Let Go

December 5 – Let Go.

What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

(Author: Alice Bradley)

This is a tough one to commit to paper (screen).

Several years ago, I decided to "let go" of my identity as a musician. I had defined myself as a clarinet player since I was an adolescent; so much of who I became was a direct result of my experiences as a musician. But, in 2006, I realized my job, which is as a member of a band, had become about much more than being a clarinet player, and the combined demands of the "extra duties" (which are really more time-consuming than the clarinet playing) and motherhood had become more than I could realistically handle.

I gave what was to be my last solo recital, and resigned myself to being someone who plays the clarinet, but not a clarinet player.

I let go of the identity, but I didn't let go of the career, which would have been just fine, except for the fact that the extra duties were still more than I could realistically handle in consideration of motherhood and self-care.

Ah, yes. Self-care. That was the magic ingredient that had been lost for so long! Sleep, food, exercise. I'm easy like that. Sure, I'd love a shopping trip, a spa visit, mani-pedis all the time ... but really, all I NEED is sleep, good food, and exercise (and daily vitamin D supplements). When everything fell apart for me health-wise in 2009, I knew it was time to make a major change. I quit my second job, which then resulted in not being able to have an au pair anymore when our contract was finished. So Gabriella got signed up for pre-school and I started the juggling act of not having live-in, full-time childcare.

I drop a lot of balls.

But I'm letting go. I'm letting go of the need to please all of the people all of the time. I'm not perfect, so I'm not going to try to look perfect. I'm letting go of the need to be accepted and praised at work. It's not gonna happen. I don't take this personally; rather, I realize, through very rewarding work I'm doing toward my next career, that I am incredibly valuable, but my workplace has consciously chosen to condemn me to a corner. Frankly, it's their loss, not mine. And I'm letting go of the anger I've been feeling since I realized they stuck me in this corner.

It might appear, to some, that I'm giving up ... but I'm letting go.

Wonder

December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)

That's my Choopie girl in the picture. She was nursing to sleep. She'll be three tomorrow (well, really today since it's past midnight). I have three children, and she's the youngest. She is, unquestionably, a child of light. She's happy, carefree, loving, and easygoing. She's affectionate, smart, and fun to be with, even when she's struggling because she's tired or hungry or wants to push the shopping cart and mamma won't let her.

Mothering her, as well as my other two babies (now 8 and 6! Still babies? Indeed!) cultivates my sense of wonder. I hug them and remember when they were first born. I smell them and wonder how come my babies have such a sweet scent, but other people's children don't? I hold them close and marvel at the miracle each one is, knowing that my body was but the vehicle for their creation. I didn't make skin cells, I didn't program an endocrine system, I didn't craft hair follicles to make spiral ringlets, and I didn't put tiny nails on fingers and toes. All I can do is support what God has created by giving them what they need: love, touch, wholesome food, a warm bed. I can also invest in their formation, and respect my role in helping each one to become a positive, loving contributor to society.

The real sense of wonder comes when I consider how much I love my children, how there is nothing I won't do for them and how it would be impossible for them to lose my love. I am awestruck not only because, before they arrived, I knew nothing of such love, but because now, I understand: this is how God loves me. He loves all of his children as I love mine, only on an unfathomable, infinite scale. I gaze upon my beautiful children and my faith is strengthened. My sense of wonder grows every day.

A Moment of Feeling Alive

Today's Reverb10 prompt:

December 3 – Moment.

Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

(Author: Ali Edwards)

Hmm. This one is tough, because it's hard to choose just one moment in a year that has been very full of life for me. I'm going to cheat a little bit and describe a weekend that was a real turning point for my life.

It was the weekend before Halloween, the weather was sunny, breezy, and mild; perfect for driving down to Washington, D.C. to run the Army 10-Miler, an annual race I had been itching to run for over 12 years. This year was my first chance because our work schedule permitted the absence and my children are now all old enough for me to A) train for a race and B) spend some time away from home without them. In addition to the race, which was on Sunday, I was looking forward to a mini-reunion with a few close friends from high school, most of whom I hadn't seen in years.

I enjoyed the solitude on Saturday, driving down, getting my race packet, a solo hotel stay. Sunday morning was such a high, I finished the race within my goal and enjoyed every step, even the ones that hurt! After resting a bit and getting some Chipotle for lunch, I headed over to my friend Cheri's apartment, where I was to stay Sunday night.

Cheri was one of my closest friends in high school, and we've stayed in touch over the years (even pre-Facebook but that sure has made things easier in recent years!). Cheri, with her Ph.D, is serving this year as a Congressional Fellow. We sat on her couch and talked about so many things, including how our lives brought us to where we are today and in what directions we were headed.

I picked her brain about her job and her path. There were many similarities between us; she started out doing one-to-one help with at-risk adolescent girls, then educating others in adolescent mental health, then evaluating and designing programs that served this population, and finally making her way to Washington so that she could work to bring about policy support for the needs of those she has spent her adult life helping. Similarly, I have been helping mothers and babies breastfeed; I've begun writing and speaking to parents, helpers, and healthcare providers about breastfeeding and lactation, and now I find myself with the desire to make global changes so that it's not so difficult for mothers to honor their creation and their babies in the way they choose.

Talking with Cheri, walking with her to dinner with other friends from high school, accompanying her to work on Monday and seeing the inner workings of our nation's policy process left me buzzing with optimism ... a very, very rare sensation for me in these days of feeling defeated in my career and grounded by responsibilities. I remembered when I visited D.C. earlier in the summer, and couldn't really put a finger on what I was feeling, couldn't really identify the pull I experience when I am there.

