Motherhood is messy

black and white splattersIt is 11 a.m. and I am laying on the floor of my newborn’s room, covered in a cold sweat. My teeth chatter as I wrap my oversized bathrobe tight around my body and watch my baby play. He is well but I am not. I am overtired and running a fever and the only thing keeping me awake in this particular moment is adrenaline. My lips move but my voice fails me as I let out a silent one-word prayer: “Help.”

That morning, on the floor of my son’s room, I experience my first panic attack. I am so sick I can barely care for myself and I am scared sick that I don’t  have the stamina to continue caring for my three-month-old son. To top it off my husband is out of town for a week-long work trip and it is only Wednesday.

Sick. Scared. Alone.

This is not how I pictured my first week of solo-parenting to go.

I am in the middle of my maternity leave but my husband is back at work and on the road. He is a consultant, so travel is a regular part of the gig. After Jack was born we’d spent six stressful/blissful weeks together learning how to care for an infant. Now I’m on my own and feeling terrible and I am terrified. I fight back tears as I call my husband and he immediately insists I call my mother and ask for help.

“Mom,” I croak when she answers the phone, “I need you right now. I’m sick and can’t take care of Jack. Can you come help me?”

“Of course,” she says, “I’ll come as soon as I can tonight.”

A fresh crop of tears spill from my eyes as I hang up the phone. My mom is coming to help. I am relieved. I just have to hang on until she can finish up at work and make the drive from Chicago suburbs to the city proper where we live.

Jack’s starting to get hungry so I pick him up and take him to the rocking chair. My head pounds as I hold him in my arms and feed him. His 11-pound body feels surprisingly heavy in my arms but I will myself to stay awake. In my head, I count the hours until my mother will arrive. Then I try to channel positive thoughts: I am strong. I can do hard things. I can do this.


There is something about motherhood that is incredibly physical, but we often fail to acknowledge it after our babies are born. Labor is taxing, yes, but long after children leave the safety of the womb, we continue to mother them with our bodies: our breasts a source of nourishment, arms a sanctuary place, sheer physical presence a comfort.

So what happens when mom gets sick? On this day when I feel like the walking dead, I draw a deep strength from within me and become a warrior. I get up, and I keep moving. I have to do this for my son.

Every day we sleep-deprived, exhausted mothers summon the power inside to persist, to endure hard things we’d never faced before we had children. We do it for them. We become stronger for our children.

Hours pass. When the doorbell finally rings, I rush to let my mom inside, holding Jack in my arms. When I open it I see my mom, arms full of a handful of bags and smiling at us and immediately I feel self conscious. My hair is dirty, my bathrobe sticky with sweat and I can’t remember if I’ve brushed my teeth. I am a mess, the house is a mess.

“Mom, you’re here!” I almost shout as I hand her the baby and take the bags she’s set gingerly on the ground. She’s brought Lipton soup and throat lozenges and ginger ale–all the things that she used to give me when I was sick as a child–and my heart just melts.

“I am so sorry but I just need to lie down right now…” I say, trailing off. “Are you OK watching Jack for a bit?”

“Of course.”

I retreat back to my room and flop down on the bed. My mom is here and I am safe and loved and so is Jack.

She rocks the baby, cleans the dishes and folds the laundry–she helps clean up my mess. She mothers me and my infant child.

I now understand what people meant when they told me becoming a parent is a lifetime commitment, because now that I’m a mom, I need my mom more than ever before and I’m so grateful to her for the ways she’s kept showing up in my life and mothering me, long after I left the nest.

Before becoming a mother, I had this idealized version of motherhood stuck in my head. I loved following The Bump’s instagram account and looking at perfectly stylized family portraits paired with witty captions. Motherhood seemed so fun and easy! And, certainly it is fun, especially seeing baby develop over time. Easy? Not so much.

What I’ve come to realize is that most days motherhood doesn’t look anything like the photos The Bump highlights.

Most days, motherhood is MESSY. And motherhood is about showing up amid the mess.

Motherhood on the internet is so often a performance, it’s putting our best foot forward for our friends and family and other strangers online. The images we love to share so often capture our parenting highs but don’t show the lows, the sick days, tears, tantrums or tremendous mounds of laundry and dishes waiting to be cleaned in the background.

