Expectations

Congratulations
“Congratulations!” is the phrase most often uttered when people find out I am expecting another baby. I suppose the sentiment is heartfelt and appropriate, definitely so for the birth of a child, don’t get me wrong. In that case “congratulations” are merited on two accounts: 1) you just welcomed a new life, a whole new person into the world (what could be more miraculous?) and 2) you just got that new life out of your body where it caused all sorts of discomfort and trauma. Congratulations! But, when it comes to pregnancy the sentiment, at least for me, has always seemed misapplied.

Given how I am feeling lately, hearing congratulations at the news of my “condition” feels a bit like being told, “Well done, I am so happy for you,” upon announcing that following a recent trip to South America, I have discovered that I am apparently a host to tape worms. These worms have been growing in my belly wrecking havoc on my gastrointestinal system. As a result, I find myself vomiting on average twice a day; I experience constant overwhelming nausea. And yet, by some amazing force of nature, this same parasite has also caused extreme constipation. I am constantly exhausted, to the point that showering, dressing my kids, pouring bowls of cereal for breakfast, and driving my daughter to school fatigues to the same point I remember being at after having run a half marathon with a terrible cold! In any case, the daily reality of providing a fertile environment for the growth of a new member of our species does not feel at present like any cause to celebrate.

However, despite how lousy I feel, for the first time in my life history, I really thought in advance about having this baby.

The First Time
My first daughter was such a surprise that, in addition to the above mentioned effects of pregnancy on my physical health, I spent the first few months in a state of nearly comatose shock. I was married, sexually active, and should have perhaps thought more about the fact that a child may arrive on the horizon at any given moment. But, I was also using birth control and planning a very different life path. I had just journeyed to Boston with my husband to look into housing options while we both were to simultaneously live out our dreams of an Ivy League graduate education. Everything was falling into place: I had paid a several hundred dollar deposit for my spot in the law and social work program at Boston College; I had been awarded a scholarship to attend there, and my husband was planning to attend law school at Harvard. Then, three weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant.

I went to work the next day and stared blankly at the computer screen in front of me, just trying to keep breathing for the first week, accomplishing nothing besides letting the news soak in. For the first while, I thought – I must admit I even hoped – maybe I will just have a miscarriage. It was just part of my overwhelming state of denial. A way to escape dealing with the approaching reality of motherhood.

But, the pregnancy did not end. It progressed, bringing with it nausea and sickness. At work, I dismissed myself from multiple meetings with lobbyists and constituents to go throw up in the bathroom, pull myself back together, and return to pick up our discussion in a poised manner. Meanwhile, I reconciled myself to the fact that life was not going to be the same. I recreated my vision of the future, put on hold my own personal plans, and embraced the fact that if I was going to be a mother I would make it my highest priority, not something that happened on the sidelines of the life I had planned for without children.

I marveled at the great conspiracy of women who talk in glowing terms about the joys of motherhood and never disclose to you, until you are experiencing it yourself, the hefty physical price paid for the nine preceding months – and those following. (In addition to pregnancy, a year without consistent sleep can also do crazy things to your personal sanity and happiness!)

The Second Time
Pregnancy the second time came with a bit more planning. I knew much more what I was getting into. We also knew we wanted more than one child, and once the first had arrived, we had to think about how close or far apart we would like them to be and when it would be a good idea to conceive a sibling for our daughter who was growing up every day. I was still learning to see myself as a mother, to believe I really had a child, when people began asking when we may be having more. When my older daughter was 2 ½ was the first time I could even think about being pregnant again. And, that thought was about all it took. I thought it, stopped my pills for a week, and was expecting baby number two.

I had great hopes for my second pregnancy. Unlike time number one, which found me unprepared, overstressed by life choices -- a cross-country move, remodeling a new house, and constant sickness -- this time I was going to do it “right.” I had just run my first marathon; I was exercising regularly, in good shape, and had read up on safe ways to continue the regimen during pregnancy. This time I was going to eat right, feel good, and stay active. Or so I thought!

