Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The day Lucy died, we should have been celebrating instead. It was July 2, a Sunday, Ryan’s one-month birthday—a day that, were we more true to the traditions of our heritage, would have been marked with feasting and red envelopes stuffed with money, portending a future filled with fullness and good fortune. But instead we were putting our dog down, and there clearly was no such merriment.

Just two days before, on the heels of an all-night trip to the ER with our feverish newborn, we received the devastating news that Lucy’s bladder was filled—FILLED—with stones. On the x-ray, it was clear that these fist-sized rocks were not going anywhere on their own. The doctor recommended surgery—on Monday at the latest—and just like that, we were slammed with the immense decision of going through with the costly procedure or euthanizing Lucy.

Lucy was our Pennysaver pup and had been with us from nearly the beginning of our marriage nine years ago, essentially growing with us as we became real adults. “Thirteen adorable puppies” was what the ad had read. That night in early January, because we were unprepared for the sudden addition to our family, Lucy slept in a Crate and Barrel box salvaged from the stack of wedding gift debris still waiting its turn for the recycling bin. She was my companion during that first winter of our marriage, when the frost nipped extra hard. I was a recent transplant from sunny San Diego where winter means (possibly) putting away the flip-flops for a month or two, and with no friends or job of my own, I had spent day after aimless day in our dingy once-bachelor pad going stir-crazy from loneliness and cabin fever. Lucy was my bright spot then and gave some purpose and structure to my day. After all, I was a pup-mom now! All day we played rope and “drag” (a game that is exactly as it sounds: I dragged Lucy around the house by the end of her rope, an activity Lucy especially loved); at night, I dutifully got her up from her cardboard box and took her out for multiple potty breaks. “I’m so tired!” I remember wailing to Wayne, as I collapsed on our bed in exhaustion. Oh, how I chuckle at my “exhaustion” then (though I suppose it’s telling that I was never a baby person even at that point). It was good training, though, for the real deal, a practice in selflessness and expanding our hearts, in patience when she chewed up my designer flats, and disciplining when she did it once more (and wisdom never to buy designer flats again!).

As that winter warmed into spring, we started running. Around and around the levee and green belt and Sacramento’s Pocket area and all the way to marathon shape; together we trained for multiple races. Though I eventually made friends and found a job, there was always time for rope and drag (until she grew too heavy—a day, I’m sure, Lucy regarded with dismay). She was there when, as newlyweds, we worked to make our house a home—me, blithely (and unevenly) coating our living room with Barn Door Red, because I loved the name even more than the paint shade. With each subsequent home we grew into, the tips of Lucy’s fur reflected all my varying color choices and ever-evolving tastes.

When we had Caedmon, and then Addie, the dynamics of our family changed dramatically. I’m sure she felt this tangible shift in the social order: these new varmints that Wayne and I had brought home one day were suddenly taking all of our time and attentions. They let out funny sounds and smelled even worse, but for some reason we insisted on keeping them, so she scooted over and made room for them. But she was just as loyal to us even then. She was up with me at all hours of the night, and she would sit by me in the glider as I nursed the babies, and she would follow me when I changed their diapers, then plod behind me as we both collapsed into our respective beds, waiting for the next midnight feeding.

And when she and I matured into middle-age together, me with the remnants of baby bulge, we both hit the pavement once again, and though she regarded with suspicion the strange contraption with very scary wheels that I now pushed the babies in, she never flaked once on our running dates. Though the fur around her muzzle was showing just a touch of gray, her quick gait revealed a youth that remained from our levee days. She could still run like the wind—especially when she spotted a squirrel on the horizon.

It was on the day we brought Ryan home from the hospital that we first noticed something was wrong with Lucy. Never one to make accidents inside, Lucy had left small puddles of urine in various corners of the house. In our absence, she hadn’t been let out frequently enough, we had reasoned. It was almost another month—a crazy month of transitioning to life with a newborn, family drama, and sick kids all around—before we realized that something more serious was going on with Lucy.

In that last month of Lucy’s life—that first of Ryan’s—I hadn’t realized how relatively happy we were. Sure, we were collapsing with exhaustion, drowning in the needs of our tiny children, struggling, elbow-deep in parenthood, but our family—for that one month—was wholly complete.

