The Year

Turns out you can get a lot done during chemo. During the year my mother battled lung cancer, I was often the one who accompanied her to her treatments. I went out of a sense of duty, so she wouldn’t have to be alone, and to educate myself about her disease.

I also went looking for shreds of hope that my mother would not die. I needed to be near her.

Her diagnosis with lung cancer in the fall of 1999 changed everything. Just a few years earlier, my 53-year-old mother, a busy realtor, had started working out at a gym and lost weight. She felt younger than her salt-and-pepper gray hair made her look, so she decided to go blond. She looked great driving around to appointments in her white Saab, talking on her car phone.

“Someday I’ll have a convertible,” she said, tossing her hair.

She joked with my sister and me that we shouldn’t rush into marriage and having babies.

“I’m too young to be a grandmother,” she said.

I, too, was having the time of my life when my mom got sick. I was looking forward to my wedding to Matthew, who proposed to one summer night on a beach on Cape Cod. I was 27 and living in Boston since being promoted to State House bureau chief by the newspaper where I worked. Matthew and I were still enjoying the glow of a newly engaged couple. Even at work, typing my stories, I smiled every time the sparkle of my diamond ring caught my eye.

When I visited Matthew, even though my parents’ lived in the next town, I spent little time at their house. It was one of my mother’s running jokes that she had to get reports of my whereabouts from our mutual friend Debbie, who lived next door to Matthew.

“Have you seen my daughter lately?” my mother would ask Debbie. “I heard her car was parked on Garfield Street.

“Is she married yet? Does she have any kids?”

Mom could really crack herself up.

That September, on the night of my parents’ 25^th high school reunion, my father raced my mother to the hospital while she held a bag of frozen peas to her side.

I was visiting Matthew when she called me from the hospital the next morning.

 “I’m going to see a specialist,” my mother said.

“Oh,” I said, imagining, just for a moment, that the floor had shifted below my feet.

I leaned against a stool, cradling the phone on my shoulder. My hands went to my forehead, pushing back my hair. I didn’t want to ask the next question. But I had to. I didn’t know it yet, but I was already defying my own expectations of myself.

“What kind of specialist?” I said.

“They found an admor . . . abnormality on my X-ray,” she said.

Mom always had trouble pronouncing certain words. It was something about which my family often poked fun of her. In fact, my mother was always an easy target for my father, my sister, and me. We made fun of her stammering and difficulty articulating herself, especially when she got excited. We made fun of her inability to drink more than one and a half glasses of wine before getting tipsy, calling her a cheap date. When she nagged us for not cleaning our rooms or using too much salt on our food we told her to “take a pill” or “take a back pill.” We called her clumsy or “clutzy” – as my grandmother liked to say – because she was always stubbing her toe on the furniture, a trait she passed on to me.

“What kind of specialist?” I asked again.

I was both angry and relieved when Mom didn’t answer my question directly. I don’t know what forced me to ask again. I knew the answer and yet I couldn’t believe it.

“An oncologist,” she said.

I sat down fully on the stool, not trusting the floor, not trusting my legs.

“But,” I paused, “that’s a cancer doctor.”

Silence.

“Why would you be going to see a cancer doctor?” I said.

There was something creeping up my throat that felt like a scream. I swallowed hard, stifling it for now.

“There’s what they’re calling an abnormality on my X-ray, a spot on my X-ray,” she said. “So the specialist is going to check it out. Check out the abnormality. It’s good that I’m seeing a specialist.”

A few days later I was lying next to my mother in hospital bed after a biopsy confirmed her doctors’ suspicions that she had cancer. My mother did not ask me to lie with her, but a need to be near her and touch her was overpowering.

She was lying on her side, favoring the hip where doctors had drilled into her bone to test for cancer. I crawled on the bed behind her and wrapped my arm over her side, careful to avoid the painful spot on her hip and buried my face into the back of her neck.

I thought I was comforting my mother by lying with her in her hospital bed, but in doing so, I was hoping to receive some comfort from her.

On the morning of her first chemotherapy treatment, Mom wore a button-down shirt. This would make it easy for the nurse to access the catheter that had been surgically placed in my mother’s upper chest, just under the skin near her collar bone. The catheter was connected to a vein and would allow the nurse to deliver the chemotherapy drugs, directly into my mother’s bloodstream without having to stick a needle in her arm every week.

“I probably shouldn’t have worn white,” Mom said that morning.

She was told she’d lose her hair, so she’d picked out a wig even before starting treatment. That first morning, we took photos so she could see what she’d look like wearing it. In one photo, my mother sits between me and my father on the couch in their living room. My father is smiling with his arm around my mother. Like so many photos of my mother, this one captures her between smiles, and she looks as if she was caught by surprise. She looks directly into the camera, her brown eyes wide and mouth in a half-smile. Her hand is at her head, holding the wig as it slides sideways down her head. I sit next to them, kissing my mother’s cheek.

Chemotherapy is much more mundane that I had expected. It’s less invasive than going to the dentist. You don’t have to change into a hospital gown. You wear your own clothes. It’s like giving blood, without all the blood.

Most patients at the oncology clinic had their treatments in a large room. Reclining chairs lined the four walls facing a nurses’ station in the middle of the room. The patients’ chairs were separated by curtains for privacy.  For the treatment, a nurse hooks up an IV that contains a cocktail of chemotherapy drugs to your arm or a catheter. Then, you wait. You wait until the IV bag is empty. It usually takes about 30 minutes for the IV bag to fully drain, and you can be in and out of the clinic in less than an hour.

While you’re there, you can get up to go to the bathroom, with your IV bag in tow, or get a snack or a drink from the communal kitchen. You can even walk around in the clinic or visit with other patients, though that rarely happened. To pass the time, patients usually watched one of the several television sets mounted from the ceiling around the room or flipped through magazines.

Over the next year, my mother and I used the stretches of time during chemo time to plan my wedding. We consulted each other’s calendars and synchronized our daily routines to fit in time for dress fittings and seating charts. During chemo, my mother bragged to her nurses about my upcoming wedding, while I sat beside her with my arms loaded with bridal magazines and disorganized folders of guest lists.

My mother and I always got along well. We never experienced the bitter battles that many mothers and daughters do at certain times in their lives, the struggles for power that often stem from a mutual resentment. But while my mother and I were always close and found it easy to show our love for each other, until her diagnoses our lives were quite separate. We did not discuss the intimate details of our lives. I was not the kind of daughter who called my mother my best friend. She was not the kind of mother who involved me in her arguments with my father. But during the year between her diagnoses and her death – the year that I coincided with my engagement and wedding –I gradually came to know her fears and triumphs almost as intimately as my own.

Those hour-long chemo sessions were jewels of stolen time for use. Chemo paused our hectic “before cancer” lives, forcing us to stop moving, sit together in a room and share a space in time.

There were some things about my wedding that my mom couldn’t help me with. Since she had lost her appetite she didn’t bother tasting cakes with me. When a treatment had left her sick and weak, it was my father who accompanied me to my appointment with the florist to pick out my bouquet.

After chemo, my mother usually felt tired and nauseated for a few days. Sometimes she didn’t feel like eating much. Sometimes she needed blood transfusions to boost her white blood cell count, when her resistance to infections was knocked down by chemo drugs.

At first she tolerated the treatments well. As the months went by, and she began to have more pain, then weakness and seizures – a sign that the cancer had metastasized to her brain. But, through it all, she never asked me to alter my plans because of her illness or to change my wedding date, even when her body began failing her as my wedding approached.

