Two Weeks Notice

It’s official. It is actually happening. My resignation has been submitted. In two weeks, I will finally be a stay-at-home mom.

 This new role is so much more to me than a job. This is the culmination of a lifetime of day-dreaming, planning and preparation. See, I’ve known from a very young age that I wanted to be a mom. But not any mom, I wanted to be my mom.

 I have such vivid memories growing up, in a house where there was always a warm energy. It would make sense that the reason for this energy was the fact that I had four siblings, but I believe it was the result of my incredible mother. We moved constantly growing up, changing houses, cities, states, countries, and continents. But our houses always felt the same, like home. She was the constant.

 She was always there and always engaged with us in one way or another. We had her undivided attention and love, which must have been a challenge with so many of us. She always planned ahead, thinking of ways to make even the most grueling tasks enjoyable. We tease her now, as some of these tactics have lost effectiveness with our ages. (“Cmon guys! Let’s collect all the dead leaves and broken branches in the yard and make a big pile in the driveway! It’ll be fun!”…)

Everything was fun. When we ran errands, she would crank up the Raffi, and we’d sing along while we worked on our sticker books. If we were well-behaved, we got to stop by the “little store” on our way home and pick out an ice cream or a bag of “alligator chips.” When we traveled, we had to give her our empty backpacks the night before our flights. In the morning, they were stuffed full with new toys, games, books and activities, but we weren’t allowed to look until we were in our airplane seats with our seat belts on. There was always enough in there to entertain us for days. I remember several separate instances of fellow travelers, especially on those long international flights, complimenting her on her “well-behaved children”. I could not completely understand their compliment, until now.

Holidays were always spectacular, no matter how big or small. For a few years in the late 90’s, we traveled every year for Christmas, each time to a country we had never been – Kenya, Tanzania, Italy, Israel, etc. But my mom made sure that wherever we were, Santa found us. One year for Christmas, we had Christmas morning around a Christmas tree in the lobby of our London hotel; it was the only tree around, so Santa left all of our gifts there. Hotel guests stopped to watch us open and play with our gifts, there in our jammies, as they passed by. Another year, Santa left our gifts outside our Tanzanian bungalow, where my parents spent most of the time retrieving gifts that the monkeys had stolen. But perhaps my favorite holiday was Valentines Day. At dinner that night, there was a little gift bag on each of our plates with, no doubt, well thought-out items inside.

 Dinners were something special at our house. Every night, same time, same place. The TV was never on (we weren’t allowed to watch TV on weekdays anyway) and our attention was on each other. This was the time we learned what was happening in each other’s lives. My mom always prompted the HIGH-LOW game, where we had to go around the table and tell everyone what the high and low of our day had been. A seemingly small, insignificant task, but the information we learned was invaluable. Some of my most favorite memories occurred at the dinner table. Like the time a particular favorite song of my mom’s came on the stereo while were eating, and my dad quietly stood up, walked over to my mom at the other end of the table, put out his hand, and led her to an open area a few feet from the table where they quietly danced. The only sounds were the squeaky, muffled giggles and “ewwww’s” coming from the dinner table. This memory is what happiness looks like, and it still brings tears to my eyes to this day.

 It was no surprise that our house was the gathering spot for all of our friends. Anyone who came over was always warmly greeted and welcomed by my mom. Even unexpected visitors, which were most of them, walked right in and took part in whatever activity we had going on. On any given day, at any given moment, there was always at least one extra child there hanging out. But the Mama Bear never skipped a beat. One more after school snack, one more place setting at the dinner table was seamlessly added.

 I remember about 15 years ago, when I was in middle school, a sweet girl named Jennifer stopped by our house to use the phone on her walk home from school one day. She was the older sister of one of my best friends, by about 4 years. We didn’t spend much time with her, and none of us knew her well. I don’t remember the purpose of the phone call, but my Mom was there to help, chatting with her about her day at school. Maybe it was a conversation she didn’t get to have at home, or perhaps it was just having someone to listen, but every day after that, when I arrived home from school, there was Jennifer, perched on a bar stool in the kitchen, telling my mom about her day.

