Every year, on the last day of school, I start humming, “School’s Out for the Summer." After 20 years of being a student and eight teaching , I can’t help it. By the end of the day, I’m singing all out, throwing my head back as I drive away from whatever building I’m working in that year. It’s a wonderful feeling to be on vacation, and I’m usually no less elated at hearing the last bell on the last day now than I was as a teenager. This year, however, the song didn’t fill me with the usual sense of joyous release. When I got to, “School’s out forever,” I felt sad. After all these years of classrooms, lunchrooms, and grades, it might be actually be.
I know eight years isn’t long, and I hadn’t planned to “retire” so early, but I’m going home to be with my kids, Milo (16 mos.) and Isaiah (almost four years old), while they’re still little. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. Dividing up my materials – poetry unit to Mr. J., classroom library to Jackie, easel and tablets to Ms. Dowling – felt very much like giving away baby clothes. I got the same physical sensation of being torn in two, even though I know, in both cases, that what I see as artifacts are better off in new homes rather than the depths of my garage. I joke that I know where to find my colleagues if I ever need the stuff back, but the truth is, I don’t know if I ever am going back. Things have changed so much since I decided I wanted to become a teacher. Things in my personal life, first and foremost, but also in the landscape of the profession, as well as the way I view that landscape. It’s sort of like I boarded a train to go north, and, looking out the window at last, found I was somewhere near the equator. Very confusing.
I knew the journey wasn’t going to be easy from the very first day. I didn’t expect it to be, and was prepared – I thought -- to travel way outside of my comfort zone. On the eve of my first day as a substitute teacher in Oakland I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, “What are you doing? You have no idea how to teach!” And from the beginning, I faced conflicts with students who, like students anywhere, saw my presence as an excuse to play. The pain of being a sub was mitigated by the fact that I worked at only one school, so I was at least a familiar face and began forming relationships with both students and teachers before long. At first I bounced around from sixth grade ELA to eighth grade Social Studies, even to P.E. – but then I landed in a sixth grade Resource Room class as a long-term sub.
The Resource Room was, as they often are, housed in the portables at the back end of the school. Here was where the students who had difficulty with things like basic reading, reading comprehension, or auditory processing came to get their education. Walking up the stairs and entering that room was a lot like entering a train car. It was long and narrow, and there was room for about ten desks and a table. It wasn’t particularly bright, but I was so excited about having my own class and about the potential of the students that I forged ahead without complaint. The first thing I did was clean up the piles of worksheets the previous teacher had stacked around the room on every surface. I resolved that the students would be reading actual stories and books, and actually writing while I was there. And we did those things, but that’s really not what I remember most about that first year.
I remember Otis standing on a desk, threatening the principal not to try to get him down “or else.” I remember Anthony not being able to sit still for a minute, always defiant, always resistant. Kelvin asking, one day when I was particularly frustrated with him and his friend, “What happened to the old Michael, and the old Kelvin, and the old Ms. Bar-nath?” My lunch group – five or so girls from the class next door who would hang out with me every day and listen to the radio in my room. “Y’all gonna make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here,” was my anthem that year. If you’ve ever taught sixth grade, you’ll probably agree they still need recess at that age. The first year was tough. It is for most teachers.
Lunches with my colleagues, eating free canned corn and tater tots in the teachers’ cafeteria, were always interesting. The majority of the staff sat together in one room and talked about students, the school, and politics in general. I usually just listened, feeling so new and inexperienced, unqualified to comment on much. One day in a discussion of a mutual student, the science teacher told me the boy was a “lost cause.” I never looked at him with respect again.
Another time, a fellow long-term sub, an older African American gentleman from the community, told me, “You know, these kids are told at home that whatever problem they have, down to the weather, is the white man’s fault.” I laughed; he was grinning and obviously was overstating the case. But that year I had my first glimpse of the insides of the homes and lives of my students, all of whom were African American or Latino, living in poverty in apartments that were small, cramped, furnishings and effects often appearing as if their owners didn’t expect them to be there for long. These homes were so different from the homes I had spent time in growing up, even the ones in the low-income neighborhood I lived in for two years as a child in Colorado. I can’t count how many times over the years my students asked if I was rich. I dressed modestly, didn’t drive a fancy car. It may not be entirely the white man’s fault, and statistics show that the number (but not percentage) of white Americans in poverty exceeds that of any other group, but I could see how some might think that white people might be responsible for people of color often having so little when the disparity is right in front of them.
A favorite past-time of some of the teachers at my first school seemed to be complaining about policies and management there. I very much respected the principal and, at that time, took the attitude that it was better to roll with the punches rather than get flustered and complain. It made you look thin-skinned, I thought.
Sometimes the politics of the lunchroom moved into the light of day in staff meetings. In the spring, a group of researchers was in attendance at one particular meeting, and I listened passively as they explained the purpose of their study and passed out a 20-page questionnaire for the teachers. To me, a recent college graduate, it sounded kind of interesting. After their presentation, one of our social studies teachers stood up and blasted the team for expecting the teachers to participate in such a laborious process in order to get data that would help the researchers earn their PhD’s while doing absolutely nothing to help the problems they would identify at the school in their results. The team was dumbstruck, as was I. Was he right? Was he being unfair? Today, the students I had as sixth graders have (or should have) graduated from high school, and the only notable improvement at the school (and very notable it is) is the drastic improvement to the P.E. program and the number of students passing the Presidential Academic Fitness test. That change was brought about by a teacher, Kermit Bayless, who has been at the school for over ten years, not by a visiting team.
Mr. Bayless’ accomplishment is admirable, but in the landscape of today’s schools, a teacher or administrator raising test scores would trump his feat any day. This, despite the fact that he is providing his students with the lifelong benefits of physical fitness, rather than focusing on tests that measure isolated skills, and time and time again simply remind us that academic inequity has its roots in social and economic inequities. Now that I’ve been in the education profession for longer, I wish more people would get thicker skins and stand up, as that social studies teacher did, to point out that the data from these tests needs to be used for the benefit of the students, or not gathered – meaning students not tested -- at all. (And no, using the test scores to justify providing more after school programs does not help. After a long day at school with few elective offerings, a schedule packed with math and English classes in which the focus is often preparing to students to take a test that will prepare them for another test that will prepare them for the exit exam, as well as one or more test prep classes, our most challenged students do not want to stay after school for two more hours, and I don’t blame them. To borrow from an idea put forth by Mike Rose, would you like to spend your hours after work learning how to fix your T.V. or refrigerator?) Not everyone uses test prep to teach to the test, but nowadays, like it or not, we do have to teach to the test. It’s unfair to our students not to, because nowadays these tests make the difference between graduating or not. (In wealthier districts it makes the difference between parents sending their children to a school or not.)
