I locked myself in my car yesterday and it wasn't for some "me" time.

When baby C was born I started picking R up from school 30 minutes before the end of the school day.  This allowed me to pull up to the front of the  school, grab her and go.  It meant  I didn’t have to wrestle baby C out of her car seat, into the carrier and then navigate L through crazed parental parking attempts.  After March break we returned to regular pick-up time as we started walking instead of driving with C cozily nursing or sleeping in the carrier and L bouncing all the way there and back.  

But it was cold yesterday so we drove and parked in a prime spot.  It was quite early and C was starting to fuss at a low but ever increasing rumble.  So, I climbed into the back seat to nurse her and tell stories to L.  I obviously turned the car off and closed the door. After settling baby C back into her car seat I opened the door to go get R (who’s classroom was directly in front of my parked car, so I could see the parked car at all times.)  

Oh, wait, scratch that – I attempted to open the door but it wouldn’t open.  I clicked on the button on my key fob and pulled on the handle again.  “Ok, breathe.”  I thought.  :Just lean forward and press the unlock button from the driver’s door.”  I yanked,  I swore under my breath.  By this time, L could sense something was wrong and inquired as to why I was still in the car.  Panic actually started to set in.  It got worse when I turned to look at the back of the car (it’s a cross-over, to help with imagery) to see if that provided a way out, and dropped my phone.  Now remember also, the windows are up fully and tinted so even if panic overtook me and I started yelling and banging on them, at full dismissal time, parents and kids are trying to get home and not looking for a crazy mama who locked herself in her own car.  I realized I was going to have to climb into the front seat.  Now, while I am short, I am not small.  I am also the opposite of graceful and agile.  So while the exit strategy may seem obvious to you, it required me to:

a)stop panicking

b)grab the booster seat I’d tossed in the front and put it in the very back

c)unlock C’s baby seat and slide it towards me

d)climb over the base of C’s seat and between the two front seats (narrow space!)without getting tangled in the gear shift, front mirror etc.

e)explain my crazy antics to L

ALL while keeping my outstretched, stretchy jeans from falling off my ass that I was in grave danger of landing on!

Go ahead, you can pee yourself laughing now.

Needless to say, the first thing I did once free from the car, was re-set the back door locks from "child-lock" to standard. (Just on R's side because she would never try to open it without explicit permission)

Have you ever found yourself trapped in an odd location? Has a child-safety feature ever trapped or foiled you to this extreme?

Children's Books, Part 1

I have 17 minutes to write this before I go to bed.  Coincidentally I was inspired by a recent episode of Up All Night where “the Fonz” guest stars as one of the main character’s Dad.  He plays a role, where if you grew up during a certain time you will recognize as a parody of Ezra Jack Keats, children’s author and illustrator.

When I was six, I got my first public library card and I was very impressed with myself for knowing where to find books by Ezra Jack Keats; my favourite one, was A Letter to Amy.  But I’m sure I was introduced to him at school via the librarian reading us “A Snowy Day”.  It was the beautiful water colours that I enjoyed and on some level, the fact that the main characters were not white.  While I was not African-American, nor was I growing up in New York, I was drawn to the brown- skinned characters and their urban “adventures”.   Adventures such as going for a walk in the first big snow; learning to whistle, mailing a party invitation to a crush. I never realized how much of an imprint these books left on me until I was pregnant with my first daughter, and I bought her Keats’ Neighbourhood as a present.  I read them to her while she was in the belly and when she was just a baby.  Now, she reads them to herself and her sisters.

There are so many other books I’ve passed on to her that I grew up loving (I will definitely write more about).  But I think the Keats’ books meant so much to me because picture books – of a high quality – were rare things to own.  I had dozens of books as a very young child, but the illustrations were of varying quality, and they were typically fairy tales.  Not like the dozens,- close to a hundred- picture books my girls have by award winning authors Mo Willems, Emily Gravett, Oliver Jeffers, and Canadians Melanie Watt and Jeremy Tankard to name just a few.  These books are hilarious, cheeky, and smart.  Many of them have  a direct appeal to the grown-ups reading them – from Scaredy Squirrel’s neurosis to Willems’ Knuffle Bunny Free epilogue bringing my partner and I to tears it so obviously written for the parents.   It’s easy to find and buy children’s picture books now. And, I confess that we go to the bookstore more than the library, but we do go there – to borrow fiction and non; books by familiar authors and new ones; books that are older and books that are brand new.  But be it at the store or in the library, I’ve yet to come across a collection that speaks to me the way the Keat’s books did.  And they really did speak to me and I spoke back.  Because in this very vivid memory I have of my first visit to the public library (I could retrace that path exactly if I had to), I remember talking to myself and the books as I chose them.  I wonder if my girls will have a memory of a children’s picture book like that?

