What a difference a year makes, no? Last year at this time I was on the difficult infertility journey, this year I'm chasing around after this little guy (pretty easy for now since he's not mobile yet):

Ladies go crazy for a sharp dressed man.

While I loved the flowers and the cards I received yesterday, let's just say that for Mother's Day and me, it's complicated. Certainly I love being able to celebrate my own wonderful mother on a day solely dedicated to the exercise (this year with a hastily assembled brunch after an early morning flight). But at the same time I remember all too clearly the pain the day caused me in recent years. To every person who gave me a cheery "Happy Mother's Day!" in the airport yesterday morning because I was carrying Sam, I wanted to explain what a miracle it was that he is even here. And how this isn't my first Mother's Day, as I have parented my 10 year-old stepson for many years now. Furthermore (if I were really to bend an ear, and the flight were delayed), I might possibly explain how I wish "mother" were defined more broadly on this day to include mothering spirits of all sorts, and how I recognize the complexities of the maternal relationship for many people. Overwhelmingly, though, for Mother's Day I wish people knew how, for me -- most days -- it feels like a such privilege to influence the next generation in such an intimate fashion.

I read this description of (narrowly defined) motherhood the other day from Caitlin Moran's Moranifesto; it resonated with where I am right now, made me laugh, and seemed as good a definition as any:

"As an exercise, I'm just going to run through, once again, what becoming a mother consists of. First of all, you casually make an extra internal organ -- the placenta. Like you're some goddamn intergalactic robot UPGRADING ITSELF.

Then you spend the next nine months being a LIVING, WALKING FLESH NEST: casually absorbing your fetus's endless excreta while you're busy running an international business -- something which, in later years, you will find the perfect metaphor for raising a teenager. Then, at the point where you've grown a skull and a brain big enough to make humans the dominant species on earth -- but still just small enough to emerge from your pelvis without blowing both your legs off -- a homunculus will effortfully punch its way out of your 'special flower'.

Here -- at the point where, in a comparable exercise, a man who'd just passed a microscopic kidney stone would be wheeled onto a ward, dosed with morphine, treated like a brave hero, then left the hell alone -- you magically turn your tits into a milky heaven buffet, and start cranking out fifteen meals a day into a tiny, screaming, ungrateful creature who resembles an enraged otter in a jumpsuit.

Just to, again, get this into perspective -- when the most magic man who ever lived, Jesus, turned water into wine once, for one party, people went on about it for two thousand years, and formed a major man-religion around it.

Meanwhile, for millions of breast-feeding mothers every day, turning their bodies into lunch, the reaction is, 'Bitch, please -- don't do that in Claridge's.'

And then, of course, after the first year, the really difficult bit starts. The fevers and the ghosts and the sleeps that won't come -- the terrible falls, and the bullies, and the boy who breaks their heart, and the hair that makes them sad. And you have to teach them what jokes are, and what death is, and how to charm -- all while putting three meals a day on the table, and money in the electricity meter, and joy between every wall in the house, and never, never, ever forgetting to try and love every minute, because suddenly, ten minutes after they were born, they slam the front door for the last time, and you are sitting there, going, 'Where did the baby go? Where is my baby?'"

Born Jan. 31, 6lbs 15oz, 20 inches long. Photo credit: Bella Baby Photography.

He's here! It has been two and a half weeks since my world changed, and I'm only now with it enough to reflect a little on what happened and how our lives have changed as a result. Here's my rough recollection of how it went down (my husband Greg's take on things can be found here):

For a variety of reasons, including borderline high blood pressure, my OB had decided in advance to induce my labor at 39 1/2 weeks. Two days before my scheduled induction, I went in for a routine appointment and fetal monitoring. Although every metric on the machines looked fine, something felt... off. Sam wasn't moving as much as usual, as much as he had even the previous day. A hot chocolate and almond croissant from Bakery Nouveau didn't change things, and neither did a quiet afternoon paying attention to his movements. When we spoke to our OB on the phone that evening, she recommended we come in for induction that night -- acknowledging that the decision was at least partly driven by our (non-evidence-based) anxiety. We got the call at 6:15 and were to report to the hospital by 8:00 -- oh, and hadn't eaten, packed, showered, or picked up my stepson from his after school care. After a whirlwind couple of hours, we arrived (barely) on time, ready to do this thing.