Remember that train trip I mentioned? When I boarded, fresh from education classes that emphasized student voice in writing and active reader response, these tests were something on the horizon, and I was able to focus on engaging my students in conversations about great classic and contemporary literature. In the Boston Public Schools, this was absolutely the focus. Most of our professional development was geared towards teaching students to keep writers’ notebooks and engage in authentic writing tasks. We also spent time reflecting on student work and our own teaching. The last year I was there, though, when the MCAS as a graduation requirement was in its fourth year, the districts hired a group of people, which included Harvard graduates, to analyze test results. This group created a mini-test with several of the types of comprehension questions found on the MCAS ELA test. Wrong answers could be classified as to type of error, and the teacher could then focus instruction on fixing these errors in thinking or choosing the correct answer.
There were three problems I saw with this. The first was knowing that students often guess randomly if they are stumped, or are reading five grades below level. Why analyze the answers, in that case? Well, you could always interview the student to find out why they chose the answer. Indeed these types of interviews were carried out, even in my own classroom. The question then became, why do I want to have an instructional conversation about an isolated test item about a short passage, rather than having that conversation about a book the class is reading, or teaching that student some basic reading skills? The third problem was that the district was paying these very educated Harvard graduates to analyze tests rather than to actually work with students.
On a larger scale, government at every level continues to pay for tests given to students who, for example, may have spent the night in a garage prior to the first day of testing, or who have lived in three foster homes and attended three high schools in the ninth grade alone, or whose brother has just been shot and killed. (All of these are students I have known – and this is truly only the tip of the iceberg.) Ah well, we all know how standardized tests improve instruction because we can see what students need to learn. Hey look – there’s the equator! How did I end up here?
What students need goes so far beyond the skills we try to teach them in school. Schools can’t be expected to teach everything, of course. But while students are there why not focus on teaching them to think critically and creatively about authentic, real-life topics. Every school I’ve worked at says, in one way or another, that this is the goal, but then proceeds to focus on measurement tools that don’t register these very important things, and then says we are failing and need to improve.
Truly good education should enrich students' personal lives, as well as provide them with skills they need for college and the workplace. When students write, for example, no matter what their background is we see how rich their lives are, and, more importantly, they see it themselves. Arecelia’s poem, “I No Longer Hear Your Voice” about missing her grandfather in Puerto Rico was so rich with details -- I can picture them walking down to the riverside and dancing together at a family gathering even now– the imagery sticks with me as much as any I’ve encountered in the Norton Anthology. I assume that writing the poem helped her clarify what these experiences meant to her and to hold on to these memories, part of her heritage, as well. A poem by another of my Boston students, nicknamed “Rainbow”, was written in non-Standard English and sneaks up on the reader when it reveals, in the course of narrating his first day of school, that he is gay. Etta, the girl with the true poet’s heart, not to mention “flow”, could churn out verses worthy of a much larger stage than our small classroom.Why are these pieces so much more powerful than what we normally see in school? Because they went outside of the day-to-day tasks that make up the bulk of a school day and went inside the hearts of the students. Writing had real meaning for them.
Despite knowing that the real education was happening when my students wrote poems, personal essays, and opinion pieces, as well as when they took notes on a novel and came to discussion prepared to question, argue, and just notice, it was hard for me not to fall into a treadmill mentality at times. Working with students with special needs means you don’t have a lot of extra time for things that are considered “fun.” Although I always aimed to embed skills teaching in the teaching of things the kids were actually interested in, I couldn’t always do it. There were the constraints of preparing for those tests, of making sure that my students didn’t leave ninth grade not knowing how to write a standard literary response essay (since they would need to know it for tenth grade and the exit exam), and my own personal limits. There have been plenty of times where I felt like a fish out of water, and just couldn’t muster the creativity to reach across the cultural, generational, and educational gaps to present the material in a way that was accessible and engaging to my students.
This past year, the RSP students at my school were mainstreamed, so my position became more that of a liaison and coach. More than any other year, I felt the pressure to just get things done so that my students could pass their classes. If we just plod along and push through the pain, the treadmill thinking went, we will see progress! We will make it to the finish! Teenagers -- even those who struggle so much academically and could benefit from extra hard work -- don’t want to be stuck on a treadmill, though. They’d rather run on a rugged outdoor trail, and all the better if there are streams to jump and hills to careen down wildly.
Plenty of that careening is going on outside of the classroom, sometimes because of circumstances beyond their control, other times because the poor decision-making that can go along with adolescence, and sometimes because of students’ own demons pushing them down. My second year of teaching, I worked with students who were emotionally disturbed. One had thrown a chair at his teacher. Another kicked down a glass door after jumping up and knocking down the hanging exit sign in front of it. At this particular school, the students had the benefit of therapy a few times per week. The school employed four therapists for just 40 students. In contrast, the school I worked at for the past two years had two psychologists for close to 2,000 students. When the students at this school have a problem, whom do they talk to?
I learned at the ED school to let the therapists counsel the children, but back in the public schools, I opened myself up to listening to the students because I realized even though they weren’t emotionally disturbed, they needed someone to talk to about what was going on with them. Once in a while, I offered advice, sometimes I referred the students to someone more suited to help them (if a student feared she was pregnant, for example), but mostly I just listened. Often I wondered how the student was managing to come to school every day. And then I wondered whom they would have told if not their teacher. The boundaries I often enforced seemed selfish at these times.
What has become more and more clear to me over the past eight years, is that these boundaries extend outside of the schools and into our societal structure; the public school system is a mirror and often unwitting reinforcer of the inequities in our country. In the past, and in smaller communities, the teacher was not some distant figure who living two towns over. The teacher might attend the church with the student, see him or her at the market. Indeed, there are many teachers in city schools who do live where they work, but in many urban school districts, faculty drive in from far-flung places, and the result can be somewhat like a scrambled picture on a television set. This was true even in Boston where Pedro Noguera’s small schools model was in effect at all of the high schools. The gulf inside the school won’t be bridged unless it is bridged outside, too, and on a regular basis, not just for special events like Back-to-School night.
One of the things I hate about the last day of school is that I always have to scramble to get my classroom cleaned up, keys turned in, and paperwork finished, which means I don’t get to spend as much time with my students as I would like. It leaves me feeling like there are loose ends needing to be tied up. I like to tie them up with hugs signifying that even though I may have lectured and scolded at times, I appreciated my students and loved watching them grow over the course of the year. A few always rush out the door too quickly, though, and I feel like I didn’t get to say goodbye properly.