Did you grow up with picture books that had and continue to have a special place in your heart?  Who are your current favourite children’s authors?

Birth Centres Come to Ontario

I woke up at 5am this morning.  Not unusual for a mama of a newborn; ironically, baby C was sound asleep.  This actually worked to my advantage as I dragged myself out of bed, and proceeded to try to make myself relatively presentable for the public.  I have a love-hate relationship with having my photo taken.  I pretty much hate it unless I can “art direct” it or delete it.  Oh, and I prefer if you only take my photo from the boobs up, preferably after I’ve been to the salon and spa.  But with a mere twelve hours notice, “the public” was going to be lucky if I didn’t have spit-up in my hair.  Not that I want to further promote that stereotypical image of a new mama, just that my baby is quite fond of projectile spit ups whether I burp her or not.  It’s just a fact.  

So up at 5am, makeup on, a slapped together outfit that was not photo—worthy (But the only thing I can manage given the weather and the four piles of laundry still to be done as my resident laundry-doer aka partner extraordinaire Mark, has been in bed horribly ill since Friday night and I’ve been the sole source of entertainment, rule-enforcement, household duties, and nourishment of both body and soul)  my three girls dressed in matching black outfits, baby nursed, promises of takeout breakfast made, school lunch and bag packed for R, and out the door we headed.  

We arrived on campus just before 8am and thankfully snagged a parking spot right in front of the building.  I was warmly welcomed by our first midwife who caught R and L(barely, but that’s another birth story), at St.Mike’s and at home respectively. The director of our program and several members of the AOM greeted us enthusiastically as well.  It was odd being told that my trek to the event was heroic.  I had figured, I was going to be up anyway! And really, if you are going to talk-the-talk, then walk-the-walk.  Or in my case, drive through rush hour traffic with three girls under the age of six, and to show your support for other mamas and their midwives, and love every minute of it!

I was one of three from my cohort of midwifery students, though there are many others there, and one of maybe eight or ten mamas with baby-in-arms.  Our photo was taken repeatedly and all I can think about that now is not "wow, I should google us and see if we made it onto any major media outlet" but rather "holy crap, I was sweating so profusely under the press lights, my pants were falling down, my shirt was riding up, and my hair was inflating – what a picture that is going to make."  Oh, and if we did end up on TV, that’s me just to Mr.McGuinty’s right, nursing my baby while she’s in a sling.  So, that would officially make it so that not just everyone I know will have seen my breasts, but possibly hundreds I don't know.

One of the things I noticed while there was that various people kept ushering us closer to the front because “make a good picture.”  I’m sure it’s meant as flattering, and I really don’t mind, but I wonder what that means.  Is it because my girls have bright smiles, and are matching outfits with their baby sister in untraditional black?  Is it because I’m both midwifery student and midwifery client?  Or is it because I’m brown?  And frankly, I suspect it’s a combination of all three with an emphasis on the latter.  Midwifery clients in Ontario tend to fall into one of two categories:  upper middle class and white or non-white and so new to the province they don’t have a health card yet but can still receive free care from a midwife.  I am neither, my girls are varying shades of butterscotch, and yes, we look pretty damn cute.  And so if our "look" unintentionally broadened the image of a midwifery client, than I'm okay with that too.

  

I gave two interviews supporting birth centres – a long and hard fought victory for women in Ontario. If I'd had time to clear my foggy brain a bit, I probably would have been able to speak to how the road to achieving a commitment to fund birth centres was very similar to my mini-adventure getting from the 905 to downtown TO at rush hour with three girls:  an alarm going off, stumbling through the darkness, waking up fully, thankful for the prep and planning the night before, working hard to maintain a sunny disposition despite obstacles including but not limited to a lack of support and limited vision, illuminating my path with headlights, and then ultimately a warm welcome into a room of familiar faces and unfamiliar ones all smiling at me and my babies. But, I'm not that articulate on the spot. And instead said something along the lines of this : While I myself, don’t need one, I think of women who live in extended family situations or tiny apartments with no space for a birthing tub, or who simply need the security of a more official space that is not medicalized, perfunctionary and oozing illness the way a hospital does.  I’m hoping to be one of the privileged midwives to work at one in a few years.  


