Watching my girls grow up has been fascinating... there are so different:
Olivija:
quiet
introspective
mysterious
devoted
deliberate
cautious
dark haired/brown eyed
Sofie:
loud
gregarious - feigning shyness
extrovert
questioning
present
aware
blonde haired/blue eyed
and there's the question of motherhood...
Motherhood– the Good and the Bad
For years I was certain that I didn’t want to be a parent, because I had heard that we parent the same way we were parented. That scared the bejeezus out of me. There was
no way on God’s green earth that I was going to treat someone else the way I was treated. What would be the point? I was also concerned about bringing someone into this world of eco-destruction, pollution, war, guns, violence, pain, and confusion…how could I possibly
teach my children about nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace without putting them in a bubble and not letting them experience this world? The thought of it was suffocating. But somewhere along the way my feelings changed. I craved some fresh air and I decided that my biological clock was stronger than the “how-could-I-parent-in-this-evil-world?” issue.
When that decision happened, the getting pregnant thing didn’t. Joe and I started right away and it took three to four years to get pregnant. After many tests, a few surgeries, a lot of pain, and a lot of luck, we were both pretty excited when I finally did get pregnant. I felt that it was a good thing, all doubts left me, everything was falling into place, and I was just beginning to feel that life inside me. I was thinking about nesting and what color I would paint the nursery. Everything was perfect and then, for some reason beyond our understanding, our baby that we worked so hard to conceive was born four months before she was due. I think the first three months of my motherhood experience was a joke…some horrible “test” that God decided Joe and Karina would be “strong enough to handle,” or that’s what some people tell me. The whole thing is now a blur except when I look back at pictures, letters, and notes. People tell me how we looked when they would visit us at the hospital: like death on wheels, in a different world, zombies. As for Joe and me, we were just waiting for our child to die. That’s what they told us would happen. All of the awkward expressions (“sorry,” “try again,” “this must be hard,” “why did this happen?”) and the constant social unawareness of people who would peep into her warming bed and exclaim under their breath “she’s soooooo small” were almost more than we could handle. People reacted in various ways—some too serious, some too goofy, some too chatty, some with silence, some with gifts, and some with invisibility. Not one person congratulated us on having a baby. Not one person. This was not motherhood…this was a test of trying to keep myself pulled together so that I wasn’t weeping uncontrollably for three solid months. And really, I was.
When we brought Olivija home, we were scared to death. It took a 24-hour constant stream of professionals to care for her just the day before, and now it was up to just me
and Joe? Right. Thank God for Olivija’s special nurse Ramona who came to our house that first weekend and blessed us with her presence. She made us coffee to drink and food to eat, and gave us help when we were too exhausted to sleep. With her help we figured we could do this. Olivija slept a lot and I just stared at her most of the day, every day. We didn’t take her out much because we were paranoid about her getting a cold and dying, or someone touching her without scrubbing their hands, or just the hassle of tubing, wires, and machines that monitored her breathing and heart beats. This was not motherhood…this was a feeling of complete incompetence—feeling incapable of feeding and caring for my own child.
Five years later…she lived and we didn’t drop her, or starve her, or drown her, or leave her in filthy diapers for more than 8 hours at a time. People are surprised when they see her because they still expect a sickly looking preemie to look back at them. She has a healing presence about her and she loves to “read.” She’s learning to tell jokes and they are awful and she belly laughs at her own humor. And I look at myself and I don’t see my parents. I look at the world around me and I see nature, beauty, peace, forgiveness, serenity, wholeness, and grace in most everything. I had forgotten that there is such a thing as a miracle. Now I can’t help but recognize that I live with one. This is my motherhood…this is a lesson in humility.