This year, I promised my students I would be back to visit them as tenth graders, and I gave out candy bars to anyone who helped me carry the seemingly endless boxes of files, lesson plans, supplies to those teachers I mentioned earlier. Then I got all the signatures I needed in order to be officially on vacation, or, in my case, done. I picked up my faithful book bag and gave one last look around my classroom before walking to the door. At the light switch, I raised my hand to turn it off, and then let it rest there on the plate. I knew the janitor would be by later that day. I locked the door, but left the lights shining.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Picture Imperfect
Now that Milo is on the brink of toddlerhood and Isaiah is a bona fide preschooler, I thought it would be a good idea to have their pictures taken professionally. I wanted to make sure that I would have a record of them at this sweet time, before Milo's first step, before Isaiah can write his name, while we can still get them to hug each other without a bribe. And, of course, I would need to have these pictures hanging on the wall when both boys are teenagers. A house is not a home without pictures of kids in decade-old styles adorning the mantlepiece and hallway.
At the photo studio, I was encouraged by the giant framed photos of kids in cute poses, with glinty eyes and big smiles. I couldn't wait to have similar pictures of my own kids. I should have known when I asked Isaiah to do a few practice smiles and was shown the same face he makes to avoid soapy eyes during shampoo time, that things would not go as I had imagined. During our marathon photo session, it was nearly impossible to get both boys to look the same way, let alone smile simultaneously. Milo kept crawling off of the backdrop only to have Isaiah attempt to wrestle him back in place. Screams from the baby followed. Then, Milo decided to poop.
When I looked at the proofs, though, I was like a kid in a candy store. My gorgeous kids shined forth from the computer screen, and I ended up ordering a whole suite of poses, spending mucho bucks on many sheets of photos. When I got them home, however, I admittedly went through a bit of buyer's remorse. Maybe it's because my father is a lifelong editor, or, as the song goes: Maybe I'm just like my mother. She's never satisfied. The critic in me noticed that Isaiah's hair was little messy in all of the shots, the boys' gazes were unnaturally high in another, and Milo's red eyes gave away the fact that he was about to make a giant poop. The pictures sat in their envelope for days.
Then I had a conversation with a friend who said she had tried to take pictures of her kids together recently, and would just settle for them being in the same frame together. Her kids had run in different directions every time she had them posed. I laughed, imagining what that photo would look like: her three-year-old taking off towards the house, mouth wide open as he shrieks in delight at his naughtiness, looking over his shoulder at his little brother, who is already on the sidewalk, arms and legs lifted like a track runner's. You can only see the back of the little one's head, proof that this kid knows exactly where he wants to go.
That got me thinking that our "imperfect" pictures actually captured who my kids really are right now. I took the pictures out of their envelope again and saw Isaiah's three-year-old version of a smile -- pursed lips and squinty eyes. That's a smile we probably won't see ten, or even two, years from now, when it will replaced by one that's more practiced and polished. I studied the close-up of Milo, whose wide blue eyes have a definite deer-in-the-headlights look to them, and I recognized it as the same one he has when he gets caught crawling towards the cat food.
And the one in which both boys are looking upwards a little too noticeably? I realized that they were looking at their father and me. My husband was dancing around like a monkey and I was razzing repeatedly to get them to smile. Our little boys were watching their big goofy parents and were quite amused. Those "imperfect" pictures captured that relationship perfectly. Of course, it would be nice to have at least one shot fit for a catalogue, but the shots we have will fit right in with the rest of the family photos on our wall.
At the photo studio, I was encouraged by the giant framed photos of kids in cute poses, with glinty eyes and big smiles. I couldn't wait to have similar pictures of my own kids. I should have known when I asked Isaiah to do a few practice smiles and was shown the same face he makes to avoid soapy eyes during shampoo time, that things would not go as I had imagined. During our marathon photo session, it was nearly impossible to get both boys to look the same way, let alone smile simultaneously. Milo kept crawling off of the backdrop only to have Isaiah attempt to wrestle him back in place. Screams from the baby followed. Then, Milo decided to poop.
When I looked at the proofs, though, I was like a kid in a candy store. My gorgeous kids shined forth from the computer screen, and I ended up ordering a whole suite of poses, spending mucho bucks on many sheets of photos. When I got them home, however, I admittedly went through a bit of buyer's remorse. Maybe it's because my father is a lifelong editor, or, as the song goes: Maybe I'm just like my mother. She's never satisfied. The critic in me noticed that Isaiah's hair was little messy in all of the shots, the boys' gazes were unnaturally high in another, and Milo's red eyes gave away the fact that he was about to make a giant poop. The pictures sat in their envelope for days.
Then I had a conversation with a friend who said she had tried to take pictures of her kids together recently, and would just settle for them being in the same frame together. Her kids had run in different directions every time she had them posed. I laughed, imagining what that photo would look like: her three-year-old taking off towards the house, mouth wide open as he shrieks in delight at his naughtiness, looking over his shoulder at his little brother, who is already on the sidewalk, arms and legs lifted like a track runner's. You can only see the back of the little one's head, proof that this kid knows exactly where he wants to go.
That got me thinking that our "imperfect" pictures actually captured who my kids really are right now. I took the pictures out of their envelope again and saw Isaiah's three-year-old version of a smile -- pursed lips and squinty eyes. That's a smile we probably won't see ten, or even two, years from now, when it will replaced by one that's more practiced and polished. I studied the close-up of Milo, whose wide blue eyes have a definite deer-in-the-headlights look to them, and I recognized it as the same one he has when he gets caught crawling towards the cat food.
And the one in which both boys are looking upwards a little too noticeably? I realized that they were looking at their father and me. My husband was dancing around like a monkey and I was razzing repeatedly to get them to smile. Our little boys were watching their big goofy parents and were quite amused. Those "imperfect" pictures captured that relationship perfectly. Of course, it would be nice to have at least one shot fit for a catalogue, but the shots we have will fit right in with the rest of the family photos on our wall.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Zen and the Art of Being Milo
Recently, I took Milo on a trip to the park with no plans other than to lay on a blanket in the shade. The other mommies around me either had older children who were there to go down the slide and play in the sand, or they were meeting up with friends. I'm usually at the park for those same reasons.
Our intent on this particular day, though, was much simpler. As a matter of fact, I don't think we had any intent.
Milo's activities were as follows:
Sit on blanket in froggy-like position. With wide eyes, watch children running back and forth. (5 min.)
Lean forward and begin to lose balance. Get assistance from mommy to lay on tummy. (10 sec.)
Grab edge of blanket. (1 min.)
Explore blades of grass beyond blanket with hands. (5 min.)
Fuss. Get mommy to put me back in a sitting position. Play with a soft and jingly duck toy. (5 min.)
Me? I just watched. His contentedness rubbed off on me and I noticed the breeze and the way the shade kept moving, changing the patterns on our blanket. We "played" for a little while longer, until I scooped him up and carried a sleepy boy to the car.