Pregnancy two was worse than the first time around. Not just in terms of how my physical body felt, but in terms of the mental effects of juggling the realities of sickness and a very active two year old. My daughter began pretending to vomit in the toilet regularly, “just like mommy.” She spent hours sequestered in the basement that spring and summer amused by a never ending stream of videos and little else. Her moody mother stopped cooking altogether, offering her easy mac out of the microwave and regular trips to Subway, where all Mommy ate were the Cheetos. I did NOT exercise. At some point, about 18 weeks, when some of the vomiting lessened, I took slow walks in the evening when my husband could do the stroller pushing. I am usually fast, leading the pace, he nearly running to keep up. Now, I would drag myself up the street, getting winded regularly and asking him to please, slow down. Worst of all, I felt far more discouraged and depressed than I did the first time, perhaps some combination of guilt and hormones. In any case, it was a rough nine months.

Somewhere in this process, I advised my husband that I was VERY satisfied with having two children. Two was perfect. I could handle two. I have never been a big crowd person. One-on-one conversations, small group gatherings, intimate moments have always been more my style. I hate large parties, mingling, small talk, noise, chaos. I crave being able to quietly sit with my children; I need to know what they are thinking and experiencing individually. I have never wanted or been able to figure out how I could provide this attention more than a few children. Plus, given my oldest daughter’s temperament, I was not certain that I could handle even two. And, the fact that any future delivery would mean another cesarean section and long recovery, well in sum, I was finished.

Being Finished
So after my second daughter was born, I was stunned by the random thoughts that would pop into my head. I remember rocking her one day, still a newborn, my older daughter playing happily on the floor, when this errant gem showed up: “You think you are happy now; you can’t imagine how content and happy you will feel when you have your last baby.” What?!? “This is my last baby. I am content now,” I wanted to scream back. But somewhere deep within it rang true. And, it did not happen only once. Several times I would feel like my mind was opened to a vision of the future, a similar moment of loving a baby, but not the baby I was then holding.

Then, there were all the trips to the temple. Spiritual feelings are always hard to describe and seem a bit put-on when you are not personally the one experiencing them, but I could not attend a session of temple worship from the moment my second daughter was born without feeling this sense of another child. It is so hard to put into words. But the more uncanny and concrete experiences started just after her first birthday.

One evening my husband said in passing, “You know, if we have another daughter sometime (to which I was still saying to him was going to be never!), I really like the name ‘Elsie.’” I did not know what I thought of the name, but from then on every time I would go to the temple, everyone I interacted with would be named “Elsie” – and it is not that common of a name. The woman who greeted me when I walked in the door would be named “Elsie;” the woman whose name I would be given on a card would be “Elsie;” the person who sat next to me, I would somehow discover, was named “Elsie.” The combinations and individual people varied, but a trip would not pass without at least two Elsie-encounters. We even moved across the country, and my first trip to the temple in Washington, DC produced three Elsie-encounters.

I felt like I was being bombarded. You don’t have to share my religious faith to recognize that when every worship service seems to contain the same message, perhaps God, or someone somewhere, is trying to communicate with you. Through all of this, I began to surrender to the idea of one more baby. Besides, my oldest daughter was relentless about wanting another sibling, and as I watched my children growing I could see that perhaps I could, possibly, handle one more. Maybe three would not break me.

So, of course, given that I finally came to really want and feel committed to having a baby, it took over six months to conceive. During this time I played the realist. I finished projects and put things in order so that when I laid on the couch for three months straight I would not be surrounded by unfinished messes; I tried to prepare myself for the worst, so that when I felt miserable again I would not be so disappointed. I told myself that I could handle this. I knew it would end (I had wondered at times during my first pregnancy if all I was feeling really was due to pregnancy, perhaps it was not, and I would never enjoy eating again!), and I recognized in my daughters the reality that it was worth it. But, despite all this mental self-talk and preparation, pregnancy number three has been no less trying.