The weekend we lost Lucy will forever be ingrained in my memory as one fraught not just with grief, but of ill-timed events and great physical strain. The all-night trip to the ER with Ryan, where I had helplessly and heart-wrenchingly watched him get poked and prodded, had left me emotionally and physically drained and totally unprepared for the news of Lucy’s diagnosis. I left the vet’s office—sobbing and shaking as much from the news as from sheer exhaustion—with a major decision to make about Lucy’s future, but with a weekend agenda that was wholly unyielding to calm, unhurried, thoughtful deliberation. We had kids to shuttle back and forth to VBS, a baby shower to finish planning and then attend, and Ryan’s follow-up appointment with the pediatrician, on top of our usual duties in caring for three kids, the last still feverish and fussy and who demanded so much extra care (as if newborns didn’t demand enough care as is). Our lives were going at a million miles a minute, and we were so, SO tired. It had been nearly 36 hours since I had slept, a whole month since I had slept well. Our brains were barely functioning, and it was in this run-down state that we had to make a decision about Lucy—and quickly. Lucy was deteriorating before our eyes. By Saturday night, she was already completely incontinent, and her urine was tinged with blood. She was sequestered in the kitchen, which for her, being apart from us, was the misery we would be putting her out of. In the months that followed, I’ve replayed the events of that decisive weekend over and over, scrutinizing every move and detail that led us to our final decision, and I ask bitterly, why did Lucy’s fate have to hinge on that crazy, beleaguered, hell of a weekend?

Lucy was 8 ½ when we ended her life. When we decided, based solely on numbers, that she—technically a senior dog—was too old for the surgery the vet had recommended, that the bill would be too high, that her odds for complete recovery without possible relapse were low. In our pragmatism, we weighed the options against the pressing reality of our growing family. And in our pragmatism, we opted to terminate her existence. The morning of Lucy’s last day, we took the whole family for a walk to the park, where we had a picnic with Lucy on the grass, though at that point, she was refusing even the tidbits of sandwich meat we were offering to her. It was the return home that was hardest, that final stretch of sidewalk that lay between us and the car that we would coax her into and drive her to her final goodbye. I sobbed then and all the way to the moment the vet injected her veins with the numbing cocktail and then the one that stopped her heart. And I sobbed as I watched the life, the sunshine drain out of her eyes until what remained of her was just a glassy stare. Oh, how suddenly and quickly our Lucy was here and then gone.

For the next few months, in a mix of postpartum hormones, baby blues, and exhaustion, I felt the full weight of our unalterable decision. It was a reluctant pragmatism that drove our hand, but now, on this side of regret, I say to hell with pragmatism, because pragmatism does nothing to assuage a broken, bleeding heart. I cried several times a week, sometimes a day. Though life’s busyness and keeping up with three kids offered ample distraction—something I was both thankful for and indignant over—always, there was an undercurrent of grief and regret running just below the surface of my composure. It was upon those rare moments to myself, though, when the kids were asleep or after a midnight nursing session that left me awake in bed, when I now made the trek to and from the crib alone, that I most felt the absence of Lucy. And the floodgates would rupture, and Wayne would wake to find me huddled in a ball, sobbing uncontrollably next to him in bed.

But it wasn’t just the grief. It was the unsurmountable guilt that crushed my being. Guilt that we could have saved her (because she still had so much life in her!) but didn’t, that we literally led her to the slaughter. Guilt that I didn’t give her as much attention after the kids were born. Guilt that I resented so much her fur and dirt she tracked in, that I would hiss at her to stop barking during naptimes, or grumble when she got underfoot. And guilt that I was feeling so much grief over a dog, when I have friends who have recently lost parents and other (human) loved ones. But grief is still grief. She was still a life that we had cared for, a life who responded to and reciprocated our love. And when a life like that is taken away, though she was “just a dog”, it still leaves a void that is palpable.

About a month ago, my grief and guilt boiled to a tipping point. In one of those arguments that isn’t really about what originally sparked the argument in the first place (a home security system, in our case), I blurted out to Wayne in thinly veiled accusations that it was his pragmatism that killed Lucy and had he not been so concerned about saving money, we could have saved her instead. Yeah, I went there... I was sobbing and shouting and so out of control. I wanted Lucy back so badly, and when blaming myself wasn’t enough, I needed to blame someone else. In a most desperate and selfish act of self-preservation, I needed to cast off my guilt to bring some order and control back into my world that had become so dark and full of irreparable regret.

And you know what Wayne did? He took it. My husband, who loved Lucy just as much as I did, who grieved her as well—though more quietly, who had also been dead-tired that fateful weekend when we made our decision together amidst a million engagements and a sick newborn, who was and is always doing his absolute best to look out for the overall well-being of our family… that husband took the blame that I was passively (yet so aggressively) hurling at him. Not in a spineless, groveling-at-my-feet-for-forgiveness kind of way, but a strong, “okay, lay it on me; I can take it” kind of acceptance. Because he could see my brokenness. Because he loved me that much. Because he saw that I needed him to be there more than I was pushing him away.