I struggle with my lack of patience when she wants me to read just one more book; to eat something other than what I have at hand; to blow bubbles and that would entail that I actually have to get out of my pajamas, get dressed, and go out in the yard; or to play with her doll house where she is the supreme ruler. (She is the supreme ruler of OUR house; she forgets that we were here first.) I struggle with having to get up at 3 a.m. because the dogs
down the road barked and woke her up and now she has to lay with momma and daddy because nothing else will appease her. I struggle with not having time to play golf without finding a babysitter and having the money to pay for both. I struggle with feeling that I am being selfish, self-absorbed, mean, unbending, and envious. Envious that she gets whatever she wants and all I really want is a good night’s sleep. That is the bad.
She has taught me about the mother bear in me and I CAN stand up for myself, and more so I can stand up for HER. She has taught me about patience and about counting to ten before saying something I might regret. She has taught me about the relationship of give and take and that children mostly take because they haven’t yet learned how to give…although, when I need to feel loved, she is right there giving with all her heart. Being Olivija’s mom has changed the way I look at everything. Nothing is the same--everything has changed. And because of this I read another book, I search the cupboards for something else that she is hungry for (or that I convince her she’s hungry for!), I go out in the yard in my pajamas and blow bubbles, I play doll house with her, and do whatever she wants me to do. Because of her goodness and her very being I get up at 3 a.m. and get mad at the dogs and not her. I have not, however, given up the idea that playing golf is possible—I just need to wait a few years until we can take her out and teach her how to play. She has kept me young and filled with hope. This is the good.
The issue of parenting how we were parented is still there…I fight that. I rely on Joe’s parenting techniques quite a bit, and we use his sister’s advice. Joe is a wonderful dad-– something that amazes me daily, because I personally have never seen it in my life. He will
be the one who will bring traditions and family vacations and things like that, of which I have no concept whatsoever. For that I am blessed. We so much want to have another child and I am afraid that it won’t happen—so I guess motherhood has left me craving more of it, I love being a mom, and love the changes that it has brought and continues to bring to my being. I am a better person because of Olivija, and she has become my breath of fresh air.
When Sofie came along we were just complete. Motherhood certainly took me by surprise... and i'm looking forward to the surprises that are yet to come.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Olivija’s Winter
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
Blog Block
That part of me that really wants to be a writer is suffering greatly. Clearly, that part of me needs to connect to my brain, and to my fingers and transfer itself into letters, words, paragraphs... something to read. maybe even something that would MEAN something.
But, alas, i have blog block. There are times that i feel OH, I should write this down, when my brain has a thought. Usually there is no computer near by as i'm either walking the river road, or driving down Lower Valley Road...
Driving home from Kaitlyns house - almost sunset, around 9:00 p.m. - summer finally got here and dinner was fine. I was listening to my ipod, the folk genre mix... mostly a lot of Bruce and other folks that fill my soul. Driving down lower valley road at an incredibly slow pace just gulping in the beauty of this place. Bald eagle startled me out of my trance - swooped in front of my car, banked just in time up and to the right and then straight up. He leveled and followed along just coasting, soaring, and then banked left up and over me and settled into a wheat field. How their wings just stop gravity and they land so softly. It made me feel so heavy and clumsy, and completely earth bound. and so we are. earth bound.
I felt a little better when i happened upon the deer. she was earthbound too... i startled her out of her trance. she popped up out of the grazing strance, tension filled her legs, eyes darting, alert. She watched as i crept by her, slowing all the while to take in her beauty, her stature. She was majestic, small yet powerful, sinewy. I don't think she was afraid of me... but who knows.
I made the turn on the cut across highway, heading for Bigfork. in front of me the mountains hanging on to the last bit of snow, trails of it melting down and filling up the Flathead. To my left, up North, i could see the not-so far off peaks of Glacier National Park and to my right the mountain ranges - the Swan and Bob Marshall - meandering down to the horizon, tiny hills finally, flattening out and smoothing into prairie.
I never thought that this valley would touch me the way that it has. My friend Art and I call it Oh My God Beautiful. Everywhere you look you just think that - oh my god, it's so beautiful.
There is no place else that i would rather be right now. I feel at home. it's been a long time since i've felt that. home. and if it has to include feeling earth bound i'll be more than happy to be bound to this part of the earth.
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