough to carry a small Uhaul, inch its way to second floor, I feared the moment the doors opened. Surely a harried Mom with wild hair and a sleep deprived look of desperation would be waiting alongside a boisterous, active toddler. Perhaps she'd smile politely at me as she ushered her child into the elevator, then cringe when she got wind (pardon the pun) of what could only be some kind of toxic chemical disaster. Never has the grade school phrase "Silent, but deadly" been so aptly appropriate. Relief flooded through me when the doors sliced open and no one was there.

Unfortunately, in the taxi, just me and the driver, he knew he wasn't the one cutting loose. I watched his nose scrunch up and his eyes peer back at me via the rear view mirror. I squiggled aside on the seat so he couldn't look at me. A longer look and he might be able to identify me at a later date and speed on by on a day when I really need a taxi. I can see him telling his friends at the cab stand about me. "Cute girl, big smell."

I'd much rather be like David Sedaris and write about a entering a bathroom at a party to encounter a large turd that wasn't mine. Unfortunately, for now, when I leave elevators or bathrooms or taxis or just about any room, a stench trails me like that vibrating cloud that wafts around Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons.

A New Day

Eliza, unlike her mother, seems to be a morning person. Every day when I go to her crib to wish her good morning, she looks up at me and grins like a maniac. She seems so happy to be greeting a new dawn (and it's often dawn or before dawn), she smiles and her little legs and arms windmill in excitement. I always say to her, "Hi baby, it's a new day." Sometimes I'll chant "New day, new day, new day" as I bounce her on my lap and she smiles. She's almost laughing now, it sounds less like a momentary screech and more like a giggle.

It's funny I've called every boyfriend "my baby," my poor deceased cat "my baby," even a boyfriend's dog, yes dear little Pogo was "my baby" too. Now when I say the words "my baby," they actually apply to a real baby, this little being who came into the world after I grew her in my belly.

So a new thing I've noticed Eliza do on this new day is this weird flex and unflexing of her knee when I'm feeding her. I lie her down on her side on the boppy (nursing pillow) and she slowly bends and straightens whichever leg is on top. I kind of liken the motion to a dog raising it's leg when you scratch it in the right place. She's my little dog, flexing her leg to show me her appreciation.

To get to now we have to start at the beginning.

I didn't go into labor on my own. On my actual due date, which was November 14th, my obstetrician scheduled a date to induce me. November 14th was a Monday and he wanted to do it later that week amid concerns over my baby's size. I wanted to wait until the following Monday. So November 21st was penciled in. I hoped in the seven days that remained between the 14th and the 21st, I'd go into labor the old fashioned way.

I felt like a failure for having to be induced, like my body was incapable of delivering a baby. I got flamed in a nice way on Urban Baby when I used the word failure. I remember one woman wrote me to stop being so hard on myself and then said if I was this critical now, just imagine what I'd do to myself when the baby didn't go down for a nap. It wasn't just the failure though, I was terrified of labor. Naturally I was afraid of the pain but I was also afraid of the million and one things that could go wrong. My best friend, herself the mother of six kids, said "Remember your body was made to do this." Well by not going into labor naturally, I began to feel MY body wasn't made to do this. And if it wasn't, then what would happen?

The week went by. No braxton hicks, those mini-contractions I never really had, no water breaking, nothing. On Thursday I had an exam that revealed my cervix was still in exactly the same position as it had been for a month. When I went to the bathroom, I had some blood and called the doctor ecstatic. Perhaps this was the started, the eagerly anticipated bloody show. The doctor then shot me down, telling me it's common to bleed after an exam and he turned out to be correct. Friday rolled around and still nothing. My ob's office called to instruct me to check into the hospital Sunday night so they could start the prep for my induction. They also told me to eat a lot as I wouldn't be eating for a long time thereafter. C left work on Friday with everyone practically handing out cigars. My superstitious side was uncomfortable with people knowing the exact day of my delivery before it happened. I began to countdown the long list of stalled births, botched surgeries, blood clots, rushing into the OR with the ER theme music on full blast.

