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Ain’t Nothin Gonna Breaka My Stride

Posted on April 23, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Downstairs making lunches for my children in the early morning hours, it was already apparent that there was something special about this day. The hard boiled eggs easily shed their skins. The peanut butter had a lovely oily sheen. I had enough vanilla yogurts to go around. Making lunches was never this enjoyable. Even waking my kids and watching them drudge themselves from their slumber took on a rose colored hue. They looked young and gorgeous. Even I didn’t look half bad as I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Okay, the lights were off, but whatever.

Maybe it’s because today is my birthday. I am 43. Wow, that sounds old. 43 is a woman with short hair and 10 extra pounds in mom jeans, not me. Although, I can’t say the gym clothes I’m sporting on a daily basis will be seen in Vogue anytime soon. And I have recently gained a few pounds. Crap.

Well, I certainly don’t feel 43. I mean, sometimes I feel 100, but certainly not 43. On most days, I think I settle in nicely around 31, although for the record, 27 is the age to be… not so young as to still be in some back alley throwing up your fourth margarita and accompanying nachos on your borrowed overpriced shoes, but not so mature that you limit the potential of your own possibility. But 43… Wow, again. I seem to be stuck now obsessing over the number. I can’t move on. I can’t look away. I need to get it out of my head. 43434343434343434343434343. That’s better, for some reason now all I see is 34. I’ll take it.

Something about birthdays make you feel very young and hopeful, like there’s a surprise waiting for you around every corner. They also can make you feel very old, like when you realize, there are no surprises anymore, only kids who couldn’t bother to even make you a card and a husband who didn’t take the early train home, and spent the night watching the Yankees.

But that was last year.

This year, I’m taking control of my birthday and not leaving it in the hands of amateurs. I’ve scheduled my annual physical this morning. I thought it was a positive way to start the year. After that, I’m heading straight to the gym. Then I’ve got a massage appointment, followed by lunch with friends.  I love it already.

My husband walks in the kitchen where I’m finished with the lunches and have started giving the boys breakfast. “Happy birthday, Mommy!” he booms. “Did everyone say happy birthday?” Three sleepy heads lift. A muted chorus of unenthusiastic “Happy birthday, Mommy” dutifully follows.

“That’s it?” My husband bellows. “That’s all Mommy gets?” That woke them. Immediately, three bodies attack me with hugs viscous enough to suffocate a small animal. I beam. That’s more like it.

I’m totally feeling the glow, all warm and happy. I add pick up ice cream cake to today’s to-do list. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t, but I’m old enough to know not to put my happiness in anyone’s hands besides my own. It’s a gift.

I wish... this was true. Wait, no, then i'd be pregnant. :)

I wish. 😉

 

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You’ll Always be My Baby

Posted on December 11, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Today is Julius’ birthday. He is five. NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Sorry, I had a moment there, but how is it possible that my youngest is five today? How is possible that my oldest is 10? And then there’s that 7 year-old in the middle. How did this all happen? Well, of course, I know how, but it was just a breath ago, that they were all little monkeys, hanging round my neck. Small bundles of baby mush snuggled in my arms. Big open mouth kisses on the cheek. Spit up everywhere. Cheerios everywhere. Words that were ‘almost’ words, that only I could understand.

And now my baby is five. Next year, we, uh, I mean he, starts Kindergarten. I can’t even pretend he’s a baby any more. Okay, I can and I do, but there’s no denying that my junk-food stealing, boobie-snatching rascal is growing up.

Growing up. Sigh. I just got him, and that was no easy feat. No one could ever accuse me of being a fertility goddess. I needed some help with Tyler. I needed more help with Michael. Julius, it seemed, would take a village.

So today, I want to thank that village for helping to bring my happiness to life…

  1. My mother, for just saying “Okay, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll be there to help,” when I told her my intentions to drag my other two children to a fertility doctor with me, for almost daily monitoring and shots.
  2. The other patients at the clinic, most of whom didn’t have one baby, let alone two, and had to sit there in the waiting room with me and my children.
  3. I guess I have to thank the fertility doctor, because I got my baby and that’s all that matters, but honestly, he was kind of an ass. The staff, on the other hand, was stellar.
  4. My faboo friend Heidi who came over and took the drugs from my shaky hands and expertly mixed them, and for leaving her night out at 11pm, to come and give me the big shot, the one my husband was so afraid to give me that he considered asking our contractor, who happened to be there at the time.
  5. My squeamish husband, who at first, had some reservations about having a third child – he was afraid it might be a girl! – but ultimately supported and stood by me through it all. Once convinced, he was all in. With baby Julius, as he is with our older boys, there couldn’t be a better dad. Okay, he could do better with bedtime, but besides that.
  6. My boys, not even two and four at the time, I schlepped them around, and they didn’t seem to mind if I was a hormonal, cranky mess. Probably wasn’t so different from my normal cranky, sleep-deprived mess.

After the shots, the drugs, the pregnancy, and a delivery, in which, I literally thought I might die, there is finally Julius. Ah Julius. Wild. Gorgeous. Funny. Mischievous. Loving. So big, such a baby. Now, here’s where I want to be poignant. I want to write words that capture the essence of my beautiful boy, but I’m staring at the screen, thinking of my little Tasmanian devil with tears streaming. I wanted him so bad. I felt the need in every aching bone in my body. So I thank my friends, family, random strangers, lady luck and both divine and scientific intervention for the gift that is him. He is wonder and magic. His happy face fills a room with energy, love and sparkling life. He completes our family. I could never capture his beauty. I can barely catch him to take a bath.

