Rock Bottom

These are the lowest moments. When I realize that my deliberate, desperate attempts to avoid becoming the model of womanhood I saw in my mother growing up have failed. I've circled around and landed in the exact circumstances that made her miserable. Uprooted and lonely surrounded not by your own friends and family -- or even mutual friends of you and your husband -- but by people that are his and only his. And you're always on the outside, playing this secondary Mrs. role instead of being considered on your own merits. And there's expectations, unspoken, about your house and your clothes and your hair and your ... class.

And I get so scared. Because I know I'm not the woman I used to be, already. This place is grinding down my soul.

Here, he is his better self. But I am my worst. Morose and standoffish and depressed and sullen. Soon, it'll be too much. The sensitivity and worry will harden into resentment. Then he'll lash out. And then, one day, he'll realize that I have become an albatross.

I feel like this is some kind of ghoulish epiphany. I know exactly how my mother felt and I know exactly why she has become the woman she is. There's no way to truly be happy if you're not emotionally grounded in the place where you live. And without that grounding, there's no connecting to anything or anyone. Because you don't want to be around long enough to give a fuck about them.

But you can't leave. It would tear every fiber of your being, because that's how deeply you love him. You just. Can't. Won't. Leave.

This is hell. Stronger women than I have been driven nearly mad. God help me. I am going to lose everything.

Old Photos

I copied a disk filled with very old family photos. And I see that once, my parents were happy. And happy together. In love, even. And then, slowly, almost ghostlike, my father is gone. From the pictures and from our home. What happened, I wonder? Did the shine wear off? Did we somehow diverge from his expectations of childhood? Was it simply because we are female? Sometimes I think that in the everyday fight to provide for his family, he forgot to nurture his own. Making a living isn't the same as making a life. Or so I'm told by a church billboard.

But my mother. Was always there. She is the reason I am, and the reason I am who I am, for better or worse. Even the hang-ups and the quirks are a connection, a reassurance that there is someone out there who will always open her doors to me, but more importantly will always open her heart.

But don't be fooled. She's not a pushover by any means. Let's just say ... my mother has stared into the abyss, and the abyss flinched. I want to be a mother just like her. I hope one day Cameron will look at this and tell me, "Yes, Mom. You were." That will be the greatest honor of my life.

Regression

I am, to put it bluntly, freaking the fuck out. I'm questioning everything about my relationship and my marriage and it's completely unnecessary and yet ... my brain can't stop running through all the old patterns.

I'm not pretty enough. I'm not skinny enough. Smart enough, thoughtful enough, interesting enough. I'm not working enough nor bringing in enough money. I'm a poor excuse for a wife. I mean, hell, I'd cheat on me. Why wouldn't he want to? Surrounded by smart, interesting, successful, beautiful people all day? People who are engaged in the world around them, who don't sit at home all day popping pills and having baby-talk conversations and fretting about developmental milestones while covered in spit-up. People who are far more worthy of his attention than I am.

I guess I need to ask why? Why doesn't he want to come home? Why would he rather stay at work until all hours? What can I do to change these though patterns that have me doubting everything about myself and my life?

Random realizations.

I don't care enough about myself not to smoke. And that has to change.
One day, my son will realize that I'm not infallible. And my heart will break.

Give and take

I'm the world's most impatient person. I'm easily frustrated and distracted; like, I-probably-have-undiagnosed-adult-ADD lack of focus. But I am discovering reserves of patience and strength and understanding of which I was completely unaware.

Maybe that's because, in his tiny, helpless form, my small son is much like me. He doesn't understand the need for waiting politely, for wasting time, for logic and planning and rationality just yet. He's acting completely on his instincts and his biology.

I'm nowhere near as frazzled and harried as I expected I would be, given that he wants what he wants exactly when he wants it and he's not going to be quiet and calm until he gets it. So, as much as I am teaching him about the world and the need to 'wait your turn,' Baby Savant is teaching me deeper compassion, follow-through and (that word again) patience.

Early bird

I'm still not anything close to a 'morning person,' but I find myself enjoying the quiet, still hours between when Baby Savant wakes up and when Mr. Savant blusters through the house getting ready for work.

