Ruminations on Being a Parent

Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn's very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn't have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

Ruminations on Being a Parent

Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn's very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn't have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

My Perfect Day

I stumble through my days in a perpetual state of discombobulation and oblivion, sifting through my thoughts for my current intention, wading through chaos for the object I seek. I long for clarity. Repeatedly, it occurs to me that my mind is a reflection of the clutter that smothers me at home and at work. Approaching my day is like walking through a sand storm. 

I try to convince myself and others that my approach enhances my life through the flexibility it offers. By winging it through my days, I remain open to the flashes of inspiration that occur so suddenly, and fleetingly. Still, how much more fulfilling my life could be if my mind were not a swarm of gnats, filled with distraction that so interferes with the perfectibility of my days. Ah... to create a perfect day would require more hours than we are given. Would that I had the wherewithal to construct my days just so...

I awaken before anyone else in time to take advantage of my mind in it's relaxed state and without distraction. It is still and dark, the sky just beginning to lighten in the east. I enter the kitchen which remains in the clean and tidy state of the previous evening. I savor the aroma of coffee as it culminates in gurgle and whoosh. The kitties wrap themselves around my ankles in purring contentment as I prepare their morning meal. I pour my coffee, settle comfortably in the living room, warm laptop alleviating the slight chill I feel. My eyes sweep the artful rugs, books lined neatly on the shelves, tasteful knickknacks and paintings, stained glass lamps that provide a warm glow to the woodwork. The scent of freshly mowed grass and lilacs wafts in on the morning breeze. Strains of George Winston play quietly in the background, filling me with the memory of young love. 
     

I am ready to begin my work: developing curriculum, writing an inspiring newsletter, planning for the coming season. Today I do the final draft of a piece of writing in preparation for Writers and Friends. The next hour is spent completely absorbed in the task at hand, and I am surprised when I hear the first wake up call upstairs, provided by the morning news. I slip back into our room for a warm snuggle with my beloved. We laugh and talk and listen to the stirrings of our sons.

I return to the living room to spend the next hour with my journal, dreaming, writing about the hilarious or invigorating or disturbing events of the previous day, taking inventory, making lists... This is perhaps the most important thing that I can do for myself, for when I am neglectful of this task, I become unhappy, irritable and discontent. Golden sunshine suddenly floods the living room as the sun makes it's way over the hills in the east.

The shower is running constantly as the boys begin their synchronized morning ablutions. The slightest delay on the part of one leads to a squabble, but thankfully they are old enough to work these things out among themselves. They crash down the stairs to begin the kitchen dance in which they move about each other in relative silence, making their lunches and preparing breakfast among themselves. The house is a flurry of activity and swift goodbyes, abruptly silenced as they rush out into their day.

I close my journal, relieved that I have started the day off on the right foot. I descend to the basement to put a load of laundry in. Then clattering about the kitchen, singing along to Simon and Garfunkel or Cat Stevens, or the Moody Blues, I load the dishwasher, put things away, clean the counter, sweep the floor, and think about what to make for tomorrow evening's meal. Gathering the ingredients, I start a pot of soup and pull a container of spaghetti sauce from the freezer. Once the soup is on, I head up stairs to make my bed, collect laundry, and shower. I luxuriate under the hot water with my favorite scented soap and shampoo. I further pamper myself with lotion and fresh, crisp, clean clothes. As I step into the hall, the fragrance of the soup prolongs my sensual delight. But now I need to step up my pace as I throw the laundry into the dryer, eat my own breakfast, and walk briskly to work. The day is perfect: clear, green, kissed with dew and the scent of new spring.

The phone is ringing when I enter the building and one of my closest friends is wanting to make a date for lunch. It has been some time since we have seen one another and my heart soars. I take a moment to return phone calls before the children arrive and thank heavens that I have mended my ways and left the building in readiness for today's class. There is a plan, and everything that I will be needing for the day is ready in a place where it will be easily accessible. The children arrive happy and expectant, playing together while I speak briefly with parents. When the parents have left, I check in with each child. One presents a masterpiece that she has created for me.

The day goes smoothly, there are no tussles between children, everyone likes the snack I have chosen for the day, we have created works of art that make us proud, learned of something new, loved a story that had not been heard, and danced the wiggles out. The children depart, leaving me once again in silence.