I’m not sure if we’ll end up on any of the news reports of press clippings, it’s been my experience that the media tends to choose one family to focus on and the baby that Premier McGuinty was holding up in the air, or the family of six kids probably “trumped” us but I’m not a media hound and so I don’t particularly care either way.  I went to show my solidarity and support for midwives, birth centres, and the women, babies, and families that will benefit from this great step.    


And yes, it was also pretty cool to write “press conference with the Premier and the Health Minister Deb Matthews” on my five-year old’s late slip under “reason”. 

Here's baby C, looking exhausted after all that time maintaining her image in front of the media, as a reminder of why it is so important to support midwives and mothers: healthy babies

Here's the link to the official release:http://www.ontariomidwives.ca/press-releases/page/midwives-welcome-opportunity-to-lead-new-birth-centres-in-ontario

What do you think of birth centres coming to Ontario?  Would you have used one/would you use one? 

About me: Not so urban, but still a goddess

Way back, when I was twenty, I started working at a bead store in Bloor West Village.  I knew nothing about making jewellery but I loved the idea of working in little store, being sort of artistic, and sipping coffee.  I actually became quite...handy?...at making basic wire jewellery and would spend my Saturdays off with my friends from the other bead store location, shopping for beads!  All this to say, I fancied myself a bit of an entrepreneur and made jewellery to sell and created the label “urban goddess”.

A few years later, my love of matching colours and wishing I had more artistic talent, took the form of taking some make up art classes, quitting my under-paid corporate consulting job (I swear, I’m the only person I know who made more money working for a non-profit then I did as a  “consultant”!) and deciding I wanted to be a makeup artist.  Under the same name.  I even purchased the domain name, and had business cards designed while I worked in a non-profit and did makeup for weddings and charity fashion shows.

And then I had a baby.  And I truly felt like a goddess.  Talk about a goddess-like power:  I helped create a whole little girl and now I was blessed with the privilege of being loved by her and loving her; of being depended upon by her and, let’s be honest, depending on her in a certain way.  From the beginning my  daughter and I were totally urban!  We walked everywhere, we lived in non-air conditioned co-op apartment, we had over-priced gourmet sandwiches for lunch from the distilleries, she came to brunch with us every Sunday at non-chain restaurants, and we bought groceries at St.Lawerence Market.  I then figured I should channel my love of cooking into some sort of business venture for other urban goddesses. (More on that at another time I think).

Now we live in the suburbs, not just any suburban neighbourhood, but the very one I grew up in and spent years trying to move out of so I could live downtown.  (I never did live on, or even slightly off, Queen West).  Not only that, but I’m now forced to commute to a university that I used to live walking distance from.  But trust me when I tell you, that’s one of the very few things I miss about my former urban digs.  My suburban home is filled with the laughter of three little girls.  We have a pool (it came with the house), central air conditioning (key to keeping this humidity despising mama sane), a Costco membership (I secretly love this place!) and a cross-over because if there was one stand I was going to take it was that I would not, I repeat NOT become another brown suburban mom driving a minivan! 

Not so urban anymore.  But still a goddess in the eyes of my three girls, my partner, and most of the time, myself.    Hence, the urban goddess became the suburban mama goddess.  And that’s what I’ll write about, hopefully. 

Are you like me, an urban goddess turned suburban mama goddess?  Or do the suburbs represent a foreign land you visit occasionally before fleeing home?  

C's Birth

My labour started around 7pm.  I’d spent about an hour earlier bouncing on the birth ball and reading birth stories from Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth while watching my girls play.  When I thought about it, I did some nipple stimulation just to see what would happen…I’d had some stronger stretchy pains in the truck to and from downtown.  We’d gone  for lunch at Salad King just because I wanted to and felt like that wouldn’t happen again for a few months. 

After dinner I had more strong stretches but still irregular.  Just in case, Mark & the girls reinflated the birth pool, I left a message for Dixon and changed bed linens while Mark crushed ice and froze grapes.  We moved our laundry basket of dark towels, blue pads, IV supplies and sealed olive oil downstairs.  Clothes and diapers for baby were already on the main floor along with receiving blankets and a heating pad.  The girls were over-tired and so we put them to bed telling them new baby may or may not come today & that Dixon would wake them up if I was giving birth.  They fell into a deep sleep within fifteen minutes and stayed that way for 11 hours. 

