Sunday, November 22, 2009

Iohan's birth



Iohan is now two weeks old, and I’ve been meaning for the past thirteen days or so to sit down and write about his birth. It’s seemed a little perverse to do so, though: The same day that Iohan was born, a woman who attended our church before leaving Chicago also gave birth, but to her son who’d died in the womb, at 20 weeks’ gestation. A short time later, I learned of a friend of our friends who was and still is in a coma, struggling to live through an H1N1 infection and pneumonia. This young woman’s same family suffered the death of a husband and brother- and son-in-law a few years ago, as well as the death of an infant girl on, again, the same day of Iohan’s birth. Though my connections with these families are far from intimate, their sufferings have weighed heavy on my heart, especially, I think, when set in relief against my own child’s safe and healthy arrival into this world. I don’t believe that life is inherently “fair,” but I can’t explain why life should be so unfair to good people, and spare the rest of us.

So I sit down to write this with a paradoxically muted and heightened sense of joy at my own child’s birth. Muted because the sheer fact of Iohan’s healthy birth reminds me of the death of two children and their families’ suffering; heightened because the blessing of life shines so much more brightly when juxtaposed with death’s curse. I won’t go so far as to call this small account an act of defiance against Death, but I do offer it as a prayer of thanks to the One who gives Life, and, in some small way, as a prayer in memory of Adrian and Celia.

Iohan’s birth was, simply put, a dream come true. Considering the rapidity of my last two births, I’d spent at least a few weeks in mild terror of the worst case scenario, which consisted of any of the following: Gabe wouldn’t be home; no one would be available to care for Jonah and Manny; there would be heavy traffic; I’d give birth by myself; I’d give birth with only Gabe attending; I’d give birth on my front steps with the EMT; I’d give birth in a car; I wouldn’t realize that I was in labor until it was too late to go to the hospital; I’d give birth in an hour flat.

To my immense relief, my contractions started at 4:30 on Sunday morning, and they were regular enough, coming every 10-12 minutes, that I was able to establish that I was actually in labor by 5:30. Around 6:00, I experienced a couple signs that told me that I was in labor and that it was moving along, at which point I woke Gabe up; between 6:15 and 6:20 or so I was able to call the midwife, who told me to wait till the contractions were more frequent, lest they stall when we arrived at the hospital; my mom, who started her drive to Chicago; and our friends the Schmidts, who were on hand to take the boys until my mom could pick them up.

Finishing my phone calls, I attempted to act fairly nonchalant about being in labor, even though my contractions were now three to five minutes apart. Fortunately, my wise husband looked at me laboring and declared that we at least needed to get the boys to the Schmidts, regardless of what we did afterwards. The next several minutes were spent by Gabe packing the car and the boys and by me bent over at the waist whenever I had a contraction. In his hurry, Gabriel shut the keys in the trunk of my parents’ car, so he spent a part of this interval on the phone with my dad, searching for the magnetic extra-key box attached to the underside of their car, and being chided by our eldest son, who didn’t like the sight of his father laying in the street under a car.

Sometime around 7:00 we dropped the boys off at our friends’ home and then started for the hospital. This car ride had none of the panic that I experienced during labor with Manny; indeed, when Gabriel looked longingly at the McDonald’s a few blocks from the hospital, I told him that as long as he went through the drive-thru, I didn’t mind if he stopped. We signed in at the hospital around 7:40, at which point the staff put me in triage. This was my first time ever being in triage; previously, I’ve arrived at the hospital already pushing. It was about what I was expecting: A long wait for a nurse, who chatted on the phone about another birth; many seemingly inane questions (“How much did you weigh before you were pregnant?”) when she finally ended her call; and some griping by a different nurse that my preferred position was not conducive to hearing the fetal monitoring device. I couldn’t talk through my contractions at this point, and I felt sick. (A recurring thought in triage was, “Eating that CLIF bar on the way here was a mistake.”) The midwife came into the room sometime after 8:00 and proceeded to ask some more questions. I don’t know if it’s because I wasn’t vocal enough about my labor, or if it’s because the staff didn’t pay adequate attention, but it seemed that nobody realized that I was on the verge of having a baby, at any moment. The midwife checked me, as if to make sure that I was really in labor, only to discover that I was dilated to 7 or 8 centimeters. Almost on cue, transition hit with chills and nausea. The midwife decided that it was time to move me to the delivery room. I was fairly dismayed when I realized that this meant that I had to actually sit up and move into a wheelchair, but it may have been that act of sitting up that let gravity pull the baby further down: I was ready to push.