This Time
I am not sure that all of the “preparation” has done anything to blunt the reality of coping with constant sickness. I have thrown up more and felt worse than in either preceding pregnancy. But, it has been the mental havoc that has been the most challenging this time around. Expecting my first daughter involved two primary emotions: shock and awe. I spent the first half in absolute shock and denial, the second half constantly in awe of what was happening inside of me. My second pregnancy found me experiencing greater depression in addition to more nausea, but it was nothing compared to this.

As this pregnancy began, I felt a fog descending upon me. I thought, “This is just because I am gearing up for the worst, dreading what is to come. I just need to have a more positive attitude.” But, all of my efforts to look on the sunny side of life seemed to fail. With each passing day I slipped further away. I began to feel despondent, hopeless. I wanted to spend all day every day in bed, not just because any movement made me feel like I would throw-up, but because I could not compose one rational thought of what I wanted to or could do with myself each day. I felt like an outsider in my own life with little power to control anything. And, I still do.

Three months down now, with six to go, I am a little less nauseous than I was several weeks ago. Sometimes, I even eat something that tastes good to me – for about five minutes – and last week I had four days when I did not vomit at all. But, I cannot shake the discouragement that clouds my days.

I try to tease it apart and provide coherent explanations, with the assurance that it will end – in six months, if not sooner. I tell myself: “What you are feeling is the complex result of a mixture of circumstances. 1- It is hormones. 2- Anyone who felt sick for three months would begin feeling down. 3- You stopped exercising cold turkey three months ago, your body is suffering from an extreme lack of endorphins – no endorphins, no happiness. 4- You can’t be the mother and person you want to be now. It is frustrating to you to not have energy and accomplish things, but you just need to accept that it is temporary and stop feeling guilty….” And so on and so forth all day. It makes sense how all of this would combine to create an overwhelming sense that my life is falling apart, that nothing I have chosen from my home, to where I live, to quitting work has been the right choice, and – worst of all – that there is little to nothing I can do to change it.

I think this powerlessness and sense of failure is the worst feeling that comes. Normally, I feel empowered. I face problems head-on and figure out how to solve them. Now any problem seems to consume me, to be far beyond the scope of what I can affect. I am impotent as I stare out of the obscure glass through which I view my life. Not even certain to what extent I am living in it.

Last year, while passing through the challenges of making a job change for my husband, selling a house, and moving across the country, I was working hard to learn the attribute of patience. I read an article from a nurse midwife that talked about patience in life and used pregnancy as a metaphor. Reading this article, I had an epiphany: I hate being pregnant, in part, because I am simply not a patient person. I don’t like having to wait nine months for the outcome. I don’t like the uncertainty of pregnancy -- the first half when I don’t know the gender of the baby, the fact that I don’t really know what the baby will be like, and all that can potentially go wrong, which provides ample grounds for worry. Besides, and perhaps worst of all, I feel powerless to affect the results. I can’t hurry up the process; I can't make myself feel better; I can’t control whether the baby will develop appropriately or arrive in this world safely; and I cannot assess the progress. I can’t see what is happening and reassure myself that all is well – I have to trust doctors and nurses and God.

And so, pregnancy provides a mirror through which I can view all of my greatest human failings. My impatience, my inability to let go and trust others, my desire to be in control of things, my inability to accept difficult and unpleasant circumstances – even when I know that they are temporary. It is never easy to confront your dark side, all your weaknesses at once. Plus, my performance as a wife and mother and person has been abysmal lately.

This is where the story finds me today. Still trying to piece together a life, some meaning in my existence. Feeling sick again, typing on the computer, trying to see out of the shadows that threaten to overtake me. I pull myself together each day as best I can and pray for patience. Deep down I know that life is much better than it feels. I find small moments of happiness reflected in the faces of my daughters and relish those.

