Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she started talking. It would be totally unreal, like reading a book where the main character suddenly reveals he’s a werewolf and you’re like, oh yeah, this is science fiction. I can’t really even imagine what her voice would sound like. I look at the older kids who go around babbling and have a hard time believing she is of the same species. Clearly they are mutants, I tell her. Don't worry if you're not like them.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rod straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Journal Excerpt
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she started talking. It would be totally unreal, like reading a book where the main character suddenly reveals he’s a werewolf and you’re like, oh yeah, this is science fiction. I can’t really even imagine what her voice would sound like. I look at the older kids who go around babbling and have a hard time believing she is of the same species.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rid straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rid straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Journal Excerpt
I could probably be certifiably psychotic based on all the horrible tragedies I worry about befalling her. D once admitted he got worried about her waking up from sleep. I was like, naw, that doesn’t bother me. I’m too preoccupied hoping she doesn’t get bit in the face by a dog, lose a hand, develop autism or Asperger’s, tumble down the stairs. It’s really quite macabre. I never knew I was capable of such fanstastical fears until now. Whereas I used to watch sad romantic movies and cry, now I watch sad movies about children and cry.
Someone once said, “my mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to walk into alone.” Someone also said, “having a child is like having your heart walk around outside of you.” It’s a bad combination.
I think the cats think she belongs to them. They are always hovering. In every picture or video of her, there are these black-and-white furry forms gliding silently in the back. When she sits in her baby chair, Winnie curls up at her feet. When she’s flailing her arms about, Chloe maneuvers herself so she’s inadvertently petted. They don’t seem to be bothered by her random banshee squeals, or by the fistfuls of hair she pulls from their hides. I figure this lasts until she starts running around pulling on their tails.
Sometimes she reminds me of a very old woman. Particularly when her head flops forward and the lumpy back of her neck is exposed.
Someone once said, “my mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to walk into alone.” Someone also said, “having a child is like having your heart walk around outside of you.” It’s a bad combination.
I think the cats think she belongs to them. They are always hovering. In every picture or video of her, there are these black-and-white furry forms gliding silently in the back. When she sits in her baby chair, Winnie curls up at her feet. When she’s flailing her arms about, Chloe maneuvers herself so she’s inadvertently petted. They don’t seem to be bothered by her random banshee squeals, or by the fistfuls of hair she pulls from their hides. I figure this lasts until she starts running around pulling on their tails.
Sometimes she reminds me of a very old woman. Particularly when her head flops forward and the lumpy back of her neck is exposed.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thankfulness
I have discovered how it happens that second children get born. Right around now, babies get so adorable that you forget all the earlier, harder times and suddenly want to have more.
I think I may objectively say that right now E is about the cutest she’s ever been in her life. She’s just the right amount of chubby: not enough to be overly plump but enough to have plenty of softness to kiss. Her cheeks remind me of silken tofu. Her limbs are just active enough to be interesting, but not so out of control as to be bothersome. She can sit up in a baby chair on her own, but not crawl everywhere yet. She’s wonderfully expressive and responsive, grinning and squealing when she sees us, laughing out loud when we tickle her. When D comes home, she beams and beams, smiling and squealing, clasping her hands to her mouth and punching out her belly.
The things that made life harder when she was younger are mostly a thing of the past: she goes to sleep quietly, takes a pacifier but isn’t addicted to it, is quiet when we go out and even when exhausted rarely makes a fuss. I can’t even believe I just wrote that.
Best of all, she is happier at daycare, now the sick season is over and perhaps now she’s older. She sits in the book box flipping through books, plays in paint, eats her food, occasionally even throws in a longer nap. And I get the sense folks there adore her, are getting used to how she communicates, which eases my mind. I spend pretty much every other available waking moment with her, sometimes even toting her to grand rounds so we can hang out longer. Perhaps it’s our time apart that makes those together more poignant. I feel able to truly be present with her when I can be.
I am deeply grateful for these things, in the way one is grateful for sun after a long rain, or the first robin of spring. I realize these things aren’t necessary for my happiness or a result of anything I did, but in it I sense God’s grace to us, and I am grateful.
