Remembering What's Lost

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I know many people for whom this day has a highly personal meaning.

I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy, and I was devastated. One moment, I was daydreaming about welcoming a newborn into the world; the next, that joyful vision was cruelly wrenched away from me. I felt angry, sad, inadequate. I can only imagine what it must be like for those who have repeat miscarriages, the grief they must feel. Of course, I'm now fortunate have two beautiful, healthy girls, but I still sometimes think about that baby-who-never-was. It's just not something you forget.

There is this bizarre shroud of silence around miscarriage—as though there is shame or blame in it. Even the terminology is inadequate: "miscarriage" is so detached, so clinical, but to "lose" a baby suggests that it is someone's fault. You can't "lose" a baby the way you lose your car keys.

I don't know why, as women, we're afraid to talk about this kind of loss. Maybe it's because it makes us question ourselves, our bodies, our very femininity. Maybe we're worried that it will jinx us to say the words out loud.

But we should. Because when I eventually started talking about it, I was surprised by how many people had similar stories. Only by honestly sharing our personal experiences can we find comfort in others—and offer empathy in return.

So today, let's be brave and vocal. Let's support each other. I know we can find the space to grieve past losses while still looking forward, together, with hope.
 

 

Giving Thanks

I'm sitting here, drinking a glass of wine and watching the Food Network, while my family sleeps upstairs. I should be happy: it's Thanksgiving weekend, so we have three days off work and no plans. But that's the problem: it's Thanksgiving weekend. And we have no plans.

The thing is, my mother was always the architect of our family holidays. She was always the one who would invite everyone over for dinner—no matter how many of us there were or how much work it would be. She was an amazing cook and a gracious host. She did it all, and she made it look easy.

Me? I have two young children and a full-time job. And I suck at cooking. This family planning thing—it's not my forte.

On days like this, I miss my mom.

I miss the way she brought everyone together—whether we wanted to be or not—and reminded us that however different we may be, we are still family. We share the same blood, that common bond. I miss the laughter, the relaxed banter, the freedom of belonging.

I miss the feeling of being more than just me.

So, this Thanksgiving, I want to focus on what I do have. On my kind and generous husband. On the beautiful, smart girls who will carry on my bloodline. On my family that still remains.

And give thanks. For everything.

Five Things I'm Tired of Hearing Myself Say

Sometimes it worries me that my kids are only one and three years old. Because there's a WHOLE lot of parenting to go before I can unleash them on the world....

In honour of my fractious children, for today's post, I give you five things that I'm seriously tired of hearing myself say to my kids.

1. "No!"/"Don't..."/"Stop..."—This is pretty much a given for the early years, particularly with my over-confident and exploratory one-year-old. Her favourite activities are taking stuff out of stuff (for example, the entire contents out of my pantry) and destroying things. (Even the three-year-old now calls her "Destruct-or". My bad.). So I'm pretty sure I'll be saying this one in my sleep for at least the next five years.

2. "Listen!"—which is often followed closely by, "Focus!" I say this daily to my three-year-old when I'm trying to get her to do a particular task (brush her teeth, put on her socks, etc.) while she blithely continues whatever random activity has newly diverted her attention. Sigh.

3. "Sit!"—It does concern me that I may be treating my kids like puppies, given how often I tell them to "sit!" and "stay!" I don't feel so badly about the one-year-old, with her propensity to try to climb out of the slippery bathtub or plunge to the floor by rolling off the change table. But I also find myself saying this at just about every meal time, as my three-year-old squirms in and out of her chair, turns around, looks out the window....

4. "How do we ASK for something?"—This is our not-so-terribly-clever way of reminding our three-year-old to say "please" when she wants something. It boggles my mind that we have been drilling "please" and "thank you" into her head for the past three years, but she still needs to be reminded all the time. Yet she can recite entire books and a litany of songs from memory. Clearly, memory is selective.

5. "Go to bed!"—Seriously. Just do it. I've brought you a drink of water and your favourite stuffed animal. I read you a book, sang you a song and rubbed your back. You're obviously tired, so why are you fighting me on this one? I'll tell you what: how about YOU stay up and do the dishes, and I'll go to bed early....

