My Pride (and Prejudice)

The day I found out I was having a daughter, I cried.  What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl? I prefered jeans, never owned a Barbie, flirted as well as a bucket of fried chicken and occasionally (or daily) smelled my armpits.  With every cell in my body, I could not bear the thought of having my first child be a girl.  I was my mother’s first daughter, and our relationship was passionate in the best and worst of ways.  History, I felt, was repeating itself, and I was not emotionally and physically prepared.  Then, I decided that my daughter would be resilient, smart, autonomous and ooze gumption.  Ann Richards, the badass, would be a dim light next to my kid.  On a Tuesday, at exactly 11:00 pm, the world granted my wish.  Bennet, named after the loving and self-assured Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, has rocked my world since that April day.  I am  a woman wizard--I willed my kid’s personality.

She is the most complex, passionate and prideful (other than my mother) human I know.  I do not yell, and I stumble upon some beast version of myself that is roaring words at her face.  Working with children feels natural to me, and she makes me work so damn hard.  I naturally labored for 10 hours on Pictocin (similar to being repeatedly punched by warlocks falling from the sky) with her, and every interaction since then has remained the same—honest, from-the-gut, passionate and effortful.  She can bring me my highest highs, and she has shown me the lowest of valleys as a mother.  And you know what, I cannot contain my excitement for the woman she will one day become. 

I cannot wait for the day you let go of you pride to see your full, wonderful and bountiful worth.

I cannot wait for the day you show your true dancing, loving, emotional self without abashment.  

I cannot wait for the moment you realize how much the world needs you.

Sweet dear, you are my Amazing.  Today, I want to thank you for your wisdom.  You have taught me much.

Don’t put up with people’s shit  Since day one, some may say that Bennet is fickled when it comes to letting people in.  What I have come to realize is that she is open and honest with those who approach her without an ego.  If you try too hard, it ain’t happening.  Use lies?  She’ll see through it.  Try to coax her with lack of sincerity, she’ll just walk away.  However, be truthful, be kind and give her your time, and you have sealed a friendship for all days.  She does not have time for anything less than uber-meaningful.  This, folks, is life-efficiency at its best.  Give time to those who matter most. 

Find another way  At the age of one, Bennet wanted a cookie.  So, I gave her one.  “Mama, more cookie.”  On this day, I was not willing to agree to her conditions.  “No, Bennet.”  My father then came to the table, and Bennet quickly said, “A cookie for Popeye.”  She reached for another cookie and placed it in front of him.  As he was about to grab the treat, she simply said, “Popeye share,” and looked at him straight in the eyes.  My dad was so tickled by her selfish and brilliant antics that he gave her the whole damn thing.  She got her way, and she used her brain. 

(Really) Listen to music  Bennet loves, loves, loves music.  She can differentiate between all of the singer-songwriters.  “Mama, Passenger, Ed Sheeran and Ben Howard sound a lot alike.”  When a beat is dropped, sheesh, you best get out of the way.  Her body will start to shake, convulse and move with as much force and energy as the Beastie Boys (one of her faves).  At 13 months, Bennet would start to tear up and cry if we played a ballad.  Whether it was a slow lullaby or a perfect classical piece, her whole body would respond.  She takes the time (and heart) to find beauty in one of life’s greatest pleasures.  Music is good for the soul, and she lives this daily.

Love and love and love  She has so much love to give.  She thinks about the homeless, dogs who are lost and those who love her most.  Recently, I told Bennet about my miscarriage.  She is a baby whisperer.  She wears a real Bjorn around the house and in public.  Her favorite smell is baby (and books).  She carries her babies in a real infant car seat (this makes us look like lazy parents) and puts it in the trunk of the Subaru (this makes us look like criminals).

After several days of Mama crying and  being sad, I knew it was time to bring her in.  After watching Up, Bennet knew that sometimes babies don’t live here on earth.  She has asked a lot of questions, and we have answered them all.   I took a slow breath and told her my story.

Bennet:  Mama, your baby is in heaven?

Me:  Yes.

Bennet:  How big was the baby?

Me:  She was small, love.

Bennet:  That’s why you’re sad? Because she's not here?

Me.  Yes.

Bennet:  I love you. 

She proceeded to give me a hug and subsequent hugs over the next several days.  For some reason, her hugs consoled me the most.  She could sense when I needed one, and simply gave what she could at that very moment—her awesome and honest compassion. 

Be comfortable with YOU For the last several months, Bennet has become Simon.  She cut her hair, buys clothes from the boys’ section and spends her time correcting those who call her by the wrong pronoun.  While there are moments when she wants to be Bennet, Simon is the one typically hanging out at abode la Palafox.  I know I did not find this kind of self-honesty until I was in my twenties (same time I discovered brie —another life gift).  He has already stumbled upon this self-comfort and makes no excuses for it.  This blows my mind.

And, you know what, history is repeating itself.  This relationship is my most passionate.  We will both be better for it.  I just know it.