My friend arrives for our lunch date and we go to a new place we have just discovered. We become so immediately absorbed in deep conversation that we lose ourselves and have forgotten to look at the menu. When lunch arrives, it so hits the spot that I swoon with pleasure. The world once again recedes as we resume our heart to heart, feeling completely at peace with one another as we divulge our innermost thoughts and concerns. Neither of us is in a big hurry, so we stop to browse our favorite garden center and come across a plant once seen, and since coveted. Not only that, there is a perfect spot for it in the garden. On the way back to my house, we burst into side splitting laughter that hurts, brings tears to our eyes and leads both of us to dribble a tiny bit. We acknowledge to one another the amazing, incredible gift that is our friendship.

Traces of eau de soup greet me as I enter the house looking forward to a well deserved nap. I'm exhausted and have no trouble drifting into that state of total relaxation in which I am at the surface of deep slumber, thoughts wandering about non sensibly between the strains of music penetrating my consciousness. I awaken feeling refreshed and rested to the sounds of boys horsing around down stairs and to the scent of fresh coffee. We banter over music that rather jars my senses and I feel intense gratitude for their presence in my life. I wish I could stay home with them, but have places to go and people to see.

My writing partner pulls up out front as I gather the things I need for the rest of the afternoon. I am filled with anticipation as we greet one another and pull out of the driveway. I heave the accustomed sigh of contentment as we enter the building and then settle in the garden for a bit of catch up before we turn our attention to the matter at hand. I marvel that spirit has brought the two of us together in our writing pursuits, because we make an awesome sounding board for one another, providing one another with support and encouragement and inspiration. The allotted time flies by and we part with a sense of magnetism toward our next writing endeavor.

I reluctantly turn to matters of business: phone calls, bills, classroom preparation for the following day. By now, I must summon my reserves, and thankfully get a second wind and so accomplish the necessary tasks before going home.

As I enter the house, I am greeted with the mouth watering aroma of spaghetti and warm bread, my timing perfect. The table is set, and my dear husband greets me with a warm hug and kiss. The boys clamber in the kitchen as I serve up dinner. I am so tired that I eat in comfortable silence as I drink in the circle of love and appreciation and respect that flows between the six of us. The table is cleared and kitchen cleaned up by the boys while my husband and I relax in the living room reviewing the day together.

I move into the evening by planting the garden treasure acquired earlier in the day, enlivening my soul nurturing gardens as my spirit becomes one with the running water, the birdsong, children's laughter, and the warm breeze rustling in the leaves. The phone rings. It is my Robin calling to discuss plans for our next visit. - RDW (6-23-08)

My Perfect Day

I stumble through my days in a perpetual state of discombobulation and oblivion, sifting through my thoughts for my current intention, wading through chaos for the object I seek. I long for clarity. Repeatedly, it occurs to me that my mind is a reflection of the clutter that smothers me at home and at work. Approaching my day is like walking through a sand storm. 

I try to convince myself and others that my approach enhances my life through the flexibility it offers. By winging it through my days, I remain open to the flashes of inspiration that occur so suddenly, and fleetingly. Still, how much more fulfilling my life could be if my mind were not a swarm of gnats, filled with distraction that so interferes with the perfectibility of my days. Ah... to create a perfect day would require more hours than we are given. Would that I had the wherewithal to construct my days just so...

Part II: Laying in Wait

Bed rest. Weeks of confinement and being sequestered in my bedroom with admonitions to stay put, the only exception being to use the bathroom. 

It is a mixed blessing really- an opportunity to send long hand written letters to everyone in my address book. It is a chance to read and sleep, be waited upon, and to complete needlework and quilt projects (the Michael Hague Christmas stocking I’ve been stitching for Henry since he was 8 months old; the rainbow Trip Around the World quilts for Henry’s and Phillip’s beds).


The precise therapy that every frazzled young mother yearns for- and it totally sucks. 

Imagine the pending holidays: gifts to make and acquire and get off in a timely manner, tree to get up and decorated, cookies to be made, parties to attend, carols to sing, and being helpless to participate in any of it. 

Friends are enlisted to assist round the clock with Phillip, age 1 ½, and Henry, 3 ½ years old. Thankfully they are able to shower those boys (and me!) with love and attention enough to get us all through this difficult time. 