The next day, he wrote me a card: “I can’t bring Lucy back, but I do want you to know that it was one of the hardest decisions that I’ve had to make in our marriage. I don’t blame you if you blame me for her loss, but I did care for her as much as you did. I also don’t desire you to change how you feel or how strongly you feel about Lucy… I know that it has been a devastatingly difficult last half year for you, so take what time you need to process… I will bear what I need to bear and be as kind and patient as I can… and give grace when it is needed.” And then he quoted a song that we had both just seen so beautifully performed on So You Think You Can Dance. “The song that I’ve had stuck in my head all week goes like this:

When the rain is blowing in your face,

And the whole world is on your case,

I could offer you a warm embrace,

To make you feel my love.”

And something near-miraculous happened: I stopped randomly bursting into tears and mourning in the middle of the night. Wayne willingly shouldered my guilt and became my scapegoat, which I don’t even know is healthy from a psychological standpoint, but his sacrifice did allow me the space I needed to heal. And that—his selfless, loving act—is a beautiful thing. (I know Someone else who did that for me, and I’m grateful for a husband who emulates that kind of love and grace for me every day.)

                                   

When Lucy first died four months ago, I had wanted to write the best tribute to her. I wanted to share what an amazing dog she was, to follow the expected story arc of delightful stories from her life, tragic end, then tearful but inspiring goodbye. But I didn’t have the words. I was so filled with grief and remorse and guilt—I was all bitter, without a trace of sweet. I am still sad, and could I do it all over, I would save her life in an instant. Most days I still want to go to sleep and, upon waking, thank the Ghost of Christmas Future for showing us our folly, but I am no longer consumed and controlled by the bottomless grief and guilt that had so overtaken me before. With my newfound healing, I started writing the story I wanted to tell about Lucy, and in doing so, I realized that Lucy’s story is also a story of us.  

Who would have known, 8 ½ years ago when we were pulling out that Crate and Barrel box for Lucy, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, so carefree as we camped out on the ground next to her, that we would return to those same positions the night before her death, this time watching and crying over her failing health. We would have two kids asleep upstairs and one sick and fussy newborn in our arms with us on the ground. Our minds and bodies would be spent, but our relationship, solid. Solid enough that when I lashed out at Wayne, he not only took the blows but shrouded me with his embrace. 8 ½ years ago, who could have predicted that. Who could have foreseen the joys and heartaches, the exhaustion, the wrinkles, the extra pounds, the stupid fights, the side-splitting laughter, the comforting silence, the growing up and the growing love that these 8 ½ years would afford.

They say that “dogs know”. And while all of Lucy’s life, I took pride in her beauty, I highly questioned her brains. Even so, I’d like to think that Lucy knew, and that even as we led her by the leash to her end, that when I looked into her eyes and lied and told her it was okay, that she was looking back and telling me that, yes, it is okay. Or, at least, it will be okay. And since we’re talking make-believe, if there truly was a dog heaven, Lucy would be there high in the sky, with her chin tilted up in her beguiling grin and waving her curly tail. Lucy was our primer for all of life’s major milestones—starting a family, purchasing a house and building a home together, and finally, death. The tearing down that is grief has been devastating; its repercussions, toxic. 8 ½ years ago, just six months into a marriage so new and fragile, I wonder how this strain would have driven us apart. But now—literally a lifetime later—we are experiencing this rebuilding and healing and togetherness that is made possible by those 8 ½ years of us. And Lucy—she was there for that, too.

Our "gotcha" moment when we chose her to be ours

(photo by Emily To)

(photo by Emily To)

drag!

Lucy, meet Caedmon. Caedmon, Lucy.

Our last photo of Lucy and the only one of our entire family

Salad Days

Yes, Ryan, my sentiments exactly.

How are you? It’s such a common refrain, and yet, if taken as a true inquiry, is such a loaded question. Often accompanied by a smile, How are you? is more of a greeting, a rhetorical question, really, because if life sucks, who wants to hear that? Sometimes I meet older women who clearly have amnesia. “How are you,” they greet me and my brood. Through their rose-colored glasses, they can’t see the bags under my eyes or my wrinkly shirt that I’ve plainly been wearing for days. “Isn’t this a magical time?” they say with a nostalgic smile, or something to that effect.

I can only laugh… Yes, isn’t this a magical time.

How am I, really? Lately, if I am to be honest, I’ve been vacillating between feeling okay to utterly miserable. With Wayne’s ample help, though, I am getting it done—school drop-offs and pick-ups, supervision of homework, changing diapers for two tushies, juggling the naps, errands, groceries, getting a semi-homemade dinner on the table—but I can’t say that I’m doing it with the best attitude. I’m tired and irritable. At an especially low point, I have cried to Wayne, while holding up and rocking my wailing newborn, “I don’t want it anymore…” It wasn’t my proudest moment.