C made the weekend all about us. It was a really nice way to end our days as a childless couple. C actually has two kids from a prior relationship (notice I don't say marriage though they did eventually get married, C's first child came about the same way this one did. The title of his autobiography could be "The Impregnator."), but as a couple we had no children together, not yet. We didn't do much during the day on Saturday and did dinner and a movie Saturday night. "Walk the Line" was the last film I saw as a childless woman. I chose an aisle seat so I could be close to the bathroom and also to make everyone who came late feel uneasy. Each person who asked me to stand would then see my stomach and practically want to throw money at me or run to the concession stand to ask for boiling water. I certainly was causing a stir walking around New York City in my very pregnant state, only a few days before some man yelled out "I hope you is walking to the hospital" as I walked across 21st Street.

Sunday was a beautiful, sunny, unseasonably warm day.

"It's your day," C said as we sat up in bed. "You've had a great pregnancy, really," he said. "Congratulations, I'm proud of you."

C doesn't hand out a lot of compliments so these simple words will always reverberate in my head. We drove out to Brooklyn, to my old neighborhood to have brunch. Diner, in Williamsburg, has the best brunch in New York. It's a small restaurant so I was hardly inconspicuous as we made our way to our tiny table. I had the fritata and we clanked orange juice glasses and savored the hiptster, college rock station atmosphere. Everyone around us seemed impossibly young but I didn't mind feeling older, no I was bringing new life into the world and that made me feel like I was passing on the torch.

But enough recalling of that wonderful Sunday and the Monday that followed. My darling Eliza is asleep now and I should join her, of course not in her crib, but in sleep. She smiled so much today and I'm still unable to get a photo of that smile. Perhaps tomorrow, another new day with so many more possibilities.

Meeting Uncle Billy

My brother Billy is 40 years old. He likes to cook, wear oversized clothes, eat, and make weird noises. My brother Billy is autistic and not in the savant, verbal, cute little Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman" autistic. Billy doesn't speak, instead communicates with a very limited vocabulary in sign language. He also makes communicative noises--"Ga" is the sound of a request, "dee dee dee" or "da da da" are happy noises and when he's hurt or upset, he lets out a loud, gutteral wail. In some ways I suppose, Billy is like a baby. Since Eliza was born, I've understood something about my mother's life much better. My mother identified with the movie "The Exorcist," said it wasn't a horror movie but the story of a mother who couldn't help her child. Now I understand what it's like to have a child, to love a child and to not have the faintest idea what that child is thinking, or feeling, or wanting. Hopefully, Eliza will grow to talk and love and laugh like any other lovely girl in the world. But Billy, though he laughs and has fun, will never be "normal" not in the conventional sense of the word.

Today I strapped my 2 month old daughter into the Bjorn and took the subway to Penn Station. From there we caught the Northeast Corridor train to Princeton Junction. Billy lives in a group home with three other men like himself (they're referred to as "clients). The home is staffed by two workers per shift and overseen by George and Rachel, a young couple who lives within the house in a seperate apartment. The idea is that people like Billy live in a home with a family so they can feel like anybody who lives in a suburban house. I must say I do find Billy's "family" a good deal more functional than most.

Billy saw me through several stages of my pregnancy but no one knows if he understands that I hadn't been overeating pizzas. After Eliza was born, my father sent Billy a photo of me with the baby. I was told Billy simply handed the picture to Rachel, with a look that seemed to say "What am I supposed to do with this?"

So today we set out to to introduce Eliza to her Uncle.

It was raining pretty heavily when I got off the train in Princeton. Eliza's a good baby and she slept the entire train ride. She was still asleep as I approached my mother's blue Ford Taurus in the parking lot. My mom got out and walked to the back driver's side door of the car and opened it so I could put Eliza in the car seat.