I love the architecture, the layout of the streets, the transparent mysteries that occur within the walls of the historic buildings on every corner ... I love the energy there, which is not quite as harried as New York but definitely purposeful. I belong in Washington, D.C., and after my time with Cheri, I believe I belong on Capitol Hill, delivering relevant research results to lawmakers, educating them about what our nation's maternal/child health and nutrition needs really are, so that we, as a society, as a generation, can leave a legacy of healthier norms for our children and our grandchildren to build upon.

On my drive home, I made the decision to investigate, in earnest, graduate programs in public health. I learned from Cheri that a background in policy would be best, and knew where to begin my search.

Everything from that point on seemed to make more sense. My job suddenly feels more purposeful; I need to finish out positive years as a member of the military and as an artist in order to really fulfill that point on my resume (a 20-year veteran who was also a musician, with a specialty in maternal/child public health might be just the diversity a lawmaker is looking for on his staff!). My mothering is energized. I feel like I'm moving, albeit slowly, in a direction. The right direction.

Second Prompt ... Writing

Today's prompt, ironically, came on a day when I actually took some time at my favorite coffee place and wrote. Of course, it is also the day I go to my weekly memoir workshop, which is seriously the one thing I think I've ever done in my life that has been totally motivated by only the desire to have fun. And I love it.

December 2 - Writing.
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Author: Leo Babauta)

Today, tonight, really (since I got home from my class after 10), cupcakes didn't contribute to my writing. Sort of. Gabriella is going to be 3 on Sunday, and we're bringing in cupcakes for her to celebrate her birthday with her preschool class tomorrow. She's been talking about the cupcakes all week.

This morning, my husband felt cruddy, and I sent him to the doctor instead of to work. There, he was given 48 hours "quarters" (which, in the Army, means he was supposed to go home and rest for 2 days), but he requested instead to only have to stay home for 24 hours, since that's how we roll as musicians ... we hate to miss rehearsals and jobs. It's totally true.

So, he came home and rested. And I ran errands and wrote, then we picked up our kids from their after school activities and got them going on homework. At that point, I offered to stay home from writing class. He insisted I go, because the kids would all be in bed in an hour and a half, and he knew I'd hate to miss class.

He had agreed earlier to make the cupcakes for Gabriella's class. At 11:30, when I thought I had everything staged for the morning, I realized the cupcakes weren't here. And we had no frosting. I went out to the grocery store, in my pajamas, and bought a boxed cake mix (a first for my kids) and some frosting. (I also stocked up on foodstuffs for next Saturday's long, long job in Philadelphia, so that eliminated one errand for the morning.) I came home and made the cupcakes, and the truth is I did it with great joy. Gabriella is going to feel so special at school tomorrow, and if staying up all night is the way to create that for my youngest child, I'll do it!

But cupcakes aren't what keep me from writing, really. And here's where it gets complicated. On one hand, life is what "doesn't contribute" to my writing ... but, without life, what is there to write about? And, without writing, my life is kind of drab. I am so much more aware of everything when I'm actively writing a few times a week. If I stop, it's like the super-sensors shut down, and I'm ambling aimlessly, not really experiencing anything -- for better or for worse.

On the other hand, and this is hard to say out loud: writing is something I do for me, and for me alone. I like to run, as well, but I have to do that for my job, so there's some extrinsic motivation in that, even though I enjoy it. But writing serves no one, it satisfies nothing. Oh, sure, being able to articulate my thoughts on paper is a wonderful transferrable skill I'm using now and will continue to use later in life, but I'm not going to make money writing memoir. I do it for the sheer joy. But it's selfish. When my family is stretched to the limit (and with both of us working this crazy job and 3 little kids having so many needs, when aren't we stretched to the limit?), writing is the very first thing to go.

Can I eliminate "it?" I think that depends. I could make more time for writing by giving up time I spend doing other things. Instead, I'm accepting that today, I made cupcakes for my almost-3 year old little girl. Before I know it, there won't be any little girl left to make cupcakes for. My guess is I'll have plenty of time to write then.

Diagnosis ... and Healing

Well, today is December 1st, and it is not lost on me that the day I'm starting reverb10 is also the 8th anniversary of the day I became a mother to my beautiful Anna. She taught me how to be a mother, and I'm so thankful she refused to accept anything but the very best I had to offer.

So, if you haven't clicked around yet to learn, reverb10 is a month of prompts designed to get us writing, reflecting on the year that has passed and preparing in a positive way for the year to come. Since it encompasses those things I either want to do more of (writing, reflecting, goal-setting, being positive) or ought to do more of (acknowledging, letting go, moving on), I decided to give it a go, even though there's a Twitter component I don't feel like I have the hang of yet ...

Anyway, today's prompt:

December 1 One Word.

Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

(Author: Gwen Bell)

I played around today with a few words. Redirection, regrouping, reconstruction, (I've been likening my life lately to a house of cards, so elaborately and carefully constructed but flattened into a meaningless pile by a mere sneeze or loud noise from the other room), rebound ... all of these spoke to the fact that 2010 has been, er, messy, but also that things seem to be turning around, or moving in a more positive direction. I thought about the major events, the news I'd put in a "Christmas letter" if I were the sort of person to send such things (I'm not, though I do enjoy receiving them from people who are), if my boundary issues were socially acceptable (they're not, which is why I'm not a Christmas letter sort of person ... why put up the facade that all is well when really, things are freaking hard and I get to the end of every day filled with both relief that it's over and dread that it's going to start up again in a few hours?).

