There is a Greek myth that speaks of a Titan being chained to a rock while his liver is perpetually eaten by an eagle. Since he is immortal, his body regenerates at night and the torture begins anew the next day.
This is the closest allegory a mother can use to describe shared child custody.
It is the fresh hell of knowing that the smell of bubblegum toothpaste and strawberry bubble bath laying next to me will vanish within 12 hours.
It is the ceaseless horror of knowing that every five days of giggles, kisses, adventures and grown centimeters will be followed by the dull grief of a waking nightmare.
It is the feeling of a phantom limb.
It is a repeated Promethean mantra: "No, no. There is nothing left to take."
It is the realization that you are wrong. Once your meat is gone, the eagle will peck at your protons, electrons and neutrons. There is no end to this agony.
On nights like this, I doubt my sanity. My marriage was doomed, and staying would have spelled decades of misery, but...this...my god, this.
There is no rationalizing when that last hug hits your shoulders, all skinny limbs and inexplicable fierceness. There is no consolation in knowing that her life with daddy is equally as good but happening without you. There is no balance to the cognitive dissonance of hearing her voice on a phone from only 8 blocks away.
This is the most inhumane form of torture I can possibly think of.
This is a story told through the rose-tinted, soft focus lens of retrospect.
It is a story made romantically murky by a combination of "mom brain," and a love so powerful that I can't remember straight. Sensations that were undoubtedly agonizing at the time now seem like fleeting discomfort, because in the end - I got her.
Around 2:30 a.m. on Friday, June 10, I woke up and told Brian that I was in labor. There wasn't any particular pain, just a subtle involuntary tugging sensation, tightening around my belly like a belt. I began timing my contractions with an app on my iPhone, and they were consistently 5 minutes apart.
Brian rolled over on his air mattress on the floor and looked at me with heavy lidded eyes. He couldn't sleep in my bed, since it was a tiny twin and I was rather large in my 38th week of pregnancy.
"Mmmfmmmp. I'll go get the bag," Brian mumbled, not actually rising from bed.
"No honey, it's not time to go," I giggled. "I just wanted to let you know that the process has started. It could be a day before we head to the hospital."
"Wha...?" he asked, trailing off into a snore.
I couldn't help grinning in the dark, trailing my fingers along my skin as my muscles constricted beneath. I was absolutely fascinated, and overwhelmed with the idea that I would get to meet this little soul that had quietly accompanied me for nine months.
Earlier that week, my doula Lynn (a.k.a. angel from heaven covered in fairy dust) had taken me to my weekly OB appointment. The doctor who examined me called out a few numbers during my exam, and Lynn's big hazel eyes widened.
"Flo, you're ready to go. I think you will have Fiona by the end of the week," Lynn said. The doctor, who could not formally confirm Lynn's hunch, murmured her agreement conspiratorially.
"Mrs. Trapp, I would ask your husband to come home from Texas now," the doctor said.
Brian was in Denton, TX, and I was in Fairfield, CA. Lynn spoke with him on the phone, relaying her prediction, and he was on a plane by Wednesday.
On Thursday, the day before Fiona was born, we finalized our move out of our California house, and stopped by Napa to close out our wine club memberships. In the evening, I tried every labor-inducing trick in the old wive's handbook, from eating freshly sliced pineapple to chugging down red raspberry leaf tea. Perhaps the combination worked a little too well, because I went into labor that night.
Here's what I remember of those long morning hours the day Fiona was born:
I talked to my mom while eating cereal. I said goodbye to Brian as he left to run errands in Concord. I cuddled with my niece, Genevieve after she accidentally sat on my belly mid-contraction. I stared at a collage of old family photos on the wall. I talked and texted and stayed as social as possible to avoid thinking about the pain.
I knew that it was time to worry when I hobbled upstairs to use the restroom, and saw a lot of blood. Brian was still out of town, so I texted Lynn, who was preparing for her graduation from Cal State East Bay. (I told you! She's a goddess angel princess miracle.) Without hesitation, she jumped in the car. When I told her what I'd been feeling, she assured me that I was definitely, without a doubt, in active labor.