My mother prepared for my wedding in her own way. With the help of friends and family, she had a fresh coat of paint applied to the walls of several of the rooms of her house. She made sure the guest room, my old bedroom, was neat and orderly. Decorated with a rose-patterned bedspread and matching curtains, it was pretty enough for any bride getting ready for her wedding. She had even sent my father out one night to purchase the finishing touch at a local department store – a full length cherry dressing mirror she had seen advertised in the newspaper that morning.

Eventually, she spent a lot of time resting and fighting the pain. When I visited her at home, I often found her sitting in front of the television swaying back and forth in a rocking pink recliner – a gift from her good friend Jeanne that had become her preferred seat in the house – with her eyes closed. When I asked her what she was doing she said, cheerfully, “I’m meditating.”

“What are you watching?” I’d ask, looking at the television.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she’s say. “Some stupid show.”

I have no way of knowing if my mother was meditating to ease her pain or praying that she would not die. Rather than join my father at church every Sunday morning, mom preferred to stay home, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and browsing the sale fliers.

“Don’t worry,” Dad said jokingly, “I’ll pray for you sinners.”

After she became too sick for chemo, her once pin-straight hair grew back curly and white. Faced with the reality that her body would neither tolerate nor respond to further treatment, with the prospect of no recovery, she cried, “I want to see your wedding.” Then, after a moment, she said, “I want to see my grandchildren.”

People say my wedding kept her going. It kept her mind off the pain eased only by large doses of morphine and her fate. When my wedding day finally arrived, she was sicker than she had ever been. Though hospitalized for several days leading up to it, she somehow mustered the strength to attend my wedding ceremony, decked out in her best blond wig – by now she had many to chose from – and the navy blue dress we had picked out together.

After the ceremony, Matthew and I greeted guests as they filed out of the church. Then, I walked over to my mother, who was waiting for me in her wheelchair.

“Come over here and give your mother a kiss,” she said, feigning anger that I had not greeted her sooner.

The next day, we were at her bedside at my parents’ house. She wanted to die at home. Any notions Matthew and I had of a honeymoon vanished. The depth of my mother’s sheer physical pain seemed endless and so did her dying. Large and continuous doses of morphine dulled the pain but also stole away her consciousness. As her breathing became more and more labored, we prayed for her suffering to end, for death to come, for the agony of watching her die to cease.

At 3:50 a.m., five days after my wedding – after she had watched my tearful father walk me down the aisle as I beamed with a joy that couldn’t be stifled by any of the pain we had endured in the past year – my mother died. My sister stood at the foot of her bed, gently touching my mother’s stocking covered foot. I stood at the side of her bed, holding her hand. Matthew stood behind me. My father caressed her face as she took her last breath and cried for his “sweet, sweet baby.” We had prayed for the relief her death was supposed to bring. When life left her, I was startled to feel instead only a consuming desire to have her back, even with all the pain and suffering. I wanted for just five more minutes to hold her warm hand in mine, to feel the smooth, dry skin and examine the long fingers with their large knuckles that look so much like my own.

The birth of Julian

Julian's birth was amazing and fast. It was a hot, humid morning when things started happening. It was gray outside and the air felt heavy. I was up early, as usual. It was a Monday. I was lamenting the fact that I had no plans for the day and wasn't sure what I would do with Jonah that day. I can't remember what Matthew's plans were or whether he was scheduled to work. We were still living and Dani and Marc's house, and Dani was awake, too, when I realized I'd be having a baby very soon.

I think I'd been having contractions off and on for weeks, but I chose to ignore them or pretend they were still just Braxton Hicks. But, the baby had felt lower in the past couple weeks, and I had been feeling irregular contractions, especially at night and especially the night before I went into labor. Some of these contractions over the previous two nights were pretty strong. I ignored it. In fact, I had suspected that my water had broken the night before but it was just a tiny trickle, if anything at all. Again, I tried to ignore it.

I was determined to ignore as much of it as possible in an attempt to stay out of my head about the birth this time around. But, on the morning of June 28, after I'd eaten some cereal, I started secretly hunting around online about signs that your water has broken. I remember reading that the trickle I was experiencing could mean that my water had broken, but I still wasn't sure. I also read an interesting fact that some women actually feel a popping sensation in their abdomen when their water breaks. I didn't feel anything like that. Soon, Jonah, who was 2 1/2, was up and my mind had moved on from what was going on with me and this pregnancy to breakfast, Jonah and the rest of my day.

A few minutes later I was sitting on the couch in my nightgown reading a book to Jonah. I wish I could tell you which book I was reading to him as he sat next to me, but I only remember that suddenly I felt a small "pop!" in my lower belly on the side. Then, a gush. I jumped up and ran through my bedroom to the bathroom, grabbing a towel on the way. "My water just broke," I yelled.

At some point, I remember thinking, "It's June 28." And, that sounded like a good day for a birthday.

Matthew called the midwives and doula. I still wasn't convinced the baby was coming. I had ignored so many of the previous signs. And, now, it seemed like all of a sudden my water broke, but I worried that labor hadn't actually started. I worried it would be just like Jonah's birth, when my water broke two weeks early and we had to use all the tricks in the book to get my contractions going and keep them going and I stayed awake for two days and ended up going to the hospital for pitocin and he was finally born 62 hours after my water broke. On the phone with one of my midwives, I sort of told her all of this, talked about my fears. I also talked a lot about Jonah, about my worries that he would be alright with the caretakers we had arranged to be with him during my labor. My worries were about the unknown. And, about another long, drawn out labor that might end up with another hospital birth, which I did not want. I really wanted this baby to be born at home. One of my midwives, Jharna, gave me a little talking to over the phone. She reminded me that I had plans and back-up plans for Jonah's care and that he would be fine. She told me I could stop thinking about that now. She gave me some instructions: to go make my bed and to start thinking about this birth. This baby is coming today, she said, and it was time for me to start focusing on that. Her words gave me direction and a sense of control, which I craved. I think she knew that. My midwives are so smart.

At some point, our friends, Matt and Kristy, came over to pick up Jonah so he could play with their son, Rex, who is a little younger than Jonah. They kept Jonah all morning and he napped in Kristy's car during a ride. Dani would pick him up after work and, if necessary, drive him up to Brattleboro, Vt., where he'd spent the night at his cousin Hugo's house.

Dani went to work. Marc was also working. One of my midwives, Chana Luba, showed up. About two to three hours after my water broke, and not very long after my verbal smack down from Jharna, the contractions really started. I tried to listen to music but soon decided it was too distracting. Bouncing on the birthing ball or leaning over and resting my head and arms on the bed seemed to work best for a while. At some point, my doula, Katherine, and Jharna, showed up. Several hours passed but it felt like minutes.

Soon, it was afternoon, somewhere between 2 and 3 p.m., I think, and time to decide whether Jonah would go to Brattleboro. I didn't know it, but I was about to go into transition. Still, I went back to worrying about Jonah. We decided he should go to his cousin's house, and even though I had already packed his bag, I listed several items to Matthew to make sure were in there. Jharna was listening and chuckled a bit, but also reassured me that Jonah was in good hands, that Matthew would do a good job making sure all his things were in the bag.

My midwives checked my progress at least once or twice during this time. I don't remember specifically how many centimeters I was dilated, but the numbers seemed to make sense to me and made me feel like I was on track. I was so happy because this time I didn't need to walk and walk and walk. I didn't need to drink castor oil. So far, I hadn't needed any medical interventions. They checked the baby's heart rate intermittently and my vitals and everything was fine. Maybe I channeled my worries into other things, like Jonah's care, but I wasn't worried at all about my health or the health of the baby. It was like somewhere, deep down, I knew it was going well and everything would be fine. My midwives' demeanor, actions, quiet voices, gentle hands and proficiency helped a lot to foster that feeling of calm.

