About Whitaker

Baby Whitaker Steel, born 9/11

Those sliding glass doors. The sound of them swooshing open. That's one detail I remember so clearly; standing alone, slack armed in front of the doors leading to the emergency room at the Children's Hospital. Such an odd recollection.

I remember the red ropes too. Waiting in line between those bright red ropes imprinted with a teddy bear. They directed me toward a desk, where sat a beautiful black woman, her makeup somehow both garish and gorgeous; bright pink and blue lids shimmered under impossibly extended lashes. She was perfect. When she asked me where I was headed, I just wept, embarrassed, barely able to say aloud that I had come for my son.  She'd prepare and hand me a sticker to wear on my shirt, a proclamation of my visitor status to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. And she'd look right at me, her eyes filled with remarkable kindness. She never once avoided my eyes, swollen and ugly with shock. I remember her looking at me as if I were not a person falling apart, but one who was whole. I loved her for that.

I remember too, how long the hallways were, how it took a century to get from the elevator to my baby. And how not one of the rooms on the way to him, was empty. Each room held a tiny body in a tiny crib, strange hues of blue or orange or yellow emanating through the hush. I remember the beep of machines, and how Seth and I talked about whether we'd dream with that sound in our brains someday, if we ever all came home. If we ever slept.

I don't remember giving birth. I didn't see or touch Whitaker when he was born. I didn't hear his first cry, didn't see if his eyes were open wide with wonder or confusion or pain or whatever he felt when he made his way to the world. I don't know if his skin was wrinkled or how he smelled. I don't know who it was that first touched him, who bathed him, who diapered, wrapped or rocked him.

When Whitaker was born, and for several hours after, I wasn't even conscious.

This is the first time I touched him, several hours after he was born.
I don't have any memory of this moment in real life, only this picture for proof.

I had an awfully intense and very short labor that culminated when an OB (who I'd met only once before at a routine prenatal appointment) marched into an already chaotic room, and announced "I'm calling a code."

And because my medical background consisted of nothing more than watching Grey's Anatomy, to me a code meant someone was dying. I didn't know if it was me or my baby, and nobody spoke to me again until seconds before I was put under anesthesia.

I remember that too, how I was laying on my back surrounded by the turmoil of 20 people shouting instructions to each other and metal things banging against other metal things. They were prepping my body for surgery, but nobody said a word to me. Not. One. Word. A woman finally appeared above my strapped down, laboring body, and explained that I would feel a needle in my neck and then go to sleep. Maybe she recognized the utter panic in my eyes. Maybe it was that or maybe she was just doing her job, but right before I felt the sting of the needle, she said "It's going to be OK."

So Whitaker, due to a sustained, substantial decrease in heart rate, was brought into the world by emergency C-section. It was less than ideal, and I think he was moments from being born the old fashioned way, but the result was a six and a half pound gorgeous baby boy.

And for a little while, things seemed pretty normal. Grandparents smiled broadly as they held the new little bundle. Lakeland became a proud big sister, and Seth and I settled in, startled by the surgical part of Whitaker's birth, but relieved to have it all behind us, and the wonder of a new baby in front of us.

My three favorite faces.

Relieved and so completely in love.

There was a slight movement in Whitaker's arm that first day, an odd tic that was barely noticeable, but seemed strangely rhythmic - almost like a hiccup. I asked a pediatrician about it, and was assured that newborns just do weird shit when they adjust to their new environments. Unconvinced, I videoed it with my phone and showed another pediatrician, and in those moments, with the right person viewing a 14 second video, everything changed. We learned that Whitaker was experiencing seizures, and with urgency, a swarm of doctors started tests to garner as much information as possible, as quickly as possible, about his condition.

After a painful lumbar puncture and a slew of other tests I've long since forgotten, Whitaker was prepared for transfer to the Neonatal ICU at Children's National Medical Center.

One day post surgery and out of my mind with terror, Seth and I began negotiating my release from the hospital. And then I was in the front of an ambulance while a critical care team wearing full on freaking jumpsuits sat next to a high-tech plexiglass crib containing our newborn.

What the team wore - minus the helmet.