I think I may objectively say that right now E is about the cutest she’s ever been in her life. She’s just the right amount of chubby: not enough to be overly plump but enough to have plenty of softness to kiss. Her cheeks remind me of silken tofu. Her limbs are just active enough to be interesting, but not so out of control as to be bothersome. She can sit up in a baby chair on her own, but not crawl everywhere yet. She’s wonderfully expressive and responsive, grinning and squealing when she sees us, laughing out loud when we tickle her. When D comes home, she beams and beams, smiling and squealing, clasping her hands to her mouth and punching out her belly.
The things that made life harder when she was younger are mostly a thing of the past: she goes to sleep quietly, takes a pacifier but isn’t addicted to it, is quiet when we go out and even when exhausted rarely makes a fuss. I can’t even believe I just wrote that.
Best of all, she is happier at daycare, now the sick season is over and perhaps now she’s older. She sits in the book box flipping through books, plays in paint, eats her food, occasionally even throws in a longer nap. And I get the sense folks there adore her, are getting used to how she communicates, which eases my mind. I spend pretty much every other available waking moment with her, sometimes even toting her to grand rounds so we can hang out longer. Perhaps it’s our time apart that makes those together more poignant. I feel able to truly be present with her when I can be.
I am deeply grateful for these things, in the way one is grateful for sun after a long rain, or the first robin of spring. I realize these things aren’t necessary for my happiness or a result of anything I did, but in it I sense God’s grace to us, and I am grateful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
In Celebration of Spring
Let's face it: bundling her up is a pain. Little baby onesies and dresses exposing chubby, soft, nibble-able arms and feets are adorable. For these reasons alone, I can't wait for spring to stay.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A Post on Poop
This is not a fact I’d care to publish—because it seems disgusting and lest I get saddled with the chore—but I enjoy changing her diapers. It’s something mundane I can do for her. There’s something satisfying in wiping her clean so she doesn’t have to wallow in her poop. She loves airing herself out afterwards, waving her chubby legs and chewing on her toes.
And there’s something relieving in seeing the poop, too. The first time she went a few days without pooping I was seized with worry—pooping means she’s healthy, is physical evidence that the combination of milks and solids we shove in her mouth go to some use. It’s gritty proof of the magic that transforms mushed bananas into longer limbs and dimpled elbows.
And to think before she was born we actually thought changing diapers would be one of the worst things about having a baby. Ha. It ranks way below Never Sleeping In Again, Loss of Spontaneous Date Nights, Getting Mastitis. It ranks somewhat below Getting Strand of Hair Pulled Out (her newest hobby), Not Getting to Read My Novel Uninterrupted.
I wonder if wiping poop for someone else’s baby would be remotely enjoyable. Probably not, in the same way it isn’t satisfying to cut someone else’s nails or pick out someone else’s boogers. Strange I like doing those things for her. Before this, poop was something in a bedpan I was glad I didn’t have to empty, a reason I avoided general surgery and rectal exams. And now, it’s something I laugh with her about. This has to be one of the most unexpected things about being a mother.
And there’s something relieving in seeing the poop, too. The first time she went a few days without pooping I was seized with worry—pooping means she’s healthy, is physical evidence that the combination of milks and solids we shove in her mouth go to some use. It’s gritty proof of the magic that transforms mushed bananas into longer limbs and dimpled elbows.
And to think before she was born we actually thought changing diapers would be one of the worst things about having a baby. Ha. It ranks way below Never Sleeping In Again, Loss of Spontaneous Date Nights, Getting Mastitis. It ranks somewhat below Getting Strand of Hair Pulled Out (her newest hobby), Not Getting to Read My Novel Uninterrupted.
I wonder if wiping poop for someone else’s baby would be remotely enjoyable. Probably not, in the same way it isn’t satisfying to cut someone else’s nails or pick out someone else’s boogers. Strange I like doing those things for her. Before this, poop was something in a bedpan I was glad I didn’t have to empty, a reason I avoided general surgery and rectal exams. And now, it’s something I laugh with her about. This has to be one of the most unexpected things about being a mother.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Journal Excerpts
She is on the verge of being able to crawl. Adorable for me, frustrating for her. I love seeing her little butt wriggling in the air, but she just seems fed up with never actually GETTING anywhere. She has worked out this ability to torque her body and thereby slowly spiral it around in widening circles. Long way to travel a short distance. I worsen the situation by keeping her toys constantly just out of reach. Early goal-directed behavior. Or just more fun for mom.