We knew Dani would soon be on her way to pick up Jonah, stop at our house to pick up his stuff and then head up to Vermont. Meanwhile, things really started moving. My contractions were coming faster. I really wanted my nightgown off but had trouble saying the words. I started pulling it off and somehow managed to "ask" Matthew and Katherine to help me. "Pull this," I think I said. Somehow, I asked if I could get in the tub. No sooner had the midwives said, "Sure," that I lost the ability to really speak and was having trouble breathing through the contractions. There was a moment when I noticed Matthew wasn't in the room and Katherine was with me, but suddenly I just really needed Matthew. I barely said anything, but Katherine knew just what I needed and got Matthew quickly by my side. I needed to touch him. I was grunting and my body was pushing. I had to push. The midwives checked me to make sure I was complete, and I was. I honestly couldn't believe it. Just when I thought I couldn't do this anymore, someone said, "Your baby is coming in a few minutes." (Did I tell you my midwives are very, very smart? That reassurance was perfectly timed.) "Really?" I said. "Really?" Soon, the baby was crowning and I touched the head. It was only then that I finally believed I was having a baby very, very soon. At first I was on my hands and knees, but then I tried lying on my side. I have a tweaky hip when I give birth so I naturally ended up lying on my back with my legs pulled back like a frog. It felt totally natural. The head was born after a few very painful seconds. I knew the rest would be easy. Apparently, the body didn't come out during the next push as it should have, so there were a few seconds when things got very serious, but I barely noticed. A shoulder was stuck under my pelvic bone, so Jharna got up on the bed, reached in, turned the baby a bit and guided him out during my next contraction. And, there he was! He was born.

I think I asked, "Is it a boy or girl?" Someone, probably Matthew, said, "A boy." Another boy!

The baby had sucked in some fluid on his way out so they did a lot of suctioning. Kristen, a midwife, explained that she would like to use a special tube to get it out, rather than the bulb syringe. I think she may have even said she learned how to use it in England, while training as a midwife. I agreed and she pulled out quite a lot of fluid. I learned later that Matthew was very nervous at this point, but I still had that calm feeling of knowing everything was and would be fine. Maybe it was the hormones, the lack of medication in my system, the midwives or a combination of things. I do remember that this baby was pinker at birth than Jonah had been. And, Jonah was completely healthy and fine, just a little gray at birth. But, I loved that pinkness. We hadn't weighed this baby yet, but I heard my birth attendants remark about his big size.

Soon, the baby was crying and making noise and breathing fine. I had him on my belly and chest and concentrated on seeing if he wanted to nurse. He seemed interested in being near my breasts but didn't want to latch, which was fine. I let him do his thing. Meanwhile, we waited for the placenta, which took a little longer than they liked, but was also fine. At some point, my midwives commented that they were slightly concerned about my bleeding. I turned inward to pay attention to how I felt, so I could tell them if I felt symptoms as a result of blood loss, like light-headedness or nausea or weakness. I was paying attention to myself, but, I learned later, that the serious look on my face worried Matthew. In the end, my midwives gave me a little shot of pitocin in my thigh in an effort to contract my uterus to help stop the bleeding. They were so kind about having to stick me and cause me pain, even though a little needle stick seemed like nothing after giving birth. I do remember that this birth, especially at the end, hurt a lot! I remember that I yelled and screamed through most of it, which is kind of funny because Dani and Marc have tenants who live downstairs. I still don't know if they were home at the time and heard me. I don't really care, but it's kind of funny. I was making a lot of noise. I also remember thinking soon after the baby was born and the pain stopped that now I really, really know why people get epidurals! Soon after, I learned that I had only pushed for about 15 minutes, which amazed me because I pushed for more than three hours during Jonah's birth.

My water broke at 8:15 a.m. Active contractions started around 11 a.m. And, this baby was born at 4:20 p.m. The baby had come before Dani or Marc got home from work, and even before Jonah went to Vermont. Soon after he was born, Dani arrived home with Jonah. We decided that Matthew would run his stuff down to the car, and Dani would come in to see me and the baby for a few minutes, but that we'd have Jonah stay in the car and then head right up to Brattleboro. Dani told us that he had been verbally prepped for his sleepover and was really excited about it. We thought it would be good to put off introducing him to his baby brother until the next day and have a night with only one baby at home. I desperately wanted to see him, but Matthew assured me he was fine and happy and looking forward to going to Hugo's house.

The midwives stayed until about 6 p.m. Before they left, they helped me take a shower. Kristen did some craniosacral therapy on the baby. "I think he has a little headache," she said. Within minutes of laying her hands on him, he fell fast asleep. At some point, they weighed him with a fish scale. Jharna was holding the scale. With a big smile, she said, "You're not going to believe this. Nine pounds, eight ounces!" He was almost two pounds bigger than my first baby at birth! No wonder it hurt so much!

I loved having such a big baby. I felt like he was just that much healthier and safer. He didn't even really look like a newborn. He was chubby and solid. A ton of black, curly hair on his head. Long limbs. In fact, Kristen told me that he was big enough that I didn't have to worry about waking him to nurse every two hours. "If he sleeps for longer stretches, you can just let him sleep. He'll be fine." That was the most wonderful thing anyone could have told me going into the first night with a newborn.

We ordered Chinese food, since it was dinner time. I devoured a giant plate of brown rice, chicken and vegetables and a bowl of miso soup, which is good for restoring energy after a birth. We were so happy that this baby had come at such a convenient time of day. Marc got to meet him when he got home from work. My dad came over after dinner for a while. And, we got to go to bed at bedtime. I had not been awake for two days trying to keep my labor going. This labor happened on its own and my baby was born at home, in my own bed, surrounded by the people Matthew and I had chosen to help us.

We didn't know what to call this baby, but at some point in the middle of the night, I started thinking about it. He was born on June 28, but his due date had been estimated for early July. I started thinking about July and the name Julian formed in my head. Later, I told Matthew and he liked it. We let it sink in for a few hours before deciding, but, from the start, it seemed like the perfect name. We had already decided his middle name would be Dean after my father. (Jonah's middle name is Thomas, after his other grandfather.)