Abundance
Several weeks ago I sat down to search online for the meaning of the name that had been woven through the process of expecting this baby. (Still not knowing if it would be a girl or if we really wanted to name a baby “Elsie Jane.”) I figured I should know what it meant, think about whether I liked it. I found a few websites and read the information. “Elsie Jane,” in sum, means “God’s gift of abundance” or “God’s graciousness and plenty.” I had no idea what the name would mean – for all I knew it could have meant “ugly flower” or “shining reindeer” -- but reading this I felt a warmth descend upon me. I knew then, that despite the darkness and the sickness, the doubt and the worry, the gift of this child would be an overflowing of love and abundance. That somehow all the suffering of the moment would give rise to happiness and love so plentiful I could not now imagine it.

In scriptures, Jesus is always creating plenty out of the ordinary and the lacking. Wine from mere water, feasts for the multitude from a few loaves and fishes, medicinal remedies from clay and spit or a dirty pool of water. “God’s abundance.” That was the promise whispered to my heart when rocking my second daughter, still believing I just could not have another, and then repeated to me over and over again. This is the promise I repeat to myself each day, and when I do, I try to congratulate myself on the expectations of all that truly awaits me.

Cats...and Dogs -- written February 2008

Today, I have to return a cat. It arrived unexpectedly last week in a kitty to-go box; my husband a daughter both beaming, with slight trepidation on how I would react to the new “family member” they had just adopted from the shelter. “A cat?” said I. “Yes,” they said and opened the box to reveal a beautiful gray, brown and black striped tabby cat. She had a black streak running down her back, a black tipped tail, and sea-green eyes.

The cat was sweet and scared. I was nervous about integrating another animal into our family of four plus a golden retriever. I had previously expressed these concerns to my husband:

“Cats can jump up on the countertops and dining tables – places you do not want animals to be.”

“They really cannot be trained like dogs, what if the cat has annoying behaviors, what do you do about that?”

“Will a cat use its litter box? And, if not, what do you do?”

“How will it get along with the dog?”

“Who will care for it?” (The obvious answer being me.)

Hence, after my long string of worries and uncertainties the cat arrived without my consultation or confirmation. Still a little uncertain, I decided to like the cat. I spent the afternoon shopping for essential items: kitty litter, food, a litter box, deodorizer, a collar. The cat spent the afternoon hiding under the bed in the guest room: a safe place where neither the groping and erratic hand of my two-year old or the dog could access it.

Within a few days the cat seemed to be adjusting, and I seemed to be sneezing and itching on a regular basis. And, from there it just got worse.

I had always thought that people who claimed to have severe pet allergies were over-stating their case. It was a front, an acceptable way to not have to declare their true feelings (“I just don’t like animals” -- which is always seen as a heartless position to the bleeding-heart animal “parents” of the world, many who prefer their dogs or cats to their kids and often will admit to it – or “I am not willing or able to responsibly care for an animal” – the true sentiments of many a parent who is trying to convince their son or daughter that a goldfish is really an acceptable substitute for a puppy). But now, I wasn’t so sure. I was uncomfortable all the time, getting more congested – I felt that a small scale farming operation of springtime ragweed had just begun in my house. I knew I could not live with the cat.

I had never really lived with a cat before, so I had no way of anticipating what might occur to my sinuses when sharing my personal space with one. I had “owned” a cat before – twice actually – both times a gift from my husband. He had grown up with cats, being a child with parents with many excuses about why a dog would not work for them. I do not know exactly why he bought me the first cat. I really can’t remember. Perhaps the kitty was a way to make up for the only other pet I had ever owned: Ferguson.

I was five years old; it was a summer afternoon spent outside running and playing while my parents did yardwork when the neighbor walked towards our house carrying a cardboard box teeming with an energetic litter of puppies. A small, white male was selected, and I named him “Ferguson” – I think with some intended reference to the fact that he was furry. I had always had a fear of large dogs, but this puppy was a joy. I spent the rest of the afternoon running through the newly formed trails created as my dad cut away at the grass. The smell of summer; fresh cut grass and honeysuckle tickled my nose; the dog ran behind me, tickling my heels. I was enraptured, in love.