The critical care ambulance that transferred
us from Virginia Hospital to Children's National.

Whitaker met his first week of life with a barrage of examinations. His tests included EEG's and MRI's, along with tons of antibiotics in case his condition was the result of some kind of infection. He was given dose after dose of anti-seizure medications.

His small body was bruised everywhere, his lips so chapped they looked like swollen little pillows. Whitaker spent a prolonged period of time attached to an EEG and we weren't allowed to hold him. We just waited on diligent watch for any sign of seizing, while the electrodes attached to his head wrote a squiggly-lined story on a monitor about what was happening in his brain.

And because it's impossible to explain the torture of not be able to touch, help, feed or soothe your baby, I'll share some of the pictures we took during those days Whitaker was in the NICU.

These pictures are intensely private, but important too, in unveiling Whitaker's story.

Seth snuck his dingy old raggedy-ass childhood Pooh-bear into the hospital room.

Whitaker's head wrapped in what looks like a long stocking.
Underneath that white gauze, EEG wires are attached to his head
to monitor his brain activity. I think the test was 36 hours or so,
and during that time, we couldn't pick him up.

This was after the EEG was removed. He was so dry from the lamps, and I longed to nurse him. 
Seth and I wet his lips with our own saliva. 
Both of his feet are wrapped in bandages, one holding a 
monitor and the other a needle for administration of his medications.

Our tiny peanut. 

Here Whitaker is being prepped his first MRI. He slept through the whole thing,
and his neurologist got images that allowed her to diagnose the problem.

Whitaker's medical team discovered that he was seizing due to a subarachnoid hemorrhage. His seizures were long and intense, 6-10 minutes compared to the average newborn seizure of 60-90 seconds.

I remember sitting in a room full of brilliant neonatal neurologists, dumbly looking at films of Whitaker's brain. Seth would engage in conversation and ask thoughtful questions, one pen-wielding hand poised over a notebook, the other on my knee. (Seth was a champion from the time we arrived at the birth hospital until we arrived home as a family of four. The drive to the hospital while I was in labor however, was like a scene in a romantic comedy movie - Seth was swerving in and out of traffic while I yelled at him for his lack of driving skills.)

In each meeting, I just sat there stunned, quietly crying. Not understanding. Only wanting to hold my baby, only caring when I could feed him. Never even wondering when we might go home but with needs simply centered around when I could mother my child.

On the 17th of September, Whitaker got to come home. Seth and I learned how and when to administer his medications. We set alarms as reminders and established a medication station in the kitchen. Every blanket and burp cloth was stained pink with spat out phenobarbital. It was fucking awful.

Those first months, we scrutinized Whitaker's every move. The need to be alert and attentive to anything out of the ordinary was exhausting, but the acute gratitude for his just being alive proved a heavy counterweight.

After follow up EEG's and MRI's, in mid-December we learned three month old Whitaker could be weened off the anti-seizure medications. It was loosely determined that his hemorrhage was due to a "one time event", as there were no signs of arterial or venal abnormalities. I feel so sure that the trauma of birth was to blame. The poor kid could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel and was abruptly yanked through time and space, up and out a completely different opening.

A follow-up EEG on October 6 still showed
some abnormal "blips". Note how cute he is,
even hooked up to all the scary wires.

December 11 EEG was normal! Look how excited he is!!

Whitaker had the best medical care imaginable. His doctor was brilliant and instinctive and aggressive. She was forthcoming and concise. She saved our baby, and she's saving more babies right now. That's what she does. She saves babies. I now know a woman who saves babies for a living, and that's pretty much awesome. Not as awesome as a healthy baby would have been, but nonetheless, I know an actual hero.

Our family received love in every way, in bounds, from places near and far. There were phone calls and messages, flowers and gifts, random queso drops and bacon deliveries. People checked in often, sent jokes and well wishes, and bought plane tickets and flew to us. That too, was amazing.

The thing is, you can never imagine the feeling of loss when you give birth and have no memory of the experience. Can't fathom the nightmare of walking into your house without your baby in your arms. You can't anticipate that you might be a person standing in between those red ropes, waiting for a name tag so you can see your baby in the intensive care unit.