Though the attending midwife was my least favorite in the practice, she was great in the delivery room. She kept the nurses from putting an IV in me and reprimanded at least one who was evidently not paying attention to the fact that I was pushing. I gave birth lying on my side, and it took only eight contractions or so to push the baby out. Iohan is the first baby I’ve ever actually watched emerge, as I’ve always been too squeamish in the past to do so; I never realized how dark a baby’s skin is when they are born. When I saw his bluish-looking head, I told myself to push and get that baby out now! When I mentioned this to Gabriel later, he told me that that is how Jonah and Manny looked too. Later I saw that Iohan’s Apgar score was a 9. He was indeed perfectly healthy, but I was surprised that he wasn’t already pink. The midwife handed Iohan to me immediately, which almost created a no-nurse bubble of protection around us. Iohan’s bare and unwashed skin lay on my own bare chest. He wasn’t interested in nursing right then, just in being held and experiencing, I imagine, some mild shock at his new surroundings. In time, he nursed and was weighed and measured; his feet were inked and he was bathed; but the precious first moments were just for mama and baby, with dada right next to us.

I don’t love my third son more than my other two, but I was so much more present in his birth compared with either Jonah’s or Manny’s that there’s a sense of peace with his birth that I don’t experience in my memories of the other two. I knew what to expect, different from Jonah’s birth; and nothing ever felt out of control, as everything did with Manny’s birth. The pain was intense, but I was able to call on a couple mantras (“Pregnancy is not a disease” and “I’m going to get huge!”) from Ina May Gaskin’s book Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth that helped me to deal with the sensation. I’ve read about women turning inward during birth, and I was able to do that, to mentally process what was going on with my body and to think about how close I was to my goal of birthing my baby peacefully. My husband, as always, was a rock. He remembered that I’d told him to tell jokes to help me relax, but he wasn’t offended when I showed zero interest in joking. His firm hands pressing on my back helped me through the worst of my contractions. He reminded me when I was at my most negative that I wanted this birth, I wanted to meet this child, sweet Iohan Hilary. “Iohan,” a variant of John, means “God is gracious”: Indeed, He is.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Welcome home, Baby Iohan!

With our first two children, I wanted to be home as soon as possible after giving birth. With this third one, though, I stayed in the hospital for as long as the insurance company would let me. It was so peaceful and quiet there, and we weren't awakened at 6 a.m. by our 3 year-old's floppy feet. Iohan was born on Sunday and Gabriel, Iohan and I waited till Tuesday to return to the apartment. We were confident that the boys were well cared-for by Gangee and thought that, in fact, they probably appreciated being able to be spoiled by her without Gabriel or me interfering. Right now, the boys are completely smitten by Baby Iohan, or "Baby Han," as Manny calls him. He's the first thing they look for upon returning home from some outing with Gangee, and they love to show him their projects and toys around the house. It's very, very sweet. Just like this picture of Iohan and his daddy.











Sunday, November 8, 2009

Happy Birthday, Little One!

Baby Iohan Hilary arrived Sunday, Novemeber 8 at 8:54 a.m. He weighed in at 8 lbs 5 oz, our biggest baby by far, though he's only 20 1/2 inches long. Like a teapot, short and stout. Details to follow; enjoy the photos.





Friday, November 6, 2009

Happy Birthday to Moo!

October 22 marked two years since our little ball of sunshine and silliness, sweet Manuel Mark, made his entrance into this world. "Ball of sunshine and silliness" really is about the best way that I know how to describe him: He loves to ham it up for anyone who will watch, and he has so many cute little quirks and habits that I find Gabriel and myself saying, "He's just so cute" far too often. I tell Manny himself that he's way too cute, which is pretty dangerous, I think. I worry that I give him the power to get away with naughtiness if he'll only just turn on the charm; I'm sure that it's already happening. We love you, our sweet little Moosy, our delicious Pumpkin Pie! Many years!

I planned to hold off on any real birthday celebration until the day after Manny's actual birthday, when Gangee visited, to avoid any confusion about birthdays lasting only one day, not several. The morning of his birthday, though, my husband scolded my energy conservation project, so I agreed to at least do something. The boys and I made oatmeal cookies to be served with our lentil and rice casserole dinner. "Lentil and rice casserole" doesn't sound like much of a birthday dinner, does it?, but Manny loved it. As I said, a little ball of sunshine.





Oatmeal cookie cake will serve in a pinch...

...as long as it's accompanied by ice cream.


This is the look of a boy who doesn't want to be interrupted while playing with his new Winterwonderland Thomas the Tank Engine and the giggling Troublesome Trucks. ("Giggling Troublesome Truck," incidentally, happens to be a great nickname for Manny, who does indeed love to giggle while making trouble. Trouble is cute! Trouble is fun!)


Here's Manny's "real" birthday cake. It's supposed to be a dinosaur. There has to be a dino that was green with blue spots and a fin on its back, right? Dinosaur, dragon, whatever; it fierce and close enough for an easy-to-please two year old boy.





Nice work on the candles, Moo.