Donna and Cindy, the dear wonderful women tending to my household (mothering my children, doing laundry, dishes, shopping, changing diapers, cleaning, running errands, cooking, … and getting paid to do it!) while I am bedridden sympathize with my predicament, and chide me to enjoy being queen for a day or however long it takes these babies to safely enter the world. They help me to keep the bright side to all of this in view, serve me nutritious lunches too big to cram into the limited space afforded by two rapidly growing beings within, and marvel with me as the babies perform their gymnastics beneath skin stretched so taught it threatens to split wide open. 

The boys are so sweet marching up and down the stairs to visit, or share lunch, or read stories (The Little Engine That Could, Chicken Soup With Rice, Good Night Moon, The Cat in the Hat- over and over again until every word of these treasured favorites is remembered yet, almost 20 years later). Their little table and chairs have been brought into the bedroom along with various projects for us to complete for grandparents and Daddy. We make miles of paper chains, paint sweatshirts and pictures to be framed, and make wrapping paper. 

But it breaks my heart to see them go back over the stairs to carry on with the life that I am no longer a part of. 

The Boston Pops Christmas music drifts up the stairs, as do Henry and Phillip’s little voices laced with excitement over the arrival of the pine scented Christmas tree. The aromas: warm cookies straight from the oven, and hot chocolate, and popcorn to be strung with cranberries, seem to reach from the holiday magic of my early childhood and once again I am filled with self-pity. It is so not fair that I am to miss such an important and historic moment in the early lives of my children. 

I can’t stand it a moment longer and creep down the stairs to at least observe and supervise the tree decorating. You know how it goes- no one else can get it just right. All previous lessons in letting go are forgotten for the moment. (Naughty Ruth- bad, bad girl!) 

That visit in the real world satisfies me for a few days, until a dear friend brings a promising recruit for the family practice my husband belongs to. 

“Can you just come downstairs for a few minutes, she so needs to meet you.” 

“Oh, I guess a couple of minutes won’t hurt.” (Bad girl, Ruth). 

Furlough #3: The boys are planning to watch the Bugs Bunny Christmas special.  “Come on down,” pleads my husband. 

“Oh, I don’t want to watch that, I’ll wait until Charlie Brown or The Grinch or Rudolph are on.” 

“You should come down now, it will be good for you.” 

“But I really don’t want to watch that.” 

“Please???” 

“Oh, all right!!” 

As I make my way down the stairs, I look out the window to the left to see a car in the driveway. 

“Huh, someone is here.” 

I turn my head to the right to find the living room lit with the warm glow of dozens of candles and filled with about 20 women! My heart leaps into my throat. We’re having a Blessing Way! 

A Blessing Way is an alternative to a baby shower, the focus deeply spiritual, as opposed to the commercial bent of a typical baby shower, which neglects the sacredness of the birth process. Women gather to bestow upon me loving care and energy to help guide me through the birth. This involves massage, washing of feet, brushing of hair, singing and prayers for a hale and hearty birth experience. 

The initial self-consciousness gives way to the restoration of my resolve and gives me hope to endure the last difficult days of a long and tumultuous pregnancy. 

Given my life circumstances and my incapacity for being told what to do, it is rather amazing that there are only four breeches to my sentence of bed rest, the last of which is our traditional ooh and ah ride to check out the Christmas lights around town. On Christmas Eve we all bundle into the car wrapped in blankets, Mickey Mouse and Alvin and the Chipmunks providing festive music to the occasion. The cold night air and magical twinkle of colored lights in my first excursion into the world outside of the hospital or our house since the day after Thanksgiving, fills me with great joy and that sense of magic that fills my children with awe. 

Finally, on the day after Christmas, I have reached term regarding safe delivery of those little dickens' that have totally dictated my life for this last month. I'm free!

************

I re-enter the real world to carry on with my life to the stares and audible gasps that the spectacle of my enormous belly evokes from passers by. Each day the stretch marks get angrier and I fear that the babies' gymnastics will push beyond the limits of the elasticity of my skin.

When I go to the grocery store, I knock over a display of oranges because I have not compensated for the space required by the three of us. My arms are barely long enough to reach the cart.

When I go to use the public facilities, I am no longer able to close the door. And when we have dinner, I set the plate on my belly because I can't reach it otherwise.

The due date for the babies passes. Day after day I long to reclaim my body, but since they were refused entrance into the world the first time, they are quite content to stay put.