It makes me think about how I take for granted being able to get wherever I want without thinking twice. Most of my patients are elderly folks, with cataracts or macular degeneration or any number of other things, who don’t move around real easily either. Today one patient told me, “you looked beautiful walking around so quickly. I kept watching you walk past. I used to be one of those fast walkers.” She had broken her leg years ago and now hobbles places slowly on a cane. You don’t think about it until it’s gone, she said.
But there are a host of skills one develops by going through the world more slowly. E has these. She observes intensely. She notices small details, like a piece of loose thread on my sweater or the tag on her stuffed bear. She rests a lot. And when she does finally get there: unabashed squeals of glee, all around.
She is so tender. She feels like silken tofu, and sometimes I want to eat her up. I’ll have you with ketchup, I tell her, and a pickle on the side.
It makes me think about how I take for granted being able to get wherever I want without thinking twice. Most of my patients are elderly folks, with cataracts or macular degeneration or any number of other things, who don’t move around real easily either. Today one patient told me, “you looked beautiful walking around so quickly. I kept watching you walk past. I used to be one of those fast walkers.” She had broken her leg years ago and now hobbles places slowly on a cane. You don’t think about it until it’s gone, she said.
But there are a host of skills one develops by going through the world more slowly. E has these. She observes intensely. She notices small details, like a piece of loose thread on my sweater or the tag on her stuffed bear. She rests a lot. And when she does finally get there: unabashed squeals of glee, all around.
She is so tender. She feels like silken tofu, and sometimes I want to eat her up. I’ll have you with ketchup, I tell her, and a pickle on the side.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Journal Excerpt
She is getting sturdier and starting to look like a real baby. She is acquiring this expression of great shrewdness. When she sees new things she becomes gravely quiet, her eyes get big, her mouth purses tightly. No messing around here. That vacuum cleaner. Looks sneaky. Those grandparents. Not sure I’ve seen them before so better be on the careful side. Unfortunately her chubby cheeks and the bald spot on the back of her head make it hard to take her entirely seriously.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Rediscovering Work
“Absolutely. The argument for medicine extending the goodness of God in the world is far less tortured than the one for teaching and research. While sin and death are part of this side of heaven, the will of God is for life and wholeness. You may feel your work is mechanical and impersonal, but that is just you. The restoration and maintenance of sight is so important it's documented several times as miracles performed by Jesus. Defeating disease and degeneration is a manifestation of God's work and will. It's a good thing.” – friend and mother A.M.
“Since my cancer diagnosis, I have experienced more friendship from more people than at any other time in my life. I've experienced not just a quality of medical care but a kind of medical care, humane medical care delivered by humane and decent people, that seems Christ-like to me. I don't know the religious convictions of all the people who have treated me, but I certainly believe that they are used by God in ways that are really quite extraordinary to bring blessing to people who are in circumstances that lead them to hunger for blessing.” –William Stuntz, Harvard Law professor
Having a baby has forced me to confront how I think about work. For a long time, nearly as long as I can remember, work has been the defining centrality in my life. I think I started off somewhere naïve and enthusiastic, in ninth grade biology when for some reason I figured if I liked dissecting pickled frogs I should become a doctor. Very strange how I can be indecisive about what outfit to wear but never a moment questioned that ambition.
During the next eight years, that evolved into a drive to reach a goal, because it was intellectually stimulating, because it was hard to get. I arrived at the top medical school, went through a minor identity crisis when I realized I had no practical idea what medicine was like, then emerged to immerse myself in clinical training: I think because I discovered I honestly enjoyed it. I loved working with my hands—in this regard the pickled frog had pointed me in the right direction—I liked understanding the body and disease, and working with a team. Without really intending to—and perhaps the nature of medicine did not give me a choice—it became everything about who I was, what I did.
Then somehow I ended up in ophthalmology. I still look back at this with surprise. Without a doubt it was the smartest decision I made; or rather, not going into general surgery, as I nearly did, was the smartest decision. Getting married, realizing there was more to life and that required making a conscious choice, had a lot to do with it. Ophthalmology still allowed me to operate, and to specialize.