The relief of being taken seriously was immediate. I took a short, but therapeutic shower, changed into the first clothes I could find, and picked up my hospital bag. Lynn appeared at my curb, my mom helped walk me to the car, and she kissed me, getting all choked up as she realized that it was time.
We sped to Travis Air Force Base, where David Grant Medical Center is located. The ride started out calmly enough, with Lynn guiding me through breathing exercises, but as she neared the security gates, I realized that the pressure from the baby's head had become alarming.
"Lynn, I swear I'm not trying to be dramatic, but I think her head is coming out."
Bless that angel woman's patient heart, she stayed calm and professional the whole time. We parked, I speed-walked toward the hospital entrance...and nearly crumpled to the ground when I saw that the entrance I always used was covered in yellow caution tape because it was under construction. Lynn ran ahead and saw that a side entrance had been opened, and I tried to concentrate on Kegels to keep my child from being born on the hospital sidewalk.
As soon as she got in, Lynn grabbed a wheelchair for me and took me to the elevator. I felt remarkably better when I was able to sit down, but lost my sense of control again when we arrived at the Labor and Delivery floor. The nurse who greeted us put me into a room, then dropped a morale bomb:
"I'm sorry ma'am, but our department policy is to monitor the patient's vitals for at least 20 minutes before performing a pelvic exam."
I lost it. After 12 hours of being calm and civilized and quiet, I was denied the basic right of knowing what the hell was going on. Lynn tried to politely explain that my contractions were irregular and that I could literally feel the baby's head in my pelvis, but the nurse simply repeated the policy and left me hooked up to various monitors.
I cried so hard that I didn't register when Brian walked into the tiny room. I was still in my street clothes, Lynn was pressing a cold cloth to my forehead to calm me down, and I was out of my mind with pain. I remember distinctly the moment when Brian strode out into the hallway, livid on my behalf, and barked at the first group of people he saw.
"Excuse me. Someone needs to check on my wife, NOW."
Lord knows why him being assertive was more effective than Lynn being insistent and calm, but it worked. A female nurse came in, performed the exam, and confirmed what we'd all guessed.
"Oh...wow. Yup, that's the baby's head right there. You're 100% effaced and...10 centimeters dilated. You're complete. We're going to get you moved into a delivery room."
Thanks to my out of control hormones, the move was a blur of tears and hysteria that melted into tentative peace. Lynn helped change me into the pink polka dot hospital gown I'd brought, nurses and doctors made their introductions to me, and someone asked the worst question you can ask a distressed laboring woman.
"You didn't want an epidural, right?"
"Um, what?!" I asked in an absolutely stricken panic.
As I knew but apparently forgot, an epidural is supposed to be administered when a woman is dilated between 4 and 8 centimeters, due to the risk of the medication slowing down contractions and prolonging labor. Since I was complete, I'd passed the window of time deemed appropriate for starting the epidural process.
Luckily for me, I had the snarky, smartass anesthesiologist from heaven. He showed up, made fun of me a little for waiting too long before getting to the hospital, and then sneakily told me that he'd hit me with the "good stuff," which he claimed was 50 times more potent than morphine.
I later realized that he could have told me he was injecting me with opium and crack and I would have agreed. I'm pretty sure he just gave me a normal epidural but wanted me to mentally start the process of pain relief by believing his ridiculous declarations. He also made me laugh a lot, which helped calm me down.
So the first wave of chaos died down. I waited for the epidural to hit me, Brian breathed a sigh of relief, and Lynn started working on breathing through labor with me. Things had finally reached a peaceful pace, and I was deliriously happy. It finally started sinking in that my daughter would be there soon. I was reaching an epically centered sense of Zen when...
Lynn hit the floor.
It happened so fast that I didn't let go of her hand, so I almost went down with her. All I knew was that one second we were holding hands and breathing slowly, and the next second she was laying rigidly on her back on the floor with her eyes wide open and glassy, looking like a life-sized, and not breathing, brunette Barbie doll. I sucked in a huge breath and wailed the first coherent thought I could muster:
"I KILLED LYNN!!!!!!!"
