Thankful

In the least morbid way possible, I had plans for the 5th anniversary of my father in law’s death. Not like ‘wahoo here it comes plans’, but I wanted to do something to commemorate.  We were going to go out to dinner, or maybe to the beach. Mainly my goal was to spend some time just not being sad.  I wanted to make my husband laugh and smile. It seemed like the perfect way to remember dad. I can say a lot of good things about him, but high among them is that he was constantly laughing. His bad moods were few and far between and especially when the family was together he was always quick with a smile. 

True to brand for my life, things did not go according to plan.  

You know that superstition that bad things come in threes? It’s entirely untrue but I can see the validity of the leading thought. Whether it’s a coincidence or because you’re already primed to see things as bad is debatable, but it often feels that when it rains, it pours. At this already hard time of year, perhaps we were primed for more badness, but regardless of the context, my husbands Lolo (Filipino term for grandfather, there’s your learning for the day) was recently in a car accident. His health hasn’t been great in a while and as I’m sure even the least health literate among us can understand... the car accident didn’t make it better.

Nick hasn’t seen Lolo in years and certainly hasn’t gotten to say a true goodbye. Thanks to the Army, we have celebrated many holidays, birthdays and anniversaries away from family and away from each other. My list of grievances is long (as is that of any service member), however this one time, in a very big way, the Army came through for us. With only 24 hours notice that Lolo has made his peace with passing and the unspoken expectation that it will not take long, Nick was able to get leave approved to go to an unstable region, halfway around the world, to see his grandfather. 

So, rather than relaxing at the beach or eating a commemorative dinner, we spent the anniversary of Dad’s death running around like chickens with our heads cut off. Nick, busy doing paperwork and trainings and clearing security. Me, booking tickets, coordinating travel, buying plane snacks, and desperately trying to convince just one ATM on this island to give me cash from my well stocked yet apparently inaccessible checking account.  (Lester, from Chase, says it’s definitely on my end for whatever that’s worth).

I know Dad is proud of Nick and it’s easy to see why. He’s accomplished and driven; He’s a board certified anesthesiologist and he’s a Captain in the US Army. These would make any father glow. But I also know dad, and he has reasons better than these that make him proud. His son has followed in his footsteps of showing up: being there for the people you love even when it’s exhausting, impractical or expensive. Dad showed us that of any legacy we leave, loving others is second only to loving God and that these two go hand in hand.  He also taught us that nothing is more important than family and I genuinely believe we honored him well, in scrambling to get our lives together to get Nick where he needed to be: standing next to his mom and spending some time with his Lolo.

Lolo has had a good long life. He is well accomplished, well traveled and esteemed. He has stories on stories from times I have only read about in history books and from a culture completely foreign to me. He is the patriarch of six very different children who live miles (and sometimes even continents) apart and still come together more than any extended family I know.  That love and bond has spread to his children’s spouses as new members were added to the six pack.  It has continued to grow to include thirteen grandchildren and even four great grandchildren.  We would be hard pressed (literally) to fit all of this family into one room (and you know that room would be LOUD) and that doesn’t even begin to cover the number of people who would like to be at his side, thanking him for all he has done for them.

I want to acknowledge the sacrifices he made in moving to the US. It takes a kind of strength that I cannot begin to fathom to uproot your entire family and take them to a place where they don’t know the language, customs or culture and watch them start over. Now that I have children of my own, I understand even more how hard it is to watch them struggle- even when it benefits them. I’m sure Lolo had the same concerns, the same fear and the same obstacles that his children faced in a new life... but he looked beyond all of that on a leap of faith that this would be better for them, and boy was he ever right. I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that my children wouldn’t be here today had he not made that jump.

How do you honor that? How do I tell him that in some way he was responsible for three of my greatest sources of joy (Aloiya, Lincoln and also counting Nick... I am not pregnant for those of you conspiracy theorists out there).