 I teeter on the creaking stepladder painting the dining room. The boys and I build a gigantic snowman in the front yard, providing quite the spectacle for our neighbors as I awkwardly push the snowballs about with my fingertips. When we go sledding, my sled plows through the powder to skim bare the earth; it takes three people to help me up from the ground.

The babies won't budge.

Drastic times call for drastic measures. On the sly I consult with a friend who is a midwife, seeking her advice in inducing labor. She suggests taking Castor oil. My partner in crime, Cindy, beloved caregiver and friend, makes the necessary purchase and makes a rather disgusting concoction for me to drink. No go. Cleans everything but the babies out of my poor beleaguered body.

Dear Cindy seeks out Black Kohosh Tea, a remedy used by midwives for inducing labor, certainly not available in this little berg. She brews another nasty potion, which I readily gag down- to no apparent avail. They stay put.

**********

It is not until 4:15 AM two weeks after their due date that I am startled awake by a monstrous and searing contraction. If there is a Richter scale for contractions, this had to have been a 9.5, and increasing my 3 cm dilation to a gaping 9 cm.

I awaken my husband in alarm, only to have him roll over, mumbling to wake him when my labor is serious. This is the point, of course, that is famous in the annals of birthing, cursing superlatives flying out of the poor victim of delivery and the birthing experience in attack of the person responsible for this agonizing and miserable predicament.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, stark naked, huge belly spilling over the edge, waiting for the contraction to end, only to realize that it is continuous. Amidst the indescribable agony, I so wish that Tony could have a taste of it. (Oh to be handed that little bundle of joy with none of the immense torture, and taking half the credit to boot).

Then Baby Phillip wanders into my bedroom in his yellow sleeper, huge brown eyes and pacifier; the stark contrast between the intense pain of transition and the soft warm little hand that takes mine is so dramatic that the moment will forever be precious in my mind. 

I am finally coaxed into the car as our bleary-eyed neighbor stumbles in to care for the boys while I bring their siblings into the world.

As we cross Main Street en route to the hospital, one thing is certainly clear. I want drugs! I have proven twice that I can give birth with no medication, and I’ll be damned if I have anything left to prove. I want drugs! And oh my God you better step on it!

We arrive to the maternity ward to the great dismay of the nurses on duty. We have forgotten to call the hospital to let them know we are coming. As I undress and am begging for drugs, I am aware of the poor woman in the other bed, calmly hanging out with her family and having to listen to me freak out.

There is a mad scramble to prepare for the double birth. My family doctor and his wife (my coach), the attending OB-GYN, our pediatrician friend, Susan, who is planning to be on hand in case of complications, are still in oblivious slumber.

The nurse who checks me says to my doctor husband, “I don’t know how you feel about this, but you might want to check her. I think she’s fully dilated!” –And to me, “Don’t push!! No you can’t have drugs it’s too late for that now!”

Rush to the delivery room with frantic admonitions not to push. Cold metal sterility seems blinding to me. Doctor and coach rush into the room, and with my friend's gentle grasp of my hand, I calm instantly.

The magic words “You can push now” vaguely reach my ears before “Baby A” practically shoots across the room in one push. It feels so, so, so, so good!! And I think to myself, this is how it’s done! 

It’s a boy!

Just after Baby A arrives, the missing cast members: obstetrician, pediatrician, anesthesiologist, additional nurses trickle in. Given that my husband is well known throughout the hospital, word has rapidly spread far and wide, and bets are being made as to time of birth and gender of the babies.

As with the births of my older sons, the crushing contractions cease and all is well with the world.

"Would you like to hold your baby?"

"No I can't do that right now. (i.e, Are you crazy I'll crush the poor kid trying to get this other one out!)

Everyone relaxes and we wait. And wait. And wait. Susan has taken charge of photography, having missed the opportunity to record Baby A's entrance into this world. My husband takes the baby and I greet him, but yet refuse to welcome him into my arms for fear of doing him bodily damage.

I'm frustrated that everyone is taking this all so lightly, chatting and joking, and having a grand time. I need to concentrate.

Now, I had imagined that the second would arrive in mere minutes- totally disregarding my friend Laura's comment that it could be an hour between births. But nothing happens.

"You aren't feeling any contractions?"

"No." Monitor shows no contractions.

"O.K. Ruth, we're going to give you a pitocin drip to see if we can get this show on the road." And I'm thinking, oh God I don't want to do this again.