That night my parents helped me put the puppy in a box with some old blankets near the garage to sleep. Sunday morning dawned, and as I rushed downstairs to play with my puppy my parents broke the news. We could not keep Ferguson. He had cried all night; no one could sleep; they just could not handle having a puppy right now. As an adult, I now recognize the burden of a pet. There was certainly more than some whining that night, probably wet spots on the carpet, chewed items in the house, and there was my three year-old sister and one year old brother, as well as me, to care for. There was little room for less sleep and more messes in our family then.

The picture paints a thousand words. I am standing, a skinny, fair skinned child with curlers in my hair wearing a velour jogging suit my mom had sewn herself, holding my white puppy dog. My face is streaked with tears, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My sister, Erin, stands next to me looking rather bewildered as to the cause of the tears and the impetus for posing for the photograph. That was the beginning and the end of my childhood experience with pets.

I am certain that this emotional depravation from my formative years caused my loving husband, then boyfriend, to rectify all of my childhood hurts by buying me a cat. He was a very small kitten, a tiny black ball of fur with piercing blue eyes. He was the prettiest little kitty I had ever seen, and I named him “Solomon.” I loved the way he would curl up in a ball on my lap and chase items I dangled in front of him. But, he had been at my house less than a week when my four-year-old sister and I went to play with him and found him sleeping on my bed. As MaryEllen picked up his stiff body, I watched as the truth sunk in: my kitten was dead.

My dad buried him in the backyard. Later, Jeffrey tried again to buy me a cat. But, this time my dad did not want to have it live at our house. We compromised that it would be “mine,” but live with Jeffrey’s parents – a fact they loved to bring up if ever "Madison," a large, black cat, with six toes on each paw, was getting on their nerves. But, the day we dropped him off there, which was the day we bought him, the cat ceased to be my pet.

So, having never really lived with a cat before, I had little basis to know I possessed such a strong allergy. Despite being miserable, I balked at the notion of taking the cat away from my daughters and husband, all of whom were smitten. To be honest, none of my major worries had materialized. I liked the cat. She was not a trouble-maker, was adjusting well to the house, and would even let my daughters catch her sometimes. She liked to hiss at the dog periodically, and the dog would bark back, but even that was lessening.

My youngest daughter, Maggie, was struggling to even eat with the excitement of a cat in the house. Just as she would be about to take a bite of dinner, the cat would streak across the corner of the room, just in her line of vision. She would bound down from her barstool, running full speed and calling at the top of her voice, “Tat. Tat. Tat.” A chase would then ensue around the house until the cat found a bed, coffee table or similar piece of low-lying furniture to hide under. I would know it was over when the patter of feet stopped and full-scale wailing began; Maggie’s sobs broken intermittently to explain, “Tat, no reach. Tat, no reach.”

Mia was five and more measured in her demonstration of affection. She understood the concept, which was lost on her younger sister, that if she held still and quiet the cat was more likely to come to her. She had also spent large portions of the last few days on her belly in the guest room starring at, conversing with, and admiring her new cat. She spoke of nothing else. In carpool on the way home from school, to the dinner guests on Saturday evening, to strangers at the grocery store and the cashier at Walmart from whom we bought the litter box, she proudly announced, “I have a new cat. I actually have two animals now. My dog is a golden retriever, and now my dad and I got a cat.” When I first said I might be allergic to the cat, Mia stuck both her fingers inside of her ears. I was just bracing for the recommendation that I move out and they keep the cat. She did briefly suggest that she and her dad could find their own place to live where they could have their own pets, but I told her I was not to keen on that idea.