Lolo, I hope that Nick can read some of this to you. I want you to know how thankful I am, for you, for your life and your sacrifices that have trickled down to all of us that by blood or law or even just love that can consider ourselves a part of the Conol clan. I wish I could be there to do an amin and give you a hug.  I remember all those years ago when Nick first taught me how to do an amin the proper way, being terrified to offend you by doing it wrong. How silly I feel now knowing that I didn’t need to worry, how quickly I was welcomed into your family had nothing to do with my limited understanding of Filipino customs. You should know that we have taught Allie how to amin her elders and will do the same with Lincoln.  They will know where they came from and the importance of respect for their elders, those who have gone before and cleared the path for us.  Those who have carried us here.  I hope that this makes you smile.

The busy work necessary to get nick to wheels up was a welcome distraction from the nagging thought that I was going to be alone for two weeks. Yes, not truly alone, I remember that I have children, but for those of you out there offering them up as tribute for my moral support, I encourage you to do 30 rounds of “what happened?” with Allie and then we can talk about how supported you feel. Motherhood at this stage is monotonous and exhausting. It can be joyful and is fun and I would not trade it for the world but it is hard work. Someone is always crying (yes, it is often me), someone is always in need of attention, someone is teething, someone needs to poop on the potty.

Not only alone for two weeks, but alone for two weeks spanning one of my son’s first holidays... and the beginning of the Christmas season, formerly one of my favorite times of year. Honestly, there were many more and darker thoughts than that. I will spare you all my darkness. These thoughts don’t deserve the heartache it takes to type them out and make them public. And I’m certainly not ready to defend them, to make everyone understand that I don’t choose them and can’t stop them. They aren’t logical, they don’t make sense and I am doing my best. The end. 

It was disconcerting to think that the person holding my hand as I fight these battles wouldn’t be here.  He has his plate full and does not need further weight on his shoulders.  He is not my only help or my only way out of the darkness, but others I can always rely on are also currently elsewhere – where they need to be.  When it comes down to it, right now, I’m alone.

Here’s the thing though. 

1. I’m not. I’ve got people around the world who I love dearly and who, I know, have my back.

2.  I can do hard things.  It is easy for me to believe the voice in my mind that tells me that I can’t.  That I’m too weak, too small to change things. That I’m not good enough or strong enough or patient enough to be a mother.  That I quit residency when the going got tough.  That I throw in the towel when things get hard. That giving up is who I am.  (For as much as I get down on myself about that one decision, that I sometimes feel like I took the easy way out, I have never had to defend a single decision more in my entire life, and my position has not wavered: I made the choice I needed to make and to get me to where I am today.) 

There is always something to be thankful for, and I know without a doubt that I have more than my fair share.

I have two tiny humans here to cuddle and squeeze and remind me how important it is to be present and how beauty is found in the most simple moments. They remind me that I have purpose even when I feel useless.

I have a circle of people, and granted my circle may be small, but my circle consists of the best people I could ever hope for.  They build me up, listen to my struggles and remind me again and again that I am good enough. It must be exhausting to have the same conversation every time I spiral, but they do it nonetheless.  You know who you are.  Please know how much you mean to me, you all are the reason I know I’m not alone.

I have a dog who smells horrible, but gets me out of the house when I don’t even want to leave my bed. (Granted, we are off to a rocky start as I got myself locked in my house last night… but forty five minutes with a crowbar, a facetime moral supporter and a lot of expletives later, I have a newfound appreciation for freedom and also am in need of a new screen door).

I have a foster fish in a tiny tank (who is doing swimmingly, I might add) to remind me that my world could be much smaller.  

I have food to eat, clean water to drink, a warm and comfortable (albeit on one occasion centipede infested) bed to sleep in.

I have air to breathe, legs to run and eyes to appreciate the beauty around me (and after 7PM to watch all the Netflix I want).

I have so much and I have been unbelievably blessed. I am thankful for it all.  I am thankful, simply, to be alive. 