My word for 2010 is diagnosis. Merriam-Webster states my Word of the Year as follows:

3. a: investigation or analysis of the cause or nature of a condition, situation, or problem

b: a statement or conclusion from such an analysis

Diagnosis speaks to my 2010 on many levels. There is the literal one, the moment in late August when, after years of suffering from debilitating fatigue, rashes that made my body feel like it was on fire, digestive ups, downs, twists, and turns that left me feeling like a competition yo-yo, arthritic aches and pains, and other mysterious afflictions that came and went with no explanation ... a diagnosis: gluten intolerance, perhaps celiac disease. Frankly, I didn't (and still don't) care whether an endoscopic biopsy of my small intestine would reveal damaged villi, it doesn't matter to me that I haven't been tested for the celiac gene. On September 1, I began following a gluten-free diet, and the change in my life has been monumental. My skin is no longer angry, my sleep is sound and refreshing, and I feel, I believe, as a 37-year old mother of three in better-than-average physical condition should feel. In addition to the dietary change, I'm correcting a long-standing vitamin D deficiency, which undoubtedly deserves some credit for my being more vibrant than I've felt in years. Years!

In 2010, there were other conditions, situations, and problems that were cause for investigation or analysis. There was a crisis of my Catholic faith this spring when my daughter received the sacraments of Reconciliation and Holy Communion for the first time, and I could either choose to blindly go through the motions of supporting her or put my heart and soul back into Catholicism. I chose the latter, and began voraciously reading the significant papal writings of the last half-century, amazed by their applicability today in my life and for society at large. A situation that continues to require investigation and analysis is that of my 15-year old career as a professional clarinet player in the military; I have diagnosed a loss of purpose, value, and direction in my daily work, which results in feelings of futility and worthlessness. I began to understand the deep regrets I feel about my mothering, as my youngest child began pre-school this fall, I became consumed by the sadness that her baby days are not only over, but I believe I missed most of them -- not only hers, but my older two children's, as well. The discovery of this cancer in my life, the feeling that my motherhood has been less than my children deserve because of my career and that my career has been less than it might have been had I stayed childless opened the door to countless other nagging symptoms that have plagued me for years, and prompted me to stop, look, listen, and breathe.

I began to write this year, because I felt like I was missing life. Writing classes became a soothing balm over my wounded heart and I found myself more aware of my surroundings and my reactions to them. I wrote about the past, so that I could perhaps unlock some more mysteries of the present. It worked. I felt the pain and let myself bleed. I stopped using band-aids and analgesics.

I'm beginning to understand things that before were too difficult to face. And so, I look toward 2011, and the word I've chosen is healing:

2. growing sound; getting well; mending.

I'm learning to take care of my body in ways that never occurred to me before, to respect its limits and honor the wonder of its creation. I'm praying, all the time I'm praying and learning and strengthening my relationship with God, and I'm coming to understand love as I've never known it before. I'm loving on my children, because I can't get back yesterday but I can cherish today. I'm listening to my heart and I'm letting my sadness and frustration motivate me toward a new career, one I can begin when my 20-year military career comes to an end in 2015. I'm writing, because these thoughts I have, these experiences are real, and, while I may remember many of them, I will forget more, unless I stay awake, alert, and present as I must in order to write effectively. I'm growing sound; getting well; mending.

Welcome, 2011. I'm looking forward to healing.

Sacred Space

Today, a baby was born. He arrived between 2 and 3 p.m., and before 4 o'clock, his mother sent me a text message:

Hi diana. We had the baby! do you have time to come to the hospital to help with breast feeding?

The baby's father is a co-worker of mine, since maybe 4 years ago. I've met his wife exactly 5 times ... but I'm "the breastfeeding lady." I've helped mothers and babies as a volunteer since 2005, and in 2009 became a board-certified lactation consultant (IBCLC). I don't do a lot of mother-baby helping these days, because my own family and my full-time job as a clarinet player keep me hopping. I do write articles about breastfeeding and I present educational sessions at conferences about breastfeeding, and the young families know me not so much anymore as a clarinet player. They know I'm the breastfeeding lady, the baby whisperer, "all things mom."

I was so excited to go see this new family, with a baby boy just hours old. I tell all of the pregnant families in my workplace "Please, call me! I'm happy to help you. It's so much easier to avoid a problem than to fix one, so call me early!" I was thrilled to receive the text message asking me to visit.

The new parents were happy to see me. Mother was just radiant, despite her exhaustion. She held her sleeping loaf of love in her arms against her naked chest. I was so happy to see that she wasn't worried about being modest, and she was allowing her baby full access to her skin, her warmth, and her scent. Father was as content as I had ever seen him ... and visibly impressed with what his wife had just done in bringing forth this sweet baby boy.

I spent time with them, talking about breastfeeding, reminding them of normal newborn behaviors, and encouraging them to trust their instincts. When it came time to feed the baby, mother wanted my hands on deck. I offered as little assistance as I could, instead encouraging mother to relax and let her baby explore his new world, the outside of her body instead of the inside, where he had lived for nearly 40 weeks. When he latched onto her, she looked up at me. "I'm going to cry now," she announced. I told her to stop looking at me and gaze at her sweet baby ... enjoy him. I reminded her that she had nursed her baby on her own, and could do so again after I left.

Nearly 8 years ago, my own brand-new family took up residence on that same ward, just two doors down from where I spent time this evening. There is part of me that misses my own newborn baby days, those magical moments in that baby bubble. Tonight, I felt immensely blessed and thankful to have been invited into the new family's sacred space.

Is this thing on??

OK ... I'm going to try something here. Yes, I can see my blog looks a little ... er, dated, and that's even before I look to see when things were posted! Maybe I'll change it up a bit this month, maybe I won't, but at the very least, I've committed to writing something each day during the month of December as part of an online initiative called Reverb10.