Life with three kids is no joke. I will ascertain that the transition from zero to one was still the most difficult by far, two upped the playing level, but three—though not as completely life-altering as one—three is the game changer. It’s the first dropping of the atomic bomb, the introduction of air travel and its role in widespread epidemics, the release of flesh-eating gas and robodogs in The Hunger Games. Three—right now with a 5-year-old, 2-year-old, and 3-month-old who is supernaturally alert and has not yet learned to sleep well during the day—is hard.

Earlier this week, as I was trying to tell Wayne about my day while he was at work, I was repeatedly and irritatingly interrupted by Caedmon who needed help with the DVD player, then the selection of a show, then with the volume… And as I taxed my already-sleep-deprived brain each time in returning to my story, I all of a sudden realized that I was making this herculean effort simply to report that I had driven to the UPS Store with the kids and dropped off my Zappos return. That’s it. That was my day. And I was so defeated by how seemingly unproductive and uneventful my life had become that I actually had to go upstairs to lie down and wallow in some self-pity for a bit. Isn’t this a magical time?

And so it is that season again… My mom belly hangs over my workout clothes, still pristine, because I’ve barely gotten through my warm-up before Ryan has woken early from his nap—again. And I’m waltzing in the half-dark with him, willing him desperately to go back to sleep. My eyes hang heavy from multiple midnight wakings that I sometimes have no recollection of in the mornings. Soon, my face will be framed by the tell-tale postpartum baby hairs, but first the shedding like a Golden Retriever in July. My sister once related to me how a friend commented on a nursing mother’s serene tranquility, but we suspect that this serene tranquility is more likely extreme fatigue. That glow is from a face that hasn’t been washed in days.

And my time—oh, my precious time. My time, the little that is left over after a full day with three little kids, is spent either keeping our house from acquiring a biohazard designation or mindlessly scrolling through social media and then feeling guilty for not having kept my house out of the biohazard classification.

With the birth of each child, I will think that I’ve died to myself and have given up all of me, but no, with each additional baby, I’m newly squeezed until what I think are the last drops of my individuality, identity, and energy. (Moms with four or more kids, I’m convinced, are essentially zombies. Selfless, brave zombies.) This first year with a new baby has always been hard on me (probably because I am so incredibly selfish!), and so we brought Ryan into this world expecting the rough transition. Still, the complete stripping and re-stripping of my selfhood isn’t any easier to bear. Goodness, isn’t this a magical time?

A few years ago, I read the popular Like Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen. I didn’t love the book, but what I took from it, what stirred me even then as a mother of just one, was a quote from one of the last pages: "Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane… Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull… they were the good years, grand years” (Gruen, 327).

Is this what I’m living right now? The salad days? The halcyon years? (Because if these are the halcyon years, I fear I have little to look forward to!) But there is a truth to these words that those well-meaning older women know, that even I know, because when my babies are all asleep, and though I’m dead-tired and grumpy as hell, I find myself snuggled next to Wayne in bed, scrolling through our day’s pictures of these kids who take so much out of me.

And so I keep reminding myself that whatever hardship we’re experiencing is fleeting. I pray for the grace of Jesus to not just get me through this time, but to get me through this time with a grateful and joyful heart… because if I lift my gaze just a bit, I see a grinning, imaginative 5-year-old playing with my spunky 2-year-old who adores him and copies his every move. He is leading her on a space mission, and yes, they have thrown off all the cushions from the couch again. Their joint efforts, to my chagrin, refill the space with reading material and surplus food and supplies from all over the house. But they are laughing, and cooperating (for now), and so happy and content as they shout for Mommy and Daddy to watch them blast off into the abyss. They are beautiful. And most significantly, they sleep. We made it through the rough with them, and look at our reward. Soon, I hope, Ryan will join their ranks … My arms will be free, and we will all play, take a nap, and it will be heavenly. But even before then, I have to recognize, even when I don’t always feel it, that I am, indeed, in the middle of a very precious and truly magical time.

Our First Day of Kindergarten

Caedmon started Kindergarten last week two weeks ago earlier this month last month, and his first day of school was our first day of school. I felt the nerves and excitement and pride at having reached this point, as if I were the one hoisting the superhero backpack on my shoulders and marching through the gates of his school myself. I suppose that’s the nature of the parent-firstborn relationship: his milestones are essentially ours, as well.

Our new life with three kids, the last who, alas, does not sleep, has been harried as of late, and so, as evidenced by the edited and re-edited first line, I have taken a good amount of time to write this post. My hands have been literally full as I rock and will my baby to sleep, and I find difficulty in forming coherent thoughts and stringing them together in a way that is more than a mere stream of sleep-deprived consciousness, but I feel compelled to commemorate this great milestone.