Let me repeat: Motherhood is messy. In fact, as a default it’s messy and hard and infuriating at times, so why is everyone on the Internet so hellbent on making it seem otherwise?

Yes, motherhood is fun and rewarding and joyful, but it’s also: milk-stained shirts and dirty diapers and dishes piled up in the sink and three-day-old-hair and dark circles under your eyes and sometimes getting bailed out by your mom when you’re sick so you can just get some rest.

I have a request for all the mothers out there: Can we start talking more about this? About the messy stuff that happens in between our pretty family portraits? Can we honor mothers with more than words of gratitude in a card or Facebook post but with a heartfelt word of thanks for your incredible service, too?

Let’s stop pretending! Let’s embrace the joy and the beauty and the mess that comes with motherhood.

Maybe if we start talking more about how hard women work in the home, maybe our politicians will start working for women instead of against us (see: the war on women’s bodies, on women in the workplace, etc.).

Better yet, let’s just start electing more moms into office. Why? Because they understand what it takes to raise good citizens, they are experts at dealing with messes and also–they’re strong as hell.


Back on my mat

IMG_0024The studio is quiet, hot and dimly lit. Walking on tiptoes, I locate what seems to be one of the last open plots of space and unfurl my teal-colored mat to claim it. The flip of the mat hitting the ground feels weighty, and loud. I look around but no one else has noticed. I take a seat.

This my first *hot* yoga class since I became pregnant. I am six-weeks postpartum and my body still aches from labor and lack of sleep.

At home, my husband is watching our newborn son. I am here, at this class, for some much-needed me-time.

At least my body is here. My mind seems to be elsewhere.

A thousand different thoughts crowd my mind: I worry I will not make it through the heated class. I worry about how my postpartum body looks in the studio mirror, new curves and extra padding. I worry about what my son is doing right now. Is he sleeping? Is he eating? Is he OK?

I am anxious and impatient for class to begin, and, just when I feel I can’t wait any longer, the teacher comes in and instructs us to begin to “settle into your space.”

Settling in is the last thing I want to do right now. I want to shut off my mind and move. I am in the middle of a major life upheaval and I’m still figuring out how to cope.

Looking back, my life before baby seemed so calm, so simple. Weeks were punctuated by work, workouts, nights out with friends.

Now life’s a whirlwind of feedings, playtime, napping, diaper changes; it’s enduring sleepless nights and thankless chores; it’s . . . complicated.

And it’s also incredible. As a new parent, every moment of the day is amplified by my little one’s existence. The pure joy and love I have for my son is bigger than anything I’ve ever felt before.

Class is starting now and I try to focus in on my breath, on the gentle instructions our teacher provides. We begin to flow from tadasana (mountain pose) to uttanasana (forward fold) to ardha uttanasana (halfway lift), and I feel a sense of release as I move through these familiar motions.

My heartbeat pounds, my limbs lengthen, the chatter in my mind goes mute. I’m keyed into the sequence now, and my muscle memory takes over as I swoop from urdhva mukha svanasana (upward facing dog) to adho mukha svanasana (downward facing dog).

As we progress, poses that once felt easy are hard. I push through, acutely aware of each sweaty minute.

I struggle as I strive to maintain composure during a particularly difficult sequence. My teacher offers modifications and I take them all with confidence. There was a time when this sequence would have been easy for me, but now it is not. I surrender to what my body needs today, resisting the urge to work too hard too soon.

When the instructor finally invites us to enter savasana (corpse pose) I collapse on my mat with a smile, knowing at least I’ve nailed this last pose of renewal and relaxation.

My body feels heavy, glued to the ground. I am tired AND energized AND already ready to come back again.

In the six weeks that I was recovering from giving birth, I missed the simplicity of my mat and the comfort of this routine. At a time when it seems as if everything has changed—my strength (or lack thereof), my family, my body, my mind—yoga is one constant.

As I relax in the darkness, I think about why yoga is called a “practice,” an act you master with time. It is not a performance, but a sharpening of the mind and body, a discipline that requires mental resilience and acute body awareness.

After years of practicing yoga I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a novice. Having a baby, taking a break from my mat, reminded me.