It's nearly 2 am so I'm not going to say much more about it, but feel free to click on this link http://www.reverb10.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/reverb10button.png and see what's up. Maybe you'll decide to do it yourself (and by "you," I'm not even sure there's anyone out there, but that's OK).

Anna's Birthday List

Anna learned how to write last year in kindergarten (yes her teacher was amazing).  Over the summer, she wrote on every piece of paper she could get her hands on.  In a little memo pad, she wrote her "birthday list" for her 6th birthday, which was still 5 months away.  Here's what it said (spellings hers, her capitalizations were a bit more erratic):

Annas Birthday

A Donne Doll

Winnie the Pooh toy

an automatic Dora casle

roller scates

scate boarte

makeup

club house

Baby doll house

German ear ring book

Doctor house

clarinette

Marie Doll

(new page)

Annas Birthday

music book

cammera

crouwn clock

christmas tree

I think she had some help from Janet, our German au pair, with the spellings.  The wish list, though, was definitely all Anna!

Stopped by a Cop!

Yes, I got pulled over this evening. It was one of those days, really. Bryan was out on a gig that paid only $50 but was something he really *wanted* to do...I took Anna to the allergist this morning and literally the minute I came back, he left me home alone with the kids for the rest of the day (12:45 p.m. until midnight, that comes out to less than $5/hour, indeed).

Anyway, in my effort to refrain from killing my beloved children, I stacked our day chock-full of activities. First, we ate lunch and they colored with markers (always a hit) while I did some work. Then, we went to a local farm and gift shop, where we always like to see Polly the Pig and get a homemade cookie. We bought earrings for our former au pair, who is coming to visit us tomorrow.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening in Walden with Lisa and her kids. Her husband was also gone, so I brought over pancake mix (Nature's Path Flax Plus Multigrain Pancake Mix), a box of chicken and apple sausages, and a package of cooked nitrite-free bacon. The kids played and we made dinner (Lisa made fried apples, which were delicious on the pancakes). Lisa had to leave for a meeting at around 6:45, so I stayed alone with all 5 kids until her husband got home just aftter 8. I considered it a very small exchange for being able to spend the afternoon there.

I packed all of our stuff into the van, then loaded each child. Simon wanted to go to sleep. Gabriella cried at first, then settled down. Anna was her usual chatty self. On Stone Castle Road, I passed an unmarked police car going 47 in a 30 mph zone. I knew it immediately and started pulling over before he even had his lights on.

Simon perked up, wanted to know what was going on. I was very calm and told him the police wanted to talk to Mamma but not to worry. We sometimes use "the police" as a threat to get Simon to follow instructions, but he seemed able to tell that we weren't in any trouble. When the policeman got to my window, I was still rifling through the glove compartment for the vehicle's registration, but I had the insurance card all ready. I opened my wallet to give him my license, and he spotted my military ID. Ah, that blessed little card saved me again!

It wasn't a totally wasted stop fo rthe policeman, though; I'm sure he got quite a laugh out of the few minutes he spent with me...my minivan smelled terrible (my fault, I'm not sure what I ate but it wasn't agreeing with me), and Anna (age 5) was saying from the back seat, "but mom, you always drive that fast, sometimes you go even faster! Did you tell him that you usually drive faster?"

Boycott Nestle

Last night, I was on stage during my first concert since having Gabriella. I will admit that this return to the workplace has been the easiest of the three, mostly thanks to Gabriella herself -- she's sleeping well, handling our short separations very well, and generally keeping her mamma at ease...for now.

Anyway, as we were beginning the last portion of the concert, the conductor of the children's choir that was singing with us took the microphone to offer appreciation to people who made the event happen. Part of his announcement was a special thanks to the sponsors who partially underwrote the concert -- Nestle Waters/Poland Spring.

My face got hot and I'm pretty sure the shock I was feeling was obvious. Bryan looked across the band at me and seemed pretty amused, but I wasn't happy. We boycott Nestle products -- and we're serious about it! There I was, on stage, performing for an event that was partially underwritten by Nestle! I can only hope it was just the water they provided, not any money. I can also hope that posting this blog entry somehow cancels out the fact that I had to stay on stage!

If you have any interest in why this produced a knot in my stomach and caused my thoughts to race for the rest of the concert, follow this link.

http://www.babymilkaction.org/pages/boycott.html

The Miracle of the Midwife

The first time I picked a midwife, to attend the homebirth of my second child, I just wanted someone who would be nice to me and allow me the freedom to labor and give birth as I wanted to, without drugs or interventions. Of course, I wanted her to be skilled and experienced. Julia more than fit the bill, and she saw me through the later half of my second pregnancy. She arrived at my home less than an hour before my son was born; and her presence was absolutely necessary, as he needed her help to get out of my body.

This time, I sought two things in a midwife who would attend the homebirth of my third child: a strong personality, and a comfort level with shoulder dystocia. My opening words to Martha when I first spoke to her were "Before I decide I love you, can you please answer one question for me? How do you feel about shoulder dystocia?" Her answer was very simple. "Well, it's only a problem if you can't get the baby out." Silence followed for a few seconds, then she continued, "...and I know how to get the baby out, so I don't think shoulder dystocia is a problem." I knew I had found my midwife.