I could literally go on forever about the ways in which my mom enriched our lives, and the time she spent focused entirely on our family. We were so fortunate to have her all to ourselves, and she made the absolute most of every minute. I will forever be indebted to her for the most extraordinary training I could have received. (And to my wonderful Dad for making it all possible) This is the life I want for my own children. This is the gift I want, so badly, to give them. Now I can.

 I feel so blessed, and so incredibly fortunate, to have a front row seat to my children's' lives. But most importantly, I feel lucky beyond comprehension to have a man who understands the value of it, and who wholeheartedly believes in my capabilities as a mother. And, of course, who works endlessly to make it possible.

 For the first time in my life, I feel like I am exactly where I should be. This feeling is indescribable.

My life is about to begin.

 NOTE: I understand that not everyone agrees with my viewpoints on this issue. I know that some people aren’t able to stay home with their children, and some choose not to. I believe that no matter what their parents do, kids can have wonderful, happy, full upbringings.

The First Day of my Life

It is truly amazing how quickly you forget what happened the day your child was born. I’ve read that it’s your body’s way of protecting you, and ensuring that you will continue to reproduce.  But for me, the whole experience was so incredible that even on that same day, I was sure I wanted to do it again. 

So I am going to try and remember every detail, as accurately as possible.  Here it  goes…

Clementine’s Birth Story

My first contraction woke me with a jolt at 3:20am on Monday, February 6. It was a sharp pain, but not too painful or strong. In fact, I wasn’t even sure it was a contraction. I sat still for a moment, and waited for something to happen. Another one came, and then another.  I timed them for a little while, 5-6 minutes apart consistently. I woke Chris, and told him that I may be in labor, but to go back to sleep in case it was a false alarm, and that I would wake him if anything changed.  I got up, walked around, sat on my exercise ball, and continued to time them for another hour, 5 minutes apart.  They were getting progressively stronger, but still manageable. I decided to get in the bath, to help me relax, and ended up soaking for almost an hour, during which they had become 4 minutes apart consistently. By the end of my bath, they were strong enough that I could no longer time them by myself, and had to focus in order to stay relaxed through a contraction. It was 5:30am when I woke Chris to start timing them for me.

Once Chris was up, and realized how close together the contractions were, things got a little nuts. I’m embarrassed to admit that we had not packed a hospital bag, and had yet to install a car seat. So between contractions and bouts of vomiting, I began hollering out items to be packed in our hospital bag like a drunken drill sergeant, while Chris buzzed around the room grabbing everything that seemed even slightly relevant. By the time he finished installing the carseat, it was 7:00am and the contractions were 3 minutes apart, and 50 seconds long.  I had only been in labor for 4 hours, so I didn’t believe I had made much progress.  I wanted to labor at home for as long as possible, so I tried to convince Chris that we didn’t need to leave yet. He was sure we needed to get to the hospital, so at 7:30am, against my will, we left. He called the doc on the way, and explained my contraction pattern, and he too suggested we get there as soon as possible. I was sure they were being dramatic and that I would arrive at the hospital, have no progress, and be turned away.

Boy was I wrong. My first exam at 8:00am revealed that I was at 8 cm, and 100% effaced and that my water had broken. I was simultaneously shocked and relieved. About 30 minutes later I was checked again, and I was at 9cm, but my nurse discovered that she was previously mistaken and that my water had not actually broken. Before I knew it, and without warning, a minor explosion occurred and I was informed that they had ruptured my water. And then things got ugly... really, really ugly.

Up to this point, the contractions were very painful, but nothing I couldn’t manage. Once my water was broken, there was no comparison. I thought I was dying.  I cannot describe the pain. And my favorite thing in the whole world to do is describe things. Holy fricking mackerel.  I immediately began vomiting uncontrollably, which only added to the insane contracting that was already happening. As if the mere strength of the contractions at this point wasn’t enough, they began lasting over a minute long, and occurring every 15-20 seconds. I literally had no recovery time in between them.  My poor little (big) body was still throbbing from the previous contraction when the next one began. I lost it. At the first hint of a new contraction, I would explode with “Nooooooooo! NOOOO! NO! NO! NO!” Yep, I am THAT girl… This continued for the longest, most brutal hour of all time, when I was finally checked again and was at 9.5cm. I was feeling the urge to push (kind of), so the nurse said I could push through the last half centimeter. So I began pushing around 9:30am. The baby still felt really high, so I knew I might be pushing a bit longer than I had anticipated. After an hour of relentless contractions and pushing (incorrectly) with everything I had, I hadn’t made any progress. But I wasn’t discouraged, and the baby wasn’t in distress, so we continued pushing through contractions…