But the drive was still there. I arrived at what was then the top ophthalmology program, and the years that ensued were the most difficult ones of my training, not just because like every other doctor I basically knew nothing about the eye before I started, but because of the achievement-worshiping, sink-or-swim culture of the place. For the first time I looked around, particularly at the women, and really saw where I was heading. If having a certain reputation and prestige meant have few kids and not seeing them much, I didn’t want to go there. So I decided not to apply for a formal fellowship, and instead had a baby.
And since then any residual ambition I had has disappeared entirely. Lately I view work in one single negative: it keeps me from being with her. And that colors everything. I am also rustier than my colleagues after three months of being away, and am tempted to think I don’t have as much to offer. Sometimes it’s difficult to look back on all the years of training and not believe it a waste.
I’m trying to rediscover why I work. Because I still believe that, at least for now, I am called to work, to finish what I started sixteen years ago. My heart’s not in it the way it was before, but maybe this is good, because it allows me to refine my motives, to see what’s left when I no longer work to define or glorify myself. I have to work for a better reason, I have to make every moment count in a deeper way, because of what it costs me, and what it costs her.
And so, in oddly backwards fashion, I am now trying to find my purpose in medicine. I am asking that God redeem a lifetime of ambition and years of difficult training for his good. I am asking for motivation to study, to believe God has given me a skill set and kind of care to offer that is unique. For the first time in my life, believing this does not come naturally. But perhaps this too can be good, can lead me in a direction I would not have naturally arrived at. Because in the end, what I really want is for all of this, working and mothering, to be about more than myself, about more than whatever it is I feel I want at various stages of life. For that it would be worth going through anything.
“Since my cancer diagnosis, I have experienced more friendship from more people than at any other time in my life. I've experienced not just a quality of medical care but a kind of medical care, humane medical care delivered by humane and decent people, that seems Christ-like to me. I don't know the religious convictions of all the people who have treated me, but I certainly believe that they are used by God in ways that are really quite extraordinary to bring blessing to people who are in circumstances that lead them to hunger for blessing.” –William Stuntz, Harvard Law professor
Having a baby has forced me to confront how I think about work. For a long time, nearly as long as I can remember, work has been the defining centrality in my life. I think I started off somewhere naïve and enthusiastic, in ninth grade biology when for some reason I figured if I liked dissecting pickled frogs I should become a doctor. Very strange how I can be indecisive about what outfit to wear but never a moment questioned that ambition.
During the next eight years, that evolved into a drive to reach a goal, because it was intellectually stimulating, because it was hard to get. I arrived at the top medical school, went through a minor identity crisis when I realized I had no practical idea what medicine was like, then emerged to immerse myself in clinical training: I think because I discovered I honestly enjoyed it. I loved working with my hands—in this regard the pickled frog had pointed me in the right direction—I liked understanding the body and disease, and working with a team. Without really intending to—and perhaps the nature of medicine did not give me a choice—it became everything about who I was, what I did.
Then somehow I ended up in ophthalmology. I still look back at this with surprise. Without a doubt it was the smartest decision I made; or rather, not going into general surgery, as I nearly did, was the smartest decision. Getting married, realizing there was more to life and that required making a conscious choice, had a lot to do with it. Ophthalmology still allowed me to operate, and to specialize.
But the drive was still there. I arrived at what was then the top ophthalmology program, and the years that ensued were the most difficult ones of my training, not just because like every other doctor I basically knew nothing about the eye before I started, but because of the achievement-worshiping, sink-or-swim culture of the place. For the first time I looked around, particularly at the women, and really saw where I was heading. If having a certain reputation and prestige meant have few kids and not seeing them much, I didn’t want to go there. So I decided not to apply for a formal fellowship, and instead had a baby.
And since then any residual ambition I had has disappeared entirely. Lately I view work in one single negative: it keeps me from being with her. And that colors everything. I am also rustier than my colleagues after three months of being away, and am tempted to think I don’t have as much to offer. Sometimes it’s difficult to look back on all the years of training and not believe it a waste.
I’m trying to rediscover why I work. Because I still believe that, at least for now, I am called to work, to finish what I started sixteen years ago. My heart’s not in it the way it was before, but maybe this is good, because it allows me to refine my motives, to see what’s left when I no longer work to define or glorify myself. I have to work for a better reason, I have to make every moment count in a deeper way, because of what it costs me, and what it costs her.