Martha saw me through my entire third pregnancy with a placidity I had never seen before in a woman. At every visit, I was energized by her strength, confidence, and unbarred trust in pregnancy and birth. I listened to stories of the births she would attend for mothers no other midwife would touch -- home VBACs, older mothers, mothers with histories of pregnancy-related medical conditions. Martha's confidence comes from her extensive experience and knowledge of the pregnancy and birth process, but also from her faith in each mother she supports. She knows that we all want the very best start for our babies, and she trusts that our bodies and our intuition will lead us to successful outcomes.
She had far more trust in me and my body than I did.

After my experience of giving birth to Simon, I held a lot of fear about whether I could give birth to another baby. I spent my pregnancy focusing on growing a smaller baby, trying to eat intelligently, exercise when I could, and sleep. Taking care of myself was a top priority and as a result, my third pregnancy was also my easiest. While I carried fear, I also knew that being at home, with Martha, was the very best chance I had for the most positive outcome. The concept of a hospital birth felt foreign and disconcerting.

I called Martha much eariler than I knew I had to, only because I knew that her proximity alone would free my inhibitions enough for labor to do its work. I had been in a holding pattern of labor for several days, but I knew Wednesday would be my baby's birthday. On Tuesday evening, I let Martha know that labor had settled in, and, in her calm, unemotional way, advised me to sleep and call her when I couldn't sleep through the labor anymore.

Martha arrived after 11:00 on Wednesday moring, with her sister, who was visiting from out of town. The most animation I ever saw in Martha was when she spoke of her sister, Etta, during my last prenatal visit, so I invited Martha to bring Etta along if I went into labor while she was in town. I was only 3 cm dilated and contractions were very bearable, so Martha and Etta left to get some lunch while I busied myself arranging food for everyone to eat later.

At around 3 p.m., my mood visibly shifted and Martha strongly suggested that I get into the birthing tub. I was reluctant; I wanted her to check my progress. She assured me that, if it was too early, my body would tell us and I'd get out of the tub again. Getting into the tub was the right thing to do.

Just before 5 p.m., I was feeling tired and characteristically impatient. I wanted to know if my baby was a boy or a girl. I wanted the contractions to stop hurting. I wanted to know if this baby was going to get stuck on the way out. Martha demonstrated no signs of urgency and didn't seem to care whether the labor went on forever. Her trust never failed and her patience was infinite, but she caved to my desire for information and checked my cervix. 7 cm. I was making progress.

Martha didn't touch me again until my baby was born. She didn't break my water in spite of my having been in labor all day. She didn't tell me I needed to make some more progress soon or I would face an intervention. She sat, chatted, and smiled a lot. She checked my baby's heartbeat one time after my water broke; Martha knew that the umbilical cord was low because she heard a "whoosh, whoosh" pulse in one place on my belly, and a "thump, thump" pulse a bit higher...but she was not concerned.

In my previous two births, I received the assistance of the birth attendant near the end of my dilation. In my memories of both labors, that cervical induction, as it's called (manually moving a lip of cervix past the baby's head to faciliate descent), was the only experience of real pain I had. I was waiting for Martha to do this again, but she didn't...she knew my body would do what it needed to do, in its own time.

In our discussions about shoulder dystocia, Martha had let me know that she would ask me to push my baby out from a hands and knees position if she determined it was stuck. My labor was keeping me in a reclined-sitting position, and I felt that this was the position in which I needed to push the baby out. I felt the head descend and pushed like hell. I was determined and terrified and relieved all at once, and Martha was silent and calm. I knew my baby's head had been born, and I was waiting for Martha to direct me to turn over to help loosen stuck shoulders. When she said nothing, I second-guessed her. I had screamed my baby's head out, I think in expression of the fear I had about whether I had grown another barrel-chested baby, but Martha and Bryan were both extremely calm as they looked at the baby's head. What I couldn't see was that my baby emerged facing my right thigh, then turned face down after a few seconds. Her head stayed pink and did not retract as Simon's had as it turned dusky purple. They knew my baby was on her way out safely.

I pushed again and my baby was born. Martha only unwrapped the cord from around her body and pushed her through the water toward me. I gave birth to my baby almost completely unassisted!

The miracle of the midwife is that, by doing nothing, she had done something so incredible: she restored my trust in my body's ability to grow a baby and give birth to it. Her presence gave me the confidence to let my body labor; her proficiency gave me the space to labor safely and effectively, and her trust gave me the gift of birthing my baby without even the slight interventions I had been conditioned to believe I needed.

Once again, my experience of giving birth changed my life.

The Miracle of the Helpers

To say Leila and Julia were the "icing" on the cake of our experience of Gabriella's homebirth would be a grand understatement, unless we were speaking of such cake/icing combinations as lemon meringue pie (really useless without the meringue!), or carrot cake without the cream cheese frosting.

Several weeks before our baby was expected, Bryan and I discussed what we would need help with during my labor and during the birth of the baby. For Simon's birth, we enjoyed the support of two family friends: one was there to care for Anna, who wasn't yet two, and the other took some much-cherished video of my labor. Neither of those women would be able to attend this birth, and our network of support people didn't include anyone with the kind of availability we'd need (any time, day or night!) who also fully embraced our choice to give birth at home. We could not allow someone who questioned the practice of homebirth into our space; the negative energy would have been unacceptable.

I initially sought the counsel of my online parenting group. Did we need a doula, or were the things we sought "beneath" the expertise of a doula? Were there untapped resources we weren't considering? I am terrible at asking for help. I am always happy to offer help and do anything for someone in need, but I am very uncomfortable asking others to support me. On the other hand, we knew we'd be financially tapped out after paying our midwife (thank you, Keller, for jeopardizing our chances for reimbursement from TriCare...) and hiring a doula would not even be possible for us.