There he was. Julian Dean Cavanaugh. And, my family was complete. ~ Nicole

Letting go

It's been raining a lot. Too much for my liking. It's nearly Memorial Day and we've only had the briefest taste of warm, spring weather. That's New England for you. I've been spending more time indoors due to the wet, cold weather. But, as I look around my house today, I see a little less grime, a little more shine. I've been vaccuuming a bit more. Sweeping. Dusting. Tidying. Partly, it's because I've been in the house more due to the weather. I can't ignore the dirt and mess. I've also been spending more time inside because Julian naps in the morning while Jonah is at preschool, and the kids seem to appreciate spending the afternoons at home most days, especially Jonah who has spent a very stimulating morning at school. But, I am realizing, too, that the other reason my house is a bit more kept is because things are just a little bit easier for me. Taking care of a 3 1/2-year-old and a nearly 11-month-old isn't easy exactly, but it's much less of a struggle most days than it used to be. We've settled into a pretty predictable routine, especially now that Jonah is in preschool four mornings a week. Julian has stopped crying every time he sees the vaccuum cleaner. He plays well by himself and enjoys roaming around on the floor as long as I'm nearby. But, I've also gotten just a little bit better at letting go. My standards for housekeeping have gone way down and I'm mostly OK with that. While it can still be very frustrating that I usually can't finish any job I have started, I know that this is the norm and no longer expect to get everything done in one day. I've gotten to the point where I can do just a little bit every day, at certain opportune times. Over the course of about a week, I can do a little bit of work in almost every room or in our small yard. Just enough to maintain the order I require to feel sane in my house. It's still hard because there's a lot of deep cleaning I really never get to. I have piles and piles of papers to go through. Lots of closets and storage areas that need to be cleaned out and organized. The bathtub could use a good scrubbing. But, someone always needs to be fed. Someone's boo boo needs a kiss. Someone needs a diaper change. Someone needs help finding a favorite toy. Someone needs help sharing. Someone needs me for something other than cleaning and tidying. So, I stop what I am doing. I leave the bedroom only half vaccuumed. I pat myself on the back for wiping down the sink and mirror even though I never got around to mopping the floor. It's good enough because it's better than it was a few minutes ago. And, I know that this is just the state of my house -- and my life -- right now. At any time, things could pile up and it could become more difficult. I've learned not to see anything as a trend, necessarily, because things can change at any time. The most important piece of all of this is that I have let go of judging myself for having a messy or dirty house. It's just the way things are for me. It's not my fault and it's not even a bad thing to have a messy house. In fact, it is evidence that I am doing my job, that I am paying attention to my children and doing what they need me to do. I am happy to say that I have lightened up a lot since having kids. I still have moments when the chaos drives me crazy and I need to vent -- or kick everyone out of the house so I can just take care of things uninterrupted. But, for now, as Julian takes his afternoon nap and Jonah sits next to me on the couch watching Thomas the Tank Engine and chatting with me now and then while I take advantage of a little time to work on my computer, I look around and enjoy the shine coming off of my floors and the crumb-free rug at my feet. I notice there's a bit of dust on the coffee table, but nothing in this house is perfect, now or ever. And, that's the way it's supposed to be, and that's fine by me. ~ Nicole

Roadblocks

I'm trying hard to turn the many roadblocks I see in my path this morning into opportunities.

That sounds so corny, like a self-help book, but it's true.

Both kids woke up way too early today. I think I finally looked at the clock at 5:30, after Julian wouldn't stop tossing and turning next to me. I ignored him for as long as I could, but it's impossible to ignore a 9-month-old baby in your bed, when all he wants to do is giggle and crawl around and try to dive off the bed. About 20 minutes later, I heard Jonah. Awake from coughing and crying for me. I made a half-hearted attempt to get each of them back to sleep. It wasn't happening. I convinced Jonah to bring some books to my bed, thinking I could at least stay horizontal a bit longer. It turned out to be a wonderful hour we spent talking and reading in bed, and I was amazed by the fact that Jonah has memorized many of his books and likes "reading" his books to me just as much as he enjoys having me read to him. He "read" Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, The Runaway Bunny, The Little Bunny and Cleo's Counting Book to me. Soon, he grew hoarse and started coughing again. He was refusing the homeopathic cough syrup I offered, but I convinced him to join me and Julian in the bathroom for some steam. I tricked him. I told him I needed to take Julian in the bathroom for the steam to help his cold, but that I'd love it if he'd join us and play with his squirt trains in the sink. We stayed in there for as long as the shower stayed hot. Julian played on the floor with bath toys while Jonah "washed" his trains in the sink.

My plan is to go to a mothers' support group this morning. Matthew is out of town on work, so I arranged for a friend to watch Jonah and have a playdate while I took Julian to the group. But, the friend canceled due to her own family's challenges (cold, lack of sleep, etc.). I totally understand. But, I need to come up with a new plan. Fast. Well, not really, since I was up at the crack, but I'm very slow-witted in the early morning. When my plans fall through at the last minute, I often feel very, very indecisive about which direction to go. I could just stay home and skip everything, taking what can feel like the path of least resistance. But, then, it's so nice out and I was looking forward to the walk. Jonah has this terrible cough, so I'm just not sure about taking him to the playroom where he could play while I'm in the group. I don't think his cold is contagious any more but he has a hacking, gagging cough that is very disconcerting, especially to people who haven't heard it off and on every day and night for a few days, like I have. (The homeopathic cough stuff does seem to work, but you really do have to take it every two hours on the dot.) Anyway, I know I may freak people out by bringing my "sick" kid to a playroom today, but I really NEED the group. So, then I was thinking, well maybe I'll skip the group and just take the kids to a playground. But, I can't commit to that. It's because I really need to go to the group today. So, now I am thinking that we will go anyway, as soon as Julian wakes up. I should be helping Jonah get ready, but here I am writing away.

I decided to let Jonah wear his pajamas, which are really just the clothes he wore yesterday afternoon for his nap ... and the same clothes he wore to bed last night. So, that's one less thing to do. One less roadblock to leave the house. But, I still need to get him to brush his teeth. I need to put some snacks in the bag. I need to get everyone's shoes and coats on. I need to strap the kids into the stroller, and bring the Ergo in case Julian gets crazy at group, and start walking. Group starts in 20 minutes. Julian is still napping, which I'm totally not complaining about. Jonah is playing with his trains, but kind of wishing I would pay attention to him. Ah, and he's starting to brush his teeth! Maybe to get my attention! Gotta go support this positive behavior! Stay tuned to find out if I actually get out of the house this morning ... and maintain a positive attitude. Hopefully, it won't take me another three months to write. ~ Nicole

Dust and all

My house is driving me crazy. Toys are everywhere. Dishes always need to be washed. The laundry stands in piles and in baskets around the house in various states of dirty, clean, unfolded and folded. There is baby clothing both boys have outgrown to sort through and pass along. Toys and baby gadgets we no longer want or need. A bag of miscellaneous items for donation. Boxes of framed photos that haven't yet been hung on the walls. Dust. Crumbs. Smears. Cat fur collecting on the couch. Recycling to sort and put in bins. Shoes just screaming to be lined up or put away in closets. I am home a lot lately. It is winter in New England and we have lately been pummeled with snow and frigid, frigid temperatures. Too snowy and too cold to take two little ones outside most of the time. We do it anyway any chance we get, but we are home more than we are out doing things. I spend a lot of time thinking about ways I wish I could improve my surroundings, our living space. But, I don't spend much time actually doing any of it. Between feeding two kids and ourselves, diaper changes, clothing changes, reading books, naps, etc. there isn't much time leftover to hang pictures or beautify our place. When I do get a chance to clear away some clutter, vaccuum and give most surfaces a wipe down, it does look pretty nice in here. But, it never lasts. Today, I found myself trying very hard to accept this state of affairs. To give myself a break. It's winter in New England for godsake! Not easy to cart away bags and boxes of unwanted items. Not easy to escape the dust that accumulates or dirt that gets track in. I looked around and tried to say, "So what. So what if there's a baby swing in my bedroom being used as a clothes hanger. So what if there is a plastic bin full of baby clothes in my dining room. So what if every corner of every room has a pile of toys in it. So what if there are bits of dried up Play Dough on the kitchen floor. So what." It won't always be this way, I told myself. Spring will come. We will clean. We will clear out. That's what we do in the spring. January is over. It is light out past 5 p.m. these days. The light is coming. The days are lengthening. Soon enough, we can clean and beautify, both indoors and out. "I can't wait until we can sit out on the porch and drink coffee," Matthew said today as he and Jonah played in the snow in the front yard. Yes! That WILL happen. Soon enough. Soon enough we can escape the indoors and stomp in the mud, smell the grass, feel the warm breeze, soak up the sun. It will come. It will. Until then, we will bake, drink tea, make soup, make finger paintings, build tall Lego towers, watch Julian learn how to crawl, run circles around the racetrack in the house, read lots of books, venture out when we can to the library, play in the snow, go out to a warm and cozy restaurant with our kids who actually behave really well at restaurants and simply be grateful for it all. Dust and all. ~ Nicole

Time.