If I thought her fall happened fast, it was nothing compared to the flood of medical personnel into our room. Literally a dozen people materialized around us, calling her name, picking her up, arranging chairs into a makeshift cot, filling cups of ice and water, checking on me, and directing a rapid-fire stream of questions at Brian.
(Yeah, because the bewildered dad-to-be is the best person to ask about the doula's eating habits.)
As it turns out, poor Lynn had been in such a rush to pick me up that she hadn't eaten or had water in several hours. She'd also been standing next to me since we'd set up camp in the delivery room. The doctors began assessing her health by asking her questions about her name, the year, etc. until they got to the most ridiculous question:
"Are you squeamish around blood or hospitals?"
My darling, beautiful friend, ever the modern day Grace Kelly, replied, "No. I've observed and assisted in dozens of births."
Satisfied that she was not a rookie, an anemic, or anorexic, the doctors returned us to our previous little haven of quiet peace. They insisted (as did I) that Lynn sit and conduct her doula duties from a chair with a glass of water, while Brian took over ice chip duty.
A wonderful nurse took care of me for the two hours I spent in the delivery room. I will find her name on Fiona's hospital documents soon so I can give her proper credit here, but she was amazingly kind through all of the icky pre and post delivery tasks. There's no way to make inserting a catheter or changing a pad fun, but she was absolutely flawless.
The time to push came fast. My contractions finally evened out and quickened, and my room soon refilled with all of the assorted personnel who needed to be present. My doctor arrived at the very last minute to guide me through active pushing, and in less than 20 minutes, she began to emerge.
Let me just pause and say that if you're given the option of having a mirror during delivery, I highly recommend taking it. The motivation of seeing the pushing progress, AND watching as your child enters the world, is priceless.
Her dark little head of hair was all I needed to see to give me the strength to get through the next few pushes. Brian held one of my legs, Lynn held the other, my amazing nurse was by my side, and the doctor was thrilled with how easily everything progressed. Once her shoulder worked through, her entire body followed suit.
I heard her first dainty cry, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I weeped.
She was outraged, and I was in love. Her hands grasped me tightly, struggling to find comfort, and I stroked her back to calm her sweet little cries. Finally, her eyes opened for a tiny moment of time. With the most startlingly perfect clarity, I heard the lyrics to "Your Song" play in my head, coalescing around a single line:
"Yours are the sweetest eyes, I've ever seen."
The first words I said to my daughter were, "Hello, Fiona! Happy birthday baby!" The rest is a happy blur.
Fiona Lily Trapp was born at 3:20 p.m. on June 10, 2011. She weighed 7 pounds, 2 ounces, and measured 19.5 inches long. She received an APGAR score of 9, and nursed perfectly from the start. My labor with her lasted about 13 hours, and the delivery only took about 20 minutes.
I feel that my status as a newcomer to the mid-Atlantic region entitles me to a single epically melodramatic freak out over the cold. I've been cheerful and laid back about the 20-degree highs this week, and have enjoyed playing with my toddler in the snow, but I knew I'd hit my limit eventually. Tonight was it. I can now state with absolute certainty that when the temperature dips into the single digits, I turn into an irrational, survival-driven ball of rage.
Tonight I got to go on what we young mothers consider the tropical vacation of outings: an unaccompanied trip to Target. I didn't even leave until 8 pm, which is when I'm normally climbing into bed. I felt so rebellious sneaking out of the door and doing a happy dance on my front porch...until the despair set in.
Stage 1 of Single Digit Despair: Denial
It's so still and clear, look at those beautiful stars! My iPhone says it's 9* out, but I don't feel anything ye-
Stage 2 of Single Digit Despair: Anger
OH F*CK. Why does it feel like I just got smacked in the face with a snowball? Wait, that's the f*cking air? I'm breathing ice!
Stage 3 of Single Digit Despair: Bargaining
I don't have to go to Target that much. I only need peanut butter. And toilet paper. Goddammit.