When we arrived at the house, Billy and the other three clients were seated in the living room with the two staff members, the TV blaring. I walked up to Billy and I have to say he looked pretty damn confused. Confused that I was there, I'm sure, but also confused by this little person wriggling in my arms. Mom came up behind me and Billy started his ritual questions. He cradled his arms in front of his chest, the sign for baby.

"Yes Billy," my mom signed. "That's Lisa's baby."

Billy looked at me, and looked back at my Mom, his eyebrows knit together. He got up and walked into the kitchen. We followed him.

He pointed to the sink where there were bags of frozen fish and potatoes defrosting. "Ga," he said.

"Yes, you're eating here," Mom signed. Sometimes my mother will pick Billy up and take him out to dinner. He was asking her if this was one of those nights.

"Red and Brown house," Billy signed.

"February 24th," my mother signed back, the date of Billy's next visit to her reddish brown house.

Understanding, at least, that we hadn't come to take him anywhere, Billy relaxed a bit and sat at the kitchen table. He looked at me and started laughing, pointed to me and signed "Lisa, tickle." I smiled back, Billy's stiffness now gone and he was just my brother, happy to see us.

"No Billy, she can't tickle you with the baby in her arms," my mother said. "Do you know who this is?" She pointed to Eliza who was looking at Billy, a calm smile on her face.

Billy again made the sign for baby.

"That's right, Lisa's baby," Mom signed. Together she and I spelled Eliza's name out in sign language. Billy repeated it, probably understood that was the baby's name was Eliza, but didn't really care. My mom saw Eliza smile at Billy and touched the baby's cheek.

"She seems to like him," My mom said and then Eliza looked at her and smiled. "Oh she smiled at me, you like me now?" My Mom said, rubbing her knuckle under Eliza's chin. Eliza smiled again. "Maybe she likes me now," Mom said to me. At Mom's last visit, Eliza screamed whenever Mom held her.

"Look Billy, this is your niece," Mom said, pointing to the baby and signing Eliza's name again.

He wouldn't look at Eliza directly, as though my daughter was Medusa and he might turn into stone and not be able to get his mouth open to eat if he looked at her.

"Oh this is funny," Mom said to me. "He wouldn't look at you when you were a baby."

Billy would glance in our direction and he'd steal glances at the baby but he seemed almost afraid to turn his face towards her. He started laughing and making some of his happy noises and Eliza laughed with him. Kids react one of two ways to Billy: some are intrigued by him, others deathly afraid. At only two months, it's too early to say into which category Eliza will fall but looking at her with him today, watching her wide-eyed and smiling, I hope she'll fall into the first category. Mom was excited, snapped a photo of myself and Eliza together, then another of Billy smiling. Billy rarely smiles for photos, will usually put on his most "I'm mentally challenged" face whenever you whip out a camera.

Right after Mom snapped Billy's picture and I was about to ask her to take one of the three of us, Billy grabbed my hand. This is a game with Billy, he'll grab my hand or my wrist and pull my hand towards him. Mom then has to say "No, you leave her hand alone." Of course, both of my hands were still holding up my baby so this was not a good time for this particular game.

"Not with the baby," I said, firmly, not too afraid.

But he wouldn't let go and Billy doesn't know his own strength. He kept his hand wrapped around my wrist and tried to pull it towards him.

Quickly Mom grabbed Eliza so I could extract myself from Billy's death grip. Both of us were saying, "No, not with the baby." Billy laughed, completely not understanding. Perhaps from the firm tone in my voice or the abrupt way my mother grabbed her, Eliza started to cry.

"Oh no, he scared the baby," Mom said. I managed to wriggle my hand free and took Eliza back. Still crying, I walked her over to a loveseat in the alcove off the kitchen and sat down with her. She kept crying, even as I shushed in her ear and tucked her head against my chest.

Mom came over, "I took her from you too fast, didn't I?"