Life—like yoga—has a way of ebbing and flowing. In this season of life, I am novice parent, trying to make sense of the new complexity raising a child brings, I’m again a novice yogi, rediscovering my strength on my mat.

Coping with a BIG life transition—whether it’s a breakup, parenthood, a new job or moving—is never easy. When we make time to embrace old routines, however, they lift the burden of foreign and for a moment, ground us in the familiar.

Just sixty minutes ago, my life felt so off balance. Now I felt grounded.

We sit up and begin to seal our practice with a community breathing exercise. “Inhale to the count of three . . . now exhale deeply,” the instructor says.

I breathe in deep, I breathe out a sigh of relief.

Why I’m being a little more selfish these days 

Screen Shot 2017-03-23 at 3.09.08 PMIt had been five weeks since our son was born, and I had a hair appointment with my favorite stylist coming up. I’d made it last December thinking this would be a good way to get myself out of the house. Glancing at the calendar that week, I remember thinking that it seemed rather ambitious to leave for a three-hour stretch so early, but I kept the appointment, probably because rescheduling it seemed too complicated and my hours of free time kept slipping away anyway.

Suddenly it was the morning of my appointment and I was rushing around the house like a madwoman looking for my jeans (not leggings, my maternity leave uniform), my keys and my (non-diaper) bag. I had pumped the night before and had a bottle ready, I had requested an Uber, I was ready too. Or so I thought.

Yes, I kept the appointment, likely because I needed to prove something to myself–that I could “escape” the nest and things wouldn’t spontaneously combust and that my husband would be fine and the dog would be fine and my little one wouldn’t starve.

By the time I sat down in my stylist’s chair, eager for some me time and a freshened up look, tears started welling in the corners of my eyes. I tried to keep it together but my heart felt so heavy. I missed my boy.

What I was struggling with that morning and what I continue to struggle with now as a new mama is the tension in keeping up with caring for my newborn and household and caring for myself. I felt a little guilty sitting in my hairdresser’s chair–especially when fielding texts from my husband who was on a maiden voyage bottle-feeding our child–but by the time my appointment ended I felt calm, and a little giddy.

I had carved out my first tiny chunk of me time, and it was working its magic on my weary body and soul. I came home so excited to be with Jack, after days feeling overworked and overtired. As any new parent knows, the physical and psychological challenges of looking after a baby are weighty. Parenthood is a privilege–and a joyful one–but it is incredibly stressful.

What motherhood requires 

Motherhood, in particular, requires a giving up of self unlike any other I have encountered in life. It starts with pregnancy, when a tiny human grows in your body over the course of several months. As your belly grows to make room for your growing child, you begin to alter your life to make room for your growing child. We moved out of the city, bought a house, cut back our commitments. A happy and also uncomfortable time, pregnancy is a practice of making room for new life.

This “making room” continues in delivery. Giving birth is a momentous, miraculous experience full of pain, wonder and joy. Your body is under an intense amount of stress–stress that will leave your body forever changed. The moment you first hold your baby in your arms, the aches in your body seem to ache less, and your heart begins to ache more because the love you have for your baby is bigger and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. But the aches are still there, lingering in the background, reminding you of the powerful thing your body just did.

As your body tries to heal, you’re now on deck all day, all night to meet the needs of a tiny, helpless child. You’d read articles and heard advice from friends on “the importance of self-care” and though you swore that you’d be different, you surrender completely to selflessness that mothering requires.

You’re still you, and yet… your baby will always always always be a part of you. He has stolen your heart forever.

In defense of selfishness 

Most of the time I feel as though I could spend an endless amount of time with my son. Time with Jack brings me so much energy and joy. And yet … there are moments when I am downright exhausted by the constant demands on my time and the lack of control I have over my day given I am breastfeeding on demand, whenever baby shows signs of hunger. I feed him 8 to 12 times a day and sometimes it feels as though we are perpetually bonded–leaving me very small pockets of free time to take care of household tasks and my basic needs (eating, showering, sleep). I call these my “windows of opportunity.”

These pockets of time are few and far between and often cause me to make hard choices between keeping our home afloat and doing something for me. Doing something above and beyond meeting my basic needs, like a hair appointment, pedicure, going out to lunch, yoga class or writing? That’s even more rare.