Stage 4 of Single Digit Despair: Depression
I'm Pacific Islander. My people were not made for this f*ckery.
Stage 5 of Single Digit Despair: Acceptance
::Sprint to the car at full tilt, hyperventilating::
Once I arrived at Target, I fell into my usual rhythm of staring longingly at clothes I couldn't justify buying, and trying on sunglasses that serve no purpose in the frozen tundra of Pennsylvania in January. By the time I completed my circuit and checked out, I realized that I would have to haul my bags from my car back to the house.
I spent the drive home praying for a parking spot near my house, but that was not to be. The next stage of my single digit despair was a stream of consciousness word vomit, which I muttered angrily to myself while making multiple trips to the porch. I know that at one point I just started chanting "FML. FML. FML"
It wasn't until I opened my front door to slip inside that I realized two teenage girls were hovering at the exit of the church next door. As they stared at me in wide-eyed innocence, I mumbled, "Don't you judge me, I'm from California" and shut my front door.
You are absolutely hilarious. I have a new appreciation for the term, "light of my life," because you are one incandescent little flame. For as often as you make me furious when you refuse to practice patience and discipline, you also make me sigh and tear up over how sweet your soul is. I often joke that you must be going through your twos early, because you are quite a handful already.
We moved to Pennsylvania on your first birthday, and it has been one busy quarter of a year. Your days are filled with parks, travel, museums, festivals, concerts, potlucks, swim lessons, library time, play groups and friends. We were lucky to meet the nicest group of moms and kiddos, and you are usually the lone girl among boys. I love that you can get rowdy and adventurous as often as you can be a sassy little girl.
You're small, and that's okay. At your one year check up, you measured 32 inches and 19 lbs, putting you on the tallish side of average, and barely on the weight chart. You are a very fickle eater, which is hard on my heart sometimes. The only things I know you will reliably eat are salmon, string cheese, and all fruits. You have the appetite of a bird, so all of your "meals" really only consist of a few tiny bites, which means that I have to try and feed you many times a day to keep getting calories in you. You still completely refuse cow's milk, no matter how much everyone has tried to convince, trick, and bribe you into drinking it.
We found out that you're allergic to tomatoes and eggplant, which are both members of the nightshade vegetable family. These two veggies are part of a common food allergy, so you aren't unusual. Both times you reacted, we spotted the red rash on your chest and face quickly. We dunked you in a bath, gave you some Benadryl, and you racked out happily for the night. It's fortunate that both reactions happened at dinner time, to coincide with your bed time.
Speaking of bed time, oh goodness. You are still co-sleeping and nursing. I feel like the worst mommy ever because I know it's long past time for you to sleep in your big girl bed, but there have been a lot of major changes and bumps in the road for us as a family. Between moving to the East Coast, traveling to California twice, and multiple bouts of Hand Foot Mouth Disease, we have found too many reasons to keep up our comforting nightly routine. This past weekend was supposed to be the start of your sleep training, but you and I both came down with a gnarly cold, and we are still suffering through it even now.
All of that aside, my daily life with you has been nothing but joyful. You soak up information so quickly that I'm constantly shocked by your memory. You recall games, rhymes, words and songs with startling clarity. Your pronunciation is still limited, but you try to sound out words constantly. Right now, your favorite words are "pumpkin," "shoes," "Girlie!!" (Grandma Gina's dog), and "birds." You haven't done any sentences quite yet, but you have running monologues of non-words all the time. In this case, my sweet girl, it really is the effort that counts.
Physically, you are hitting all of your age group's developmental milestones. You try climbing everything, you can propel yourself around the pool in your floatie armbands, you do somersaults, and you go down the slide by yourself. You can hang from the monkey bars, swing on the big kid swing, and navigate the playground by yourself. You're so little, and so determined.
We've been traveling and experiencing a lot of different things. We survived going to all 10 days of Musikfest, we visited Philadelphia several times, flew to California, took a day trip to Long Island, and went to Washington, DC with Mama Gina and Papa Jimmy to see my daddy, your Grandpa Frank. It was surreal for me to see you in your little dress, running through the rows of hero's graves to meet your grandpa for the first time.