I was calm, not worried at all. "You did the right thing. He was grabbing at my hands and you took the baby so she wouldn't get hurt. You acted quickly, you had to."

Eliza looked at my mother and started to cry harder. My mom touched the side of her head. "And we were doing so well today."

"It's okay, Mom. It's about time for her to eat anyway." Mom slid her forefinger across the top of Eliza's head and walked back over to Billy. Billy looked at her and grinned, completely oblivious to what had just happened. He then signed, "Baby cry."

"Yes Billy, babies cry."

Billy cast his eyes down to the floor.

"It's okay, Billy. She's fine," I said.

This seemed to cheer him up or perhaps it was all my imagination. People might wonder if having Billy around my daughter is dangerous but it's not more dangerous than having your child around a large dog and in New York City, I encounter large dogs in my elevator every day. Billy's not going to purposely hurt a baby or any child. Yes, grabbing at my hands when I'm holding her was not the smartest thing to do. But my mother and I were both there to diffuse the situation, we both knew what to do and in the future I'll probably make sure my hands aren't in grabbing distance when I'm holding the baby around Billy. It's that simple. You have a brother like Billy your whole life and you know what to do. Perhaps C would have been mortified, perhaps his mother would have freaked out but I know Billy and I know how to handle him. It's a shame to have to say you have to keep a distance from your only brother, but I do and it's not a big deal. When Eliza's bigger, things will be different but for now, I know the boundaries.

Afterwards my mother and I went to the Hyatt to have tea in their spacious atruim lobby. A small stream and waterfall runs through the multileveled lobby, ending in a goldfish pond by the open hotel restaurant. I found a couch and set Eliza down on it in her little white Winne the Pooh snowsuit. I went to look for the restroom by the hotel desk but couldn't find it. I knew where it was in relation to the restaurant, so I went down the steps, passing Mom and Eliza on the way. Mom was sitting over Eliza, moving her little arms and legs. They seemed happy, this was good. I proceeded around the goldfish pond into the bathroom. When I came back up, I saw Mom holding Eliza up against herself and thought for a moment all was fine. Then I heard the wailing and started to move towards them faster.

"We were having a good time," Mom said. "She was laughing and I was moving her little arms and legs. I sang 'Naughty Lady of Shady Lane' to her and she was trying to talk to me. Then the waiter came with the tea and scared her."

I took Eliza and sat down. She continued crying against my chest.

"She's already afraid of strangers," Mom said. "She's so aware."

"Maybe," I said, not entirely convinced.

I pulled a receiving blanket out ot the diaper bag, draped it over myself and started to feed my daughter. It was the first time I nursed her in public. I noticed several hotel staff walk by, and perhaps it was only my imagination, but they seemed to scowl at me. Too bad.

"I always comfort her with the boob," I said. "Am I creating problems?"

"I did," Mom said and this made me feel better. I don't have weird associations with eating. "She's too young for you to worry about that anyway."

I nodded. "Do you think Billy understood what was going on today?" I asked.

Mom shrugged, poured herself more tea. "I don't know."

"Yeah," I said. "Me neither."

Several people asked me before I took Billy to see Eliza, would he know that this was his niece? I said then what I say now, I don't know what he's knows, I never have. But I was there, I saw them together, I know. Today I introduced my daughter to her Uncle and she smiled at him. And for a moment there, the lights were shining, Bedford Falls was well, Superman had averted another world disaster, whatever. Today was a good day.

Fridays don't mean much to SAHMs

Friday's like any other day when you're a SAHM. The weekend is here but today starts and ends like any other day, just like Saturday will start and end for Eliza and myself, like any other day. In some ways, every day is a vacation day, that is, if your idea of a vacation is to be in motion from the time you're up until the moment you lie down and the sleep overcomes you in the same manner a ship rocking under your feet becomes such a part of you that even after you get off the boat, you feel yourself listing.