Our intent on this particular day, though, was much simpler. As a matter of fact, I don't think we had any intent.
Milo's activities were as follows:
Sit on blanket in froggy-like position. With wide eyes, watch children running back and forth. (5 min.)
Lean forward and begin to lose balance. Get assistance from mommy to lay on tummy. (10 sec.)
Grab edge of blanket. (1 min.)
Explore blades of grass beyond blanket with hands. (5 min.)
Fuss. Get mommy to put me back in a sitting position. Play with a soft and jingly duck toy. (5 min.)
Me? I just watched. His contentedness rubbed off on me and I noticed the breeze and the way the shade kept moving, changing the patterns on our blanket. We "played" for a little while longer, until I scooped him up and carried a sleepy boy to the car.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
I'm a WOHMmy again
It has been three weeks since my maternity leave ended and I became a Work Outside of Home Mom for the second time. In October 2004, when Isaiah was ten weeks old, I headed back to my job as a ninth grade teacher in the Boston Public Schools. I juggled lesson plans, discipline, and pumping from 7 'til 2 and then raced to pick up Isaiah from daycare so I could spend a few of his awake hours wtih him.
Naturally, when I headed back to work this time I focused on how it would once again affect my relationship with my baby, this time eight-and-a-half-week-old Milo. I would have to pump my breast milk again -- and where was I going to do that? He was sleeping so well for those first eight weeks -- would he start reverse cycling so he could spend time with me? Was it right for me to be leaving him at such a young age? That word -- "leaving" -- weighed heavily on me. As someone who believes in attachment parenting, I started to fantasize about ways I could get out of returning to work.
I knew, though, that I couldn't do that. In no way was I trying to martyr myself, but I had made a commitment to a classroom full of kids, many of whom have lived wtih a parent they couldn't depend on, and I needed to go back. My own son would be in the care of my husband and my mother, and he would have my overflowing love every day when I came home. If only all children were so lucky.
It took a few weeks, but we (Milo, me, my mom, Josh, and Isaiah) have adjusted to the new routine and I feel comfortable with it. My mom seems to have a calming effect on Milo and he seems so happy most of the time that I know he is none the worse for me not being with him 24 hours a day.
And as I settle into this new routine, I am experiencing a sort of deja vu from my return to work in Boston: I had forgotten that, in addition to work affecting me as a mom, being a mom also affects my work. Along with the mushy belly and leaky breasts that accompanied my return from maternity leave, I also brought back my softer, more nurturing side. In the pressure-filled environment of today's schools, it is all too easy to objectify students, seeing them as educatees rather than the whole and complex people they are. As the parent of a three-month-old, I can't help but think throughout the day, "What if that were MY baby..."
Naturally, when I headed back to work this time I focused on how it would once again affect my relationship with my baby, this time eight-and-a-half-week-old Milo. I would have to pump my breast milk again -- and where was I going to do that? He was sleeping so well for those first eight weeks -- would he start reverse cycling so he could spend time with me? Was it right for me to be leaving him at such a young age? That word -- "leaving" -- weighed heavily on me. As someone who believes in attachment parenting, I started to fantasize about ways I could get out of returning to work.
I knew, though, that I couldn't do that. In no way was I trying to martyr myself, but I had made a commitment to a classroom full of kids, many of whom have lived wtih a parent they couldn't depend on, and I needed to go back. My own son would be in the care of my husband and my mother, and he would have my overflowing love every day when I came home. If only all children were so lucky.
It took a few weeks, but we (Milo, me, my mom, Josh, and Isaiah) have adjusted to the new routine and I feel comfortable with it. My mom seems to have a calming effect on Milo and he seems so happy most of the time that I know he is none the worse for me not being with him 24 hours a day.
And as I settle into this new routine, I am experiencing a sort of deja vu from my return to work in Boston: I had forgotten that, in addition to work affecting me as a mom, being a mom also affects my work. Along with the mushy belly and leaky breasts that accompanied my return from maternity leave, I also brought back my softer, more nurturing side. In the pressure-filled environment of today's schools, it is all too easy to objectify students, seeing them as educatees rather than the whole and complex people they are. As the parent of a three-month-old, I can't help but think throughout the day, "What if that were MY baby..."
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Don't Blink
After I gave birth to Isaiah two-and-a-half years ago, the advice I heard most often was, "Enjoy every minute of it. You blink, and they're all grown up."
I decided after hearing this over and over that there was only one solution to looking back and feeling like your kids had grown up too fast: don't blink. I became super-conscious and super-attached to Isaiah. I wore him next to my heart in a sling, and spent many days going at his pace rather than mine. The result was a wonderful feeling of connection with my son, and the feeling that there was not a lot of wasted time between us. He was -- and still is -- my little sidekick, and every day is a new day for us.
I'm trying not to blink with Milo, either, but somehow these first four weeks have passed much, much too quickly. I feel like he should be two weeks old, not almost five, as I hurtle through time towards my return to work.
But, he is four weeks, almost five, and the proof is in something wonderful that happened yesterday: Milo smiled for the first time.
And then he did it again and again in the mirror of my wide open eyes.
I decided after hearing this over and over that there was only one solution to looking back and feeling like your kids had grown up too fast: don't blink. I became super-conscious and super-attached to Isaiah. I wore him next to my heart in a sling, and spent many days going at his pace rather than mine. The result was a wonderful feeling of connection with my son, and the feeling that there was not a lot of wasted time between us. He was -- and still is -- my little sidekick, and every day is a new day for us.
I'm trying not to blink with Milo, either, but somehow these first four weeks have passed much, much too quickly. I feel like he should be two weeks old, not almost five, as I hurtle through time towards my return to work.
But, he is four weeks, almost five, and the proof is in something wonderful that happened yesterday: Milo smiled for the first time.
And then he did it again and again in the mirror of my wide open eyes.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Growth Spurts
Our family went through a giant growth spurt last Wednesday. We grew from three to four, of course, when Milo was born. I sensed, the next morning as the sun came out for Milo's first full day, that our family story had not only added another chapter, but that all the other chapters before would have new meaning when we looked back. I thought about the common memories my sisters and I have that have turned into family lore, as well as all the stories we heard about our parents' families growing up together. I felt great joy that my family had expanded and that Isaiah and Milo would soon have their own common memories.
It also seemed as if Isaiah suddenly got taller, smarter, and more independent the day his little brother was born. His legs look longer, his feet so big. He can now get up on our bed all by himself when he wants to see his little brother. He is talking up a storm -- more than usual -- and riding his little car around the house pretending he is visiting various places that he knows.
