A Message for Husbands...

While I am blessed with an exceptional husband who does not neglect me on Mother's Day, I have heard of so many women who receive no special treatment on this well-deserved day of recognition because their husbands have the attitude "well you're not my mother." I think when it comes to Mother's Day being the mother to his child(ren) is almost equal as being his actual mom. Plus, women are not looking for expensive gifts (well, most non-gold digging women). We just want to be honored and appreciated at least one day of the year.

It wouldn't cost a husband a dime to write a letter to his wife that explains how much he appreciates being his daughter's mother. Or what if he does all the night-time duties one evening (from dinner to bedtime)? Husbands could simply give wives a "day off" so that they could wander around their favorite bookstore, library, park or store without a child dangling from their legs begging for mommy to "Pick me UP!" or screaming "But I want that!" Husbands could pack a special Mother's Day picnic lunch and take the family to the park or just in the background for a nice lunch. Husbands could let wives pick a romantic movie to rent (if that's your preference) without grumbling about it. Or one night let wives watch whatever tv shows they want without him flipping through the channels OR saying how dumb it is to watch another home improvement show

And, of course, who can deny the beauty of the classic breakfast in bed? Give me the NY Times, a bagel and a cup of coffee while I lounge in my oh-so-comfy bed and I am happy. Give me an hour or so by myself to read that paper and I am even happier.

Men think we are so complicated...please.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone!

Delivery

*Blogger's Note - I wrote this essay two years ago, and I have shopped it around for publication (with no luck). So I thought I would post it here to honor my daughter's third birthday.

Delivery

Daylight slipped away for a second time. Time, measured by savage pulls in my uterus and ascending and descending line graphs, was working against us. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon I finally agreed to the epidural in hopes it would help, but now it was 8 p.m. My obstetrician checks me again; no progress. “What do you want to do?” While my doctor carefully explains my options, my husband clenches my hand. He is scared. I am devastated.

Over twenty-four hours ago we took the planned Sunday evening journey to the hospital for my induction. Due to a history of blood clots I had been injecting blood thinners into my abdomen since my 13th week of pregnancy. Now at my 39th week I had been experiencing sporadic labor pains for seven days, but the induction was necessary so the possibly troublesome bleeding could be controlled. As the nurse set up the fetal monitor that first evening she remarked “you may not even need Pitocin.” Pointing to the screen she confirmed what I suspected; the labor pains were real and measurable. “It looks like the Cervadil may be enough to get you going.”

My mind wandered to my highly anticipated final moments of labor. A soccer coach-like nurse stands next to my bedside holding one leg as I bear down per her instructions. I hear her matronly voice, “that’s it…good girl…more, more, more, more.” Dr. Joseph Wallis, stationed at the base of my bed, patiently tells me to “relax a bit…now you can do this.” I, of course, am propped on my elbows grunting, groaning, moaning this child loose from my seemingly spastic womb. My husband, his smooth cheek pressed up against my drenched face, tightly grasps my hand. Peter bites his lip as he does whenever he is concerned, but the hopeful glow radiates from his eyes. Just a few seconds more until she is on my chest. Pain. Pressure. “Push!” He looks at me and I at him – “she’s here.”

By Monday night, though, I am not dilated at all. Hours of labor had not produced even enough space for Dr. Wallis to break my water. I hear him say “it’s up to you. We can stop the Pitocin and try again tomorrow."

Peter holds on to my hand. “What do you think babe?” My fearful tears turn into heaving sobs. I desperately want those final moments, the ones that I had been dreaming about since we saw two lines on a stick. I could almost feel my new baby on my chest. I could see my husband’s adoring eyes sprinkling her with his tears. I want that for us, for him. I sputter, “I don’t know.” Dr. Wallis, perhaps assuming my fears were physical, reiterates my options. “We could stop now, let your body rest, and try again tomorrow. But I suspect that will not produce different results. Or we could do a C-section tonight.” My whimpers continue.