You can never know what you are able to endure until you have no choice but to withstand that thing.

I wish that I didn't know these things, that my family didn't experience this hardship. But I know that we are lucky. We got to walk out through those sliding glass doors, baby in arms. I'm thankful. And that's the story about Whitaker.

Perfectly Imperfect

Some time ago, I watched this TED talk about how the U.S. doesn't provide paid maternity leave. The discussion focused on how the lack of resources for women forces many postpartum mothers to return to work well before they are ready.

I had a tearful, painful sort of reaction to it, and frantically began writing about the delicate balance between mother and child, and how forcing their separation was cruel. Emotions poured from my fingertips. I typed and typed and typed, but my words were all wrong. I deleted huge swaths and started again, only to repeat the sequence.

Motherhood is difficult to write about, I think. Occasionally I tiptoe through the minefield and though I've gotten a few scrapes along the way, have found a sort of protection in just being honest.

Sometimes you can learn a thing or two about yourself when you are really honest. Like, I learned (relearned?) that I can be horrifically near-sighted. 

I very much wanted to write about what I was feeling, but what I'd managed to cobble together for my blog was shaky at best. So before I hit the publish button, I asked my aunt if she'd read my draft and give me some feedback. Her response:

"I had to grit my teeth to get through it."

Then, maybe to make me feel a little less like a jerk, she said it was well written, it was difficult subject matter, and she saw the humor where intended, but that it was a selfish perspective and it sounded "preachy".

I suppose some part of me knew that and kept me from publishing a kind of intense piece of writing all willy-nilly, but I needed someone to say it to me. (Thanks, Aunt Carol!)

Because the truth is, I have no idea what it feels like to be separated from my infant. I've worked almost exclusively from home since giving birth to Lakeland 6 years ago.  My boss at the time allowed for a full time, work from home position for that first year after Lakeland was born. She set a high bar, and made expectations clear. I've always felt an almost crushing degree of thankfulness that she allowed me the option to work from home. Though she had to return to work only two weeks after the premature birth of her son a few years prior, or maybe because of her unfortunate circumstances, she allowed me that opportunity.

So instead of writing in ignorance about mothers returning to work, and pretending to know how that feels, I'm going to share what I know about, and that's working from home with (now) two kids.

So back to that TED talk, which starts out showing examples of internet images that are meant to portray working mothers.

I googled "working mothers" as suggested, and sure enough, one snapshot after another popped up showing women and children seated in clean work spaces, where not a coffee stained cup or empty bag of tortilla chips lingers. With pencils sharpened, shirts ironed and nails painted, the women happily hold their children while clicking away on their keyboards.  There are no gray hairs to be seen, no bags under any eyes, and no bloated diapers on the babies, who are all fully dressed and probably recently bathed.

Take a look at these scenes:

There's no way actual people live here. Where's all their stuff? Two kids, each holding a teddy bear for amusement? Come on! Also, my back aches just looking at this woman's body position. Nobody voluntarily sits like that.

I'd totally kick my feet up and work from the couch. Except I can't. Because my couch doubles as a folding table for laundry and also because I would fall, mid email, into a deep, deep slumber.

Hey Mommy, you better put down that land line and your herbal tea because that baby's about to go APE. SHIT. ON. YOUR. ASS.

Allow me to share my typical work surface with you:

It's 6 feet of pure chaos. Papers, trash, vitamins, glow sticks, kid books, teethers, markers, flashlights...our whole freaking house is on this table.

Also allow me to introduce my typical work positions, with the little bodies of my children perpetually pressed against me:

Baby on lap, facing screen. With only beginner's neck control, I had to be diligent with pillow positioning or he was sure to bash his little round face on my Mac. Probably his diaper needs changed, and we are both still in pajamas. This is how you'll find us on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8am-1pm.

This position demonstrates what Seth calls "Throwing a boob in his mouth in order to get some work done", a pretty accurate description. Notice the baby is only partially dressed, and those dark circles around my eyes are the Real Deal.

The fifth snow day in a row resulted in a tough morning for this little one.