My growth spurt was less tangible, but no less immediate and raw. It was born out of that roller coaster of post-partum hormonal weeping that occurs when a mother's milk comes in. It began with tears over the fact that I wasn't pregnant anymore. I never thought I would miss being pregnant, but I kept so busy up until Milo's birth, that I never got time to be sick of it like I had with Isaiah. And actually, I had made a decision not to be sick of it when I went on partial bedrest back in January. At that time, my midwife had said, "You need to figure out what the universe and your body are trying to tell you." I decided then that I needed to be thankful for the pregnancy, and to cherish it. That made it harder when I looked down at my belly the morning after Milo was born and saw that it had shrunk even from the night before. Stepping on the scale and seeing such a low number never felt so bad.
Mourning over the pregnancy led me to mourn all the other things I seemed to be losing even as I gained a precious son. I would no longer have my wonderful prenatal visits with the midwives. I would no longer need to listen to my hypnobirthing c.d. which put me in such a deep state of relaxation. I would no longer be visualizing the perfect birth at home. And, the kicker: my amazing journey through Laborland, culminating with the birth of Milo into the water and those sweet sweet first hours he spent with us, was over and could never happen again.
I felt these things so heavily in the days after he was born, that I feared when I saw Rachel on Monday for my five day post-partum visit that I would just cry through the whole thing. Instead, I remembered what she had said about figuring out what the message was for me in this experience.
I realized that there are few things in my life that are sacred and nurturing to my spirit because I don't make an effort to seek them out. Both of my pregnancies gave me the perfect opportunity to take time for myself to reflect and focus on what is really important in my life, but in between I fell back into old patterns of living. This time I want to try to continue on this road of connection. Some people go to church for this, but I don't feel church calling me. I'm going to start gong to La Leche League meetings and try out the Mother's Support Network, both of which tend to attract people who are conscious and mindful of their childrearing and social responsibilities.
And hopefully, by connecting with other mommies, I can keep the spirit and power of the amazing birth of my second child, Milo, in my life. Thank you so so much, little one.
It also seemed as if Isaiah suddenly got taller, smarter, and more independent the day his little brother was born. His legs look longer, his feet so big. He can now get up on our bed all by himself when he wants to see his little brother. He is talking up a storm -- more than usual -- and riding his little car around the house pretending he is visiting various places that he knows.
My growth spurt was less tangible, but no less immediate and raw. It was born out of that roller coaster of post-partum hormonal weeping that occurs when a mother's milk comes in. It began with tears over the fact that I wasn't pregnant anymore. I never thought I would miss being pregnant, but I kept so busy up until Milo's birth, that I never got time to be sick of it like I had with Isaiah. And actually, I had made a decision not to be sick of it when I went on partial bedrest back in January. At that time, my midwife had said, "You need to figure out what the universe and your body are trying to tell you." I decided then that I needed to be thankful for the pregnancy, and to cherish it. That made it harder when I looked down at my belly the morning after Milo was born and saw that it had shrunk even from the night before. Stepping on the scale and seeing such a low number never felt so bad.
Mourning over the pregnancy led me to mourn all the other things I seemed to be losing even as I gained a precious son. I would no longer have my wonderful prenatal visits with the midwives. I would no longer need to listen to my hypnobirthing c.d. which put me in such a deep state of relaxation. I would no longer be visualizing the perfect birth at home. And, the kicker: my amazing journey through Laborland, culminating with the birth of Milo into the water and those sweet sweet first hours he spent with us, was over and could never happen again.
I felt these things so heavily in the days after he was born, that I feared when I saw Rachel on Monday for my five day post-partum visit that I would just cry through the whole thing. Instead, I remembered what she had said about figuring out what the message was for me in this experience.
I realized that there are few things in my life that are sacred and nurturing to my spirit because I don't make an effort to seek them out. Both of my pregnancies gave me the perfect opportunity to take time for myself to reflect and focus on what is really important in my life, but in between I fell back into old patterns of living. This time I want to try to continue on this road of connection. Some people go to church for this, but I don't feel church calling me. I'm going to start gong to La Leche League meetings and try out the Mother's Support Network, both of which tend to attract people who are conscious and mindful of their childrearing and social responsibilities.
And hopefully, by connecting with other mommies, I can keep the spirit and power of the amazing birth of my second child, Milo, in my life. Thank you so so much, little one.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Milo's Birth Story
Birth is amazing. Giving birth at home was amazing and felt wonderfully normal. On February 7th, 2007 all the planning and preparation I had done over the last nine months with my body, my mind, my midwives, and my family came together and my second beautiful baby boy was born.
Tuesday, February 6th was a busy day for me. I went to Isaiah's school just to see him in action, headed off to work to tie up some loose ends in my classroom, and came home just in time to eat half a sandwich before Rachel, the midwife I have been closest with during my pregnancy, showed up for my appointment. As she left, she mentioned that the rain was supposed to move in the next day, and I commented that a storm system had kicked off my labor with Isaiah. After she left, I rested a bit, and then picked up Isaiah and ran some errands. By the time we got home, I felt like I had hit a brick wall. I ordered pizza and let Isaiah eat in front of the t.v. so I could lay on the couch.
Josh was home by 7, and I dragged myself to bed shortly after he arrived. In my bed, I read Isaiah one of the books about newborns that Rachel had left that afternoon. I didn't even have enough energy to turn on my hypnobirthing c.d, which I usually listen to before bed. I just crashed.
When Josh came to bed, around 10:30, I woke up, feeling kind of crampy and regretting having eaten pizza for dinner. At 1 A.M. I was up again, and felt that I couldn't sleep in our bed. I moved to the couch and tossed and turned. I remember thinking, "What am I going to do tomorrow? I don't have any plans." Usually when I have a day off, I have a bunch of activities planned for myself, but it hit me at that moment that I had a blank slate on Wednesday. I got up off the couch to go to the bathroom and felt a little bit of liquid come out. Exasperated (this had been happening frequently over the last few days and I was going through underwear like crazy) I made a little toilet paper pad, stuck it in my underwear, and decided to try going back to sleep in the bed.
At 3 A.M. I woke up again, needing to pee, and felt another mini-sploosh. When I went to the bathroom I noticed that the toilet paper was tinged pink. I had the same reaction that I had when I saw that positive pregnancy test back in May -- disbelief! When I came out of the bathroom, Josh was awake and asked if everything was alright. I told him that things were starting to happen and that I was really going to try to rest in case they happened soon.
Throughout the next hour, the crampiness I had felt the night before felt a little stronger, and I decided at around 4 A.M. that I should go put in my grades for progress reports because I knew I wouldn't want to do it after the baby came, and I felt like the baby really was coming soon!