Mothering

There comes a time every day (twice per day on weekends when Allie naps at home) that the sole obstacle preventing me from living my best life (read: sitting on the couch watching Netflix, eating a snack without sharing, or maybe crossing something off my never-ending list) is a miniature human asleep on my lap.  Looking down at her tiny sleeping face, serene and relaxed, it is a surprisingly difficult struggle to put her down.   Part of it is the vulnerability in her sleeping form – she is completely defenseless and trusting that the mom who rocked her to sleep will keep the world safe until she awakes. 

Holding a sleeping baby has to be one of the purest highs in the world.  Or maybe, holding your sleeping baby is… I cannot vouch for whether the feeling translates to random babies, nor can I recommend stealing random babies in order to determine if it is universal. 

One of the beautiful complexities of motherhood can be summed up in that moment: I look forward to when she falls asleep because then I get to resume being completely me, but when she finally falls asleep in my arms, I can’t rush to put her down because it feels so good just to hold her.

It’s an identity crisis that I never expected to have. 

Some women are just born to be moms… maybe I’m even one of them, but prior to my surprise pregnancy (PSA to female readers – you’re likely more fertile than you think) I never thought it was for me.  The pain of childbirth was a deterrent, certainly, but it was more than that.  I liked my house a certain way with breakable things on low shelves. I liked the way my body looked. I liked my fly by the seat of my pants attitude towards travel and adventure – I loved the freedom to book a last minute flight out of the country or drive across several states to see my best friend because she had a bad week.  My life never felt incomplete. Before anyone jumps down my throat, I’m still not saying that my life, pre-baby was incomplete or that I, pre-baby, was incomplete… 

It’s almost as though now, post-baby, I’m irreversibly incomplete.  Before her I was whole, and now, when myself in my own right, I’m lacking. It’s as though an important part of me lives outside my body.   

I don’t want to romanticize it like that.  I’ve seen the posts, coded in “momspeak” about the magic of “seeing a part of your heart outside your body”, but that is not the message I am going for here.  I completely love my daughter and I love being her mom, but I can’t honestly say that I love mothering or that I am always okay with my new epithet being my only descriptor.

I don’t love the endless mundanity of motherhood.  There are days when I can’t wait to drop her off at daycare and days where I consider advancing bedtime by thirty minutes because my very sanity hangs in the balance…It’s as though I’ll never be satisfied. I’ll miss her when she’s absent, but struggle with the role of motherhood when she’s present.  I never stop identifying as a mom, even when she is out of the room, but it’s not as though it fits me like a magical pair of traveling pants that I’ve spent my life waiting for.  It is a constant struggle between wanting to be the best mom and be the best me.

I want to be put together and well-read, well-traveled.  Ideally I should be fit, maintain my six-minute mile and have time to cook healthy colorful meals.  I also want to be present for her.  I want her to remember that mom sat on the floor to read her the frog book a million times, or even if she doesn’t remember it, I want to be the cheerleader that she needs in order to learn to read the frog book herself.  I want her to wear the instagrammable dresses and look photo-ready at a moments notice so I can show the whole world how cute she looks to me, but at the same time I want her to run in the grass, feed herself the acai bowl that stains everything and let her see my face watching her instead of my camera or my phone. I want to feel pride in my appearance and invest time in it , but I don’t want her to inherit any of my insecurities about beauty.  She certainly doesn’t need them. 

I want her to be only her and to some extent that means holding back me… and at the same time I want to be who I want to be even if that means living 95% of my life with a contoured face and 4 coats of mascara.  How do I be the mom she deserves at the same time being the person I deserve?  How can I be my best for her when that looks so much different than being my best self? 

I am beyond thankful to be her mother but I really struggle on the days that I feel like I am only her mother.   This role, it means everything to me and at the same time, it is not enough for me.  In many ways it is the most important thing I will ever do, the biggest legacy I will leave behind, so why am I surprised when it takes all that I have to offer and still wants more.