Baby Whitaker likes to kick his feet up on the edge of the table and push back against me, so technically, I'm resistance training in this image. Bonus!

I am a working mother, and this is what that looks like. Baby nursing, headphones on, no makeup and unwashed hair. Pajamas and coffee and breakfasts of dry cereal. Bored kids, toys everywhere, nobody dressed. It looks nothing like those google images. It's not perfect. Hell, sometimes it's not even palatable. It's messy. It's frustrating. Really, really frustrating.

And if I tilt my head the right way, it's beautiful. And it makes me feel full of love and life.

Even looking at the pictures of partially completed chores and messes in progress, I still feel the "luxury" of being able to work from home while raising my children. Like everyone else, my days can feel incredibly long. Unending. But along the way, I've learned to survive. I've picked up a few tricks, like how to ignore whatever is least pressing - could be children, could be piles of laundry that may or may not be emitting visible wisps of odor, could be an email or instant message.

Now that you've all heard of my proclomation of jerkiness, seen my house looking like the pits, gotten a preview of me in my pajamas nursing a baby with no cover, and caught the complete insanity of my "desk", I'm going to wrap this thing up. If you'll just allow me to briefly and ever so tentatively climb up on the little soapbox that I have no business standing on and whisper, with averted gaze, to all of the mommies that returned to work before they were ready:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. For all the times you've endured the phrases: "It'll get easier.", "It's harder on you than it is on the baby.", "Just get through the day, minute by minute." I wish I could have been there to just bring you a coffee and sit quietly beside you.

And to all of you mommies that excitedly packed your satchels and had your clothes laid out and ready to go that last day of your maternity leave, looking forward with great anticipation to returning to your jobs:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. Thank you for representing the strength and determination that lies within us all, and taking care of yourselves and your families while kicking real-world ass.

And to all of the mommies that put their babies down on their cluttered floor, threw some snacks and toys at their toddlers, and logged on from home, turning a deaf ear to the voices of their children, ignoring the fussing and the utter chaos:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. I wish I could play with your babies and fold your laundry while you returned emails. Thank you for contributing your best through the push-pull of child rearing during the work day.

Not one of us looks like the women in those working mother google images.

We are all perfectly imperfect.

More stuff.

I am not about to tell you that I'm nailing it at parenting because that'd just be a bold faced lie.

I swear far too often, my patience is sometimes as thin as silk, and pretty much every day, I forget Lakeland is only 5 years old. Which means I act like a real dick when she spills at the table, I interrupt her before allowing her the time she needs to finish her sentences, and sometimes, I eat her candy without asking.

But one parenting area where I thought I was at least up to par, was teaching Lakeland the importance of family and friends, that being kind and thoughtful is valuable, and that material possessions are less important than human connections.  She seemed to really glom on to these concepts in her own little ways, and has on numerous occasions, embarrassingly, brought me to tears with her generosity and gentle spirit toward others.

Until she didn't.

What else could she possibly need? Cape, hat,
bunny, broom, boots (from her friend!), petticoat.

Here's what happened:

We were walking home from school, hand in hand, shooting the breeze. I was all "How was your day? (good), Did you eat the veggies in your lunch box? (no), Did you learn anything? (not sure)" ...and then she said, "My friend had another new dress on today."

"How nice!" I prattled, not quite recognizing her tone of voice.

(I'd like to just pause quickly to tell you guys that this friend that Lakeland is talking about is freaking AWESOME, and she does have a lot of stuff, but she totally shares with Lakeland, and lots of times, just gives away her toys and dresses and shoes. She's a great kid with amazing parents.)

"But mommy, she always has new dresses. All of my friends have a lot of shoes and dresses and toys and books. And they get to play with cell phones and ipads. And they even have Barbies."

"Well...?" was my completely unreassuring and teetering response, but I didn't blurt out "Fuck Barbies" like I wanted, so...see? Nailing it!

"But why don't I have a lot of new toys and dresses? And SHOES! WHAT ABOUT SHOES!? Everyone has more stuff than me," she whined.

And there it was. My teachings over the last 5 years flung right out the window.