By 6 A.M. I was having distinct contractions, no longer just crampiness. I practiced thinking of the contractions as waves lapping up on a beach, and that was very relaxing. Timing them, I found that they were six to nine minutes apart, but they were very mild. I called Rachel at 6:45 to let her know what was going on, and she told me that she had appointments in my area all morning and that she could come in a moment's notice if I needed her. I then called my sister to let her know we would need her to pick up Isaiah from preschoool at some point during the day.
Before Josh took Isaiah to school, I told Isaiah that Milo was coming today. I asked him if he wanted to see the baby be born or if we should wait until after he was born to go pick him up from school. We had been preparing Isaiah to see his baby brother's birth with books and videos, and up until that point he had seemed excited to see it, but I wasn't sure how he would feel now that the actual event was so close at hand. Isaiah said, without hesitation, "See him be born." Thinking that things would go quickly, I worried that my sister might need to wake him up from his nap at preschool so that he could be home for the birth, but figured it would all work out.
The rest of the morning was very mellow. I set out a few candles, and tidied up the room. I walked around the birth tub, and took in all the wonderful colors I had purposely put around the room over the last few months as I prepared my "birth suite." I kept timing my contractions, which were very gradually getting stronger, but were staying four to six minutes apart. I felt like I was handling them better than I had when I was in labor with Isaiah, but couldn't be sure if they were actually just milder. Rachel called at around 11:30 and asked if I thought she should come over. I told her I really wasn't sure. I didn't feel like I needed help at that point, but I was worried about her going to her next appointment, which was 40 minutes away in the opposite direction. She decided she would go get lunch and then come over.
When Rachel arrived around 1 P.M. I was still having mild contractions that I could talk through, even though I preferred to stop talking. The conversation she, Josh, and I were having was kind of funny because if it was my turn to talk and a contraction came along, we would pause and they would get quiet with me, and then we would start up where we left off. Rachel started to make notes in my "Labor Record," which I'm so thankful to have because later I lost track of time.
Just before 2 P.M. we watched a video of some water births, and then I walked around outside with Josh to try to get things going. After walking for about half an hour, the contractions were about four minutes apart, but still very mild. We went back inside to our room, and I turned on some Native American flute music that my best friend had used during her homebirth. I tried to get centered. I made a giant pillow pile on my bed so that I could do supported kneeling during contractions and rest on the pillows in between. I listened to the music while Josh rubbed my back and shoulders, focusing on the sounds of water in the background of the music to help me stay relaxed.
Around 3:30, Rachel came into the room to see how I was doing. She had just taken a nap. She didn't do a vaginal exam, since I had tested positive for Group B Strep, and we didn't want to do anything unnecessary that might increase the baby's risk of infection. I felt a little guilty that I had asked her to come so early because I still didn't feel like the contractions could be doing much work. I did recognize that I was feeling a little less inhibited at working through the contractions with her there, though. I was getting a little louder. She asked if I wanted something to eat, and I said yes. Josh fed me an energy bar, and gave me some Gatorade to sip on and everything tasted so, so good.
I started watching the clock a little bit after 4 P.M. and noted that I definitely wasn't going to have the baby by the time my sister picked Isaiah up from preschool. Josh called her and asked her to take him to the bookstore, toy store, and out for dinner before coming back, and told her we would call her if anything happened sooner. I was so happy knowing that she would be taking care of Isaiah because he loves spending time with her, and I knew he wouldn't be anxious. I decided at that point that I really needed to get things moving!
I kept listening to the flute music and kneeling on my bed to open up my pelvis and cervix. Every time a contraction came, I still tried to think of waves, but also told my myself, "This is what I want." I was hoping this would make my body relax and let go of any fear of what was to come. The contractions finally started coming stronger and in between I rested on the pillow mountain. I noticed that I was starting to have to peel myself off of the pillows after each contraction. By this time it was about 5:30 and, according to my Labor Record, the contractions were three minutes apart. I decided to try standing through the contractions while listening to hypnobirthing and leaning on Josh. We danced through each one.
There is a part in the hypnobirthing meditation in which the speaker says to picture yourself stepping into "the most magnificent color of yellow," and then walks you through the change to "green, the color of new life." "You feel more and more relaxed, calm and confident," he continues. When I heard this, I became totally overwhelmed by the moment. I felt euphoric and began to cry with joy that I would soon have another little boy and that the process of him arriving was so amazing. Josh rubbed my back and Rachel came over and rubbed my other arm. I wanted to express what I was feeling and my gratitude to them, but I just didn't have the words, I was so overwhelmed. Finally I told them, "It's ok, I feel really good."
After that round of hypnobirthing, Rachel asked if I would like her to fill up the tub. This was really encouraging, since I knew that she didn't offer the tub until she thought someone was in more active labor. I told her yes, and then returned to the bed for more kneeling contractions, repeating the thought, "This is what I want," while I "ahhhed" my way through each intense contraction and watched Rachel fill the tub. By this time it was about 6:00. I asked for something to eat and had a little bit of a protein drink, which turned out not to be a good choice because I felt nauseous shortly thereafter.
Just before 7 P.M., I stepped into the tub, which was heavenly. The warm water took away a lot of the intensity I had been feeling throughout my body when I was on the bed. Rachel said, "I haven't checked you, so I just want you to do what your body tells you to." After a few minutes in the tub, I actually worried that I was too relaxed and that I was not making any progress, but the intensity returned fairly quickly. Josh got in the tub with me for a while, but then I had to ask him to get out, so I could turn sideways and get my pelvis really open. I really wanted that baby out soon! With each contraction I held on to the edge of the tub and squatted. As a contraction ended, I would let myself rock back into more of a sitting position in the water. Rachel got a cold washcloth and patted my face with it gently.
I started feeling a little discouraged and pouty because, it seemed like, pretty quickly, my contractions were spacing out again (even though they were still really strong). I thought about asking Rachel to check me, but knew it wasn't a good idea. I kept going back in forth in my mind thinking, "If you're really discouraged, you're probably in transition," and, "That would be nice, but probably you have a long ways to go." Josh kept telling me I was doing a great job and how proud of me he was. When Rachel got the mirror ready nearby I felt totally encouraged, even though she hadn't said anything. I asked her if she could put some lavendar oil on the wash rag so I could smell it because it really realxed me. Instead, she sprayed some in the air, which was awesome because it suddenly smelled like my room was a spa!
I heard Isaiah come home with my sister and hoped that he was o.k. hearing me make a lot of noise. Some of my "ahhs" were sounding kind of siren like to me at this point! Rachel suggested that I switch to low "ohh" sounds. "Soft, stretchy, and open," she said. I was thankful to have direction at this point, so I did exactly what she said, and pretty soon one of my "ohhhhs" was interrupted by an "uhh" when I felt pressure. According to my Labor Record, this happened at 7:50 P.M.