Once we got settled in to our birthing suite, things were much calmer. We delivered my stepson to his mother. We organized our belongings, having been told that induction can take days. My cervix was checked, and I was hooked up to a fetal monitor and given a couple of doses of misoprostol, a cervical ripening agent. I was checked periodically throughout the night as I began to have period-like cramps, but they were easy enough to sleep through, for the most part.

In the AM, they started me on Pitocin, which by noon had ramped up the contractions to fairly uncomfortable. I ate lunch and walked around the nurses station a bit. Greg went for a run, and by the time he got back I had quickly devolved into a bad place, vomiting and shaking with the contractions. Our doula was invaluable, suggesting positions and coaching me though the contractions that seemed to be coming fast with little opportunity for rest. After some time I labored in the bath, where my water broke, I continued vomiting, and ultimately managed to mutter the word "epidural". What felt like five minutes later the anesthesia team was there, providing blessed relief (I had gone into labor wanting the "opportunity" to labor unmedicated -- and as it turns out 5 hours of that is plenty for me). I was able to sleep for a couple of hours, which felt like heaven.

Around 7:15PM, the OB team came in and told us they were observing signs of fetal distress that they didn't like to see. They gave us a metaphor we could relate to: "Your baby is running a marathon at a 100m pace." They gave me 15 minutes of low-fi interventions to change things: an oxygen mask for me, extra saline in the IV, turning me on my side. When these didn't change the fetal monitoring metrics, they made the call: a C-section.

I was a little teary at the prospect of surgery and the change of plan from what we had anticipated, but also intensely focused on doing what was best for our son. The decision was made around 7:30PM; after a flurry of activity on many fronts, Samuel John was born via C-section at 8:15PM weighing 6lbs 15oz and measuring 20 inches long. Everyone in the operating room expressed great surprise when they found that the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck four(!) times -- the purported cause of the fetal distress. The neonatal team toweled him off and checked him over, then he was brought to me to nuzzle while the surgical team sewed me up. He came out hungry and tried to feed on my chin and cheek, to no avail.

The ensuing two and a half weeks have contained lifetimes for Greg and me. New parenting is hard, recovery from abdominal surgery is hard, breastfeeding is hard. There have been (blessedly few) moments of near despair. Overwhelming all the sleep deprivation and bewilderment, though, I have a fierce love and desire to protect this little peanut, come what may, and to fix these fleeting moments in my mind.

Tiny feet.

Yesterday I celebrated my 38th birthday. As is my tradition, I spent part of the day taking stock of the year that has passed, and part of the day taking stock of the things I want/hope/expect will happen in the coming year. And this year has been a big one. Apart from the small daily triumphs and tribulations that make up a life, I finished my PhD (at long last) and got a "big girl" job, struggled with infertility, and ran faster than ever. In terms of having the opportunity to experience the full range of human emotion, it was a slam dunk of a year. It was a year full of being rewarded for years of hard work, and of learning to let go despite my best efforts to control outcomes.

My birthday afternoon, and the forecast for 38 looks just fine by me.

And now: what's new and what's ahead? Well, there's one small clue in my birthday present from my beloved husband: an original composition entitled "Here We Go".

Another clue is that I've spent most of the summer on our couch, and that now I'm finally feeling well enough to get excited about the fact that I'm 17 weeks pregnant! It's only just sinking in that this is for real, and that there will be a project deliverable at the end of this process, on or about Feb. 5. There's much, much more to say; but for today, let's leave it at next year's birthday reflection: 38 -- that was a very good year!