“I understand my choices,” I explain. “But I wanted…it’s just not what I…for us, I mean…I wanted that moment when…” Unable to say anymore, I pantomime my delivery dream, an odd game of charades to show what my vision of childbirth should be. It does not involve surgeon masks, bright lights, or a curtain blocking our view of the birth of our first child. “How can I let that go?” Grief consumes me again and the sobs return. “I will make sure she comes right over to you,” Dr. Wallis assures us. “Let me give you guys some time to make the decision.”

Peter sits on the side of the bed. “What is it hon? Talk to me.” After a deep cleansing breath I can speak again. I share my detailed dream of our daughter’s delivery. “I really wanted that for us. I really wanted to share experience with you.” He surveys my exhausted face. “It doesn’t matter how she is delivered. It only matters that she and you are healthy. We will have plenty of amazing family experiences together.” I sigh. “I know.”

“OK, you are going to feel some pressure,” Dr. Wallis explains as what feel like a truck thrusts into my rib cage. Peter, donning the traditional doctor garb, presses his slightly prickly cheek into mine. “You’re doing great babe. I am so proud of you.”

I look at him and he at me; simultaneously we turn our heads to the right. Our crimson-skinned baby girl seemingly floats centimeters from my face. The nurse places our daughter's cheek next to mine. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “She’s here.” I turn to my husband whose eyes sparkle as he drinks his daughter’s precious face for the first time.

This was our moment. It was perfect.  

Bunny Love

Our princess showing the bunny some love!  There is no witty story to accompany the photo.  It was just too cute NOT to publish (in my completely biased opinion)!

Moving On Up....

To the big girl bed.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the crib came down.  My husband unscrewed every nut and bolt, slowly dismantling it piece by piece.  And I will admit - as I watched I got a little teary-eyed.  

I remember her first night in that crib.  She was 10 weeks old and quickly outgrowing the bassinet I had tucked right next to my side of the bed since the first night we brought her home. I used to fall asleep with my hand on her soft belly so I could feel her breathe.  Her legs, though, stretched to the end of the baby cocoon (the one I once called home when I was a newborn).  So we decided to move her into the cherry crib we had carefully selected a few months before she was born.  On that first night, I sobbed after we placed her in her crib and closed the nursery door.

This weekend she pounced into her Disney princess adorned toddler bed, just the way big girls do.  She delighted in her pink comforter and her Cinderella pillowcase.  She spent all day Sunday finding excuses to go upstairs so she could nestle into her new resting spot.  It was really adorable.

When her first bedtime came, she joyfully crawled into her bed.  "Mommy," she whispered.  "Sleep next to me."  After finally believing me when I said we both could not comfortably fit into her tiny bed, Princess agreed I could rest on the floor next to her.  So I settled into a body pillow on her floor while my baby girl cuddled in for her first night in her big bed.  

As we laid there in the dark, tiny fingers crept to the side of the mattress.  "Mommy, hold my hand."  When my fingers rested on her soft palm, it was as if she was that snuggly swaddled newborn tucked safely in her tiny bassinet again...only better.  There were no tears this time as I closed that nursery door...only warm smiles for my daughter's latest joy.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

One Last Sweet Treat

Princess and I had ice cream for lunch...and it was delicious! Now before anyone reports me to an agency for bad parents, let me defend myself.

I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.

As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.

So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.

And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.

Never Too Many Cooks

Many people learn to cook in their mothers' or grandmothers' kitchens. They cozy up around countertops or linger over hot stoves, consuming every morsel of culinary knowledge available. That is not my story. My mother, bless her heart, does not love to cook. Growing up we had lots of meals generated from cardboard boxes, and that was really fine with me. However, several years ago I decided I wanted to learn more about cooking and to try to become a really, really good cook. So my education began...thanks to Food Network.

Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).

Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.

Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.

But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!

Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"

As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.

So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.