Two days old. Can he be any cuter?

Happy birthday my baby love, may you live happy and healthy till 110 and never leave me. Poo Poo Poo.

(Okay, I was kidding about that last part. You can leave when you’re 100, just like your brothers 😉 )

Always mommy's baby

Oh yeah.

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My Labor of Love

Posted on July 24, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Below is an excerpt from my journal about the day my son was born, 10 years ago today, on July 24, 2002 at 6:24am at 6lbs. He is as sweet and delicious today as he was as a baby, only a little more messy, if you can believe that. Happy Birthday baby love. I celebrate you every day since your first. You are, and always will be, just too good to be true.

July 23, 2002 – 2pm

My latest appointment with Dr. G – I’m effaced and 2 cm completely dilated. Dr. G said I’ve made progress and can go at any time. She said if I don’t go by next week, we could schedule an appointment for the end of next week. Uh oh. I don’t want that.

July 23rd – Later…

When she said I could go at any time. We really didn’t think she meant that night, but it turns out that’s what happened. Howard and I left the doctor and went about our normal day – me to the gym, busy contemplating the ultimate end of my pregnancy; and Howard off to work – looking so shell-shocked that I hoped he wouldn’t get lost on the way. We both knew I was pregnant. We had focused so hard on getting pregnant, and then on being pregnant, that  the idea that we would very soon have an actual baby, was, well, inconceiveable.

Later, we sat in front of the TV watching American Idol, another dumb Fox show that we had become addicted to (*it was its first season –who’d have guessed). I started feeling kind of funny and told Howard. We weren’t really sure at first, but when I started leaking, a call to the doctor seemed obvious. He told us to come on down. In less than two seconds, Howard was dressed, stop watch and overnight bag in hand. Off we went.

Hooked to many monitors, Dr. R (of course Dr. G wasn’t on call) confirmed it – my water had broken. Leaking like an open fire hydrant, I was officially admitted. In the beginning, the contractions seemed manageable, and Howard and I waited with anxious anticipation for what would happen next. Turns out, what happened next was an enema to speed up and intensify the contractions. I don’t know who thought up that medieval torture, and I don’t know how I agreed to that without any drugs in my system, but obviously I was vulnerable to figures of ‘doctorly’ authority, even ones over 70 with a bad comb-over. So along with my first labor, I had my first enema, and spent the next 30 minutes in the bathroom, doubled over in torture. Someone was pulling my guts out one by one! Was I going to have this baby in the bathroom?! Never have I experienced such constant, intense pain. This couldn’t be right. All those ridiculous Lamaze classes in no way  prepared me for the twisted anguish that was going on in my body. Deal with pain by massage? Breathe? Take a walk? BULLSHIT! F*&!* YOU lamaze lady!

The woman next door was screaming her head off, sawing on my last nerve. OMG. Was that where this was headed?! I asked for an epidural. Actually, I begged for it. I was blinded by pain by the time the man came and stuck that blessed, beautiful needle, that I had so dreaded, into my back. About 20 minutes later, all was good again.

It was 4am. I hadn’t seen the doctor or had an internal since I had arrived. They told me that the risk of infection with internals increase after you break your water. They also told me that according to the monitors, I wasn’t having very strong contractions. Howard and I were finally resting comfortably. We decided to believe them, even though we weren’t sure we did.

At around 6 am, I began to feel overwhelming pressure ‘downstairs’. I told the nurse, but she again told me that while I was having contractions every minute or so, they weren’t that strong.  I begged to differ. The doctor came in and confirmed it, there was a bowling ball that was about to come out my ass. Actually, he said, I was 10 centimeters dilated and ready to go. The nurse shrugged and said that the monitors didn’t always register so well.  Bitch.

Dr. R told me I was ready to push whenever I felt pressure, then promptly left the room. Huh? For about 20 minutes, Howard and I sat alone unsure of what to do. I quietly, half-heartedly pushed with my contractions wondering if that was what we were supposed to do. When the nurse came back in, I told her again of the overwhelming pressure and asked what Dr. R meant about pushing. She casually told me he’d be in soon, that we’d all push together and not to worry. “Pushing can take a while,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. To set my mind at ease, she took a look at my progress. Well, I wasn’t feeling too at ease when she screamed, “Get the doctor! The head is coming out!”

Within seconds, the bed was broken down (into a delivery bed) and the doctor was back and in catching position. Approximately three minutes and five good pushes later, little Tyler fell out into the world. He was a perfect mini-Howard, (thank God it was a boy!) and the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

Now two weeks later, I’m still in awe that this beautiful, fascinating little creature is mine. My days are filled with feedings, my nights with, well, the same. My satisfaction is a good burp. My nipples are mutilated. I love every minute of it. Okay, almost every minute of it. I could do with a couple more hours of sleep. But, how incredible is this journey. How life altering. How unimportant everything else seems when his eyes study mine, when a sly looking smile crosses his meaty little lips, when his brows wrinkle in expression just like his father’s. After two years trying, Howard and I and baby Tyler are a family. I’m truly overwhelmed.

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