Until my doctor arrived. He arrogantly walked into the room and immediately announced that we would be going into surgery and having a c-section. We were instantly confused and shocked. Why? Nothing was happening that would illicit worry or emergency action. The baby was not in distress, I was not at the point of exhaustion. He informed us that the baby was transverse, and was stuck. We couldn’t understand how this was possible, since she had been perfectly positioned for delivery for months. We argued with him, so he angrily left the room and came back minutes later with an ultrasound machine. Obviously irritated, he quickly did the exam to determine the position of the baby, who, as it so wonderfully turned out, was NOT transverse; just a little teeny bit crooked. So he agreed to give us 30 more minutes to push, leaving us with the delightful threat that “If I don’t see hair by then, I’ll see you in surgery.”

In that moment, Chris disappeared and Coach Kahl was there. My frustration turned into anger and subsequently into motivation. Nothing gets my stubborn self fired up like telling me I can’t do it.  And luckily for us, our nurse Helen, who's performance, let’s be honest, had been less than stellar up to this point (I was on my FOURTH IV port courtesy of her handiwork), kicked into gear, hollering in her thick far-eastern accent “NO C-SECTION! NO C-SECTION!” These were the first words that she had uttered that I had actually understood, and I could not have been happier to hear them. The clock was ticking, and the race was on. I was going to beat Dr. P.

A second nurse arrived with some contraption that required me to pull myself up into the squatting position to push. It was strange and uncomfortable and ineffective and I bagged it in a matter of minutes. We didn’t have time to screw around! But what this second nurse did for me was invaluable- she told me how to push. This may sound ridiculous, especially at this point in my labor, but it was then that I realized that no one had ever actually told me HOW to push. It seems as though it would be instinctual and obvious, it’s not. At least not for me. As soon as I had this information, we were making progress! It was then that a poor, unsuspecting anesthesiologist arrived to go over our upcoming surgery and was immediately bashed, rejected, and verbally attacked before accepting defeat and exiting our room. I took control. Instead of having poor Helen instructing me, I pushed when I felt the strongest contractions, when it hurt the most. Coach Kahl was in full force, with unrelenting encouragement and constant reminders of our incredible goal. Every push from here on out was working, she was coming! The minutes flew by, and boy did we need every single one of them. Before we knew it, there it was, what we had all been waiting for; HAIR. Without us even knowing it, 30 minutes had gone by, but there was no sign Dr. Jekyll P. Little Helen flew out of the room hollering behind her, “STOP POOOSHING STOP POOOSHING!” Ha! Yeah right! After HOURS of desperately trying to get this far, I was not about to stop. So I didn’t. As per usual, the incredibly  inconvenienced Dr. P took his sweet ass time getting back to us, but once he was there, it was just about over. He snapped on his gloves, took his seat, and told me to go ahead and push. After a few pushes (and one UNAPPROVED episiotomy), her head was out, quickly followed by her body. She was here. It was 11:58am.

We were later told by our night nurse that our surgery room had been all set up, and the C-Section was scheduled for Noon… NOON. It’s amazing what 2 measly minutes could mean to someone, what a difference they could make. For us, they were everything.

In the end, it didn’t matter how she got here. Just that she was here. C-Section, no C-Section, Epidural, no Epidural, Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, it wouldn’t have changed how special that day was. Our Clementine was here, healthy as could be, and our hearts were as full as they had ever been.

Clementine Lane Kahl

She has arrived! Although this update is so incredibly late that it most definitely no longer qualifies as “news”, I feel that there should be some sort of announcement post following my long string of anticipatory posts. So without further ado, I’d like you all to meet the love of my life, my little Emme Lane:

Born February 6, 2012 11:58am 8lb.1oz. 21in. 

With a head full of blonde hair…

She is wonderful and precious and fascinating and simply everything a baby should be and we are beyond proud. 

Her birthday was nothing like we imagined it would be, and definitely not when we imagined it would be. I’m currently working on her birth story, trying to make sure I am recalling it as accurately as possible (it’s incredible how quickly your mind wipes it out…) So stay tuned!