And so, in oddly backwards fashion, I am now trying to find my purpose in medicine. I am asking that God redeem a lifetime of ambition and years of difficult training for his good. I am asking for motivation to study, to believe God has given me a skill set and kind of care to offer that is unique. For the first time in my life, believing this does not come naturally. But perhaps this too can be good, can lead me in a direction I would not have naturally arrived at. Because in the end, what I really want is for all of this, working and mothering, to be about more than myself, about more than whatever it is I feel I want at various stages of life. For that it would be worth going through anything.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Feeding
“You are the greatest mom I ever know to pump breast milk faithfully even in very difficult environment. You have given E the best she needs.” –my mom
There is no clearer illustration of what it means to be separated from her at work than this whole feeding thing. When I was home with her the first three months, things were how they should be: I made milk according to how much she wanted. She would latch on and eat to her heart’s content. I never had to wonder how much; I could take her anywhere and know I could feed her enough wherever we were.
Then I went back to work, and instead of feeding her at natural intervals, there are the pumps, pump parts, bottles, bottle parts, freezer bags and storage bags. I rarely had time or place to pump during that first hard rotation, and despite all I tried to make up for after it finished, I couldn’t keep my milk supply from dwindling.
And then there is packing her milk for each day. I don’t really know how much she needs, because I’m not there when she’s feeding. I’m only pumping about a sixth of what she could probably be eating each feed, which affects how much I can afford to pack. And in the end, how much and how often she eats varies depending on what the day is like for everyone at daycare.
There’s no sadder feeling than feeding her on weekends and realizing she comes away still hungry. Not being able to go out without having some solid food around. I just can’t will myself to make more milk than I do.
I realize in the big picture things will be fine. We are starting to supplement with formula, which is fine. But I think there is a part of me still grieving something. Sooner or later, this would have come—but having to go through it earlier than I would have chosen is hard to accept. It seems silly to say, but some version of the stages are there: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
It’s a lonely experience. I know hardly any mothers in the same work situation, and even then it’s difficult to express how it feels. But I’m trying to feel that it’s okay. There is nothing about doing this that is perfect, or sometimes even in my control. And that’s okay.
There is no clearer illustration of what it means to be separated from her at work than this whole feeding thing. When I was home with her the first three months, things were how they should be: I made milk according to how much she wanted. She would latch on and eat to her heart’s content. I never had to wonder how much; I could take her anywhere and know I could feed her enough wherever we were.
Then I went back to work, and instead of feeding her at natural intervals, there are the pumps, pump parts, bottles, bottle parts, freezer bags and storage bags. I rarely had time or place to pump during that first hard rotation, and despite all I tried to make up for after it finished, I couldn’t keep my milk supply from dwindling.
And then there is packing her milk for each day. I don’t really know how much she needs, because I’m not there when she’s feeding. I’m only pumping about a sixth of what she could probably be eating each feed, which affects how much I can afford to pack. And in the end, how much and how often she eats varies depending on what the day is like for everyone at daycare.
There’s no sadder feeling than feeding her on weekends and realizing she comes away still hungry. Not being able to go out without having some solid food around. I just can’t will myself to make more milk than I do.
I realize in the big picture things will be fine. We are starting to supplement with formula, which is fine. But I think there is a part of me still grieving something. Sooner or later, this would have come—but having to go through it earlier than I would have chosen is hard to accept. It seems silly to say, but some version of the stages are there: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
It’s a lonely experience. I know hardly any mothers in the same work situation, and even then it’s difficult to express how it feels. But I’m trying to feel that it’s okay. There is nothing about doing this that is perfect, or sometimes even in my control. And that’s okay.
Journal Excerpt
The child's foot doesn't know yet that it's a foot,
and wants to be a butterfly or an apple.
- Pablo Neruda
I love how her feet are so soft and lumpy on the bottom, like little bits of dough left out to rise. Her toes curl down instead of splaying up like grownup ones do. I think about all the places they will take her in the future: but right now they are just decorative little floating lumpy things, there for me to enjoy.
and wants to be a butterfly or an apple.
- Pablo Neruda
I love how her feet are so soft and lumpy on the bottom, like little bits of dough left out to rise. Her toes curl down instead of splaying up like grownup ones do. I think about all the places they will take her in the future: but right now they are just decorative little floating lumpy things, there for me to enjoy.
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