The contractions start slowly but quickly pick up in frequency and intensity. Baby B is breech. Doctor jokes, "Don't quote me but I think it's a boy!"

By this time, I am watching everything that is going on from up in the corner of the room. The anesthesiologist says, " We’re going to put you to sleep for a moment" and before I have time to object I'm awake again being introduced to my fourth son! He is one hour and four minutes younger than his brother, something he will never live down.

I eagerly reach for both squirming little prunes, albeit the most lovely of fruit. 

And I Thank God I won't have to contend with adolescent daughters!

The Beginning...

Part II: Laying in Wait

Bed rest. Weeks of confinement and being sequestered in my bedroom with admonitions to stay put, the only exception being to use the bathroom. 

It is a mixed blessing really- an opportunity to send long hand written letters to everyone in my address book. It is a chance to read and sleep, be waited upon, and to complete needlework and quilt projects (the Michael Hague Christmas stocking I’ve been stitching for Henry since he was 8 months old; the rainbow Trip Around the World quilts for Henry’s and Phillip’s beds).


The precise therapy that every frazzled young mother yearns for- and it totally sucks. 

Part I: Letting Go

Living in a small town and lacking the anonymity I desire, I send my friend Rita for the pregnancy test. Damn. The instructions clearly state to wait until morning’s first pee. A long restless night filled with dread ensues.

Okay. Why do they have to make these damn packages so hard to get open? Hold the tip in urine stream, wait three minutes: one bar not pregnant, two bars pregnant. Shit, it’s only been about thirty seconds but I decide to peek anyway.

Oh God no, please no, it said it would take three minutes. Wait a minute. The directions say to hold the tip down and I was holding it up. It must be wrong…

But I am pregnant. Again.

      
I walk through my life in a daze. When I look in the mirror, I see a pale and despondent woman with dark circles and greasy hair looking back. My body moves about like a sack of wet sand. I have all I can do managing the two little children I have. How will I ever deal with further compounding the situation? My desperation sweeps me away as I long to flee from this life.

***********

While visiting friends, I lay on the dock, feeling the growing lump within pressing against the hot pungent and splintering wood, as I will the energy of the sun to nurture and love my unborn child in a way that I feel unprepared to do.

      
After confiding my misgivings to a dear friend, I worry about his admonitions regarding the emotional havoc wreaked upon the fetus of an unwanted child of his acquaintance, and the grown child’s struggles with chemical addiction and criminal behavior…

      
Four days later I go for an ultrasound. I don’t know when I had my last period; I always know when I last bled. My mother used to mark the calendar with a big R on the day I was due, for the entire world to see. But for years it has been my secret- only I know when to expect the red tide. Always.

      
Except this once.

     
At least they are not checking for twins as they had the two previous pregnancies. After the first rush at the possibility of twins, I had known the second was a false alarm as well. This time the ultrasound is performed to “check dates”.

     
Preparation for an ultrasound requires drinking water way beyond the capacity of the human bladder, creating extreme discomfort as the pressure becomes so great as to crush the other organs.

     
My sole thought and focus becomes not to embarrass myself by creating a lake in the middle of the waiting room. Of course, this is the day they are running behind. “Oh, you can pee, just not more than the three ounces it takes to fill this cup.” Right. I know better than to open the floodgates and use this opportunity for kegels- or rather one long continuous kegel, as I will the technician to come for me.

     
Finally, as I lay on the frigid table, the tech squeezes the warm sticky goo onto my belly, chuckling as she sets the transducer onto my abdomen. As I look over my shoulder to view the screen, I gasp at the sight of two separate entities floating before my eyes, thinking in that split second, “at least it won’t be a ten-pounder” (the first two children being 8, then 9 pounds), and “we need a new washer and dryer!”  

      
“Oh my God, that’s TWINS isn’t it? Is that twins?!? How did that happen?” (There is no history of twins in the family- but later a doctor friend says “sit down and I’ll explain it to you!”)

      
Wow, twins! That puts a new light on things. Preparations must be made. Call the contractor. Knock down the kitchen wall. Rethink nursery school, after having made the decision that our children are already getting the experience they need to start kindergarten. Shoot, we’ll probably home school them anyway. Hm. Better rethink that too.