Martha, our midwife, suggested I contact Leila, a midwifery student at Yale. Leila is from Rockland County and had attended some births with Martha over the summer; I had the opportunity to meet her briefly at one of my prenatal appointments. Leila was working on a project for her degree in which she photographed the faces of women in various stages of labor, to illustrate that those facial expressions could be used as another tool by a midwife to gauge how far along a mother's labor was. Martha felt confident that Leila would be glad to photograph and perhaps even take video of the labor and birth for us. Since we did not get Simon's birth on video, we really wanted to record the entry of this baby into the world.
I contacted Leila and she was very excited. She offered to bring her friend Julia, also in the midwifery program at Yale, to be in charge of Anna and Simon. The two young women came to visit us after Thanksgiving and we knew instantly that they would bring wonderful, positive energy and four helpful hands to our birth party.

When I knew I was in labor, I called Leila to let her know it was time to make the 2-hour trip from New Haven to our home. I had awakened her after a late night (even though it was after 9 a.m. when I called her!) but, such will be the lifestyle of a budding midwife! She and Julia arrived and made themselves at home with us.

The support they provided went far beyond caring for Anna and Simon or documenting the labor and birth. Each of them checked in with me periodically, offering exactly the words of encouragement I needed to hear. Indeed, Anna and Simon felt cared for and will remember the day their sister was born as a day they got to spend drawing, playing, singing, and enjoying the company of their friend Julia. The photos Leila took with our camera were fabulous and we're certain the ones she took for her praxis will also leave us in awe of the beauty and miracle of labor and birth.

Words cannot express how magnificent the birth video turned out. There were a few minutes of video taken each hour as labor progressed, so we can see how I was doing as the hours wore on. The birth itself was captured in its entirety, but there is never a moment where the viewer can say "oh, there's Diana naked!" Somehow, the camera angles and lighting worked in our favor and we are undistracted as we watch Gabriella Cecelia enter the world, under the water, gently and peacefully (except for my screaming as I pushed her out). Anna and Simon's excitement is palpable on the video, as well. The video will be a huge piece of our family's history forever.
After the birth, Leila and Julia, who were both thrilled to witness our homebirth, stayed on hand to support me; as well, they made light work of cleaning up so that we could enjoy our first hours with Gabriella as a complete family. Bryan, Anna, and Simon all stayed on the bed with me and the baby. None of us could take our eyes off of her, she was finally here!

If we have another baby, Leila and Julia will themselves be practicing midwives. We are wondering how we'll possibly have another baby without them. Their roles were so significant, so vital to the experience being as whole and perfect as it was. I am unable to find a gesture that will adequately thank them.

The Miracle of the Labor

"You can't always get what you want...but if you try sometime, you might find, you get what you need..." -- The Rolling Stones

My midwife, Martha, had told me, and I had seen it written elsewhere as well, that there is a saying in the birth community: first labors are long, second labors are short, and third labors are unpredictable. Not being one for unpredictability, I went through my third pregnancy feeling certain that not only would my labor be like the first two, I would have some control over it.

How funny that, after two completely natural births, I might have such a foolish notion!

The first intention that did not come to my wishes for fruition was my baby's arrival date. Since the day I knew I was pregnant, I decided we would enjoy a November birthday. Every plan was made for this November birthday, despite my "due date" of December 9th. (It bears mentioning here that I am always 100% sure about my conception dates and theoretical "due dates," however, I do not believe in "due dates" because every mother grows her babies differently and every baby needs a different amount of time in the womb. I, for one, have never made it to "the due date.")

As November faded away and we moved well into the first week of December, my frustration, and my worry, grew. My 2nd baby was a big one, almost too big for me to deliver. There were many factors that caused this abnormally large child to grow in my body, none of which were present in this pregnancy; however, I was still aware that each day, the baby was gaining another ounce.

I'd be concealing the whole truth if I neglected to mention that there was some degree of ambivalence leading up to the birth of this baby. While the pregnancy was carefully planned, even sought after, and we were certain we wanted a 3rd child in our family at this time, I could not think of the baby in terms of what I would gain from its arrival, only what I would lose. I was finally sleeping without interruption from my children, finally free to do something alone without worrying about someone needing to nurse, finally seeing the light at the end of that years-long tunnel of being so available to my children and meeting their needs, at the expense of my own, most of the time. After all, my job outside the home requires so much of my energy and the kids deserve everything they need from me. Another baby would set me back a few years. I was scared.

The next intention that didn't really work out for me was my feeling that my labor would be short and sweet. I had been in a holding pattern for days, with mild contractions starting and stopping but never settling into any real pattern. On Tuesday, though, I knew things were different and I would have my baby pretty soon. I got a good night of rest and called Martha on Wednesday morning to let her know that I would be having my baby that day. I asked her to come early because I was afraid of giving birth alone and not having the help I'd need to get the baby out. She brought her sister, who was visiting from out of town. We called our helpers and asked them to be on their way. Bryan filled the birthing tub with hot water and prepared the house for my labor. I putzed around the house, put a lentil soup into the crock pot, and ordered a big fruit arrangement for everyone to eat while I labored.

Labor continued to be mild for several hours. Bryan and I went for a walk down our street, stopping at fire hydrants for contractions. I ate two English muffins and drank some raspberry leaf tea. After Bryan got the kids from school, I felt my mood start to shift. I had a few hard contractions in the bathroom and started to cry. Things were getting harder and I didn't feel like I was up for the challenge. This was unprecedented! I had handled each of my other labors with poise and grace, for the most part. I cried on Bryan, and Martha told me to get into the tub.