Any time I have an opportunity to escape the house I feel a little bit lighter and a little more grounded. I will admit that I also have a bit of anxiety being away from my son, but for the most part taking time for me makes it feel like I’m getting the equivalent of a long lunch break in the midst of a hard day. I return energized and eager to care for my son–my attitude is better, my itch to “accomplish” has been scratched, I am more loving and feel sane.

For anyone who may think maternity leave is a “break” from work, I hate to break it to you– it’s not. It’s actually trading one job for another that is *probably* more demanding and stressful than your first AND you’re on call all day and night! Now, don’t get me wrong, this work is incredibly rewarding, and I certainly signed up for this gig willingly,  but raising a child is indeed werk, werk, werk, werk, werk.

With parental leave policies in America being incredibly gendered, and quite frankly, behind the times (Dads and other partners NEED more time off), the majority of care-taking work can easily fall solely on the shoulders of a child’s birth mother. I am lucky that my husband works for himself and is more available to support us than he might otherwise be if he had a corporate gig. Yet even with a present, supportive spouse, I still feel the pressures motherhood demands.

Recently I had a string of several tough parenting days. I was hit by a cluster-feeding that I couldn’t get ahead of the night my husband left for a weekend trip. I barely slept that evening–and neither did Jack. My mom was coming to visit the next afternoon and by the time she walked in the door I felt I’d reached my breaking point. Exhausted, I handed off the baby to her and headed to bed.

Even though I was dead tired, I couldn’t sleep. I was irritable and feeling jealous of my husband who was elsewhere, enjoying time with college friends. Then I started feeling down about myself–I thought perhaps I just didn’t have what it took to be a good mama. Why couldn’t I handle this? I should be stronger! I shouldn’t complain! I got in a cycle of negative self talk that could be described as “parental imposter syndrome.”

Then I finally fell asleep.

A couple hours later I woke up, rejuvenated and refreshed, and I realized  in order to be a good mama, I needed to do something that I often didn’t like to do–I needed to be a bit selfish. I needed to ask for help so I could take time to recharge. Thankfully I had the foresight to invite my mom over and she was a huge help to me that weekend. With her presence, parenting on my own did not feel like a burden but a blessing. Thank God for doting grandmas.

How I’m prioritizing self-care now

It started with a paradigm shift. In an effort to my maximize my time management, I wrote and rewrote my priority list the other day.

First draft looked like this:

  1. Family
  2. Household upkeep
  3. Self-care

The I switched the order:

  1. Self-care
  2. Family
  3. Household upkeep

When life/parenting gets out of control, when my my attitude is bad, that’s a  warning sign that I’ve not prioritized self-care. I know I can’t be the best, most loving mama if I put that last. It’s like the old example airline attendants use–I can’t help others unless I put on my oxygen mask first.

In this case, the oxygen is doing something just for me, something that could be considered selfish.

These days I’m keeping it simple and I try and make a point to do one thing a day that is for me. Not just basic care–showering, eating and sleeping–that I make sure to fit in! It has to be something special.

It could be a trip to Target, yoga class, a phone date with a friend or an extra long snuggle session with my dog. I keep my expectations low, and I am flexible with what works for me in the moment and what will give me the most satisfaction. Today’s treat? Finally (!) finishing this blog post.

I know I’m in a pretty intense season of life and I’ve been really itching to share more with you on this blog, but it is hard to make time to write when there is so much else to do. I am trying to remind myself that this season will pass and my son will one day sleep through the night, but until that time comes, I’m taking things one day at a time and doing a little bit here and there while trying to soak up as much as I can from this special time with my boy.

Some days I’m ready for time to speed up, but most days? Most days I’m content to snuggle my son in my arms for hours on end.

Friends, did you have to give up any hobbies when you first had a major life change–had kids? New job? New home?  How did/do you make time for self-care?

Snuggles, spit ups and what’s surprised me most about motherhood

I’ve been trying to write this post for weeks. This probably sums up parenthood or at least life with a newborn pretty accurately. You have good intentions: you make plans, get excited about said plans, and then? Baby has other plans. Your plans go out the window.