"Sleep when the baby sleeps," this is the mantra of everyone you talk to while you're pregnant. And sometimes it happens automatically and sometimes I lie down when she does and I'm wide awake. On Wednesday, I stayed in my bathrobe all day and forced myself to lie down whenever I could see her enter the nap zone. We took a nice nap together from around 1:45 to 3 pm and I did wake up feeling surprisingly refreshed. Naps, those afternoon rituals you hated so much as a child, become like an expense paid trip to Puerto Rico when you're an adult with kids.

Right now, little Miss Eliza is asleep in her swing and I'm taking this precious nap time to write here while making sauce for my lasagna. I should be following everyone's advice and hit the couch but a nap for me would only end up in burnt lasagna and no creative expression for the day. Not that I'm writing anything here to rival Keats but at it does satisfy a need. I'm making lasagna because C's mother is coming to town and it's a fairly easy dish to prepare for guests.

Yes, the unmarried status of myself and C adds another yet another challenging label for his mother. I refuse to call her my mother-in-law (MIL to woman who can't stay off urbanbaby.com) though several of my friends do. "We're not married," I say with consternation, as if anyone needs to be reminded. I've always enjoyed our non-married status, like it's a "Get out of jail free" card. It never occurred to me that when I gave birth to this darling, delicious, savage little creature, C's parents would suddenly be hanging around. But now that Eliza's here, suddenly so are they, and with the intensity of a feeding pirahna, C's mother descends on us ready to bathe her granddaughter in kisses and hugs. I'm not used to in-laws of any kind and can't say how I feel about C's mother one way or the other, but I'll be frank, watching her with my daughter kind of gives me the creeps.

Is it jealousy on my part, an obsessive desire not to share? Is it because I've never been married, never had in-laws and never felt like combining families was an experience I was missing out on? Is it because I only saw myself as having one set of grandparents growing up because my father's parents had absolutely no interest in us? I always thought I'd find two sets of grandparents confusing and didn't understand how other people found it normal to refer to their "blue nana" and "nana Ethel." Using first names so you'd know which grandmother you were talking about? No, like mother, I felt, there should be only one grandmother. I didn't want to think of my grandmother as Elizabeth, besides Grandma Elizabeth would be too much of a mouthful for a child and why would you want to subject your kid to that?

So perhaps I'm territorial because I want Eliza to have the relationship with my parents I had with my grandparents, loving, close and very exclusive. This I realize is wrong, I should only want for my daughter what is best for her. If this woman wants to slobber her with love, I should stand back and accept it. Perhaps in time I will. But being that this was an unplanned pregnancy and that C's mother and I don't really have much of a relationship to speak of, it's going to take me some time to feel comfortable with a woman I barely know, cooing and cahing over my most precious possession. I've never been great at sharing and unfortunately this is no exception. But I can only hope, in time, if this woman proves her worth to me, I shall enjoy watching her bond with my daughter. I'm not there yet so I make lasagna, I clean the table, I busy myself with chores so I don't have to think about things too much as I tend to be an overthinker. I've often sat up at night wishing for an off switch for my brain the way others may wish for the winning lottery number.

Later...
C's mother and brother just left and C is with my darling daughter in the bedroom all three of us share trying to calm her down. This is one of the hardest aspects of being her mother for me--there are times when she only wants me and tonight is one of those nights. In fact, today has been one of those days. My friend Paula came over so I could make the lasagna. My plan was she would entertain Eliza and I would cook but Eliza screamed while Paula held her I was afraid my nosey next door neighbor would be on the phone with social services. So I ended up holding Eliza and ordering Paula around like my line cook. "Peel that zucchin!" "Make sure those noodles don't stick!" And in the midst of all this culinary chaos, Eliza had shall we say, an accident. Again, Paula assisted me in one of the less savory tasks of motherhood and again I became like a dictator, handing Paula a filthy onesy and watching her slink to the bathroom sink with it dangling off her pinky.