I worried that I was getting into the tub too soon, but she assured me that if my labor stalled, I could just get back out! Martha was right; at around 3 p.m., my getting into the tub was the best move. I could barely feel the contractions anymore, and I felt relaxed enough to let my body do its work.

I focused on letting go, relaxing, and allowing my body to labor. I did a pretty good job of this, just breathing through the contractions and sitting on the birthing stool to facilitate the opening I needed to do for the baby to be born. After awhile, I didn't want Bryan's words of encouragement or the counterpressure on my back that made the other two labors bearable. This time, I just wanted silence and space when I felt contractions. Everyone was respectful of that, and my body did its work.

My water finally broke, on the toilet, at 7 p.m. When I got back to the tub, Martha reminded me that the contractions would be more intense, but I didn't really feel that they were any different. I kept waiting for the sense of calm to wash over me, that feeling of peace that came when it was time to push out Anna and Simon. Those contractions didn't hurt as much...but that never happened. Every contraction took concentration and work to get through. In spite of not knowing for sure whether I was fully dilated (I needed a little assistance from my birth attendant at the end of the dilation phase in the first two labors, but Martha is very hands-off), I decided to start pushing.

On the first push, I felt my baby's head moving down. On the next one, the head was born. I was expecting Martha to tell me to turn over, so she could assist the delivery of the baby while I was on hands and knees, but she said nothing, because my baby wasn't stuck! My baby was born on the next push. Her umbillical cord was wrapped around her body and her fist was up against her cheek. No wonder her descent was so slow and deliberate! And no wonder this labor hurt so much more than the other two had! Her elbow and fist were digging into my back for hours!

The labor was a miracle.

My labor was exactly what I needed. I have realized that labor is the bridge a mother must cross -- it's the connection between "before the baby" and "after the baby." The bridge I crossed for Anna, my first baby, was long, but not too painful; it showed me that I have power and an innate understanding of my body and what it can do. The bridge I crossed for Simon was much shorter, but was a mixed bag of sorts; I emerged on the other side with the amazing confidence that I can give birth without technology or doctors, but with the knowledge that sometimes, nature has a hiccup and things can be a little out of control. The labor that I endured for this baby was so arduous and exhausting, both physically and mentally, that there was no question I was glad to see it end. Any ambivalence I had about welcoming this baby was long gone, wholly replaced by my singular desire to see the labor end, to be on the other side of that bridge.

Gabriella Cecelia was born alert. She and I both enjoyed the chemical and hormonal gifts nature offers to mothers and babies who experience drug-free births, laying the foundation for a lifetime of love. My trust in the process of labor and birth was restored. It was not the labor I wanted, but it was, without question, the labor I needed.

I yuv you

My little guy, Simon, is almost 3 years old now (just over 3 months to go). He is nothing at all like his big sister was at this age. For one, his speech is very "little boy" where Anna was speaking like a grown-up by 3. I think this is more a factor of Anna being on the high end of normal than Simon having a problem, though for several months I was very concerned about his tongue-tie and whether it had been completely repaired (I had his frenulum clipped when he was 3 weeks old and breastfeeding him felt like nursing a cat -- ouch). He is slow to pronounce several sounds, mostly at the beginnings of words and he has a really tough time with diphthongs. We understand him for the most part, as does the general population who listens to 2-year olds talk.

While his pronounciation isn't always right on, what he says is amazing to me. He talks about feeling sad and missing me when I go to work. He tells people how much he loves spaghetti and broccoli ("pa-getty and bokkie") but doesn't care for beef ("it's bad for my body and my b(r)ain"). He talks about trucks that dig and trains that take people to the city, and will tell strangers in the store that he goes to the doctor if he's healthy, just for a check-up.

The default phrase for Simon, though, is "I yuv you." He'll be sitting, playing, quietly, then look up at me and say "Mamma, I yuv you." In the car, if I turn around to smile at him at a red light, he'll say "I yuv you." In the wee hours of the morning, when he comes into my bed to snuggle until we get out of bed, he whispers "I yuv you."

Someday, he'll learn to pronounce his "l" sound and probbaly will only tell me he loves me if I tell him first -- if I'm lucky. For now, "I yuv you" is music to this mamma's ears.

He's still my baby

I'm really savoring these days, as they might be the last days that Simon is my "baby." We're hoping to get pregnant this month. While Simon won't know immediately that he's no longer the "baby" in our family, I will, so I'm really enjoying Simon, age 2-1/3, as my sweet little one for a few more days.

Our breastfeeding relationship, which continues to be a huge part of how we relate to each other, is what I know will change the most. Nursing Anna during Simon's pregnancy was just short of torture for me, to the point that I vowed to never do it again. Once Simon was born, though, the tandem nursing of Anna and Simon together wasn't such a terrible thing and I am thankful for the benefits I reaped from that investment in Anna.

During each cycle, my luteal phase presents real difficulties for me in nursing Simon. After I ovulate, breastfeeding starts to get uncomfortable, progressing to downright painful and annoying as my period approaches. My experience of nursing through a pregnancy was basically that pre-period feeling for the duration of the pregnancy. I had many moments of resentment toward Anna, as well as many escapist techniques to help myself through the sensations that were so abrasive to me. Indeed, I found a way to get through the pregnancy and let Anna continue to nurse, but it was all for her. I did not cherish those nursing sessions one little bit. Sadly, Anna was younger than Simon is now when Simon arrived -- the majority of her 2nd year was spent with a declining milk supply and an often-frustrated mother.
Thankfully, after Simon was born, I started to like nursing Anna again, so my memory of our breastfeeding relationship will always be positive. Her weaning was timely; we were both ready to move on to new ways of interacting and relating to each other. She still seeks closeness with me, and I still make the time to sit and offer her individual affection and attention. I worry, though, that Simon might wean halfway through my next pregnancy, when the milk dries up. While this very fact is one reason I waited as long as I have to get pregnant again (Simon will be over 3 when this baby is born, whether we conceive this cycle or not), I am concerned that his last nursings might be accompanied by my impatience or visible discomfort.