I’m pregnant again!  I know, I know… I never even finished writing about the labor and delivery experience from last time yet here I am, knocked up again.  Remember that earlier PSA? Totally kidding, this pregnancy was even planned… as much as you can plan something like that. 

I know what to expect this time around and in some ways, that has made me more apprehensive.  I never intended to write a blog about my first days postpartum, mostly because I understood I would be busy.  Everyone told me I would be tired, and they were right.  The fatigue and exhaustion, although tremendous, were certainly not surprising.   Those days are raw and overwhelming.  Everything hurts. Everything is healing. Everything is new and fragile and stressful and amazing.

I was unprepared for the paradigm shift of becoming a mom.  In the days prior to that, when I needed to cry, I could cry.  When I was starving, I ate. When I was tired, I slept.  I had meaningful ways to fill my time beyond meeting my own basic biological needs, but usually when it became necessary, I was able to make them a priority.  After bringing home my tiny screaming incessant adorable bundle of joy, my needs were relegated to the back burner. 

You coast on fumes for a lot further than you ever thought you could.  You can go without healthy food for longer than even your college self would have liked to believe (quite the pendulum swing from the daily food rainbow and nutrient logging of pregnancy).   You can last on even fewer hours of sleep than a call shift… for weeks on end.  Incredibly, none of it is a sacrifice.  None of it takes a conscious choice – to delay your own comfort or to calm your baby’s cries?… it’s instinctive, primal.  It happens so quickly that it is easy to lose yourself in the new role. To feel as though that is all you are.  And there were run into the problems that prompted this dialogue in the first place.

It is love at its most basic form; tiny human needs you and so you do.  You do everything it takes to make tiny human happy, safe, warm, content.  You mother. You do it because you want to.  You do it because they are yours and you are completely theirs. You do it day in and day out.

You do it as their needs change around you: as they learn to smile and every moment of frustrating inconsolable cries becomes worth it, as they learn to giggle and suddenly everything is hysterical, as they learn to speak and call you “mama” - the name now written in your heart, as they learn to blow kisses and say I love you and you think your heart will crack because it is so full.

They grow and change and leave – for an hour first, as you run to the grocery store.  Then two hours as you run to target and treat yourself to Starbucks (#momlife). Then overnight once grandma and grandpa can handle them!  Someday it will be a week at summer camp, maybe a month long mission trip, then years at college. 

And even with everything at stake, it’s honestly not that hard to just hold her a little longer…  while she still fits in my arms.  Cause sometimes, it feels like I could hold her forever.

Thoughts on Labor & Delivery #8: Repair

 Shortly thereafter, our familial bonding was interrupted by the pediatrics team needing to examine the baby and start her IV.  Studies in postpartum medical care have demonstrated significant medical benefit for both mom and baby when the baby is placed directly on mom’s skin following birth and allowed to remain there for at least 1 hour.  I was concerned that we would not get to reap the benefits of that practice given the concern for infection, but she did her part and came out literally kicking and screaming.

I kissed Allie goodbye and instructed PIC to go with her for her IV.  I didn’t want anyone trading their less perfect baby for ours.

It was then that I first noticed the team of doctors staring at my exposed womanhood.  They didn’t look as celebratory as I felt.  They weren’t really doing much actually… In fact, the resident wasn’t moving, she had taken over for the intern and done the lion’s share of the work associated with delivery (second to me, obviously) but now she stood fairly still.  I heard her ask for the senior resident to be sent in.  He took a peek and in turn asked for the attending to be sent in.  Super.

“So… what’s the deal?” I had previously been told that 70% of first time moms tear.   Another statistic that I had been determined to defy, however by this point I had come to the realization that if I did tear, I couldn’t feel it… so whatever.  Predictably, I had 2 small tears.  What I had not anticipated was the type of tear – the resident informed me afterwards that it involved an artery.  She wasn’t moving because she was watching my heartbeat with each spray of blood and in good doctor fashion decided to hold pressure. 