Fixin’ to eat dinner at 6? Think again. Dinner’s at 9 and it’s cold stir-fry eaten standing up in the kitchen, staring off into space with a side of cheez-its because you forgot to eat lunch today (again) and you’re still hungry.

Want to go for a family walk with your dog and try out your new stroller? Once you’ve set everyone and everything up, baby will have an epic spit up and you’ll be back in house cleaning baby and the stroller and before you know it, it’s dark out and the opportunity to walk has passed.

Other parents I knew warned me through sly smiles that I, the perpetual planner, was about to get a reality check once baby showed up. In fact, I’m about to get interrupted by my crying little buddy so hold that thought.

::: Feeds, changes and snuggles baby :::

OK, I’m back.

Life lately is a pattern of feed, change, play and snuggle baby to sleep on repeat, then squeezing in chores and emails and texts and showers and eating (and mindlessly checking Instagram—note to self: cut back on that) while Jack naps, which can be anywhere from 20 minutes to three hours long. All the while, time passes. Hours melt into days and days into weeks and suddenly it’s been a month and my baby boy has grown and changed before my eyes.

Tiny Jack who used to fit into newborn onesies and sleep all.the.time is now wearing three month onesies (at one month old?!) and is awake and lucid for much longer stretches. I can’t wait until he gives us his first social smile, until he crawls for the first time, until says his first words and yet I want time to sloooow down because sooner or later I’ll have to go back to work. Honestly, I’m dreading it.

Maternity leave has been such a gift, and I’m savoring every moment I can, grateful to bond with my son mornings and afternoons when I’d typically be at the office. There is nothing quite like holding Jack tight and breathing in his baby smell while rocking him to sleep in his room. It feels like a tiny bit of heaven on earth.

To my parent friends: You were right, of course. My best laid plans are often undone by my son’s “plans.” I did get my reality check but I’m surprisingly OK with it. Motherhood has helped soften my rigid desire for order and allowed me to embrace chaos. The chaos didn’t surprise me—because you warned me about it—but there were plenty of other things that did surprise me about parenting a newborn, perhaps the biggest being the incredible range of emotions I’ve felt since giving birth to Jack.

A pastor friend of mine once told me that once you have children all your highs are higher and your lows are lower. Hey Pastor Hardy—you were right. I get it now. Not only am I more emotional due to hormones, but the fierce, mama bear love I have for my son is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Also I get frustrated a lot more than I once did, sometimes for no particular reason, just EVERYTHING because being a parent is so damn hard.

I get sad too, really sad. Sometimes I cry for no particular reason, or when I remember Jack’s birthday, which was terrifying and traumatic and nothing short of an act of God.

The first night Jack slept at home, actually the first few nights, I “slept” next to his crib, on the floor, waking up every few minutes to check if he was still breathing. I think I finally wore myself out enough to fall asleep only to be woken up by his hunger cries. I was so exhausted but so relieved he was alive I ran on adrenaline those first few days. My heart was so full of gratitude that my baby boy was safe at home with us.

Jen Hatmaker has a lovely blog about parenting, “I wish someone would have warned me about these BIG FEELINGS,” that I read hungrily and eagerly at the start of motherhood journey thanks to a tip from a fellow mama.

In it Jen writes, “I wish I would have known how new babies make all feelings MORE (and this from a girl who was already fairly high on melodrama): more thrill, more love, more anguish, more adoration, more fear, more gratitude, more doubt, more crazy. … A newborn takes your heart and mind, squishes them into pulp in her fat little baby hands, and turns you into a woman face down in despair over a Subaru commercial.”

Me too, sister. Me too. Those BIG FEELINGS? Yes, that’s exactly what surprised me the most about becoming a mother.

There have been, of course, other parenting surprises, both delightful and distressing, along the way.


  • Baby cues are super hard to read, it turns out
  • Learning to breastfeed correctly nearly drove me insane
  • Trying to get anything done—laundry, eating food, showering—is near impossible with a newborn, and even when you get said task done you’re too exhausted to really appreciate it
  • I often wonder how anyone even takes care of a baby and works at the same time and it gives me major anxiety
  • I wonder if I’ll ever lose the baby weight and this new little pooch around my waist and if I’ll ever be able to do crow pose or attempt a handstand again and it gives me major anxiety
  • I wonder if my child will grow up safely and think of all the possible ways he could die and desperately wish I could stop worrying because that’s what my mom used to do (Mom, I get it now!) and that also gives me major anxiety.