Caedmon has come so far from the anxious and volatile stranger-danger baby to the sweet and agreeable little boy who cooperates with and plays well with just about everyone and who, when greeted by an acquaintance, will now respond with a quiet “hi” or at least a shy wave (which is a huge improvement from screaming in your face). He is kind and good-natured. He’s funny and still has the best belly laugh, but now his adorable chuckle comes along with his own set of jokes. He is a meticulous and creative builder (LEGOs, train tracks, etc.). He is earnest, silly, gregarious. But I remember when he was not so well-adjusted.

I remember the little boy who communicated in grunts and gestures, improvising with his own rudimentary made-up words, because his speech didn’t come to him until he was three. “Ah-vah” meant car or truck, and “ai-yah” was dog or fountain. How adorable he was with his bumbling speech, but how frustrating for all parties when he wasn’t able to fully communicate his feelings or desires. My poor child is trapped in a Neanderthal’s framework, I sympathized.

I remember the seemingly endless succession of Sundays spent in the church nursery, as Wayne and I took turns staying with Caedmon, unable to pry our screaming boy off our necks. On the days we were able to escape his grasp, the nursery workers would inevitably call us back to our inconsolable boy, who was also setting off other kids with his misery. And so eventually we resigned ourselves to our positions as unofficial volunteers; the only factor keeping us from formally enlisting our services was our repeated attempts to sneak off in our dogged determination to wean Caedmon off us… until tears, tantrums, and snot would fly and return us to our posts. I recall how defeated I felt. How bleak our future, I lamented: my son would forever be attached at my hip (how inconvenient and awkward this would be on his wedding day).

And I remember my seemingly affectless kid who showed no reaction whatsoever when he accidentally hurt me in an overly boisterous bout of play nor any remorse when I disciplined him for (fill in the blank). And I worried that he lacked empathy. Was he slow? Was he autistic? (Because early intervention is key!) Was he a sociopath?

In the throes of the stuck-at-the-hip days, it seemed like an end couldn’t come soon enough. A mother with grown children, who had been there and done all that, encouraged me that this—the frustrating games of charades that devolved into meltdowns, the split Sunday services that either Wayne or I might as well have stayed home from, the apologies made to others for our child’s inability to cope—this was just a passing season. At the time, these wise words fell on very distracted ears and were more a nebulous nicety than effective encouragement. But then just like that, the seasons changed.

Something just clicked when Caedmon turned three. He started talking, and consistent with the experiences of many others, once he started talking, he hasn’t stopped. (Which makes me grateful for the extra year of quiet we were able to enjoy. 😉) He started preschool, and though for a week, I expected a phone call from his school to pick up my child, he never cried even once at drop-off. And one day, when we walked him to his Sunday school class at church, he just let go of our hands and joined the other kids. As for his emotional capacity, not only is he showing signs of empathy, he’s also developing courage and leadership. My heart especially swells with love and pride when I remember the day Caedmon stuck up for his sister, who had just been shouted at by another little boy, still learning his social graces. “Don’t say those things to Addie,” I could hear Caedmon saying assertively yet kindly from the other room. “She’s nice. She does bad things sometimes, but she’s nice.” My son has a heart! And it’s a kind and good-natured one, at that.

These are the normal patterns of development for all children; my child is not extraordinary for growing, but it’s no less amazing to witness this transformation, especially for the first time.

And now we are in a new season: I am sending my baby into the World. Here is the beginning of best friends and bullies, crushes and heartbreak, first picks and dead last, and all the other new and sometimes uncomfortable, yet necessary, triumphs and growing pains that mark the path to adulthood. Truly, it has been like a blink of an eye. And—to throw out another cliché—like the slipping of sand through my grasp, I am constantly trying to hold on and remember and cherish. I know, there is no stopping of time. All I can do is open up my hands and enjoy the sand as it cascades through my fingers. 

Caedmon’s first day went without a hitch, but not without a fair share of hoopla, as we celebrated this big moment for him, as well as for us, his parents. We have successfully maneuvered the baby years with our first child, and that is no small feat. And now we—all of us—embark upon the early school years. Let the new adventure begin!

Caedmon and the obligatory first-day-of-school-with-a-chalkboard-sign photo. This was actually taken after school, following some outside play in the dirt, hence the sweaty hair (no, it’s not gel!), because this is what he looked like before school: 

Having been woken up early and then pelted with a barrage of overly-excited directives ("Put on your uniform!" "Come eat some breakfast!" " Sit next to Gus!" " Say, 'cheese!'" "We have to take your picture outside!" "Stand next to Daddy!" "Wait, put on your backpack!" "Say, 'cheese!'" "Hurry, we have to finish your breakfast!" "Don't forget your socks!" "Say, 'cheese!'") left Caedmon a little apprehensive and grumpy. I.... don't really blame him.

A breakfast of champions (and little boys starting Kindergarten): blueberry lemon zest muffins!