A is for Apple

I rarely take photos in Michigan these days. There are only so many pictures that one can take of carousel rides at the mall and boys playing with trucks in the sand, cute as all that stuff may be. I did, however, pull out the camera for our spur-of-the-moment trip to Grand Rapids a few weeks ago. At 9 a.m. on a Friday morning, my husband said, "Instead of me going into work today, how 'bout we rent a car and go to Michigan?" Because (and only because!) he agreed to pack for the boys, we were on the road within 2 1/2 hours, and the boys were ringing Pop-Pop and Gangee's doorbell and shouting, "Surprise!" a few hours after that. A part of my husband's motivation for the return was nostalgia brought on by the turning weather and the changing leaves. In honor of the fall season, our family made a brief stop at Robinette's, a lovely apple orchard where urbanites like us can purchase our own autumnal experience. Overpriced, yes, but a nice stop. Next year, I want to dress us all in overalls and flannel and do the whole thing: apple-picking, corn maze, hay ride, donuts and cider. Well, maybe not the denim-'n'-flannel (or the corn maze, now that I think about it), but the rest of it, for sure.

The Moo sports his new haircut on the play wagon.

I was surprised that Jonah actually "took a bite" out of this giant apple like I told him to, just so that I could take a picture of it. I love it when he cooperates.



Donut sugar is best when licked off of hands, didn't you know that? These donuts, by the way, were to die for. I don't know if I'll ever be satisfied with another kind of donut again; at the very least, not completely. You've set the bar high, Robinette's Orchard. Well done.
After play, cider and donuts, I decided to drag the boys into the apple orchard so that they could actually see where apples come from -- a tree, not a plastic bag in the market. I was way too cheap to spring for a $12 peck of U-pick apples; neither, however, did I want to be accused of or guilty of stealing. Somewhat to my relief, Jonah failed in his attempts to pull any apples off the trees themselves, so I just told him to pick a decent-looking one up off the ground -- not stealing! Close enough to hand-picked, and a whole lot cheaper.
Jonah cooperated before with the giant apple, but I couldn't get a smile out of him on our hike thru the apple orchard. Win some, lose some, though I tend to think that this picture is a winner, despite the "Are you kidding me, Mom?" look on his face.


"How big is your apple, Jonah?"
As big as his giant candy apple head, apparently.






See you next year, Robinette's!

Monday, November 2, 2009

"Doing Transportation"

Proof that kids can be fairly easy to please: "Doing Transportation." (Jonah came up with that name, by the way.) Jonah's tricycle-riding skills have improved to the extent that he can now easily ride around the block, to the park, to the dry cleaner, anywhere in our neighborhood. Now that pedaling comes easily, he is eager to head out on jaunts whenever his mama can work up the energy. Manny's short little legs have a tougher time of it, but he's always game to ride his truck around the block. In fact, he insists on it, and if I try to put him in the wagon (which I always bring with us, empty, should Manny decide that he's had enough) he usually kicks and screams. (And then proceeds to nearly fall asleep in the wagon in the remaining couple blocks till we get home, but I'm sure that he would tell you that he could've made it home, no big deal.) Though I have no photos of all the lovely changing leaves that we've seen over the past month or so, the red, yellow and orange have added some beauty to our mornings. Beauty that I've tried to share with the boys, but I can only expect so much from a 2 year old's and a 3 year old's attention spans. "Doing Transportation," though, has been a lovely way to spend some low pressure time with the boys (assuming that we don't cross to many streets), even if it does take 40 minutes to travel half a mile.

Manny likes to act coy. Yes, act. "Transportation" is one of his favorite activities.
Jonah put an assortment of stickers on top of his now-outgrown helmet a year ago. Strictly speaking, Manny probably doesn't need this helmet, but since Jonah wears one, the Moo insists on wearing his own. Last week, though, Manny actually hit a bump at a high enough speed that he pitched forward over his steering wheel and did a push-up on the sidewalk. I breathed a sigh of relief then that he insisted on copying his brother.







No "Transportation" trip is complete without a stop at the construction site down our street. Dream come true for my two guys.


Despite his generally reckless demeanor, Manny does still appreciate the finer things in life, like autumn leaves.

Snip, snip

Well, it only took two years -- or about a year longer than it took with Jonah -- to decide that, yes, indeed, Manny's hair was getting a little out of control.
It took some convincing to make him see that he looked a wee bit of a mess; here he turns his head away in disbelief, or maybe shame.
Gangee was nice enough to take the Moo for his first haircut. I hear that he was a little unsure about the proceedings at first, but with his Thomas the Tank Engine book (and maybe some food?) in hand, he settled in. Afterwards, he charmed the ladies at the cuttery by pulling his shortened curls (so thankful that they survived the trim!) and proudly proclaiming, "Haircut!" And he at a sucker, of course. What's a haircut without a sucker?