She told me one of the attendings offered her some advice: that she should change into sterile gloves before beginning the repair. Because of her station in the hierarchy, her lot in life is to smile, nod and thank the attending for the insightful and helpful commentary regardless of whether it was actually either of those things. She pointed out to me that she felt it was more important to control the bleeding than to change to the appropriate wardrobe, but it looks as though we all still have things to learn.

The repair took well over an hour as the tissue was very friable (read: tears easily) and the bleeding just kept happening. Given that my magical epidural was still fully functioning and I was only a torso, I didn’t mind.  I also had crackers. 

Once the repair was completed, the doctor moved to her next task – to examine the placenta to ensure nothing was wrong.  Placentas are disgusting. I know that there are a whole host of different belief systems that think the placenta is extremely important: some eat it, some save it and some even bury it beneath the doorstep (not kidding!). In medical school, they often allow medical students to deliver the placenta when they are first starting out on the OB service because 1. Its hard to mess up and 2. It makes you feel included and 3. No one else wants to.  I have seen and handled plenty and had no sadness about parting with my own, sight unseen. My belief system is that it should operate like any other internal organ: it should stay hidden, do its job with no maintenance.  Once it has completed its function, I have no more use for it… and certainly zero desire to eat it. 

Apparently my placenta sensed my ambivalence and was not quite ready to cede her ground. One portion of it tore slightly and what should have been a quick visual inspection on the way to the lab became a thorough examination and ultimately a quest to find the missing piece… despite the many marvels of modern technology, this had to be accomplished by inserting an entire hand and just poking around my innards.  Honestly, this portion of the experience hurt worse than most of labor. 

In typical Katie fashion, I needed to speak endlessly in order to deal with my pain.  Unfortunately for my OB, PIC and my new child were still off getting IV’s or coffee or whatever. She was my sole audience and despite needing to talk, I had nothing new to say. We had been together a solid 3 hours at this point (she stayed late to do my repair #blessed) and nothing major had changed apart from the life altering circumstance of having a child and then nearly bleeding out. 

Clearly, those in charge of interior design on the Labor and Delivery wing had foreseen exactly this circumstance. First of all, there were sea life creatures on the ceiling and despite all of my medical education I could come up with no reasoning for this apart from mere distraction.   I commented on that waste of thousands of dollars adding outlines of marine animals to an already ugly drop ceiling. Then the starfish photo again caught my attention. 

Starfishes have to be the MOST useless creatures on the planet, can they even swim?  As far as I know they have no ability to capture food and must instead simply injest whatever floats into their… mouth? hole?  I’m really not sure what the proper descriptor for their food trap is.  What does it say about me that my reference point for whether a creature matters is their ability to eat?  I like to eat.  It’s really terrible that Tripler doesn’t have an after hours kitchen service.  Are starfishes edible?  They don’t look like they would taste good.  They’re fairly aesthetically pleasing – that must be their sole purpose in life, to be a source of beauty for everyone to admire.  Much like women in the olden days. Seen and not heard. I would not have survived in that time.  Do you think starfishes feel pain?  I wonder how they give birth.  With all the money I spent getting a bachelor’s degree in biology, shouldn’t I have at least a working knowledge of how a starfish gives birth?  I mean, I’m just guessing it comes out the same hole as the food goes in, or maybe there’s two holes?  Why didn’t the guy taking the picture aim at the other side of the dang fish – at least then I could have made an educated guess? Oh yeah, modesty.  Wouldn’t want anyone getting all offended looking at fish hoo-has.

I managed to distract myself enough to get through it and hopefully managed to distract the OB enough that she was entertained and only 35% hating her life for working 3 hours late but not so much that she didn’t do a thorough job spelunking for retained placenta.