Tonight, I am home alone. Both kids are asleep (for now anyway). Matthew is working. I was in my pajamas by 7:15. I am drinking chamomile tea. A bunch of my girlfriends are meeting up in a few minutes to have drinks. I was supposed to go, but I am the babysitter tonight. I am both happy and sad to be home alone in a quiet (for now) house. It's peaceful, but I find myself so rarely in this type of environment, in this state of things, that I have forgotten a bit how to do this. Nothing. Or, whatever I want. Or almost whatever I want. (Probably not going to turn the stereo up real loud and dance around.) I could start watching a movie, but I worry that Julian will wake up and interrupt it and I won't get very far into the movie before deciding to just give in and take him to bed with me. I have a book, but ... There's Julian. See?

Attitude adjustment

At 4:30 in the afternoon, I have finally decided to enjoy my day spent at home with the kids. Matthew left for work before 5:30 this morning and won't be home until after the kids go to bed. (If they go to bed.) I thought I'd be housebound but my sister let me borrow her car. It has been sitting in my driveway undriven (undriven?) all day. I babysat for Rex this morning, Jonah's little friend (my babysitting swap thing), so we stayed home. Jonah napped today and is still asleep so I didn't need the car to induce a late afternoon snooze. I also figured if he didn't sleep or took a short nap I could run some errands with the kids. But now it's already getting dark. It's cold. We've spent the last four or five days running around to parties and such, which has been great. But, sometimes, staying home is pretty great, too. I have a gazillion things to do to get ready to host Christmas at my house for the first time ever (errands), but most of them can wait another day. Some of them have to wait, like cooking and baking. So, I'm going to keep this short so I can enjoy the rare feeling of being alone in my house (even though I'm really not) and the even rarer silence. It may only last another minute, or maybe 30. But, I'm going to welcome it, and embrace my day at home with the kids. We all needed it. And, maybe this attitude shift will help the rest of the day and evening go smoothly . ~ Nicole

Three today

As I sat nursing Julian tonight, I thought back over the past three years and realized that I can still remember Jonah's whole life, beginning at 9:33 p.m. on December 20, 2007. I remember my long labor and how exhausted I was from his birth. I remember he looked a little gray and took a few moments to breathe and cry. I remember the surprise in Matthew's voice when he told me "It's a boy!" I remember the first car ride with him, how he slept soundly until the very moment we stopped the car. I remember the first delirious night with him, how helpless we felt not knowing how to soothe him and how we were so tired that Matthew couldn't figure out how to put the bouncy seat together. I remember the panic and isolation I felt the first few times I was home alone with him after Matthew went back to work. I remember my first feelings of finally "having it together" as a mom, at times anyway. I remember when he cut his first tooth, the night we went camping -- no one slept at the campground that night! I remember the first time I made him giggle as he played on his belly on the living room floor. I remember when he learned to crawl, when he first saw the ocean, the first night he slept in his crib, his first shots, his first cold, his first steps at his 1st birthday party at my sister's house. I remember when he fell on his forehead, tumbling down while learning to walk and the awful conk of his head hitting the pavement (but he was fine). I remember the delicious feeling of my first night of sleep, wearing earplugs while Matthew tended to his night wakings. I remember the first time he slept through the night. I remember when we took him to the beach when he was old enough to play with us in the surf and build (and smash) sand castles, and letting him eat ice cream. I remember his baby smell. I remember his sweaty head of thick hair when it was hot and he played hard. I remember getting in the bath with him after several of those hot and sweaty afternoons. I remember when he almost swallowed a wood chip at the playground and I was so scared I had to sit down and take deep breaths to stop my hands from shaking. I remember when I didn't know where he was for almost an hour because I couldn't reach my friend who was watching him and how I literally thought I would die if I didn't find him. (We did. He was fine. Her phone wasn't working and she hadn't realized I never got her messages telling us where to meet them.) I remember how we were like pals the summer before he turned 2, going everywhere around the city, every day doing something fun together and finally being able to talk about it. I remember weaning him when I got pregnant again and how guilty I felt when he got a string of colds and then an ear infection. I remember how suddenly grownup he seemed at 2 and then 2 1/2. I remember agonizing about his care during my labor and birth with baby number two. I remember him kissing my belly, talking to the baby, singing to the baby and telling us we should name the baby Mia, regardless of whether it was a boy or girl. I remember thinking about him that first night after Julian was born, hoping he didn't wake up scared at his cousin's house in the middle of the night. I remember how happy I was to see him the next morning and how disinterested he was at first with Julian. I remember the first time he held Julian and how proud he seemed. I remember all of this and so much more.

Now, he is 3. He's not too sure if he likes being 3 yet. He seems uncertain of growing up, sometimes. Other times, he is determined to "do it all by myself." He is beautiful. Those amazing greenish, blueish eyes with flecks of brown and the longest eyelashes I've ever seen. Puffy lips and still retaining some baby chub in his cheeks. But, he is longer and leaner than he has ever been. Less like a baby than ever. Except when he sleeps. Then, he is my baby once again. He is my first baby. He made me a mother. He has brought me so much joy. I am so lucky to be his mother.

He's been having trouble falling asleep tonight. I've been in there twice since he went to bed. I told him he should try to lie still and keep his eyes closed. I touched his cheek and head and said, "Good night. I love you." And, he said, kind of whispering in his slightly raspy voice, "I love you, too, Mama." I tried not to get tears on him as I kissed him good night. ~ Nicole

Belly

I am thinking about my belly. How it has changed. What it has done. It held and grew two big, beautiful baby boys. With Julian, my newborn of 9 pounds, 8 ounces, it was huge! And, no stretch marks. I'm trying to hold on to this admiration for my belly for as long as I can because it's not easy to do. I gained at least 40 pounds with each pregnancy. I think I stopped counting after that, so it was probably more. After Jonah was born, it took 9 solid months to lose it all. Then, when he started pre-walking and walking, I lost another 5 or so just trying to prevent him from killing himself. I'm probably on track for that with Julian, but I'm feeling mighty impatient this time. The scale seems to barely move. Most of my clothes still don't fit. And, despite this admiration for the awesomeness of the work my body did, growing and birthing two, healthy, amazing babies, my belly still feels big to me. Big and floppy. I often don't like it. It lies next to me sometimes when I nurse Julian in bed, like another baby or a pet curled up next to me. But, I don't love it like I would a baby or pet. Sometimes, I hate it, actually. I also often have mixed feelings about it. Like when Jonah notices it, pokes it with his little finger and says, "What's that?" "My belly," I say, as cheerfully as possible. "What's in there?" he asks. "Nothing," I say. I don't say, "Fat." My mind sits here while Jonah says, "I like it," and then asks, "What used to be in there?" And, then we talk about Julian. And, then we talk about Jonah. And, then, Jonah asks, "Where was Julian when I was in your belly?" And, I am stumped. Perhaps there will be more on this later.

Back to my belly. It is soft and squishy and white. I don't know how to dress it. How to flatter it. My body is foreign to me at the moment. My sizes are all weird. I don't know how to fit my body into clothes. I don't know how to find clothes that that fit me that I like. But, I still dig into the ice cream and I rarely find the time to exercise. I never do sit ups. I never run. Almost never. Not right now, anyway.