As usual, these more grown-up conversations pop up sooner in life than I expect them to, but at least I'd anticipated this one.  So Lakeland and I had a heart-to-heart. I told her that daddy and I decided that mommy mostly wouldn't work so that I could take care of her and her brother. And that daddy works really hard so that she can be home with me. "We're called a 'one income family' buddy, and that just means less money for stuff." I soothed.

Lakeland, unmoved, simply raised her eyebrows. I bit my tongue, as I so often do, and instead of blasting her with lists of all the things she should be grateful for, forged ahead with an alternate explanation.

"So there's this saying in the world and it goes 'The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side'".

At this, Lakeland showed a slight, though wary, interest.

I persevered. I drew her a picture of two hills and two little girls, and explained that when each girl looks down at her own little patch of grass on her hill, it kind of looks dingy and brown, but when she looks across the way at the other little girl's hill, it looks really bright and green.

I told her that it was totally normal for her to feel like she wanted all the same stuff other kids have, and that sometimes, her friends might wish for what she has, like walking to and from school with mom and dad, or baking cupcakes in the afternoons. Or lazy visits to the library, or playing ball outside together, or going to the playground, and all the other fun shit we get to do together after school.

Then she reminded me that I owed the swear jar some serious coinage.

I carried on. "So you see honey, every family makes choices that work for them, and this is what works for us."

And she said:

"Yeah. Mommy? Can you just go to work? I'd rather have the stuff."

He Changes 1 out of 100 Diapers

Here are some of the dumb things my husband says about diaper duty:

I couldn't find the diapers. 

~ The location of the stored diapers has not changed since the birth of the baby six months ago.

I thought you already changed him.

~ I did. 5 hours ago. 

I saved his diaper for you, so you could see it.

~ Yeah, like this one particular diaper is a real game changer.

I change at least one out of every ten diapers.

~ Just a ludicrous suggestion...

I wasn't sure what to do with his diaper, so I just left it on the stairs.

~ I just...no. Not acceptable.

I had to use a disposable because I didn't know stuff about the other kind.

~ You didn't know "stuff". Like, all of a sudden, cloth diapering is outside of your realm.

I didn't use the butt stick.

~ No shit. (Poor rashy baby.)

I forgot the cream.

~ No shit. (Poor rashy baby.)

I didn't need wipes. He only peed.

~ That's not a thing. You gotta wipe his butt, dude.

I did my best.

~ Oh my GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO?!?

A Moose Among the Gazelles

I was up and running on the trail early today, which meant I was sharing the footpath along a rocky creek with real runners who actually enjoy lacing up on Sunday mornings.

Having 8 miles to complete at my slothy pace gave me plenty of time to observe the people around me. Plus, focusing on others drew my attention away from the fact that my feet felt as if attached to blocks of concrete disguised as shoes.

Here are my observations from this morning:

While others were smiling at the robins and the playful chipmunks darting across the trail, I'd be grimacing and dodging the little assholes. 

Even though it was a chilly 37 degrees, I was pouring sweat and beet red in the face. By contrast, the other runners I saw were dry skinned with just a gentle splash of pink across their cheekbones. How everyone else was just barely flushed at double my pace, I'm not sure. But it could be because...

The foot strikes of my fellow trail blazers were feathery; they made not a sound. My footfalls on the pavement basically shook the very foundation of the earth. The others glided past and opposite me, their feet landing and then lifting their lithe bodies up and propelling them forward, as if they were running on the surface of a trampoline. My stride being far more more ploddish, seemed to sink into the pavement. I had to yank each foot forward as if there were gum wads attached to my soles. It's possible that...

These trail beauties all weigh in at 120-some pounds and so their gazelle-like legs can easily handle the slightness of their upper bodies. I've thrown 50 extra pounds into the mix, so my poor hooves and joints have more to handle. I am a moose. This was particularly noticeable when...

I paused when needed (mostly the tops of hills), and gulped down water while hunched over, hands on my knees. My counterparts would take a quick swig from their Camelbacks while running in place and checking their various fitness devices for split times. I felt fairly accomplished not because I was setting any records, but because I'd actually completed some serious mileage without shitting myself.

It's the little things.