As we were settling the girls, I had a really powerful, long lasting contraction.  And then another medium one at 8:15 and then around 8:30 I had one so strong I had to stand up and breathe deeply through it, involuntarily pushing and it lasted a minute.  That was when Mark told me I should page the midwives.  I wasn’t certain given the randomness of it all but the fact that for the last 45 minutes I’d felt like I had to poop but didn’t and that I was feeling “pushy” I knew it wouldn’t hurt to call.  I just didn’t want to get everyone and everything in place and be told I was at 3cm and not very thin and that this could go on for days…which would have been fine, I just didn’t want to think it was time and then be disappointed, better to underestimate how far along we were.  But I called Amy and we went over details and she was positive, excited, and asked that we just stay on the phone for a few contractions.  The first two were no problem, the third I had to put down the phone, grip the table while Mark pushed on my tailbone, and moan through while saying that I was pushing but knew I shouldn’t be.  Amy gave me strict instructions to NOT take a hot shower and to NOT stimulate my nipples but to go lie down and drink some water until she got here.  Mark started filling the pool, Dixon called back and said she was on her way, I lay down and just kept thinking “open” while listening to our baby having mix on the iPod from when we were having L.

Amy arrived around 9:30pm, asked if she could check me and we were pretty excited at being at 8cm! I’d been secretly hoping for 5cm, but 8 – really?  A few strong pushy contractions and I was at 8!!!  My waters were bulging so baby’s head was still high and once they broke I’d go down to 7cm but contractions would become steadier and we would progress.  So I walked up and down the stairs, drank some juice and water and watched the midwives make Mark run around looking for something to hang the IV on…something they had failed to mention as a result, the IV was started at 10:30, with the wrong kind of lock, I climbed into the birth pool where I was comfortable and wouldn’t have to see a clock.  Before hand, I’d leaked some fluid on the floor which tested as amniotic fluid but may have been pee.  Mark rubbed my back, Dixon took pics, and Amy checked heartbeat. She suggested we break the waters fully to keep things moving and we agreed thinking that it would help, I was doing well, and waiting would only make me tired. I was on all fours, not stressed about the contractions, Mark feeding me grapes and ice chips and making me laugh by saying “Loose lips mama”, and kissing me.

And then…there was meconium.  Thick, abundant green, sticky sludge that was passing over our baby’s face and nose.  Our baby who was still at +3 while I was at 7cm but pushing through contractions now.  And Amy told me we had to transfer to the hospital.  I knew all the reasons why – respiratory therapist to intubate if necessary with the neonatal expertise as opposed to EMS just doing it quickly to save a life but not thinking of later consequences; avoiding pumping oxygen through a face mask which would further push down any inhaled meconium; avoiding meconium aspiration syndrome which is life threatening and results in prolonged hospital stay.  But I also knew that because of the GBS positive screen they wouldn’t let me come home and that not only were my girls going to miss the birth they had been preparing for since August with me, practicing sounds, letting us know about wanting to cut the cord and hold new baby’s hands, wanting to tell us if it was a girl or a boy…but that they also couldn’t get to see her right when they woke up.  But I couldn’t refuse a transfer based on emotion and I couldn’t let myself ask for them to be woken up to come with us.

And if I had thought to be so selfish, they would still have missed the birth and Mark would have too for even though Dixon offered to drive our truck there, she didn’t know where to go,  The girls would have had to be woken up (a task unto itself!), dressed into coats and boots, buckled in and driven then parked, unbuckled, and walked through the hospital to labour & delivery and get past the nurses to our room.  Meanwhile, I had our baby within 15 minutes of getting there.

I wish I could say it was a blur but the memories are quite acute.  I remember struggling to get half dressed, telling Mark where the hospital bag was, I remember crying about having to leave my girls but refusing to put them through the trauma of possibly having to see a medical team intubate their new baby.  I remember walking to the ambulance and praying it was no where near the time when my parents would be driving to/from church.  I remember being petrified of being wheeled on the gurney and I remember Mark turning ghost white when they told him he couldn’t sit with me but had to sit up front,  I remember telling them not to use sirens until we were well away from my house and I remember Amy trying to explain that yes labour was imminent and no that wasn’t why we were transferring and no it wasn’t ok for the attendant to catch the baby the whole point was to be near a neonatal specialist.  I remember panting through pushes to not give birth in the ambulance and I remember just feeling exhausted and not wanting to do it anymore when we were finally in the room.  I was sad.  And then they sent Mark away again to do paperwork even though Id been preadmitted. 

And I’m so grateful my girls slept through that and that I had a warm caring person at home with them who offered to bring them after the birth if we wanted.  But I knew I wouldn’t ask that unless it happened much closer to morning.  I wouldn’t have wanted them to see me being rolled into the ambulance.  Mark says it was incredibly hard for him to have to see that and he knew we were going to be ok and that he was coming with me.