But! But, I went to a yoga class today. By myself. By. My. Self. And the teacher asked us to think of a place on our body that we wanted to focus on. My first thought was my belly. It just popped into my head. Then, I decided I didn't want to think about that. I tried to change the subject in my mind. I spent some moments trying to talk myself out of focusing on my belly. I thought, well, my back is sore, and that idea led me back to my belly, since the back and belly are connected. Then, I thought, well my hips feel pretty tight, but something kept pushing me back to try to keep up the courage to focus on and think about my belly. My belly needs my attention. At the beginning of class, my intention was to bring energy to my belly in a way that might help me focus on getting that soft, ample belly back into shape. I thought, okay, I will focus on my belly and try to keep that going after class so that I can talk myself into doing a bit more exercise, doing some crunches or more yoga at home, or just go for a brisk walk, or maybe pass up the ice cream tonight. (Yeah, right.)

The teacher kept prompting us to bring our attention back to our spot. Back to my belly. Back and back and back again. It got a little less painful every time. I had a great class. Stretched and felt strong and sometimes wobbly and needing to practice balance. (A topic for another day, perhaps.) It was my first yoga class (without a baby in tow) since Julian was born. So, at the end, I got to lie on my back during the final relaxation and just let go. Silence. Stillness. Me and my belly. My awesome and amazing belly. I like it. ~ Nicole

Flexibility

Julian is sleeping. Of course.

We had a rough night. It seemed like he wanted to nurse almost continuously. If he did sleep in his cradle, it felt as though he woke up after only a short time in there. Matthew took him downstairs at around 6:30 a.m. and let me sleep in.

After a short nap before I woke up, Julian fell back to sleep in his swing more than an hour ago. He slept while Julian and I ate breakfast and talked about our plans for the day. I decided I'd be fine with staying home and playing indoors today and suggested that to Jonah. I figured he'd like that idea, too, since this is usually what he wants to do on the days when I want to get out of the house.

"No, I want to go somewhere," he said.

Okay, I thought. It's still early. I bet I can get both boys out of the house for a little while today.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked him.

"Is the library open today?" he said.

"No, not until this afternoon, so we can't go this morning but maybe Daddy can take you after your nap," I told him.

"Can we go to the bookstore?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, and started the getting-ready process.

We have a window of opportunity for activities with Jonah. He can only make it so long before he starts to get hungry for lunch and tired for his nap. Often, this happens at the same time and that's when we venture into meltdown territory. If I push it too much, we risk missing the window for him to go to sleep easily for his nap and that messes up the entire rest of the day, for everyone.

I like to be home by noon at the latest for a quick lunch. Then, nap by 1 or 1:30. Two if I push it a little.

Well, guess what? It's already 11 a.m. Jonah and I are both ready to go, but Julian sleeps.

I used to have no problem just picking him up out of the swing and taking him along. When I did this, he always woke up mid-nap, never staying asleep during the transfer from swing to carrier. Now that he is 4 months old, I am thinking more about his sleep patterns and much more reluctant to wake him up to make things more convenient for me or anyone else in this family. But, it comes with a price. I keep thinking he's bound to wake up any minute and then I can keep my plan of taking Jonah to the bookstore. But, the window of opportunity for Jonah is closing. Fast. Even if Julian wakes up now, I still have to change his diaper and probably nurse him before we leave. Then I have to bundle us all up, get him in the Ergo, get Jonah in the stroller, and start walking. It will take us about 10 minutes to walk to the bookstore. At this rate, it could be noon by the time we get there. Not ideal.

I think I'm going to have to abandon the plan, and I have to tell Jonah. He's going to have to learn to be more flexible now that Julian is here, I suppose, but I don't know many almost 3-year-olds who are very flexible.

This is just one of the many reasons I hate the question, "So, what have you been up to?" or "What did you do today?" I DID a lot, even if I didn't actually DO a lot.
~ Nicole

My brain. My brain on babies.

Will I ever sleep again?

Will I ever exercise again?

Will I ever fit into my clothes?

Will my house ever be clean?

Will I ever make soup before the squash rot?

Will I ever be able to finish a conversation?

Will I ever feel like I'm being a good mom to each boy separately and both of them together?

Will I ever feel like I'm being a good wife?

Will I ever go out to dinner and a movie again?

Will I ever have more than a few minutes alone?

Will I ever finish the dishes?

Will I ever go back to work? And when I do will I still feel like I'm employable?

Will Julian ever take a bottle, for real?

Will Jonah ever stop having tantrums?

Is it normal to want to scream my head off for no apparent reason?

Will we ever buy a house?

Will we ever buy a second car?

Will I ever feel organized again?

Will we ever finish unpacking?

Will Jonah ever go to bed on time again?

Will both kids ever take naps at the same time?

Will I ever finish a project? Will I ever START a project?

Will Jonah ever stop wearing diapers?

Will Julian ever sleep in a crib?

Will Julian ever sleep somewhere other than my bedroom?

Will comments like, "Cherish these moments" ever stop bugging me?

Will I ever shave my legs again?

Will I ever give up my ice cream every day habit?

Will I ever do yoga again?

Will I ever write all the thank you notes?

Will I ever write in Julian's baby book?

Will I ever send out Julian's birth announcements?

Will I ever return all my emails and phone calls?

Will I ever finish my "to do" list? Will I ever do more than keep re-writing my "to do" list?

Will the bags under my eyes ever go away?

Will I ever find time to actually write again?

Will this list ever end?

~ Nicole

No more time

My days are full but don't ask me what I've been doing. I have two kids and feel guilty every day that I am never able to find a few minutes to do many of the things I used to like to do. One of those is writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote when I was pregnant with Jonah, and wrote some more when he was a baby and growing into a toddler. Now, Jonah is nearly 3 and Julian is 3 months. The precious free moments I have are usually spent in one of three ways: sleeping, bathing or catching up on chores that have piled up in my house. I yearn to write more, to read more. Every so often, I catch a few minutes on the computer and find a good, if short, read. Here, I will share one with you. One that resonates with me right now, after having house guests of one sort or another over four days last week. After whipping our house into shape, moving as many unpacked boxes out of their way as possible, hanging pictures and putting out flowers literally moments before their arrival. Anyway, I had time to read the blog on Motherwoman's website today. Well, I had time to read one post. And, I can relate. So I will post the link here in case someone else is interested in reading a nice little story about the life of a mom caring for two kids. I comment the writer, Allison, for her honesty and for carving out the space in her life to write it. I hope to get there someday, too.

http://motherwoman.wordpress.com/

~ Nicole

Bilirubin.

Bilirubin. I hate the word. I don't even really understand it, but I know that I am tired of talking about it.

Julian has, or had, jaundice. He is 7 weeks old and he still has a bit of yellow to his eyes. Normally, jaundice in newborns clears up much sooner. Usually by around 2 weeks. When Julian was 2 1/2 weeks old, his doctor advised us to take Julian to the emergency room to have his bilirubin level checked. It was 13. Higher than normal for that age but not dangerous, we were told. At his 4-week well baby appointment, his doctor advised us to get another blood test. The result: his bilirubin had gone up, not down, to 14. At that point, his doctor prescribed the biliblanket. A couple days later, his doctor examined him and said we should keep using the blanket during a five-day trip to Washington, D.C. Upon our return, we had Julian's blood tested yet again and his bilirubin was only down to 11. So, he's now 7 weeks old, and we are supposed to keep using the blanket, but now we also have to bring him back to the hospital this week for more blood tests and an ultrasound of his abdomen and liver. And, his doctor wants us to make an appointment for a consultation with a genetic counselor at a bigger hospital in a city. Not fun for any of us. Especially considering this kid wasn't even born in the hospital. (I know, I know, I haven't even written Julian's birth story, but I'll get to it. I'm going on very little sleep here.) All the while, I worry about Julian, even though, as far as we know, Julian's bilirubin level has never been high enough to be considered dangerous. But, his doctor wonders why his body hasn't cleared the bilirubin faster and what that means.