The lasagna went over extremely well, my makeshift MIL and C's brother are gone and Eliza is screaming in C's arms. She wants me, whenever I take her, she stops crying but C is ushering me out of the room, telling me to "Go Relax" as though I could relax when my daughter sounds like she's being pelted with pine cones. I've got the music playing, scented candles scenting and still her cries split through me. I'm tired of everyone telling me to relax, to let her cry, telling me I can't hold her all the time. Most of the time she isn't like this, what's so wrong with my holding her when she is? If she really wants me, what's wrong with giving her what she wants? She's two months old and all the classes and books and all the assorted parenting instruction manuals say repeatedly, you can't spoil a baby. Last night she didn't cry like this so why should I listen to my daughter cry and cry when if I hold her she stops? When my mother was here this past Sunday night she understood this, handed my daughter right back to me with no complaint. I know C needs his time with her as well and usually she loves to be with him but tonight, that's not the case.

Wait, it's quiet in there now. Perhaps she's worn herself out. It's after ten and I'm sure she's pretty tired. Still quiet, that's good. I know I can't hold her all the time, I mean right now my back is killing me from holding her for a good part of today. But at the same time my babysitter was here yesterday while I got a haircut, the night before C watched her while I went out. Today I had a friend over and was busy preparing lasagna. Sometimes a girl just wants her Mama, if I'm here and want to be wanted what's wrong with my wrapping her in my arms and covering her face with kisses? I know the importance of taking breaks to preserve your mental health--that's why the evening at Delmonico's, the babysitter, even having a friend come over when I've got a meal to prepare that's going to take some time.

Still quiet. And yet I feel oddly unfulfilled. Walking out of a room when she's crying, not comforting her myself when she wants me and I'm there to comfort her, leaves me feeling unsatisfied.

The bond between us is so much stronger than I can describe. I could hit on every cliche about a cord still binding us, the blood in my body that fed hers, the breath that I took that fortified and nurtured her. Every part of me went into making her and she is like this grand creation, this best part of me, this being created in my body by nature. If I'd had to build her with my own devices, my own clumbsy hands, my own tentative decisions, she would never end up as defined, as strong as she is now. During my pregnancy, whenever I'd hear her heartbeat in the doctor's office and Dr. Tung's eyebrows would raise, impressed and she'd say "Perfect," I knew it was my baby that was perfect, not me. She created herself, this being so full of life that willed herself into this world on her own strength and desire. Surely my own resolution and determination is not as steely as hers. Left to my own capabilities, I could not have created anything so wonderous, so zesty, so electric with life.

February 2, New Mama Day 73

A little hungover today because I went out with some of my single friends last night and we drank an entire bottle of wine. I'm not really supposed to do that because I'm nursing (the going rate these days is half a glass per day) but I skipped a feeding and did a pump and dump. You SAHM's out there know what I'm talking about but for those of you who don't, that's when we pump breast milk (believe me, it's as exciting as it sounds) and then toss it. So Eliza won't get what I had, though I'm sorry she'll miss last night's dinner.

These past two weeks here in New York were what's called Restaurant Week. Participating restaurants offer a menu at a low fixed price--$20.50 for lunch and $35 for dinner. These prices are real bargains for New York City and I must say the meal last night was splendid. The four of us ladies went to Delmonico's, a notable restaurant located in the Wall Street area. Ihardly ever venture to that part of town and when I came up from the subway I felt a little bit like I was in Montreal. The streets were narrower, the buildings were shorter and it really felt very old-world European, for a minute. It felt decadent, seedy, I wouldn't be surprised if Jack the Ripper hung out down there. My friend Gina said Caleb Carr referred to Delmonico's as a setting for one of his historical horror novels and it seemed like a perfect setting.