Personal Purgatory: My Natural (Miscarriage) Birth Story

I just want to tell my sad story.  For the last week, this one act is my consistent comfort.   If not for social graces, appropriate conversational topics and my (typical) positivity, I would likely be shouting my horror for all to hear.  I don’t want to hear about your party plans.  I want to talk about how I labored over the course of two days.  I don’t want to hear about how other miscarriages were much harder.  I want to talk about the passing and birth of my third child.  I don’t want to see the sunshine.  I want to hold the darkness that has swallowed me.  

Part of me wants validation that I worked hard. 

Part of me wants to let people know that something really shitty happened to me. 

Part of me wants others to free me of life’s daily obligations.

Part of me wants to share my story without any shame and blame.

Part of me wants to help those who have walked/will walk the same path.

Part of me wants to think or talk of nothing else. 

All of me wants to have my pregnancy and my baby.

We found out on a Tuesday that there was no heartbeat.  As if my body was just waiting for me to know the truth, that very evening the spotting began.  For the next five days, I was in my own personal purgatory.  The doctor said it would just be like my two previous labors—contractions, breathing, clenched fists, the whole shebang.  Now, waiting for a baby to come is hard.  Anticipating a labor and delivery for a baby who did not make it on our earth is messed up.

On Monday morning, I woke up to go to work.  As I was drying my hair, the familiar tightening I felt during the births of my girls came.  It was starting, and I was grateful for it.   From experience, I knew there was much work ahead.  So, I went back to sleep while my body could still rest.  The contractions never came back.  Jeremy went to work, the girls went to school and I rested that day.  When it was time to pick up the girls, I went.  I picked them up, we got in the van and the contractions started again.  Maybe it was a fluke?  The next two rounds of contractions, twenty minutes apart, confirmed my reality.  I let Jeremy know.  So, with the girls by my side, we got to work.  The strange thing about contractions is that they build over time and they are intense.  You instinctively want to curl into a ball in a dark room.  Instinct, in this case, is wrong.  Grateful for my experience, I knew to keep moving and breathing.  We went on a long walk.  As the girls chatted, I would walk.  “Girls, Mama needs to stop.  Can you find me the biggest leaf?”  As they bantered about who had the largest piece of foliage, I would breath, breath, breath.  The contractions were now ten minutes apart, and I needed to get to a bathroom.  As we walked up the driveway, Jeremy came home.  I waddled as quickly as I could to the restroom.  For the next four hours, the contractions, bleeding and passing of clots continued.  I kept walking around in my bedroom, swayed my hips as I breathed through the tightening and let me body rid itself of something no longer viable.  At 9:30, as I was reading a story to Bennet, I had four contractions, one-minute apart, and then it all stopped.  Nothing.  It was over.  Or so I believed.  

I went to work the next morning, and I was sent home.  The crying did not stop.   The physical part was over; however, the emotional counterpart  was starting her crescendo.  Again, I spent the day resting.  Again, I picked up the girls.  Again, the contractions started again.  This time, Lady Contraction quickly escalated to being five minutes apart.  Again, I let Jeremy know.  He was in South Austin.  I took the girls outside to play and kept moving by watering the lemongrass plants.  After an hour, the contractions were right now top of each other.  Jeremy was still 15 minutes way.  Completely fucked.  “Girls, Mama’s tummy does not feel good.  You girls can watch a movie on the ipad on my bed.  I will be in the bathroom.”  The elation shown on their faces did give me slight comfort as I thought about what was about to happen.  The second the girls settled onto our bed, I went to the bathroom, sat down and felt something large pass.  I looked, and I saw the sack that harbored my baby.  There she was.  This time, there was no birthing music playing.  There was no husband comforting me.  There was no joy.  Much like my other births, however, I was on complete autopilot.  There was no thinking taking place.  I washed her off, walked to the kitchen, reached over my dad to retrieve the prettiest bowl I could find and placed her inside with utmost care.   I felt like this was the least I could do for bringing her into this earth in a tiled bathroom with a window that opened up to a world with those who were laughing, cutting the grass and buying purses.  

Our baby girl was buried in our garden by a jasmine, my mom's favorite plant.  Jeremy, Bennet, Ruby and I said our "see you later."  Bennet, my wonderful Bennet, said, "I hope you come back (she feels that all babies who go to heaven come back to earth somehow), and I hope you feel better."  It was perfect.  Ruby, the lover of all small, tiny things, said, "I will find you the smallest piece of dirt."  After finding the perfect speck of earth to put over the box, she said, "Thank you."  Jeremy quietly spoke his words, and I could find no words.  The same hands used to wash the blood from her quietly and gently filled the hole.  

Bennet and Ruby’s birth story is written down in beautifully decorated journals filled with sonograms and well-wishes from family and friends.  This story will only exist here.  This story does not bear less worth.  It does not make a smaller imprint on my heart and my memory.  

This story holds no optimism.

This story empowers anguish. 

This story needs prayers.

This story needs love.

This story is whole-heartedly mine.