Caedmon and his entourage. My parents actually drove in from the Bay Area to participate in Caedmon’s first day of Kindergarten. As we made our way to school, we must have been quite the sight for the older neighbor we passed who was sipping his morning coffee on his porch. Like a scurrying parade of not very interesting people, we had Caedmon leading the way on his scooter, followed by his cousin Gus on his balance bike, I walked with Ryan in the carrier, my mom had baby cousin Max on her back while pushing Addie in the stroller, my sister, Sam, trotted behind, catching up with the forgotten water bottles and helmet, while my dad ran along and ahead of everyone, in order to take video and photos. This was serious business.

For this first day of school, parents were invited in to help our children find their hooks for their backpacks and then their spots at the tables where there was an activity page waiting for them. When everyone was settled, Mrs. C taught the children their first procedure in how to get up by table color, push in their chairs, and make their way to the carpet. And like magic, the children filed orderly to the designated space on the floor for her reading of The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. (They were better than high school Freshmen, I tell you!) In the story, Chester Raccoon’s mom eases his anxiety on the first day of school by kissing his hand and telling him to press that hand to his cheek whenever he wanted to remember her. It was very sweet, and I think it was as much for the parents as for the kids, especially us first timers. When it was time for us to leave, our kids kissed their own hands and blew us their kisses while we filed out the door. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my mom got some cuddle time with RyRy. Why does he never sleep so contentedly on my chest?

And then it was time to pick up Caedmon, who said he had a "great" day at school. (That's his answer to everything these days.) On our walk home, Gong Gong wanted to try out Caedmon’s scooter. My dad is so big that it’s not obvious right away that he's actually riding anything.

For lunch, Gong Gong took everyone out to McDonald’s and treated the kids to Happy Meals. This was a celebration, indeed! I took about 50 pictures, and this was the best I could get. Addie was doing her Chicken McNugget dance in all of them.

And so Caedmon’s debut into the real world started with a bang. Since then, his entourage has dwindled to just me, Addie, and RyRy, and mornings are a lot more frantic than celebratory, but how lucky this boy is to have so many who love him and hope big things for him. 

Addie's Birth Story

Addie will be 20 months in just a few days, and it's high time I wrote her birth story. From the beginning, she proved to be exceedingly sweet and easy-going, melding so perfectly and unobtrusively into our existing mile-a-minute lives. Except for the occasional extra cuddle time or middle-of-the-night wakings, she barely slowed us down with her arrival as we sold our house; purchased, moved (when she was just a month), and set up a new home; potty-trained Caedmon; and started him in preschool. Even her birth was a whir, barely causing a blip in the physical time lapse of our lives. But that seems to be her modus operandi: unobtrusive yet monumental, and altogether wonderful. Though I haven't been writing much lately, I really do mean to celebrate and remember all the moments we have with her, so without further ado, here is how Addie came into this world.

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As a second child, of course Addie is subject to comparisons, and her birth is no exception. If Caedmon's birth was a long, grueling, yet rewarding marathon in which I sweated and endeavored (cue musical montage of heroic and herculean efforts at mile 20), Addie's was a quick 100-meter sprint. No, that makes it sound too light-footed and focused. Her birth was more like a mad dash from an oncoming runaway semi-truck—frantic, harried, quick, and filled with relief when the episode was over.

But it didn't begin like that. It started with my water breaking at 10:15pm on July 14 of 2015. We know this exact time, because we happened to have a phone appointment with our very accommodating realtor regarding some final details on the sale of our old home and the purchase of our new one. But contractions hadn't yet begun, so there was no immediate urgency. As second-timers in this whole birth thing, we were pros—calm, cool, carefree, even. We finished our phone meeting with our realtor (me, chiming in over the speakerphone while I mopped up my mess in the bathroom). I called my friend Stefanie and gaily related that it would be go-time soon, joking, laughing... What a contrast it was to the first time, when I was gasping into the phone, begging her—my nurse-friend and often go-to source for medical advice—to tell me whether I was, indeed, in labor or not (uh, yes, I was). I did some last-minute packing and then curled my hair and put on just the tiniest bit of makeup. (Because I learned from ALL those photos of myself after giving birth to Caedmon that a little help in the beauty department couldn't hurt.) With our affairs in order and my vanity sufficiently indulged, we left at 11pm for Kaiser Labor & Delivery for an initial check-in with the baby.