But, it was Jeffrey, my husband, that I most worried about hurting. The cat had really been his idea. His childhood had included a lack of the dog he always wanted, substituted for by two cats – Sophie and Ozzie – which he adored. They died in that order when he was still young, and it was not long after we married that we talked of getting a pet of our own. When we moved into our second apartment, where pets were allowed, we bought our first dog: a silky terrier that I named “Annie.” Annie was everything that a little dog should be. She was energetic, adorable, spunky, and temperamental. She did not like to be left at home alone. She thought she owned the whole street and, despite being under ten pounds, would bark at any other dog or human who attempted to cross near our home until they acknowledged she was boss. She would chase balls, but never bring them back. She would snuggle up on my lap to watch television, and on top of my legs at night to sleep. She was a delightful handful. It was out of guilt over Annie’s loneliness that we bought George, a Yorkshire terrier with a much more laid back personality. We would often joke that George was Annie’s pet, and in many ways he was. She still ran the household.

Annie found her way straight into Jeffrey’s heart. There was really never much room left there for George, even though he was the better behaved animal. We would take them on outings and buy all sorts of dog toys for them. We had them babysat, never kenneled, when we left town. Then, we had children.

The dogs were still loved, but never entirely okay with being demoted to just being pets. The demands of two work schedules, a baby, and law school began to take their toll. After our second daughter, Maggie, was born, I told Jeffrey something had to give. Annie and George were emotional basket-cases. They barked incessantly, waking the baby every time she napped. They ran off in different directions any time I opened an outside door, and since the yard was not fenced the regular task of corralling two small dogs and one precocious three year-old while holding a newborn baby was more than I could handle. My nerves were getting frazzled. And, I had little help in managing all of it as Jeffrey was launching the all-encompassing, ever-increasing, crazy-making schedule of a new associate attorney at a large law firm.

After Annie peed all over the bed where the baby was resting one afternoon, I finally convinced him that as much as I loved the dogs, they would be better-off with someone who could make them their babies, just as they wanted to be. With the new baby, Mia had a sibling other than the dogs, and I felt less guilt about the loss she would experience. I knew Jeffrey was reluctant, but since he was also unable to spend anytime with the dogs himself, I rationalized that it was his choice too. I ran an add in the paper, and found an old woman whose husband had recently passed away who was willing to take both dogs – an important condition to me. She had everything we lacked: a large, fenced yard, ample time and attention to give. We took some pictures, a little less sad than those with Ferguson, packed up all their supplies, and waved good-bye to our first two pets.

But, the hole left in Jeffrey’s heart on losing his first dog, even if it had been the right decision, mirrored the hole left in mine so long ago.

Six months ago, we moved to a large house with a large fenced yard, and adopted a golden retriever, “Lucy,” from the animal shelter with the intent of lessening some of the loneliness and loss our daughters were experiencing in the separation from home, family and friends. Lucy turned out to be a godsend: an ever patient, easy going animal who easily fits into our family life. But, Jeffrey still yearns for his own pet -- one that will curl up on his lap to be petted while he watches a movie, one that adores him uniquely – an Ozzie or an Annie. And so, we got the cat.

I have taken pictures: my daughters and the cat. They are smiling, not crying. Jeffrey is at work – he did not really want to say goodbye. I seem to be the most shaken up, probably because I feel guilty and responsible for the situation. I tell myself that there will be a multitude of times to have other pets down the road, but it does not ease the pain of the moment.

Jeffrey had already chosen a name for the cat before he found the particular animal he brought home. Chairman Meow. Mia wanted to name it “Tigery,” but Jeffrey told her he already had selected a name. Since Mia could never remember the name, we looked for nicknames that may more easily roll of the tongue: “Meow,” “Cherry,” “Tabby.” But, none stuck. In the days since the cat came home all anyone has really called it is “cat” or “kitty.” Maybe, it is for the best. Maybe, somehow, it was not meant to be; it never was intended to work out, and so without a name the cat will fade more easily into anonymity. There will be no “Ferguson, “Solomon,” “Ozzie,” “Annie,” or “George” to bid farewell to this afternoon. Just, goodbye “cat.”