She finished her job, and went home (likely to enjoy some silence).  For the first time in 9 months, I was alone.  PIC and Allie were off doing IV things, or maybe cruising for chicks? They had certainly been gone a long time.  I sat patiently in silence with no one to talk to for at least 5 years (or so it seemed) My epidural was shut off but apparently you don’t instantly bounce back to functional, so I was immobilized.  Comfortable, though.  My phone was out of reach so I was really more alone than I had been since 2005 when my parents decided my brother and I were old enough to co-own a cell phone.

At this point, those waiting with bated breath on the east coast had last heard an update of “time to push” over 3 hours ago. 

I would like to make it clear that this delay was not my fault.  Having just pushed a human out of my body, I had done my part. PR was not my arena.

Finally they came back.  My family was reunited… and someone could hand me snacks and a cell phone. 

Babies also benefit from skin to skin with their dad!
(Please ignore the scar on his chest... I once dropped a power drill on him from a ladder...
maybe someday I will write about my adventures in carpentry)

We finally alerted the world of Allie’s birth; first the families, then her name sakes, then more friends and family. 

Her official instagram debut picture.

One uncle told us “Congratulations! Can’t wait to meet her! Open up a college account now so when people want to give you gifts you will have a place for them.” My response: “Oh, thank you, but she’s far too pretty to go to college” was quickly nixed.

Skeptical tiny human, who is unimpressed by her IV. 

All was right with the world.

Thoughts on Labor & Delivery #7: Pushing

I was pumped with Tylenol (to bring down the fever), Zofran (to stop the feeling that I was going to throw up), Unasyn (antibiotics for the chorioamnionitis) and given an emesis basin (just in case).  PIC was instructed to offer me sips of water and he requested a cool rag for my forehead.  Time to suck it up and push.

TMI? Here I am so thrilled to be ready to push.

I was really scared for this part, but it was actually not painful.  I could be a salesman for epidurals at this point.  My contractions felt like dull rectal and pelvic pressure – like needing to have a bowel movement, but a stronger sensation and involving more real estate. 

As each contraction would escalate, I was instructed to push in bouts of 10 seconds at a time. “Push, 2, 3, 4, …” you get the picture.  Each push involved holding my breath and bearing down as though trying to poop.  I got a 2 second break in between which was barely enough time to inhale another large breath before the command “Push, 2, 3…” was repeated.  Unfortunately, the nurse in charge of counting was a slow counter.  I was oxygen deprived by 8, fading by 9 and gasping for air before she had finished saying 10.  For some reason, I did not advocate for myself, figuring this was just the way it was.  I needed to push for 10 seconds.  Luckily, the OB noticed and said we should only push for 7.  “Thank goodness” I responded, “I was about to pass out by the time we got to 10”. 

After the first 2 contractions, I began to feel better.  Likely, the medicines kicking in, but it felt good to be doing something to help speed the process.  The doctor complimented my pushing skills, a sentiment echoed by everyone else in the room, she promised I was doing very well and moving the baby further down with each push. 

“Not to brag or anything, but I’m not surprised… I’ve been pooping my whole life, so I have had lots of practice.” 

I broke out laughing in the middle of one push, thinking of the scene from The Office where Jim and Pam are having their baby.  In the world of the fake documentary, the cameras aren’t allowed in the delivery room so it is audio only while Pam is pushing, but you hear Jim telling her enthusiastically to push only to be corrected by a nurse that she shouldn’t push now, so Jim yells “No. Don’t push  Don’t push, PULL!”

It’s rare that patients laugh during pushes (although apparently it isn’t counter productive!) and the OB curiously asked why.  After explaining and planting that seed in her brain, of course she accidentally instructed me to pull during the next contraction.  (I didn’t though).

And so it continued with all of us joking and talking, interrupted every 3 minutes by a wave of seriousness through the room while I focused on pushing.