       
The tech asks, as though speaking in slow motion into a barrel, “Shall we call your husband for a look, he’s in the building.” My better half is a doctor in the family practice next door and has been called into the hospital for an emergency. “No, I’ll tell him... On second thought…”

      
He bounces in with a grin on his face. “Is there a baby in there?” He looks at the monitor, his face draining of color, chin dropping to the floor. “Wait a minute, that’s not …”, he murmurs in disbelief amid gales of laughter.

      
By the time I go for blood work a few moments later, everyone in the hospital is abuzz with the news. When he wanders, dazed, back to the office, his nurse asks him about the delay at the hospital. “Twins…” “You delivered twins?!” “No… we’re going to have twins…” he replies in a dreamy monotone. 
 

**********
 

I delight in breaking the news to friends and family.

     
“Hey Dad-you’ll never guess what.”

     
“You’re going to have twins, heh heh…”

     
“Yeah!”

     
“What?! You’re going to have twins?? You’re joking right?”

       
My neighbor looks at the photo trying like the dickens to yank those two images into one, for surely she is seeing double. Her husband jams his fist into his mouth, bug- eyed.  

       
My sister, upon picking me up at the airport almost slams into the car in front of us at the tollbooth as she and her daughter in their disbelief whip their heads around to confirm that this is a joke.

      
I have been suddenly plucked from the lower depths of depression as in the coming months I am showered with attention, and preparations are made.

      
We make plans for having the kitchen remodeled, so that the house we purchased with two children in mind will seem more accommodating. We shop for another crib, purchase bunk beds, move Phillip in with his brother Henry. The days fly by and suddenly the holidays are upon us.
Then, the day after Thanksgiving, in my 32^nd week, after an interminable day of shopping, my exhaustion keeps me in the car while my husband goes back to look for Henry’s jacket. As I wait, world a-shine with city lights on wet pavement, the thought crosses my mind that this is exactly the way I felt the night before my firstborn arrived after a day of climbing on the rocky shore of Maine. 
 

Upon arrival home, I make a beeline for the bathroom and gasp in horror at my bloody underwear. A panicked trip to the maternity ward ensues. Bustling medical professionals hook me up to monitors, I.V., ID bracelet, all talking at once, asking numerous questions to which I am unable to respond, my fear rendering me speechless.

      
Labor has started and unless they are able to forestall it, the babies are in great jeopardy. Friends flock to my bedside, so very well intentioned, and so very unwelcome, in my mind. I desperately need to stay focused on willing those babies to stay put. As the medication that is being administered to halt the labor sets in, I feel myself slipping off the deep end. I’m jittery, tearful, getting a bit paranoid, having hot flashes, unable to sleep at all, and completely miserable.

The following evening it is decided that I will be transferred to a hospital more capable of dealing with preemies. Those well wishers are still streaming in to lend support, as I am tearfully loaded onto the stretcher, worried sick about what the attendants must think of this huge whale they need to be lifting into the ambulance. As I am being transported through the corridor, a crazy woman in a room we pass is screaming obscenities, adding to the sense of surreality.

       
As I speed (both literally and figuratively, for the medication has that effect) through the minutes in the ambulance, tubes swinging, vitals watched closely, I am reminded of hellish bygone days when trips to the hospital in this fashion were commonplace.

      
No time is wasted getting me admitted into the metropolitan hospital. Amid the commotion, I hear the doctor speak of difficulties resulting from under-developed lungs, blah, blah, blah.

       
Sleeplessness and virtual starvation have taken their toll as food is withheld in case of the necessity for anesthesia. I am at my wits end as the medication given me to stop the labor wreaks havoc through its side effects.

      
I hear myself whining that I am hungry and have had nothing to eat since the previous day’s lunch. The inconsiderate resident attending me refuses to allow me sustenance, and then has the gall in the same breath to offer my husband pizza that has just been delivered to the nurse’s station. I feel the sparks fly from my eyes as through clenched teeth I admonish that thoughtless twerp not to be so unbelievably insensitive- “Don’t you ever dare do that again! At least have the decency to be more discrete when you are being such a insensitive JERK!”

      
I have so desperately missed the boys, having abandoned them with no notice, and am suffering pangs of guilt and breech of loyalty as I give the second two my full attention. I spend my days weighing outcomes. If the babies come now, they’ll be attached to tubes, monitors, breathing machines for god knows how long, but at least I can travel back and forth and continue to be mother to the two sons I have. 
 