  • Parenting baby is fun! I GET to sing and read books every day (two of my favorite hobbies)
  • Baby coos, baby expressions, baby snuggles = the best
  • Baby is the most adorable creature in the world and I could look at him all day
  • Also, other people(!) want(!) to visit baby and see pictures of baby on the Internet
  • My adorable dog gets along with my adorable baby, thank God
  • My son is a good sleeper… for now
  • I’m falling in love with my husband over and over again as I watch him parent our son.

But *the most* delightful surprise about motherhood, for sure, is how much love is in my heart, in my home, right now. Being a mother is the most challenging thing I’ve ever done, and it’s also the most rewarding. I’m incredibly grateful for the privilege.

Fellow parents/caretakers out there: What surprised you most about parenthood when you first brought baby home? I’d love to hear about your experiences!

Jack’s birth story

image000000Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid–these were the love stories I learned as a child, thanks to Disney and my mom, who brought me to the movies. When I think about love idealized on the big screen, at least, according to Disney, it seems so shallow in comparison to the big love my mom has for me, the big love I have for my new son.

I believe that a birth story is one of the most powerful love stories we have to tell. 

Becoming a parent is a pivotal moment in one’s life story: your child is born and suddenly you are responsible for protecting and caring for this tiny human being, keeping it alive and well day in and day out. This is equal parts frightening and beautiful and transformative and humbling because the love we have for our children—deep, fierce, unconditional love—brings us face to face with the fragility of our human existence.

My son’s birthday was quite possibly the most terrifying day of my life. Because of this, I found it hard to celebrate, hard to write this story for a while.

I was blessed with an incredibly “normal,” complication-free pregnancy, though getting pregnant was a challenge for us. In more ways than one my son is, as all children are, a miracle.

When I first discovered I was expecting, it was 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. I was standing in our apartment bathroom with a positive pregnancy test in hand, wobbly with disbelief. I looked in the mirror at myself. Was this REALLY it? Was I becoming a mother?

I was. A few days, a few tests and a doctor’s appointment later, my husband and I were sure we were expecting, and we held this quiet joy in our hearts as we waited until it was safe to announce more broadly baby’s impending arrival.

Flash forward to January 29, two days before our baby’s due date. It was 8 a.m. and my husband and I were supposed to be getting ready for church. I’d been unable to sleep the night before so I’d stayed up late reading a book. I’d planned on hitting the snooze button on my alarm at least a dozen times.

Then a wave of pain hit me, a cramp-like tightening in my belly I’d never felt before. (I’d been having Braxton Hicks contractions throughout my pregnancy and kept asking my doctors how I’d distinguish them from the real deal. “Oh, you’ll know,” was their refrain, which was not comforting at the time.)

“Babe–I think this is IT!” I shouted to my husband, confident the acute pain that struck was indeed a real contraction.

We were definitely skipping church that day.

I spent the rest of the day in bed with the dog, letting slow and steady contractions wash over me like waves. By the time they were close enough together to call the doctor it was 3 a.m. on Monday.

By 4 a.m. my husband and I were in the car, him–speeding towards the hospital, me–drafting a text to send to a friend who’d agreed to help with our dog. I was low on sleep but amped up on adrenaline, giddy as a youngster on Christmas morning. I couldn’t wait to meet our son.

Once at the hospital, we checked in and were led to our birthing room. After morning broke, we texted family to update them on our status. My contractions continued to grow in strength and number and my husband held my hand and comforted me as I breathed through the pain (hat tip to my colleague who loaned us The Birth Partner).

Hours passed and the pain reached its peak–it was time for an epidural, the prospect of which terrified me. I took the shot shaking and in tears, relieved and grateful as the medicine kicked in. After the shot, there was still some time to wait until labor. My husband and I napped on and off throughout the afternoon and held hands thinking about what the future would be like with our new son.