I kept kneeling and holding on to the edge of the birth tub. Rachel commented that it sounded like I was bearing down, and I said that I wasn't really doing anything, but that if I tried to stop it felt uncomfortable. She said to go ahead and let it go then. I had a few more contractions without the pressure feeling and then things started happening really fast.
A few strong "uhhs" from me made Rachel run to get the other midwife, Claudia, who had arrived a little while earlier. I could feel the baby moving down the birth canal forcefully and then felt a pop in the water -- my membranes. With the next contraction, Rachel told me reach down and feel the babies head. On the one after that, Claudia said I should pant to keep him from coming to fast, which would probably make me tear. I panted away, but he still came down. It felt like his head was halfway in and halfway out, and I said, "He can't stay there!" which makes me laugh now. As the contraction ended, his head went back inside, and on the next one, Rachel, who was behind me, started listing all the parts she could see coming down. In one contraction I heard, "Forehead, ears, mouth, chin." Another one and the shoulders were out, Milo was down into the water, and Rachel floated him forward to me so I could pick him up out of the water. It was 8:26 P.M. and Milo let out a cry.
Rachel ran to get my sister and Isaiah. Isaiah giggled when he saw the baby and kept repeating, "Baby Milo is here. That's my baby brother." Milo was clean and slippery, just like I remembered Isaiah being and he had the same golden-colored hair. After a few minutes Claudia helped me and it out of the tub and into my bed (which was well-protected). They left Milo's cord attached to the placenta for a while so he could keep receiving nourishment from it and he started nursing right away. I was amazed, since I had remembered it taking a while for Isaiah to get a hang of nursing. The other thing I thought was so amazing was how soft Milo's feet were and how he was already opening his eyes.
Over the next couple of hours, the midwives helped me get cleaned up, and they checked out Milo. He was 8 lbs 13 oz and 21 inches long. They brought in a birthday "cake" which was a platter of sliced apples, bread, and cheese with a candle in the middle and sang "Happy Birthday" to Milo. It was such a wonderful and nourishing surprise. Isaiah sat with us on the bed for a while as we snacked and cooed over the baby. I felt exhausted, but full of bliss that our family was all together in our home at last in the minutes and hours following Milo's birth.
Tuesday, February 6th was a busy day for me. I went to Isaiah's school just to see him in action, headed off to work to tie up some loose ends in my classroom, and came home just in time to eat half a sandwich before Rachel, the midwife I have been closest with during my pregnancy, showed up for my appointment. As she left, she mentioned that the rain was supposed to move in the next day, and I commented that a storm system had kicked off my labor with Isaiah. After she left, I rested a bit, and then picked up Isaiah and ran some errands. By the time we got home, I felt like I had hit a brick wall. I ordered pizza and let Isaiah eat in front of the t.v. so I could lay on the couch.
Josh was home by 7, and I dragged myself to bed shortly after he arrived. In my bed, I read Isaiah one of the books about newborns that Rachel had left that afternoon. I didn't even have enough energy to turn on my hypnobirthing c.d, which I usually listen to before bed. I just crashed.
When Josh came to bed, around 10:30, I woke up, feeling kind of crampy and regretting having eaten pizza for dinner. At 1 A.M. I was up again, and felt that I couldn't sleep in our bed. I moved to the couch and tossed and turned. I remember thinking, "What am I going to do tomorrow? I don't have any plans." Usually when I have a day off, I have a bunch of activities planned for myself, but it hit me at that moment that I had a blank slate on Wednesday. I got up off the couch to go to the bathroom and felt a little bit of liquid come out. Exasperated (this had been happening frequently over the last few days and I was going through underwear like crazy) I made a little toilet paper pad, stuck it in my underwear, and decided to try going back to sleep in the bed.
At 3 A.M. I woke up again, needing to pee, and felt another mini-sploosh. When I went to the bathroom I noticed that the toilet paper was tinged pink. I had the same reaction that I had when I saw that positive pregnancy test back in May -- disbelief! When I came out of the bathroom, Josh was awake and asked if everything was alright. I told him that things were starting to happen and that I was really going to try to rest in case they happened soon.
Throughout the next hour, the crampiness I had felt the night before felt a little stronger, and I decided at around 4 A.M. that I should go put in my grades for progress reports because I knew I wouldn't want to do it after the baby came, and I felt like the baby really was coming soon!
By 6 A.M. I was having distinct contractions, no longer just crampiness. I practiced thinking of the contractions as waves lapping up on a beach, and that was very relaxing. Timing them, I found that they were six to nine minutes apart, but they were very mild. I called Rachel at 6:45 to let her know what was going on, and she told me that she had appointments in my area all morning and that she could come in a moment's notice if I needed her. I then called my sister to let her know we would need her to pick up Isaiah from preschoool at some point during the day.
Before Josh took Isaiah to school, I told Isaiah that Milo was coming today. I asked him if he wanted to see the baby be born or if we should wait until after he was born to go pick him up from school. We had been preparing Isaiah to see his baby brother's birth with books and videos, and up until that point he had seemed excited to see it, but I wasn't sure how he would feel now that the actual event was so close at hand. Isaiah said, without hesitation, "See him be born." Thinking that things would go quickly, I worried that my sister might need to wake him up from his nap at preschool so that he could be home for the birth, but figured it would all work out.
The rest of the morning was very mellow. I set out a few candles, and tidied up the room. I walked around the birth tub, and took in all the wonderful colors I had purposely put around the room over the last few months as I prepared my "birth suite." I kept timing my contractions, which were very gradually getting stronger, but were staying four to six minutes apart. I felt like I was handling them better than I had when I was in labor with Isaiah, but couldn't be sure if they were actually just milder. Rachel called at around 11:30 and asked if I thought she should come over. I told her I really wasn't sure. I didn't feel like I needed help at that point, but I was worried about her going to her next appointment, which was 40 minutes away in the opposite direction. She decided she would go get lunch and then come over.
When Rachel arrived around 1 P.M. I was still having mild contractions that I could talk through, even though I preferred to stop talking. The conversation she, Josh, and I were having was kind of funny because if it was my turn to talk and a contraction came along, we would pause and they would get quiet with me, and then we would start up where we left off. Rachel started to make notes in my "Labor Record," which I'm so thankful to have because later I lost track of time.
Just before 2 P.M. we watched a video of some water births, and then I walked around outside with Josh to try to get things going. After walking for about half an hour, the contractions were about four minutes apart, but still very mild. We went back inside to our room, and I turned on some Native American flute music that my best friend had used during her homebirth. I tried to get centered. I made a giant pillow pile on my bed so that I could do supported kneeling during contractions and rest on the pillows in between. I listened to the music while Josh rubbed my back and shoulders, focusing on the sounds of water in the background of the music to help me stay relaxed.