On top of everything else, our entire family, including Julian, have colds. Julian's is pretty mild and since he is nursing, I know he'll be fine and that it will be cleared up in a couple days. But, Jonah is snotty and coughing and irritable and can't sleep well and we are all a bit overwhelmed and cranky. And, I have a sore throat that I'm basically ignoring because I don't have time to wallow in my own sickness.

So, there you have it. Bilirubin. It sucks. Big time. ~ Nicole

Daddy went back to work yesterday

Matthew went back to work yesterday. Well, sort of. He took an assignment. It was a quick one and not far away. And, we figured that we could use the money since he didn't work at all the week after Julian's birth. The only thing not ideal about it is that it fell during Jonah's naptime. So, it was up to me to put Jonah down for his nap. I figured Julian would probably be sleeping anyway, which is what he does most of the day, and we asked Matthew's sister, Jen, to come over as backup in case Julian needed attention. Jen lives nearby now, but she has her own baby, who is about 4 months old now.

I was also waiting for a call from Julian's pediatrician's office to see if I could get him in for a quick visit to check his jaundice, to make sure it was clearing. I got the call to come in for a 2:40 p.m. appointment, which meant I'd have to borrow Jen's car, since Matthew wouldn't yet be home from work. Everything would kind of have to line up for me to get Jonah down for his nap and take off in time for Julian's appointment. My first taste of the two-kid juggle, I guess.

After lunch, Matthew left. Jen arrived. And, Julian woke up. And, he was a bit fussy and wanting to nurse constantly. I didn't want to leave a crying baby with Jen and leave her to juggle two small babies in need of attention, so I decided to bring Julian in with me while I got Jonah ready for his nap. I nursed Julian for as long as I could before starting the nap process, still hoping he'd fall asleep, but no luck. At first, I put him down on Jonah's floor propped up with the boppy, while I changed Jonah's diaper. But, Julian wasn't happy there, so I nursed Julian on one lap while I read books to Jonah on the other lap. Thankfully, Jonah seemed fine with it, except that he kept pushing Julian's feet away whenever they touched him. It was a bit awkward for me, trying to keep Julian latched on (for some reason he kept popping off but still seeming to want to nurse) on one side and stay relaxed while reading to Jonah, who suddenly feels like a huge kid sitting on my lap. Finally, Julian seemed content, if awake, so I quickly stepped out to hand him off to Jen. Luckily, her daughter wasn't nursing and seemed happy and content. I went back in Jonah's room and tried to give him a hug and kiss, but he protested saying he wasn't ready to take his nap. Instead of getting frustrated, I tried empathizing with him and talking to him about the new situation, telling him it's OK to feel confused. Eventually, he gave me a big bear hug and two kisses and lay down in his crib. I sang to him, said goodnight and left and he went right to sleep! I still had plenty of time to grab another bite to eat, nurse Julian again (who promptly fell asleep) and get him into Jen's car to head up to the pediatrician.

As Jonah would say, I did it! ~ Nicole

Baby Cavanaugh Number Two

Remember my homebirth in the hospital? That was how Jonah came into the world, after 62 hours of labor.

Well, a little over a week ago, on June 28 at 4:20 p.m., Julian Dean Cavanaugh was born after only 5 hours of labor (8 if you start counting when my water broke). This time, there was no castor oil, no endless walks to get contractions going, etc.

And, there was no hospital. Just me, Matthew, my midwives and doula. Dani and Marc were at work. Jonah was off on a playdate and getting ready for a sleepover with his cousin, Hugo, in Brattleboro, Vermont. (I'll admit that Jonah was never far from my mind, even after Julian was born. It was his first sleepover, I hadn't seen him all day, and I worried about his reaction when he did return home to find a new baby in the house. So far, he's very sweet with the baby, but we are all adjusting to our new family. More on that later.)

Julian was also huge, with a birth weight of 9 pounds, 8 ounces, almost 2 pounds more than Jonah. He got a little stuck at the end (shoulder dystocia), but my midwives handled it well, turned him sideways and guided him out, and neither Julian nor I had any major complications as a result. (Thanks also to one midwife being a craniosacral care provider.)

Labor this time around was a trip. My body just did its thing. It was a little scary, I have to admit, because even toward the end I still didn't believe it was happening so fast. I kept thinking, "This is too much. How can I handle this for a long time?" Then, I kind of woke up when my midwives kept telling me that my baby was coming in just a few minutes. I kept saying, "Really?" over and over almost until the very end. It was pretty painful, too, and I thought I was being a total baby about it, but my midwives and doula told me the opposite.

As I write this, Julian stirs. He doesn't like to sleep at night yet, only during the day. My family feels complete now, though I never imagined I'd have two boys, and it's great! ~ Nicole

Behind every mother is a good aunt and uncle

Mother's Day was a mixed bag this year. Matthew has been working odd hours covering the Red Sox in Boston every day since Thursday. He hasn't been around for dinner or bedtime, which is taking its toll on me. But, I got a huge bouquet of lilacs from Matthew yesterday, which was exactly what I wanted. The scent fills our room. I just love these flowers, and they are blooming all over the place right now. And, this morning, after arriving home late last night, Matthew got up with Jonah while I slept in a bit, which I really needed since, at 7 months pregnant, I'm again having some trouble sleeping. (I have to get up to pee several times a night, my hips hurt and it takes a lot of effort these days to roll over and get comfortable again, not to mention the heartburn.) Luckily, Jonah slept in a bit, too, so that was great for Matthew.

We all had the morning together and had lots of fun hanging out at Matt and Kristy's house, chowing down on pancakes and strawberries and all kinds of other yummy brunchy foods while Jonah and their little boy, Rex, played around.

But, then, Jonah didn't nap. He just talked for two hours, yelled or cried once in a while and pretty much all around prevented me from taking a much-needed nap myself. Matthew had to leave for Boston again in the middle of the madness, and I ended up alone in the house, overtired and frustrated, with a nearly 2 1/2-year-old who was also sleep-deprived. I had planned to take Jonah over to my dad's after naptime so they could play in his yard before we all went out to dinner. But, that plan went out the window when I realized that I was way too tired to deal with any of it. An overtired toddler and restaurants usually do not mix. Plus, I had told Jonah that he needed to get lots of rest if he wanted to go to Pepe's. If he didn't sleep, he'd be too tired to play at Pepe's and go out to dinner. With my credibility on the line, I had to stick to my guns and cancel our plans.

Of course, as I sat alone in the living room and thought about my prospects for the rest of the day and evening, I started to cry. It's Mother's Day, for god's sakes! And, here I am all alone with a kid who seems fine now, as he plays with his trains, but will likely turn into a little beast in just a few short hours. I sat trying to figure out what to do when Jonah came over to me, put his hands on my lap and said, "Mama. Mama," in his raspy little voice. Not pleading, but almost like, "C'mon, Mama. It's not that bad." Then he pulled himself up onto my lap, wrapped his arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. After I put him down, he said, "You feeling better now," and went back to playing with his trains. That hug was another highlight of my day. And, I did, indeed, momentarily feel better.

I still didn't know what to do. I still felt sad that I was all alone with Jonah on Mother's Day. But, luckily, I live in someone else's house right now, and a short while later, the others came home: Neeni and Uncle Marc. Jonah was very happy to see them, and I was even happier. I told them what happened and how tired I was and started crying again. They promptly sent me to bed, called Pepe for me and then whisked Jonah away for a walk to the park. The house was quiet and I slept until dinner, a dinner prepared by Neeni and Uncle Marc.