On the other hand, if it is necessary for me to remain here for several weeks, the babies will get off to a better start which would be better in the long run. But I may not see the boys for days at a time and what will happen if they see it as abandonment and being replaced.

     
But if this…. that. And if that…thus… Round and round until my already fragile psyche feels ready to spin out of this orbit.

      
My husband brings the boys for a visit, but EEEWWW- the crusty goo of the worst pinkeye I have ever seen repels me. I can’t get pinkeye! What if the babies are born today? If they contaminate me, then I will not be able to provide the mother nurturance the babies will require. If I reject my sons because they are less than sterile in the face of tiny newborn fragility, will I be choosing my next born over my first two? And what kind of a choice is that? If I reject these two, the others will have a better start, but won’t I undo all that I have worked so hard to achieve in the way of providing a sense of absolute security? And if I welcome them with open arms as I so long to do because I have yearned for their presence, then aren’t I putting the others in jeopardy?

      
The boys come and go with their father in their slimy oblivion, with stories of eating in the cafeteria, Phil’s huge encrusted pink-brown eyes bobbing above the bulky blue and teal jacket, pacifier glued to his face with green snot, Henry in his blue and gray jacket and overalls, tow head, silly jabber and efforts to do bodily damage to his little brother under the guise of affection. Can’t their father see that they should not be here in this condition? What is wrong with him? He is a doctor for crying out loud!

      
They leave and I watch them climb over snow banks, plowing through every slushy puddle they encounter, and weep bitterly over my circumstances. Why is it that once again Daddy gets to have all the fun, bringing his sons on this adventure to the cafeteria, and oh, by the way, we should go say hello to Mama while we’re here…

       
Round and round and round I go, weighing all the possibilities, willing this or that to happen with all of my mind and soul, only to come to the sudden realization that all of my projections are completely pointless. I have absolutely no say in the matter and whatever happens is going to happen regardless of bargaining and pleading and wishful thinking.

       
And within minutes, the contractions stop.

- RDW 1-30-07

Part I: Letting Go

Living in a small town and lacking the anonymity I desire, I send my friend Rita for the pregnancy test. Damn. The instructions clearly state to wait until morning’s first pee. A long restless night filled with dread ensues.

Okay. Why do they have to make these damn packages so hard to get open? Hold the tip in urine stream, wait three minutes: one bar not pregnant, two bars pregnant. Shit, it’s only been about thirty seconds but I decide to peek anyway.

Oh God no, please no, it said it would take three minutes. Wait a minute. The directions say to hold the tip down and I was holding it up. It must be wrong…

But I am pregnant. Again.

      
I walk through my life in a daze. When I look in the mirror, I see a pale and despondent woman with dark circles and greasy hair looking back. My body moves about like a sack of wet sand. I have all I can do managing the two little children I have. How will I ever deal with further compounding the situation? My desperation sweeps me away as I long to flee from this life.

Gearing Up for Sobriety

She's an alcoholic. This is dreadfully humiliating since she once professed to be a substance abuse counselor. She'd gone into the field with the intent of fixing her alcoholically dysfunctional family of origin, curing her mother and brother of their alcoholism, looking for the answers and tools necessary to get her own unstable psyche on track.

During her training as an alcohol counselor, she learned that it takes a child under the age of five,only five weeks to become addicted to alcohol; under the age of 15, five months; an adult, five years.

     
She  knew herself to be at risk, potentially alcoholic given the fact that she came from a strong line of drunks. Even then she ditched the initial three daily beer bottles in the barn at the back of her apartment until she could dispose of them properly.

      
But still, there was plenty of time. Given that this had only been going on intermittently for 2 ½ years; she was safe for another 2 ½ according to what she'd wanted to believe. After all, her "situational" bout of alcoholic drinking was purely "temporary", until she got back on her feet after being abandoned by the love of her life.- Right?

Years passed, and she got married, relocated, had children.

During  a visit  to her parents' house over the holidays, her mother discovered her stash in the closet. After agonizing for days over this turn of events, the elder woman confronted her daughter with her discovery of empties buried in her suitcase and dirty laundry- rather ironic given all the times that the shoe had been on the other foot. (What was her mother doing searching her belongings anyway??)

      
The younger woman fled with her two young children to visit a friend in another part of the state, and then spent her remaining time in New England in a motel so as not to face her mother. 
      