That's when we met Ionie. Ionie was the admitting nurse that night, a small but formidable woman in her 40s with close-cropped hair and a quick, deliberate gait. I learned soon enough by her firm demeanor and stern Nigerian accent that she was not to be messed with. As I lifted my hospital gown for her to hook up the fetal heartrate monitor, she pointed at the rashes on my belly. "What is that," she ordered more than asked. "Uh, eczema. From my pregnancy," I faltered meekly. Her reply was a mere grunt as she continued to hook up the device, but she did take the extra care to avoid the more irritated parts of my skin. Ionie's directive was simple: lie on the bed (in this contorted position) until she could record a solid 20-minute block of the baby's heartrate. It should have been easy enough, except that Addie decided to fall asleep at that very moment, and in order to wake her up, Ionie gave me a large tumbler of sugary juice to drink, and then left to tend to other patients, leaving me tethered to the hospital bed while my bladder quickly filled beyond comfortable capacity. After 45 minutes and still no sign of Ionie, I couldn't take it any longer and sent Wayne out to find her. Ionie bustled in, rebuking me impatiently for disrupting her workflow, "I was coming; I hadn't forgotten you." But she did unhook me from the monitor, and with a relieved bladder and a satisfactory recording of the baby's heartrate, we were discharged at 1am and sent home until my contractions commenced and became a consistent four minutes apart.

Upon returning home, we went straight to bed, since we knew the fun that lay ahead of us. Wayne quickly fell into a steady rhythm of snores, but sleep eluded me, because of course, that's when my contractions finally decided to begin. At 2:15am, I crawled wearily out of bed. Leaving Wayne to sleep, I retreated to the family room to wait out the early stage of labor, snatching the book lying on my bedside table to pass the time and distract my mind. Book club was in a week, and I was almost finished with our book selection, and so for the next two hours, I went back and forth between the sobering words of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited and then tossing it aside as I bent over our couch, head buried in the cushions, rocking back and forth, riding out my early contractions and jotting down my stats on a piece of scratch paper. At 4am, I finished my novel, and so I woke Wayne to tell him it was time to go. 

I pride myself in being task-oriented, reveling in a to-do list riddled with check marks and crossed out items, but I wonder if, in crossing out "finish book for book club", I had taken a tad too long to leave for the hospital, because by then, my contractions were VERY strong. When we arrived at Kaiser, there was no questioning whether I was in labor this time; I was screaming in agony. 

We met Ionie again, this time in the midst of an embarrassing kerfuffle in which I had misunderstood the nurse over the phone who had advised me to go THROUGH the ER to Labor & Delivery and had mistakenly checked myself INTO the ER, and was thus stuck in some sort of administrative gridlock when I did make my way upstairs. As we waited for my name to clear from the ER computer system so that Labor & Delivery could add me, I was pelted by wave upon wave of soul-crushing, abdominal convulsions. "What's going on? Why is she still sitting here?" demanded Ionie of the receptionists at the front desk, who looked at each other helplessly. Ionie grabbed the phone, dialed the ER and shouted into the receiver, "This is Ionie from Labor & Delivery. You need to discharge my patient—NOW!" and hung up. She promptly led me down the hall towards a room, no question her order would be heeded. That's when I knew it was good to have Ionie on my side. 

Though I was a pitiful, tearful mess at this point, Ionie’s no-nonsense demeanor did not let up. This time, though, it was a godsend. Admonishing me for my effusive cries of pain, she made me stop walking, ordered me to look at her, and sternly demanded that I breathe, modeling for me the deep breaths that reached her diaphragm—in through her nose, out through the mouth. No screaming, no crying. Focus. Control. I needed energy, and this was sapping all my resources, not to mention my oxygen. Indeed, I was already feeling light-headed and had started hyperventilating. I needed to take hold of myself emotionally and physically. And so I mustered all my self-control, willing myself to stay calm as I made my way slowly to the birthing room and crawled onto the hospital bed, quietly convulsing. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. No screaming, no crying. Focus. Control.

At this point, Wayne returned from parking the car, and as he took his position by my side, he jokingly quipped, "I almost passed this room; I didn't hear you screaming." Pathetically, like a jailbird, I looked at him and nodded over to Ionie, "She won't let me." It was that moment that I was seized by another gut-wrenching contraction. I suppose sometime during the short trip between the waiting room and the hospital bed, I had slipped into transitional labor, though all I could register was that I was in the grip of a most violent pain that was mercilessly unrelenting. As with last time, Wayne dutifully took up the role as Supportive Husband, holding my hand, and proceeded to give me the most loving and kind gaze, as if to say, so sweetly, "You are doing wonderfully, Sweetheart. I love you." 

But this was not like last time! And his loving and kind gaze was like fighting the blaze of a roaring fire with puffs of sweet, summery perfume! In the throes of pain that had overtaken me so suddenly and swiftly, I had turned feral and animalistic. I was in survival mode. At that moment, I needed a coach to push me forward, not a cheer squad to brightly encourage beside me. I turned away from my loving husband and frantically sought out Ionie. "Help me!" I cried out, pathetically.