At 4 p.m. it was time: working with the nurse and my husband, I began to push. At the top of a contraction, I’d take a deep breath, then hold it and push to the count of “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10,” repeating that twice. Though my pain was dulled from the drugs, labor was still incredibly challenging, physically, emotionally and mentally. Because I was recovering from a cold, holding my breath was a challenge and I often couldn’t make it the full ten seconds without coughing. I knew baby wasn’t making much progress, and I was worried.

Time passed. My doctors came in and out to monitor the labor.

The med student Dan came in and then ran right back out, likely scared off by my incredulous rage when he introduced himself while I was in the middle of a contraction–I mean, the nerve! He later came back to help.

As we passed the two-hour point my pain increased. The epidural was wearing off, and I was beginning to overheat. Baby’s status hadn’t changed much, but my care team kept encouraging me to push.

I hadn’t realized until I began to labor that I’d always expected I’d deliver vaginally. As the prospect of that, with time, began to slip away, I became more and more frustrated. Tears clouded my eyes as I pushed with all my might, desperate to make my dream a reality.

At three hours my doctor called it–I would have an emergency C-section. Delirious from a fever and from sheer exhaustion, I cried even harder at the thought of surgery. I was scared of surgery, disappointed in myself and worried I’d be separated from my baby boy too long after surgery after hearing what had happened with my sister-in-law (after her scheduled C-section, she’d been separated from her baby girl for two days).

The nurses whisked me away to the operating room while my husband put on scrubs before joining us. Tears welled from my eyes. I felt alone and afraid.

Despite my worries, my surgery was efficient and painless. Laying on the OR table, I listened as they extracted my son from my body, waiting for the joyful sounds of his cries.

I heard nothing.

My heart began to race.

A flurry of activity followed.

“My baby, my baby, is he OK?” I cried out, grasping my husband’s hand. I could hear the medical team as they began to perform infant CPR and my heart sank.

“Oh God, Oh God, is he going to be OK?” I sobbed, gasping for air. My husband comforted me, “Everything is going to be OK, babe. He’s in good hands.”

The medical team continued to work. I continued to cry. I was inconsolable. I had never considered this bleak possibility that my son wouldn’t live past his birthday.

Terrified and panic-stricken, I imagined coming home to an empty nursery.

It was almost too much to bear.

Then, hope: the sound of baby boy’s cry, the collective sigh of the medical team, kissing my son’s forehead. My baby was alive.

Our son was born at 8:05 p.m. on January 30, 2017, weighing 7 lbs, 3 oz at 21 1/2 inches.

My husband went with him to the NICU, where our son continued to receive medical care. I was wheeled away to a new hospital room, separated from both of them.

I didn’t even have a chance to take in what my son looked like. It didn’t matter. I’d known and loved him since he grew in my belly, nearly forty weeks ago. I prayed he would live past that moment when I kissed his forehead.

I didn’t get to see my son that night. My mother and dear friend came to comfort me while I waited in my room feeling anxious and afraid and praying my son would make it through his first hours of life. A couple hours later my husband came back to meet me with an optimistic report from the doctor and glorious pictures of our beautiful baby boy.

We named him Jack.

Thankfully, I was cleared to meet my son early the next morning, on January 31. It was 6:30 a.m., and I roused my sleepy husband and asked him to wheel me down to the NICU, my IV and catheter in tow.

Meeting Jack in person for the first time was . . . wonderful beyond words. In that moment, my heart swelled with a deep, fierce love I didn’t know was possible. 

We later learned that Jack had mucus in his lungs at birth that blocked his breathing, though the doctors were not sure of the cause. Jack spent his first night in the NICU hooked up to a CPAP machine, and eventually he grew strong enough to breathe without it. He was released from the NICU on Wednesday afternoon, and we were in the hospital a total of four nights and five days.

It took a long time for me to be ready to celebrate Jack’s birth. It was a traumatic experience that left me feeling, well, broken.

I’m so grateful God answered our prayers, that our son is alive and well today, that our love story will continue to unfold as Jack grows, day by day.

Thanks for sharing in our story.