Sadly, Pepe never showed up for dinner as we expected, but I felt much better able to handle my overtired toddler's evening routine after a nice nap. With little fanfare and no response to his protests, I peeled off the jacket he refused to remove for Neeni and Uncle Marc when he arrived home from the park. When he didn't want to wash his hands before dinner, I convinced him it would be fun to wash his toy onion in the sink while also washing his hands. I looked the other way when he chose to eat mostly ketchup and yogurt for dinner. I plopped him in the bath even though he protested at first (and I added a few drops of lavender aromatherapy oil for good measure), and got him out again despite more protests and his insistence that he wanted to sleep in the bathtub tonight. I convinced him to sing to the baby in my belly instead of kicking me while I put on his diaper and got him dressed in his jammies. I didn't care that he kicked his socks off into his sleepsack while we read books, then asked for a new pair but wouldn't let me remove the old pair. Fine. Sleep with your crumpled up socks in there. Fine. Who cares? I sang "one more owl" and "one more owl" and "one more owl" before finally saying goodnight. I succeeded in getting him down for bed a little early to compensate for no nap, and instead of chattering away for 20 minutes or more like he does some nights, he was quiet pretty much as soon as rubbed his head and said, "Goodnight baby. I love you."

If you had asked me even a month ago if I was totally happy about leaving DC and moving back home, I might have hesitated, overcome with sadness of all that we left behind so abruptly. All the good friends who were almost like family. Everyone who witnessed Jonah growing from a tiny baby into a 2-year-old. All the incredible kid activities I could get to without a car and for free. I would have said, "Yes, but we are still getting used to it," and so on. But, I can't describe how incredibly wonderful it has been to not only be near our family, but to live with some of them. Without help from Neeni and Uncle Marc, I don't know how I'd make it through some days, the hard days when Matthew is away or working late or odd hours, or the days when Jonah is just being downright difficult, a typical 2-year-old. I would make it, just like I always did, but I wasn't 7 months pregnant then, and now I am so glad I don't have to do it all alone anymore. As hard as it was to leave the wonderful life and relationships we built over seven years, that's why we left DC. That's why we moved back home. Family. They really came through for me today, without question, without hesitation, and Jonah was just as happy hanging out with Neeni and Uncle Marc as he would have been with Mama and Daddy.

When I woke up this afternoon, Jonah handed me a flower and told me, "Sorry I didn't take a nap, Mama," just like Uncle Marc told him to.

It wasn't exactly the Mother's Day I had hoped for, but turns out it wasn't so bad after all.

Happy Mother's Day to all those who mother. ~ Nicole

Hello again

Hi. It's been a while.

I wanted to start by writing about my prenatal yoga class, where today we practiced breathing and vocalizing through the chakras. The vocalization has a particular name, which I tried Googling to learn more about. But, I don't know how to spell it and Google isn't recognizing any of the various ways I am trying to spell it. So, we'll try that topic again another time.

If you haven't figured it out yet, or don't already know, I am pregnant again. (Perhaps a new blog name will be coming along soon.) And, you might remember that we started this blog back in 2007 when I was pregnant with Jonah. We were living in Washington D.C. and started it as a way to keep in touch with our loved ones back in Massachusetts. Before we knew it, Jonah was born and then, time sped up so that it felt like in the blink of an eye, he was 2, with a whole lot of joy, turmoil and milestones in between.

I'm sorry I have been away so long, but we have had a lot going on. Our lives have changed pretty dramatically and suddenly on several fronts, and I am still trying to adjust and wrap my brain around it all.

In late October, I found out I was pregnant. Frankly, I was surprised, even though we wanted and were planning to have another baby. I guess, stupidly, I didn't think it would happen so quickly. The morning sickness and fatigue in the early weeks were horrible, way worse than the first time around. Jonah was still nursing a couple times a day when I got pregnant, and I thought I could keep going for a little while to get him through the winter with the extra protection for his immune system. I didn't think it would be a big deal to keep nursing for a while and then try to wean him a few months before the birth of the new baby. But, as soon as the pregnancy hormones kicked in, I developed a very strong aversion to nursing. That, coupled with nausea, vomiting and the need to lie down most of the day, led to me reluctantly wean him during my first trimester, feeling relieved when it happened pretty smoothly but guilty at the same time for cutting him off before he decided to stop on his own. And, then I felt REALLY bad when soon after he was fully weaned he got the flu, a cold and an ear infection all in a row. Even so, when I talked to his pediatrician about all of this, she made me feel better by simply looking me straight in the eye, smiling warmly and saying, "He's 2."

Sometime after I got pregnant, we started thinking hard about finally moving back to western Massachusetts, to be near our family. By Christmas, we had pretty much solidified our plans to move back, deciding that April would be a good time to move, since the baby isn't due until late June or early July and it would be spring when we moved.

A few weeks after a lovely Christmas break spent mostly at my sister's house in Greenfield, we got the very bad news that Matthew's father was very, very sick. He had cancer, probably pancreatic cancer. Advanced. Incurable. Matthew followed his instincts and got on a plane right away to be by his dad's side. A few days later, Jonah and I joined him. The next week was an emotional roller coaster of hope and despair. Ultimately, we realized that Papa was not going to recover from this, but how long we had left with him was anybody's guess. We decided we had to move "home" right away. There would be no waiting until spring. No long good-byes or farewell parties with our friends in DC. Once our decision was made, we flew back to DC, spent less than a week packing our life of seven years there into boxes, with much help from those very same DC friends we would be leaving behind, put it all in a truck and drove to MA on February 5. My sister and her husband opened their house to us, giving us their guest room and clearing out their office for Jonah, our temporary home until we can get our own place later this year. We put 90 percent of our possessions in storage at my father's house (thanks, Dad!) and tried our best to quickly settle in to our new home. The day we moved, the first of two giant snowstorms pummeled the DC area. We saw the flakes flying as we headed out of the city, but got on the road ahead of the storm. We just missed the storms that crippled DC for almost two weeks and would have prevented us from leaving until the snow was cleared. Three days after we arrived in Massachusetts, Matthew's father died, with Matthew and his stepchildren at his side. Matthew and his sisters, Jen and Eliza, set up this lovely online memorial to him. Moving here to Greenfield, under these circumstances, was one of the hardest things we've had to do. But, this is where we are supposed to be now. And, I am still moved to tears when I think about how wonderfully Matthew handled everything, from taking care of his dad at the end of his life to delivering his eulogy at the funeral to taking the lead for his family on handling his father's affairs after his death.

There's so much more to say about how our lives have evolved here over the past six or seven weeks, but I'll stop there for now. Let's just say we are adapting in fits and starts and sometimes overwhelmed with happiness for being here and sometimes overwhelmed by sadness for all that we have lost and left behind. More on that later.

So, hello again. If you are reading this, we probably miss you and are still sad we had to say good-bye, or we are very, very happy to see you again and glad that we don't have to say good-bye anytime soon. ~ Nicole

Apples & Trees

Does this boy look familiar? I showed this to Jonah and he thought it was himself. I look like I have to pee. Thanks to my sister Jen the family historian / archivist for the picture .

Jonah's Snowman

Too much going on. Some good. Some sad. Lots of changes. Growth. Muddy waters of life. Remind me to write about some of this stuff later. Meanwhile, here's an adorable recent photo of Jonah to make us smile. It was taken during one of our last days living in Washington D.C. (more on that later), the morning after a snow storm (but not one of the huge ones of recent days) in the midst of our mad dash to pack up our life of seven years there. Amidst the chaos, I noticed how delighted Jonah was with the snow, which made me notice that the snow was the perfect consistency for making snowballs and snowmen. I went to work, with a little help from my little man. The result was a very delighted toddler and two happy parents who realized it's a good idea to take a break every now and then and let the child lead the way. ~ Nicole