At my feet, she looked over at me, intense as ever. "Breathe!" she ordered, and so I inhaled. "Focus on my face." I looked at her with wild eyes. "Loosen your shoulders. Ease your muscles." And so, to the best of my abilities, I relaxed my tingling arms. Though I made little noise, lest I anger Ionie, I still felt an overwhelming desperation. Never did I want an epidural in all 15 hours of labor with Caedmon, because though the pain and discomfort were immediate and excruciating, the process was long and slow, allowing us to rest and even snooze in between each monster contraction. It felt right, controlled, and even beautiful, in my body’s steady progression toward its natural function of giving birth. But this time, nothing felt “right”, and I was no way in any kind of control, as I was seized so suddenly and sharply by what felt like the ultimate assault to my body. In the face of what I thought would be another few hours of torture, I wanted the epidural—NOW, but before I could gasp my wishes, I felt the overwhelming urge to push or burst or implode or something. I could hear myself, and I sounded like a scared, wounded, crazed animal. With all propriety and decorum out the window, I yelled what I considered to be a fair forewarning to the nurses, "I NEED TO POO!" Ionie looked at me, and with the most intent of expressions, shouted back, "Then poo!"

What I had felt was not a bowel movement, but was actually the baby pressing urgently into the birth canal. Who knew that in a matter of half an hour, I would be fully dilated from the 7 centimeters I was upon arrival (just one centimeter more than I had been when admitted for Caedmon’s birth) and my body would be doing all it could to expel the contents of my uterus. Unlike last time, when we were left on our own for what seemed like an eternity, the sheer absence of medical staff a demoralizing indication of my lack of progress, this time, there was no opportunity for anyone to leave. There was a great commotion as nurses pulled out the bright overhead light and rolled over the tray of tools. Ionie gowned up, preparing to catch the baby, before the midwife arrived in the nick of time. I pushed for less than 10 minutes, compared to the 90 minutes with Caedmon. I barely remember the ring of fire this time, because it was so brief, but I do recall the immense relief that rushed over me as the baby's head emerged, followed by the rest of the body. It was 5:38am on July 15, just less than an hour from the time we arrived at the hospital. In the mad chaos, there hadn’t been time to even fully admit me, but now, as the baby emerged, the room stopped.

It was that cry again that stilled the atmosphere. Second time, but still so distinct, buoyed by the torrents of relief and emotion so that its tiny vibrations filled the room. It’s the cry that signifies all is well, that it’s finished and that it’s begun. It’s the cry to herald that nothing is to be the same ever again. And so that cry pierced the air, but to be honest, it didn't penetrate my heart as it did with Caedmon’s. Everything was too quick for me to feel anything except sheer relief. The baby was here, we were surely overjoyed, but I was far from the tearful, blubbering first-time mother whose entire world—inside and out—had just been turned upside down. Instead, we all focused our excited attentions to the next order of business: was it a boy or a girl?

Wayne was the one who was given the honor of revealing the gender, and he hesitated as he performed a double-take. "It's a... girl?" he announced haltingly; he had so convinced himself that we were having another boy. And with that, they placed our new daughter on my chest... our baby Elydia.

Yes, Addison was first Elydia in the early hours of her existence. Liddy, we would have called her. We had written it on her little bassinet tag, even, but scratched it out when, in just the first hour after her birth, we heard ourselves repeating what I'm sure would have been for the rest of her life: “Her name is Elydia. No, EL-lydia, not Olivia. No, not Lydia..." And so Elydia became Addison, and our sweet Addie fits her name so well now that I can't imagine her as otherwise.

So just as with the whirlwind that was her birth, Addie has not missed a beat and has so competently and considerately kept up with the push and pulse of our lives. In fact, that same day, Wayne was on the phone with our mortgage company, closing the loan for our new house. And the next week, I did, indeed, make it to book club, not just clutching my copy of Brideshead, but also the tiny being that compelled me to the finish the night before her arrival. Though parts of the book's ending are a bit fuzzy, details from Addie's birth, though quick and harried and without much of the mounting emotion of Caedmon's, are etched in my heart, equally cherished and ready to be retold as less of a pull-at-the-heartstrings kind of tale than perhaps the source of a good chuckle. 

Addie, dear, you are such a bright light in our lives, and you have made it so effortless and enjoyable to care for and love you. I don’t know what the teenage years will hold, but whatever difficulties, may they, like your birth, come quickly, even if intense, and be resolved with the same alacrity.

Addie at birth, weighing 5 lb 15 oz, a whopping four ounces more than her brother.

Our new family of four. (See how pretty my hair looks?)

Addie at almost-20-months, shouting, "CHEESE!!!", while insisting on Caedmon's rain boots as her footwear of choice.