What I hope to teach my son

In my third trimester of pregnancy, I’ve struggled to sleep through the night. I know this is par for the course, but the experience has been absolutely maddening and exhausting. The silver lining in all of this? 3 a.m. is a really great time to write and tackle random projects and catch up on reading. Still, third trimester insomnia is just the WORST. Interestingly enough, this past Tuesday night was the deepest I’d slept since the night of Nov. 8, when the results of the presidential election became clear. And ever since Nov. 8, I’ve been feeling a deep, gut-wrenching sense of despair about our country’s future, especially as an expectant parent.

credit: Will Nunnally

Maybe you’ve felt it too, or maybe you reacted in the opposite way. Maybe for the first time in a long time, you finally felt hopeful for the U.S. You are ready to chart a new course with a new president at the helm. Regardless of where we all fall on the political spectrum I’d like to think that what unites us, as our outgoing president put it, is our shared sense of decency.

I’d forgotten about this, too distracted by sharp political divides, distrust of the media and bizarre tweets from the president-elect (can we all agree that this is not good?). I’d lost sight of the audacious idea that makes our democracy work: that “for all our outward differences, we’re all in this together, that we rise or fall as one.” We may not agree on policy or process, but perhaps we can agree on shared values, like education, healthcare, family and work? My heart longs for this to be true.

Tuesday night came and President Barack Obama’s remarks inspired me and restored my belief that ordinary U.S. citizens like you and me can be a force for good in this country, in this world, after weeks of feeling otherwise. He convinced me of that, and for the first time in a long time, my anxious, pregnant mind–and body–felt release. So I slept.

For a while I’ve been asking myself: How can I be a force for good, when on the precipice of this new, all-consuming stage of life?

Then the (obvious?) answer then came to me. I can be a parent. Parenting is a political act. What my husband and I teach our son will matter.

We’d discussed this over Thai food last weekend, compiling a list of values we hoped we’d teach him. As the conversation progressed, our list grew to a size that was daunting, much like the responsibility of raising a child.

“Had we forgotten anything? Were we up to the challenge? Would these ideas even stick?” I worried. Surely there would always be something more to add or amend, but this conversation was a good starting point for us. What follows are a couple highlights from our talk.

When I think about the future, what I hope to teach my son is this: that now, more than ever, truth-telling matters. Honesty is the first value my husband mentioned during our dinnertime discussion, and it’s an important one to focus on as we navigate an era when the truth seems illusive, reason and science are questioned and politicians deny the unflattering things we’ve seen them say and do in order to save face.

Telling the truth isn’t always easy; often it requires great courage. But lying doesn’t just wrong others, it also eats away at our souls. Embracing honesty sets us free from the invisible walls we build up around ourselves and allows us to authentically connect with others. 

Another value we spoke about was equality. It’s a value outlined in the constitution and the creation story, something that seems so simple in theory yet in practice is radical and countercultural. It is the thrust behind feminism, #blacklivesmatter, LGBTQ rights–human rights–and so on.

I hope to teach my son that every person deserves to be treated equally and with dignity, no matter her/his skin color, religion, gender, class, physical or mental abilities, sexual orientation or any other category s/he might fall into. 

In his farewell speech, Obama spoke pointedly and poignantly about race, and all the other differences that divide us. He quoted Harper Lee’s Atticus Finch, saying, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

I know my son will be born with certain privileges, and I will work fiercely to teach him to empathize with others different than he and to be concerned with human rights.

There’s so much more I want to teach my son. I hope to teach him the value of listening, sharing, hard work and play.

I’ll teach him that this world is full of wonder, beauty, hope and joy–also sadness, ugliness, corruption and hate.

I hope to instill in my son a zest for curiosity and creativity and movement and stillness.

I hope to teach him the importance of relationships and friendships and family and community. 

I hope to teach him how to identify his emotions–happiness, sadness, envy, anger–and feel them without judgment.

I hope to teach him about kindness and selflessness and unconditional love, the breathtaking, powerful kind of love we don’t earn or deserve, we just receive.

I hope to teach him about my deep faith, the cornerstone of my values. 

And more.

When I started writing this post, I was feeling hopeful. And as the week progressed, I felt sad again, and then all the emotions: afraid/nervous/excited/unhinged. I am, once again, restless with anticipation for the birth of my son.

I’m currently praying hard to tap back into that hope I felt Tuesday night. If I can teach my future son a fraction of all I desire to share with him, perhaps I–he–we can be a force for good in this world.