Push, 2… 3…

Me, to PIC: “Yeah, I’m feeling rather ambivalent about this whole baby thing right now, I don’t want to do it any more.”  Doctor to me “Yeah, that’s totally an option, we will just leave and you just suck her back up in there.” 

Push, 2… 3…

PIC to me, “Do you want me to rub your shoulders?”  (Here’s a fun game for every pregnant woman to try, pretty much anything father of baby says to you towards the end of pregnancy can be made into an innuendo, as follows)  Me to PIC, “That’s what got us into this in the first place!”  (Another example, ‘wanna watch netflix?’ ‘that’s what got us into this in the first place!’ – bonus points for saying it in front of other people and getting him to blush!)

Push, 2… 3…

(At this point, we are down to the final minutes of baby inside me, so pediatrics has been paged and the room has approximately 15 healthcare professionals in it) Me, to PIC “I think this is the most naked I have been with this many people in the room since my own birth!”  Doctor, to PIC “I bet that’s a pretty reassuring thing to hear from the mother of your child.” 

I honestly don’t remember all of the banter that preceded delivery.   Trust me, if you talk as much as I do, you learn to tune yourself out.  I do remember that as pushing proceeded, the rectal and pelvic pressure which had previously lightened between pushes began to grow more and more intense, without any breaks.  I was joking less between pushes and closing my eyes when I did push.  Finally, after a push, the pressure was slightly less and even less with the next push.  I laid there, eyes closed, awaiting further instructions.  PIC was the one to give them, “Look at her, honey.  She’s beautiful”

I opened my eyes and was surprised to see that she had already been placed on my chest.  “Oh, a baby!”  Were the first words I ever spoke to her.  (Thank goodness my toenails were painted and legs shaved or else this “insightful” exclamation would have been her only first impression of me). 

6:16 PM, August 10^th 2018. Aloiya Karmen Brickner entered the world, vocally announcing her presence before she was even completely out.  She was still kicking me in the ribs while serenading me… which induced a mild panic attack that maybe another one was hiding in there and I was about to get a BOGO deal that I was entirely unprepared for. Thankfully, she was just a tall girl: 21 inches. 7lbs 12 ounces. Of note, she also crushed her APGARs.

She seemed equally surprised to see me.

I had pushed for less than 15 minutes.  I considered it a personal victory. 

More importantly, the kitchen was open until 7, it was only 6:16.  I could order dinner!  I waited to declare this for a few moments of cuddling and admiring so that the staff would see that I was a good mom in addition to a good pusher. 

When I told PIC to give me the menu at around 6:40, we were informed that the kitchen stops taking room service orders at 5.  Cue exhaustion and hormone induced rage. However, in the midst of labor, they had delivered a tray to my room!! When you don’t order, they assume you still want to eat. Cue transition to overwhelming love and gratitude.  It turns out, that when you don’t order, they send you what you ordered for the last meal… so I had a tray full of vegetable broth, jello, a (now-melted) popsicle, black coffee and juice just waiting for me to dig in!   Cue transition to despair and self-pity… Also, now is probably a good time for anyone who potentially could have made the cut to be a stand-in for PIC and thus in the room with me to thank him for his service on the front lines, as I am no fun when I am slightly inconvenienced and hungry, let alone exhausted and starving. 

For what its worth, those of you out there reading, nodding emphatically and silently exclaiming “dodged a bullet there!”, I am well aware of this character flaw.  Like you, I don’t enjoy it.  I’m aware that I can be unpleasant when the Mr. Hyde side of my personality is unveiled by low blood sugar.  Unfortunately, although partially responsible, I am also unable to stop it.  Like you, I just have to strap in for the roller coaster ride and hope that it’s just a lot of scary ups and downs before coasting into the station instead of a launch into orbit ending in fiery disaster.

Luckily, we had packed snacks in our hospital bag, so PIC fed me crackers while I held Aloiya.  My first maternal attempt at multitasking.  I was already mother of the year in my head.  We marveled over the tiny human we had made while I dropped crumbs on her head.