If we've had this many incredible memories in our first three months of East Coast living, I can't wait to see what the rest of the year will bring. I love you with all my heart, and can't wait to start celebrating the holidays with you next month. Happy 15 months, baby girl.
[This was written on June 10, 2012. Forgive my belated publishing!]
Oh, little love.
You're a toddler now. You started walking in the middle of your ninth month, and my heart was both thrilled and broken. I thought I'd have you as a baby a little longer. Sometimes, your daddy is so struck by your rapid development that he will stop dead in his tracks, stare at you, and say "You're a such a kid now!"
You are fiercely independent, which manifests in a variety of infuriating and impressive ways. You insist on feeding yourself, which means that spoon feeding has been out of the question for months. You hate being held or carried, because you want to walk yourself everywhere. You won't even let me comb your hair or put your socks on, because you want to try doing it yourself. Sometimes I catch you imitating me like a tiny mirror, and I can't help but laugh when you try to soothe your stuffed animals with back pats, or dry your hair with an imaginary blow dryer.
Creativity is coming into play now. The other day, you offered me a handful of shredded tissue from one of your baby bowls, which you were carrying around as if it contained a delicious meal. You also offered to the dogs, and I couldn't help laughing at their puzzled expressions. You are so comfortable around dogs that when you see them out and about, you howl, woof, and yell "sit!" at them.
Your babbling and attempts at conversation are my favorite parts of your development. You enjoy saying hi and bye to strangers, with a wave, applause, or that sweet baby open/close/open/close fist movement. Everyone calls your wave the "princess pageant wave" because your hand rotates at the wrist, and your arm doesn't move. I thought that your feminine girly personality was a phase, but it seems to be deeply ingrained in your behavior.
You're a completely different baby every month now, and I am grateful for but saddened by your rapid development. I don't even know that I can call you my baby anymore, because your level of communication has increased so much and you're independently mobile now. Even the language we use toward you is adult; you are now called "little lady" and we speak to you in complete sentences. Your comprehension is so nuanced that you understand the difference between our anger at your petulance, and frustration with your innocent confusion. You are, in essence, a living and breathing work in progress.
You are affectionate, still clingy and constantly curious. You spend all day testing your physical boundaries, from the jerry-rigged baby gates I've assembled using dog crates and Pack N Plays, to the corners of every room in the house. Your high feminine voice provides a constant stream of sound in our home, as you babble strung-together consonants and phrases. Every time I catch a glimpse of you standing out of the corner of my eye, I have to remind myself that you're not even a toddler yet.
You have less than 3 months left of being a bonafide baby, so please take them slow. I try to savor every moment of your milky sweet breath, huge dark eyes and rolly polly legs, but I constantly want to tell God that it isn't fair. It's not fair that this innocence is so fleeting and perfect, because it's the closest glimpse that we mortals have to heaven.
Thank you for giving me a front row seat to the miracle of childhood. Happy 9 months, love.
I have worked at a wine store here in north Texas for five months, and if I could condense my perception of Texan wine drinkers down to one word, it would be this: unaffected.
The spirit of this state is one of unapologetic authenticity - don't mess with Texas, and don't put on airs. In wine, this translates to a palate embracing straightforward, unpretentious vino. People around here don't talk about tasting "graphite and camphor," and they don't pretend to care about terroir. I totally love that I don't have to deal with customers like this:
[Props to Austin from Dallas (shown at 0:26), who shared this when I visited him at Biale]
If anything, my customers have been delightfully modest. Most of them like red wine (score!) and the few who fall into the "I only drink mostcato" category are still refreshingly open-minded. The store is owned by the sweetest married couple ever, and aside from the frantic basket-making, ribbon bow-tying, ornament-selling holiday season, the job itself has been incredibly laid-back.