As you'll notice from the entries above, many of my daily utterances to my children are one-word admonishments. I'm a little worried that, by the time my kids leave home, I won't have anything meaningful to contribute to adult conversation. 

However tempting it is to remind an adult, "How do we ASK for something?", I should probably work on expanding my vocabulary.

Bye bye, Baby

I'm sitting here, crying as I write this post and laughing at myself for crying. Nothing's wrong; I just put my youngest to bed for the first time in about 14 months without nursing her to sleep. And it actually went really well.

Intellectually, I'm fine with this. She's more than 14 months old, she was only nursing at night and only from the breast that she "preferred." We'd clearly gotten to the point where it was just for comfort. Knowing that I was going to be away from home on a business trip, with no desire to pump at this late stage, it was a logical decision. 

Hey, we had a good run. 14 months far surpassed any milestones I'd imagined for our nursing relationship. If you'd asked me within the first few months how I enjoyed nursing, I probably would have responded bitterly. No sleep, painful nipples, milk leaking out constantly....What's there to like?

Yet over time, I found a sweet comfort in nursing, in that time we shared. When she'd look up at me and smile like I was her universe, I felt loved. And needed.

Stopping nursing has its benefits: freedom at night (I can go out without having to put the baby to bed first!), not having to constantly wear bras and nursing pads, allowing my body to finally go back to its normal pre-baby state.

But I'm sad, anyway, because it means she's not such a baby anymore. We're not going to have that nightly ritual, that time for just the two of us to be still and present together. 

I am no longer needed in the same way.

So much of watching your children grow up is learning to let them go. I watch my beautiful girls, and I'm flooded with a frightening feeling of transience. Nothing is permanent; everything changes. This change is just one of many, and I'm sure it's not the hardest one.

But I still need a moment. To say goodbye to my baby—and hello to the bright-eyed toddler she's become.

Practical Magic

I was talking recently with a friend who's struggling with the decision of whether or not to have children. We discussed the pros and cons, and then she said something that really resonated with me. "The problem," she said, "is that it's all so clinical. We've taken all of the magic out of childbearing."

I have to agree. For many women who want to build careers, we plan our lives so carefully that unexpected pregnancies are the exception and not the norm. And sex for the sole purpose of procreation—ruled by tight timelines and squeezing in a "quickie" during our most fertile days—is hardly the stuff of romance.

When we're lucky enough to get knocked up, we have tests that can tell us we're pregnant before our bodies give us any clues. And the pregnancy itself is strictly orchestrated, with blood tests, routine and efficient doctor's appointments (with my last baby, I was in and out in under 15 minutes) and occasional ultrasounds, which focus less on marveling at the baby's in utero acrobatics than on identifying potential health problems.

For those who have trouble conceiving, the clinical side can be very aggressive: drugs, injections, invasive and uncomfortable procedures, and a vast array of data and statistics that reduce the chances of a successful pregnancy to a dispassionate numbers game.

My friend is right: we've lost some of the magic of having babies. So where can we find it again?

The magic is in the fact that it's possible to conceive at all—that two very different people can come together to create a brand-new human being out of nothing.

It's in the fact that a woman's body can stretch and shift and change so dramatically to support and carry that being for nine months.

It's in the moment when, as a pregnant woman, you feel the first stirrings of life inside you and think, Wow—this is for real.

And it's in the birth itself, when you hear that high-pitched newborn wail and see your red, wrinkled—but to you, indescribably beautiful—baby for the first time.

It's in the way your breasts—previously used only for entertainment purposes or to look good in a tank top—suddenly swell with the milk you need to feed and comfort the baby you've just brought into the world.

It's in that amazing first year, as you watch your baby grow from a helpless, entirely dependent newborn to a walking, talking little person, with her own expressions and gestures, feelings and opinions.

It's in that indescribably fierce love that forever binds your children to you, and you to them.

It's the magic of life. And however cynical we've become, that's a magic that never, ever gets old.