Addiction

Our oldest child parted ways with his beloved pacifier almost a week ago. This was an event that both he and I dreaded—him because he’d be losing his security item, me for the fear of losing more sleep when he couldn’t self soothe. Thankfully I haven’t lost any sleep due to it, but unfortunately his ability to fall asleep has been greatly hampered. He does eventually wear down and fall asleep, but instead of the 10 minutes it used to take, it is now more like an hour…or more. Watching him struggle to figure out what to do with his tongue while drifting off to dreamland, I can’t help but compare him to a recovering addict. Where he once calmly laid down and the only movement came from the up and down motion of his pacifier, he now thrusts his little body around the bed as if he just can’t get comfortable. The thrusting usually escalates into a crying fit at some point before finally giving in and closing his eyes. It’s as if that little plastic sleep aid has been his crack fix for the last two years. And then we cut him off cold turkey. Perhaps we should get him the pacifier patch to cope.

While watching my little one go through detox, I can’t help but think of how easily addictions occur and often from things that start out good. Take for example the morning cup of coffee that at first tasted good and had a nice little boost to get the day going. Now the boost is more important than the taste and the day without it resembles something from the Exorcist. Or how about my addiction to the email ding? I can hear it from just about anywhere in the house and as soon as the little chime hits my ears, my mind finds some excuse to get me to walk through the office, clear away the screen saver and see what important message awaits me (though typically it is some special offer from Victoria’s Secret which is the last thing this two-week post-partum mom wants to see).

So how often do we begin things innocently enough only to have them escalate into something bigger, darker, all consuming? The pacifier began as a good tool to soothe during cranky moments (most of Jonas’ first months), but it soon evolved into a necessary device to ensure peaceful slumber. So perhaps I should lower the volume and not let the ding overtake my life. Or maybe I’ll just wait for the email patch.

Complete

Before Kenna’s birth, so many questions swirled through my head from what her birth would be like to who she would resemble and how well she would sleep. But a lot of my questions focused on what her arrival would mean to our family. How would Jonas feel about her? Would we have room in our house for another child, her clothes, diapers and endless accessories? How would we divide our love and affection between two children? Exactly how many diapers a day would I have to change? Having spent the last two years focused on raising one child and learning who he is, what makes him happy, what to avoid to divert explosions and so on, I wondered how we could possibly bring another child into the family and give both the attention they need and deserve. Yet, the moment Kenna first entered our family, those concerns seemed to dissipate. Holding her tiny little wrinkled body in my arms, those questions felt superficial. How could I ever have doubted how it would all work? Matt summed it up best when we were leaving the hospital. As we sat in the car with two children in car seats behind us, he said, “This just feels right. We feel like a family now.” Something does seem right. Whole. Complete.

Labor

It seems there should be a better word to describe the process of bringing a child into this world. Labor just doesn’t seem to cut it. Any word that is associated with a holiday and backyard cookouts just isn’t enough to describe the feeling that someone is systematically reaching in and ever so slowly squeezing your insides until they have no other option than to exit your body. Any process that causes this typically mild-mannered woman to suddenly want to drop kick a nurse across the room when she tells me I have to lie down to be monitored for half an hour instead of walking around as feels better, certainly requires a word with more strength. Or anything that makes me want to choke the resident Doogie Howser who tells me to resist the urge to push (as if he has any idea what he is saying to me…as if he could also tell the sun to not set and the world to not rotate) should be called by something more powerful.

A week ago as I stood sweating and exhausted in the hospital examining room recovering from a contraction and anticipating another at any minute, I turned to Matt and said, “Why do we do this?” Why would anyone voluntarily bring on such pain? Why would anyone want to endure something so intense, especially more than once? Yet just an hour later as Kenna Grace was placed on my chest, I once again understood why. It would seem recovery from such pain must bring on amnesia. And yet I fully remember what it felt like with Kenna and two years prior with Jonas. I will never forget the crippling, breath-taking, tear-inducing discomfort. And yet the reward outweighs those hours of calculated breathing and focused pain management in an attempt to labor through the most excruciating yet natural process of life. In a society where we try to find any way possible to mask pain and discomfort, perhaps birth should be a reminder that sometimes with a little pain comes a nice reward…and with a lot of pain comes an even greater blessing.

D-Day

So d-day is here and so is my watermelon of a stomach. That’s right, baby number two has apparently decided to wait until after the due date to make its appearance, just as big brother did. Honestly, I’m okay with that. I’m feeling good, sleeping through the night and only changing one child’s diapers. Yet, everyone around me seems to be going crazy. “You still haven’t had the baby? When is the baby coming? Is today the day? Tell that baby we’re ready for its arrival.” And don’t forget the advice: eat spicy food, drink castor oil, exercise, have “intimate relations,” just relax…and on and on and on. Instead of spending these last few moments of single-child life in a calm and balanced environment, I am bombarded by the pressure to suddenly squat and produce a child. As if it’s really that easy. Oh, but wouldn’t it be nice if it were? Unfortunately babies enter the world on their own terms, at their own times. In fact, only five percent choose to do so on their actual due dates. If only we had some sort of built in indicator that told when the bun had fully baked…kind of like the thermometer that pops out of a turkey. If my belly button were any sort of indication, this child should’ve been born months ago.

So for now I’ll try to just relax, let my husband take the phone calls, enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep and not envy my friend who is scheduled to have her child tomorrow…not that I will envy her recovery, but the certainty of the arrival is a nice thing, especially since this belly button indicator just isn’t working.

Jubilation

Jonas had another sleepover the other night. Much to his surprise, we met Mom and Dad at a restaurant to pick him up. He thought he was just getting lunch, but to his surprise, he was seeing Mommy and Daddy again. Was he ever surprised. He walked into the restaurant and once his eyes locked with ours, he froze. Then he danced. And squealed. His little body kicked and boogied in place for what seemed like a few minutes, alternating between squealing and repeating “Mommy, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy.” He was so happy that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He finally ran to us and jumped into my arms.

We all sat there laughing at his excitement. He was filled with unabashed exclamation, absolute glee, overflowing joy. It was beautiful and not just because it was aimed at me. It was so pure, so real, so contrary to how adults often live. It was a moment I hope I will never forget and that I hope will work as a reminder anytime I want to suppress my own natural excitement, heartfelt squeal and happy dance.

Cartoon Character

So I’ve reached that point in pregnancy when I wonder if it will ever end…if I will ever not be pregnant again. I still have about a week to go before my due date and have been feeling good pretty much the entire time. Even still, I look forward to losing this bulging watermelon that protrudes from my midsection and prevents me from seeing my legs and feet. Suddenly I feel as though this will never change. I will always look this way. Never again will I tie my shoes without grunting, climb a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing, chase my toddler by running instead of doing a modified version of speed walking. I know that eventually this child will make a grand entry into this world and that the stomach will fade (though perhaps not as completely as I like or at least as quickly as I hope). But in the meantime, I feel as though I am some exaggerated version of myself, stretched and distorted, wearing the same clothes again and again because nothing else seems to fit. It feels as though I have entered some alternate dimension. I am no longer Meagan Church human, but instead Megs the ever-pregnant cartoon character. Always dressed in gray yoga pants and a white t-shirt, grunting with each position change, snoring as I slumber. If that’s really the case, I just hope that some day the artist will choose to erase the stomach…and perhaps add a few inches to my height while he’s at it.