My experience has included hosting private tasting events for groups from 6-20 people, making recommendations, pouring at public events while sharing tasting notes, and doing lots of schmoozing. I worried about having a social life during our short stay in Texas, but my wine job has given me all of the human interaction I needed outside of being a mom.
I love to share some of the more humorous anecdotes from work, and while a few of them would not be tasteful stories to share (my friends all know the "orgasm" story), some of them are downright hilarious. A few of the golden phrases I've heard recently (and please imagine these spoken in a charming Southern accent) are:
"Huh, I didn't know they made a red zinfandel"
"Napa? Haven't heard of it."
"Do y'all have the wine with almond flavoring it it?"
"I've never heard of red wine in champagne!" (Real champagne is made with primarily pinot noir and chardonnay)
Below are a few fun photos from the past five months. My last day will be in May, and I will miss my delightful coworkers a lot.
I wonder that question every day when I wake up to your huge toothless grin and shining, gleeful eyes. Your dad playfully groans when your laughter and wiggles rouse us each morning, and he always starts the day by saying, "Baby girl, you are a morning person."
Your love for waking up early is one of the few traits you've inherited from me so far. In terms of appearance, you are a miniature version of your father. That creamy ivory skin, those curled long eyelashes, those huge cheeks framing that mischievously oversized smile - you are a beauty.
At your six month appointment with Dr. Nuby, we found out that you are in the 90th percentile for height at 27 inches long. You weighed 16 pounds, putting you in the 50th percentile for weight. Those stats are pretty impressive, given that my milk was all you had eaten until recently.
You really hated solids when we first gave them to you on November 30. You spit those pureed sweet potatoes out so fast that they mostly ended up on your bib. You cried, flailed, and fought for a few weeks, until you decided to start liking split peas. From that point on, you loved everything you tried. So far you have eaten carrots, bananas, sweet potatoes, peas, pears, celery, and apples.
Nursing you is my own little heaven. No matter how fussy or upset you are, the moment you snuggle up to me and start feeding, all of my stress melts into a perfect sense of fulfillment. Nothing has ever felt so rewarding or right. I would stroke your temples and sing you to sleep forever if I could, but I know that this stage of your life will soon pass. I now understand why so many moms have trouble letting go of their babies. Weaning you (when you're ready) will be hard on my heart, but I know that it will be soothed with the joy of seeing you toddle and speak.
Speaking of speaking, you started saying "mama" right around your birthday. Now you're all about "dada," and you even reach your arms up to him when you say it. Coincidence or not, it was the best Christmas morning gift ever for me to see his face light up when you said his name. In the spirit of the holidays, you also chose Thanksgiving as the day to start sitting up independently. I love pushing you around in the shopping cart seat, because you babble at strangers and inevitably invite the attention of adoring adults. You are inexplicably terrified of elderly gentlemen, so we're working on that :)
Lucky for you, the past few months have brought lots of family time with your grandparents and even your great grandmother. In November we spent a week in Oregon with your Mimi Sandy, Pappap Pat, Uncle Michael and Nana Trapp. It was so nice to immerse ourselves in family time, and enjoy the quiet tranquility of their home. You loved being passed from lap to lap, and were happy to bounce and giggle for each person who held you. For Christmas, your Mama Gina and Papa Jimmy visited Texas to spend time with you and ring in the new year. You spent the entire week laughing up a storm, and they were so happy to cuddle you.
Your pediatrician called you feisty the other day, and that couldn't be truer. When you cut a tooth on New Year's Eve, you promptly used it to bite my arm and leave a little dent in my skin. When you make eye contact with strangers, you flirt mercilessly. You cry crocodile tears until your dad picks you up, and when he does, you give me a knowing look that makes me laugh every time. Sweet princess, you have that man wrapped around your tiny finger.
I realize now, after seeing your personality evolve these past six months, that I was meant to be your mommy. It was written in the stars, long before you or I existed. Your every quirk and personality trait is absolute perfection to me, and if I could while away the hours just kissing each of your toes, I would do that forever. Thank you for being my sunshine, my heartbeat, and my soul.
"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." - Elizabeth Stone