We had drinks at darky, heavily wooded bar before dinner (I sucked down a full glass of champaign in minutes) and then proceeded to our table. The Wall Street men who filled the restaurant seemed a good deal better looking than the men I'm accustomed to seeing. Delmonico's is known for it's steak so all four of us ordered the strip steak. With the price fixed menu I was expecting a strip of steak the size of a Metrocard but it turned out to be a generous portion that could rival the Outback steak house in terms of size. And the flavor and texture was truly sublime. Last night was a great night to be a carnivore, I say this because C is a vegetarian and every day I'm confronted with my decision to eat meat. No, he doesn't make me feel bad about it but preparing meals for us both can be a challenge.

Perhaps this is the reason we're not married? Different dietary beliefs? These days people have done like the REM song and "lost" their religion so dietary restrictions have taken on a new kind of power. Instead of "Praise the Lord" it's "to hell with Transfats!" But I digress, let me get back to Delmonico's, it's a wonderful place to be.

We clinked glasses over our steaming, juicy steaks and congratulated ourselves for our good fortune. The three female friends I joined are all single (by the way, I still see myself as single) and childless. I didn't talk about my daughter too much--but I did bring a few pictures. Many women complain about losing their single friends after they have a baby and I'm determined not to do that. It's very easy in this life to be all "baby, baby, baby" kind of like Reese Witherspoon in that ad for "Walk the Line" and I believe not only in keeping my pre-baby identity, but in having diversified interests.

Mostly my friends griped about their jobs, a favorite American past-time. It felt funny, in my new stay at home job, to listen to tales of corporate politics and voluminous tears in Human Resource offices. I've never had to deal with human resources in my life except when I first came to New York, worked as a temp, and had to be fingerprinted when I worked at a World Bank right under what used to be the World Trade Center. But it was nice to hear about the corporate life at large, nice to hear it and be happy with my current station in life. Because as much as I might complain (and I'm sure I will on this site) about the changing sessions where she pees on me and the Vesuvius-sized mountain of vomit per day, I've never done anything that made me feel this necessary or complete. My old job was rather thankless, people only noticed if I'd made a mistake so I'm used to working without accolade or notice. Every time I look at those big eyes smiling up at me (yes, you can see her smile in her eyes!) I get a reward bigger than any wrap gift. And so many of them per day.

So for a few hours last night, I got to sip wine and lsten to career girl tales and forget the monotony of my days here in my pajamas. But when I came home and heard the tinkling notes of Brahms lulluby from her mobile telling me she was still awake, I was so happy to get in my own kiss goodnight. C enjoyed his evening alone with her so much, he was pretty disappointed I was home before midnight. The truth is, I was coming home before midnight before him, before Eliza. There just comes a point in life where that starts to happen and now it's so wonderful to have this little dreamgirl lying in her crib smiling up at me when I get there.

She's been asleep in her swing beside me for some time now. I must wake her and nurse her, dress her and get her ready to embrace her glorious new day, Day 73 of her lovely little life.

Feb. 1st, 2005, Blog Day One but not Mama Day One

So I've decided to join the other bloggers out there on my newest adventure here though I'm coming to the party a bit late. Late not only in my understanding of the whole blog scene, which you'll see, but late in posting my life as a new, middle-aged (probably) mother out here on the web. It started with a journal I tried to keep everyday so I wouldn't forget the snorts and puckered-lemon faces my baby made one month that are gone the next and bloomed into an experience I wanted to share.

Yeah, there's plenty of encyclopedia-sized books out there about the first year of motherhood but those are written by the literary equivalent of that guy who does the voice over for clear eyes. You know that guy, he hosts his own game show on some cable station and he played a teacher on the TV show "The Wonder Years," for those of you who were watching TV in the late 80's early 90's. He has a droning montone and somehow his voice sounds oddly scientific. That's the tone of many of these books. There are other tones as well, the hippie doctor tone, the "I'm a comedian tone," the "I'm a former Wall Streeter now Stay at home Mom" (SAHM for those in the know) tone.