We listen to music and snuggle and smile and giggle, though languidly, waking up gradually. It is these moments I hold close and secretive, not wanting to let anyone else into this imperfect, precious heaven I now live every morning.

Eight-six-six-three-nine.

We are family 86639. That's the number on our hospital bracelets, the ones that match our son's, though ours are wound loosely around our wrists while his is bound tightly around his impossibly small ankle.

Every day for the last eight we've had to confirm that the numbers on our three bracelets match, to ensure that the nursery is handing over care of our son to the right parents. Through showers and tears and poopy diapers and Ohmigod-he-just-peed-all-over-himself-and-me and first baths the bracelet's other identifying information has slowly faded, but these particular numbers are clear and bright as the day they were put in place, March 30 at 3:30 am.

I went into labor at midnight on March 30, 2011. I was prepared to write the contractions off as Braxton-Hicks until I saw the aptly named "Bloody Show." And I knew it was for real this time. At 2 am the pain and frequency of the contractions pushed me up the stairs to wake Mr. Savant. I tried my best not to alarm him, but I'm not sure I succeeded. We were in the car by 2:30 am, but were turned back halfway to the hospital by Michelle, the midwife, who recommended over the phone that I labor at home as long as possible before heading to the hospital. I made it until about 3:15 -- crawling, walking, taking a shower, sitting, squatting. Mr. Savant rubbed my back and my sacrum and breathed with me through each contraction.

We arrived at the hospital and I was 90 percent effaced and 3 centimeters dilated. Three labor and delivery nurses tried in vain to put in a heparin lock and draw blood, but I was so dehydrated that my veins wouldn't give up anything. Finally, Georgianna, an IV specialist, came in and nailed it on her first try after I was left smarting from five failed sticks.

Once that was done, I labored until 9:30 am when I was completely effaced and 6 centimeters dilated. And then I requested an epidural. Which was bliss after more than nine hours of gut wrenching, mind-altering, literally brought-to-my-knees pain. But then the dilation slowed down to a crawl. We waited. Hours passed. I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip. Then my water was broken. Finally, at 9:30 pm, I was 9 centimeters dilated but my contractions had become very sporadic and completely ineffective. There was a possibility that more Pitocin and more time could bring the baby into the world vaginally, but there was also a possibility that he was stuck and that any effort I made would be in vain. I was asked if I wanted a C-section. I quickly said yes.

I was prepped for surgery: a Foley catheter was put in, I was taken off all the fetal monitors and Mr. Savant donned blue scrubs, complete with plastic "shower cap" and booties. They increased the epidural and wheeled me to the C-section suite. A drape was hung perpendicular to my neck, and my arms were extended out from my shoulders. It felt like a combination guillotine and crucifixion, though I could see nothing nor could I feel any pain, only intense pressure. I could feel my body being prodded, pushed and sometimes flung side to side. And at 10:06 pm I heard the most wonderful sound -- my son opened his mouth and let out a lusty, deep and full wail.

I was crying before they even held him up over the drape. "That's our son! There's our son!" I said to Mr. Savant. That's when things got very, very fuzzy and vague. Mr. Savant left with Cameron Erich, our baby boy. I was put back together and placed in a recovery room for an entire hour during which time I had no idea where my son, husband and family were. And I felt so empty. I got doses upon doses of narcotics and I don't even remember when I held my baby for the first time. Mr. Savant fed him his first bottle, which was part of our original plan.

After two groggy, semi-conscious days, they broke the news to us. Our tiny baby boy was experiencing withdrawal from the Percoset I'd been prescribed while I was pregnant to cope with the excruciating hip and lower back pain I had while carrying him. They'd have to give him doses of morphine to assuage the symptoms, and slowly wean him off. And he'd have to stay in the hospital nursery for an indeterminate amount of time until he was "clean."

I will forever bear the burden of guilt, shame, the what-ifs and the why-didn't-they-tell-me's ... but it is still too painful to elaborate at this moment. For now, I can only say that I blame myself though it seems no one else does. Or at least if they do they don't want to admit it.

And that is why, day after day, Mr. Savant and I travel to the hospital, check in on the maternity floor, and spend hours in a small, bare, cold room with Cameron. For the hours we spend there, we form some semblance of a family; completely whole, all three of us there, family number 86639.