The older woman was convinced that her daughter had left to resume her drinking (wouldn't she have done the same?). But she was wrong. Discovery was what the young mother had needed to stop drinking- for someone else to know so she could be held accountable. Her eldest was approaching the age she was when she became aware of her mother's “drinking problem”.

      
She confessed to her friend and later, her sister. In passing she mentioned to her husband that she had the "potential" to become alcoholic.

     
"So stop drinking."

      
And she did. For three weeks.  
      
She had learned that one of the "tests" in determining whether or not one is alcoholic (designed more to break through the denial of the "problem drinker" she later suspected) is to go 30 days without a drink, or 90 days having no more than one drink a day.  
      
She had clearly failed. She took her drinking into the closet; she no longer drank in public. Ever.

      
At her mother's death bed three years later, not wishing for her to die with that boulder around her neck (it was her faulty gene passed on after all) she assured the dying woman that she had taken care of the problem. "I know," her mother beamed. She had noticed that her daughter no longer drank at family gatherings. Little did she know... She was her mother's daughter after all... she knew the signs, She had them all. 
      
Following her mother's death, she nearly went off the deep end because she was convinced that her mother now knew everything from her cosmic perch.

      
 Three years later... 
      
She came home for a moment from a neighborhood gathering, for some brilliant and well planned excuse,  to fortify her alcohol level with the wine hidden behind the furnace, or in the root cellar, or her closet. She remembered the times that she had chalked up her husband's discovery of hidden bottles to her mother's previous visits. (Couldn't do that anymore; she had to remember to bury the bottles in the garbage on pick up day.)

      
By now she was plotting to ensure that she had a constant supply. But she didn't want everyone in her small town to know, so she alternated between liquor stores. She learned the liquor shop keepers' schedules so as to make her purchases seem more spread out.

      
She invented reasons to go to the city: She needed some supplies from the craft store - and while she was at it she'd just slip into the liquor store next door.

     
When she went out with friends, she'd leave the restaurant to go to the package store next door under the guise of going to the ATM two doors down for cash.

      
She stopped on the way home from appointments in another town to "get wine for a friend who is unable to get a certain kind in the local store", or because "Joan asked me to get it for her".

      
She was constantly on the lookout for options, and excuses to go to new locations. She'd even gotten a purse large enough to accommodate two 1.5 liter bottles without splitting it out.

When she arrived home with her stash replenished, she was giddy with relief and anticipation.

       
At  the airport, during  layovers she sampled wine  from each bar within the  allotted time frame. She even tried once to smuggle a bottle onto the plane, but security made her get rid of it- "oh, no problem" as she nonchalantly deposited three liters of wine into the nearest garbage receptacle, cursing under her breath.

      
She dampened her husband's suspicions by claiming that the alcohol he thought he smelled was the breath freshener she used; or that she was slurring because she was so exhausted and could scarcely keep her eyes open.

      
She stayed home when her children would go skiing, or hiking, or camping, or bowling with their father. 
     
Over the last two or three years she was spending as much as $60 a week, asking friends to pick up wine for a "romantic dinner". She threw up a quart of wine that graced the toilet in it's original form, and went back to the closet for a replacement slug.  

      
In the mornings over those last three months, as she stood at the bathroom mirror gazing into her mother's eyes, she sensed her spirit presence day after day, as Mother seemed to nudge her left shoulder and breathe encouragement- Come on Girl, it's time to pull yourself together. Girl, you can do this, it's time...

      
But she couldn't do it. She'd try. She would resolve to put an end to this hell. And she couldn't make it beyond a day or two.

      
 Finally she realized that the only way she could do this was to let her husband (who had been in denial all those years) know that she was in trouble. But she didn't know how to tell him.

     
So she hid her bottles where he would be certain to find them- in the cabinet with the cat food. He fed the cats every day; he couldn't miss it.

      
After several days of dread filled walking on egg shells, she chickened out and moved the bottles.

      
Several days later, the dreaded confrontation happened as her husband angrily told her of his discovery. He was furious!

      
He insisted that she see an alcohol counselor; she told him she would if it became necessary. She was after all, a former substance abuse counselor- she knew the drill. Besides, seeking outside help would be so humiliating!

       
It became necessary.

      
Elizabeth Kubler Ross writes, "It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth- and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up- that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had."

       
And so, she embarked on the long and difficult and blessed journey to recovery.

RDW 7-28-07