As soon as Mark was by my side holding my hand, my contractions came on stronger again and Amy asked if she could check me during one and she did and there was blinding pain.  It was Amy widening my cervix.  This was to allow our baby space to descend over the next few contractions but then much to everyone’s surprise our baby started crowning.  Our backup midwife didn’t even have her gloves on yet!  At first I thought Amy was still checking me and I begged her to move her hand but then I realized it was our baby.  I had to push her out slowly, as there were no warmed oil compresses ready for me.  And after her head was born I had to pull up my legs and push with everything as her shoulders were sticky but not dystocia.  Later, Amy would tell me “You birthed so beautifully.  You had incredible control on your pushing; I’ve only seen that with an epidural.  And you showed such strength pushing her shoulders out.  She came into position so quickly it was unexpected.  Your girls would have missed the birth even at home from how fast she was born.”

At 12:01am on Sunday morning, our 8lb3oz, 21 ¾ inch long baby girl C was born.  She yelped, opened her eyes and roared.  The RT apparently walked into the room, heard her yelling, saw her squirming and deemed her healthy and left. C was placed on my chest as soon as she was cleaned up a bit.  I held her to me and Mark held me and we stared at her, kissed her, kissed each other, and stared some more.  C was tired after all that yelling and hungry!  She was rooting as she lay against my exposed skin; and when I moved my nipple closer to her mouth she latched like a champ and started suckling and swallowing immediately.  While we may not have been at home, C knew “home”  and reminded us what it was all about as she gulped noisily nestled against me, gripping Mark’s finger.

It was so difficult watching Mark leave and keeping a smile on my face.  Our first night apart in six years.  I wanted him to be able to hold our little girl her first night, but it technically wasn’t night and she stayed in my arms as I scowled at the night nurse who tried to get me to put her in a bassinet from the 70s and told me she would be safer  there- out of arm, away from my heart, my warmth , my breathing, and my smell just a few hours after being thrust into a cold, spacious, loud, smelly, bright world,  Really?  And it would help us bond, help my milk to come in  and prevent my getting depressed how?  So C napped in my arms, suckled when she wanted to and soothed me with her softness and delicious smell.  I napped on and off but the baby crying all night beside us from being alone in a bassinet kept me awake as did the paging, and the nurse checks.  The nurse who examined C and I worked on rote. Not computing we’d just had our vitals taken and a physical once over; nor that reaching to push my breast into position was highly uncalled for as I’d said Id successfully breastfed two girls and that C had already latched and nursed twice

I texted Mark just after 7; the girls woke up and called me at 8 – I had a cheerful voice because I was happy to hear from them.  My heart was aching for them but in reality, they didn’t have a concept of how long I had been away from them with C – it could have been all night, or it could have been just an hour.  They packed up a bunch of stuff, picked up McDonald’s because apparently all $240 for a room in the hospital gets you for breakfast is Cheerios, a slice of cheese and a cup of tea.  Clearly, I skipped the Cheerios, downed the milk, and ate the cheese.  At ten my family arrived and clambered onto the bed, saying “hi new baby”.  We both got hugs and kisses and smiles.  Mark had told them about the birth, I told them a bit too.  They held their sister, kissed her, snuggled her, and me too.  They spent about 6 hours with us, sharing in my crappy lunch, going for a walk to get me ice water, going to Tim Horton’s, and watching a movie on the netbook.  All the things we would have done had C and I been home and in bed. 

After they left, I felt empty again, hollow from the loss of our planned home birth and bonding in bed together trying to remind myself that we HAD just  bonded in bed together. 

Twenty-four hours later we’d finally be truly home, in our bed together – all five of us by dawn. I thought it would be hard to fall asleep but after a hot shower, hot food, and a Strongbow, I settled down with our baby between us; our girls asleep on a mattress on the floor in the same room, and slept for five hours straight – which felt like twelve.  I’d never been happier to wake up before the sunrise and be able to watch all three of my girls wake up and greet each other and the day with love and excitement.

It's been seven weeks and one day since C was born and today was the first time I've been able to write, read, and talk about being in the hospital without tearing up.  I'll never get that chance again, to have my girls at a home birth for their sibling.  But that's not a loss they feel, and it's one I have to get over because ultimately, I made the right decisions for all three of our girls and unless you've been there, you can't tell me otherwise.  But, I'd love it if you could agree with me, because, I really do need that.