I don't really know what my tone but if anyone reads this they can tell me. All I know is it'll give me a somewhat creative outlet every day and it'll satisfy my urge to stop every person on the street screaming "How cute is my baby." I can share my experience with the world and even if no one's reading, due to my non-internet savvy status, I'll never know that.

If I'd done this right, I would have started this on that cold day in November when we first brought home my darling daughter Eliza. I remember how cold that day was because the nurse, an ancient woman so old her ethnic origin was blurred, kept saying in some kind of broken English "It's as cold as Siberia out there." Perhaps she was in fact from Siberia, though I do imagine this description was a bit of an exaggeration. But we bundled up Eliza accordingly in thermals, coveralls, bunting, a cashmere blanket and some other receiving blanket. And we made the long drive from Mount Sinai hospital to our apartment in Chelsea, with me in the backseat so I could look at her, and her father whom I'll call C driving us like he was driving Miss Daisy.

I suppose I should also tell you right now I live in New York City and Eliza's father and I cohabitate but are not married. Living in New York poses apartment space challenges and living unmarried poses verbal label challenges. Should I call a 30+ year old man and the father of my darling child my "boyfriend." Should I refer to him as "Eliza's father" like he's some kind of platonic sperm donor. I'm still trying to figure this out so for your purposes and I suppose my own here, I will just call him C. Jennifer Egan did just fine referring to a character in her latest novel as "Z."

But that Siberian Tundra day was over two months ago and now my daughter and I have changed. I have to gloss over the first two months here to get you up to speed--my recovery from a c-section because Eliza was 8 pounds, 11 ounces and I'm only 5 feet tall, the first week where she cried all night every night, how upon the second night while feeding her I dubbed her "my little savage" because she's grunt and rub her head all over me like a wolf devouring a deer carcass, how I went to the bathroom one night with her attached to me (really not easy), how the visitors trickled in on a daily basis to ooh and aah, how the first real bath made me feel like an enforcer during the Spanish Inquisition, how the first smile felt like every light on the Empire State Building went on in our bedroom, oh and how just every day I stop to marvel over just how cool this little lady is.

So here we are, in the middle of Eliza's tenth week of life. It's her and me alone right now, as it often is and I wouldn't have it any other way. I gave up a job on a prominent New York TV show (take a guess, yes it's the one that every actor lists as having a credit on when you go see a theatrical play) to stay home with her. Sometimes it's dull, sometimes it's lonely, sometimes it's just plain loud and smelly but mostly, it's kind of mundane and kind of cool. Right now, at 9:39 NY time, she's asleep in her swing and I'm here typing like a maniac so I can finish this and stuff some oatmeal in my mouth before she wakes.

She's gorgeous, but I'm biased. She smiles a lot and it's like sunshine (cliche). She likes to poop a lot (you wondered how long it would be until I got to there, being a new mother and all. The great bands of the childless really don't want to hear about poop, I imagine). She likes her binky and it just fell on the floor, gotta take a break to get another one (yes new mom here, replaces floor binky with new binky).

Okay so that's done, back to happy writing but it looks like she's up for now so I got to make it quick. After two months, she's no longer my "little savage." Like I said earlier, she used to feed with the snorting, grunting intensity of a wild animal, lusty and primal with life. Now she feeds sedately, more ladylike, the only noise really a series of quiet, girlish content-sounding sighs. In fact, Eliza used to snort so much we called her "Snorty." The snort seems to have fallen by the wayside as well and oh, how I already miss it.

But the smiles have replaced this beloved behaviors of old. The smiles and her seeming desire to talk to me. I swear it sounds like she says "hi" back when I say hi to her. She loves to press her feet against whatever she's lying against and push herself away like she's already trying to stand. At eleven pounds and 24 inches, she seems awfully strong for a 10 week old. She's already survived her first shots and her first cold. And she seems her happiest in the morning when she wakes up, so excited to embrace the new day, like she's aware of every new day and it's infinite possibilities.

But for now, I think you know more than enough. More tomorrow.