Around 3:30, Rachel came into the room to see how I was doing. She had just taken a nap. She didn't do a vaginal exam, since I had tested positive for Group B Strep, and we didn't want to do anything unnecessary that might increase the baby's risk of infection. I felt a little guilty that I had asked her to come so early because I still didn't feel like the contractions could be doing much work. I did recognize that I was feeling a little less inhibited at working through the contractions with her there, though. I was getting a little louder. She asked if I wanted something to eat, and I said yes. Josh fed me an energy bar, and gave me some Gatorade to sip on and everything tasted so, so good.
I started watching the clock a little bit after 4 P.M. and noted that I definitely wasn't going to have the baby by the time my sister picked Isaiah up from preschool. Josh called her and asked her to take him to the bookstore, toy store, and out for dinner before coming back, and told her we would call her if anything happened sooner. I was so happy knowing that she would be taking care of Isaiah because he loves spending time with her, and I knew he wouldn't be anxious. I decided at that point that I really needed to get things moving!
I kept listening to the flute music and kneeling on my bed to open up my pelvis and cervix. Every time a contraction came, I still tried to think of waves, but also told my myself, "This is what I want." I was hoping this would make my body relax and let go of any fear of what was to come. The contractions finally started coming stronger and in between I rested on the pillow mountain. I noticed that I was starting to have to peel myself off of the pillows after each contraction. By this time it was about 5:30 and, according to my Labor Record, the contractions were three minutes apart. I decided to try standing through the contractions while listening to hypnobirthing and leaning on Josh. We danced through each one.
There is a part in the hypnobirthing meditation in which the speaker says to picture yourself stepping into "the most magnificent color of yellow," and then walks you through the change to "green, the color of new life." "You feel more and more relaxed, calm and confident," he continues. When I heard this, I became totally overwhelmed by the moment. I felt euphoric and began to cry with joy that I would soon have another little boy and that the process of him arriving was so amazing. Josh rubbed my back and Rachel came over and rubbed my other arm. I wanted to express what I was feeling and my gratitude to them, but I just didn't have the words, I was so overwhelmed. Finally I told them, "It's ok, I feel really good."
After that round of hypnobirthing, Rachel asked if I would like her to fill up the tub. This was really encouraging, since I knew that she didn't offer the tub until she thought someone was in more active labor. I told her yes, and then returned to the bed for more kneeling contractions, repeating the thought, "This is what I want," while I "ahhhed" my way through each intense contraction and watched Rachel fill the tub. By this time it was about 6:00. I asked for something to eat and had a little bit of a protein drink, which turned out not to be a good choice because I felt nauseous shortly thereafter.
Just before 7 P.M., I stepped into the tub, which was heavenly. The warm water took away a lot of the intensity I had been feeling throughout my body when I was on the bed. Rachel said, "I haven't checked you, so I just want you to do what your body tells you to." After a few minutes in the tub, I actually worried that I was too relaxed and that I was not making any progress, but the intensity returned fairly quickly. Josh got in the tub with me for a while, but then I had to ask him to get out, so I could turn sideways and get my pelvis really open. I really wanted that baby out soon! With each contraction I held on to the edge of the tub and squatted. As a contraction ended, I would let myself rock back into more of a sitting position in the water. Rachel got a cold washcloth and patted my face with it gently.
I started feeling a little discouraged and pouty because, it seemed like, pretty quickly, my contractions were spacing out again (even though they were still really strong). I thought about asking Rachel to check me, but knew it wasn't a good idea. I kept going back in forth in my mind thinking, "If you're really discouraged, you're probably in transition," and, "That would be nice, but probably you have a long ways to go." Josh kept telling me I was doing a great job and how proud of me he was. When Rachel got the mirror ready nearby I felt totally encouraged, even though she hadn't said anything. I asked her if she could put some lavendar oil on the wash rag so I could smell it because it really realxed me. Instead, she sprayed some in the air, which was awesome because it suddenly smelled like my room was a spa!
I heard Isaiah come home with my sister and hoped that he was o.k. hearing me make a lot of noise. Some of my "ahhs" were sounding kind of siren like to me at this point! Rachel suggested that I switch to low "ohh" sounds. "Soft, stretchy, and open," she said. I was thankful to have direction at this point, so I did exactly what she said, and pretty soon one of my "ohhhhs" was interrupted by an "uhh" when I felt pressure. According to my Labor Record, this happened at 7:50 P.M.
I kept kneeling and holding on to the edge of the birth tub. Rachel commented that it sounded like I was bearing down, and I said that I wasn't really doing anything, but that if I tried to stop it felt uncomfortable. She said to go ahead and let it go then. I had a few more contractions without the pressure feeling and then things started happening really fast.
A few strong "uhhs" from me made Rachel run to get the other midwife, Claudia, who had arrived a little while earlier. I could feel the baby moving down the birth canal forcefully and then felt a pop in the water -- my membranes. With the next contraction, Rachel told me reach down and feel the babies head. On the one after that, Claudia said I should pant to keep him from coming to fast, which would probably make me tear. I panted away, but he still came down. It felt like his head was halfway in and halfway out, and I said, "He can't stay there!" which makes me laugh now. As the contraction ended, his head went back inside, and on the next one, Rachel, who was behind me, started listing all the parts she could see coming down. In one contraction I heard, "Forehead, ears, mouth, chin." Another one and the shoulders were out, Milo was down into the water, and Rachel floated him forward to me so I could pick him up out of the water. It was 8:26 P.M. and Milo let out a cry.
Rachel ran to get my sister and Isaiah. Isaiah giggled when he saw the baby and kept repeating, "Baby Milo is here. That's my baby brother." Milo was clean and slippery, just like I remembered Isaiah being and he had the same golden-colored hair. After a few minutes Claudia helped me and it out of the tub and into my bed (which was well-protected). They left Milo's cord attached to the placenta for a while so he could keep receiving nourishment from it and he started nursing right away. I was amazed, since I had remembered it taking a while for Isaiah to get a hang of nursing. The other thing I thought was so amazing was how soft Milo's feet were and how he was already opening his eyes.
Over the next couple of hours, the midwives helped me get cleaned up, and they checked out Milo. He was 8 lbs 13 oz and 21 inches long. They brought in a birthday "cake" which was a platter of sliced apples, bread, and cheese with a candle in the middle and sang "Happy Birthday" to Milo. It was such a wonderful and nourishing surprise. Isaiah sat with us on the bed for a while as we snacked and cooed over the baby. I felt exhausted, but full of bliss that our family was all together in our home at last in the minutes and hours following Milo's birth.
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