Of course, it is just as likely that Simon will continue to enjoy his "un" through the birth of his younger sibling, and benefit from a second round of colostrum as Anna has.

Today, I'm savoring everything about Simon's babyhood: his intoxicating scent, how delighted he gets when he climbs into bed with me to nurse (he says "oh boy!" with so much excitement!), how he talks about nursing ("I drink this un now, this un in morning"), the way he searches for a part of my skin he can touch and pat while he's nursing.

I learned the hard way during Simon's pregnancy how detrimental it can be if I overlook the fact that the baby inside of me needs as much care as the ones on the outside, the ones who are already born. My intent to take good care of the baby inside might sometimes mean Simon gets the short end of the stick. If he doesn't night wean soon, we may have to encourage him to, so that I can get my sleep. His 45-minute nursing sessions, which happen a few times each week, won't really be practical anymore as my discomfort increases. Within a few months, I won't be able to sleep on my back anymore, which might upset Simon on the nights he wants to put his head on my chest. He won't accept anything else on those nights, and admonishes me "No sideways! I want to see un!" if I try to roll over before he's asleep and will let me move his head to the pillow beside me.

For a few more days, Simon will be my baby. He's been such a wonderful baby, and I know he will be a fabulous big brother when that time comes.

Yes, He's Old Enough to Ask For It

I'm talking about Simon, age 2, and I'm talking about breastfeeding.

When Anna was about 3 months old, I shared a recital with my clarinet quartet. We had our customary gathering of celebration afterwards, and of course, Anna was there with me. I went nowhere without her, because she was breastfed and didn't take a bottle. I was the only woman in the quartet, and Bryan and I were the only couple at the gathering with a child, so I stole off to an upstairs bedroom when Anna needed to nurse, in the interest of my comfort and the comfort of the others present. (Today, I would probably just nurse right there, because all of those people have seen me nurse in far more public places, like concert sites.)

When I returned from my upstairs exile, a conversation started between me and some of my more curious co-workers.

"Does it hurt?"

"Is it...messy?"

"Is it really any different from the stuff you can buy in a can?"

I enjoyed answering these questions and giving folks the opportunity to learn about something they had likely never had any contact with, at least any that they remembered (though most of my age group was not breastfed at all). But then, the conversation turned a bit:

"I'm glad I don't have to see it."

"It's OK when they're babies, but when they're old enough to ask for it, that's just gross."

This "old enough to ask for it" business has come up more than once in my nearly 4 years of breastfeeding. It seems that public opinion includes provisions for the non-verbal child, but one who can indicate with his voice that he wants to breastfeed is just a blink away from a pervert. Turning gay. A molester in the making. Porn addict. Right?

I had to laugh about this at the time. When Anna was just 3 months old...heck, when she was 3 days old, she let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted to breastfeed. She "asked" for it by smashing her little bobbly head into my chest, pulling back and quickly "banging" on me. After a few weeks, she'd make a little noise: "uh? uh? uh? uh-uh-uh-uh!" There was never any question what she wanted.

Of course, once she got to be 3 years old, and beyond, Anna could clearly express, in conversational terms, that she wanted to nurse. She told me what it tasted like (macaroni), why she liked it so much ("because I love your smell, Mamma"), which side she wanted, and how long she expected to be there. Now that she's done, she still tells me, in a wistful tone, "I sure did like mamma-milk. I used to enjoy it so much, when I was a baby." She still likes to be cradled in my arms when we're sharing some special time together...only now we talk or laugh instead of nursing.

Simon, at age 2, is nowhere near his sister's verbal level at that age, but he has his own way of communicating. One of his first "words" was un, which is how he describes breastfeeding. (This is not to be confused with untch, which is his word for drinking anything else from a cup, or even a reference to the cup itself.) Simon is happy to let me know not only that he wants to nurse, but where! "Un-cha" is nursing in the chair. "Un-bit" is nursing in the bed. "Un-ball" is nursing here at the computer, while I'm sitting on my yoga ball. Lately, when he's tired, Simon's been asking for "un-car!" (nursing in the car!), and getting very upset when I tell him we are not going to the car to nurse.

Having been through a full course of breastfeeding, through a primarily child-led weaning (with some encouragement from me, tandem nursing was starting to wear me down a little bit after almost 2 years of it), I can't imagine denying a child's requests for nursing (I'm talking in the grand scheme of things -- there are definitely times I distract Simon, like when he asks for "un-store"). He knows what he wants, and he asks for it the way he knows how.

And he's always so happy with a tummy full of "un."

It's the End of the World as I Know It...

...and I haven't really decided how I feel about it.

I mean, I've realized time and again that the "right" decision makes me feel sad (but feels very right) and the "wrong" decision just leaves me feeling unsettled.

I'm talking about my decision to give up music, to quit playing the clarinet as my career. It's something I never would have thought would happen. I mean, there was a time in my life when I actually said "If I can't play the clarinet, there's no reason for me to be alive." I naturally assumed I'd stay at my job for 20+ years, until I was ready to retire, as in, live the rest of my life into old age with no formal job. Really, what else was I ever going to do?

I'm not entirely sure where to lay the blame of changes. At first glance, one might assume that having Anna was the big turning point, the event that ripped me from my commitment to music...but I don't think it was really that simple. I experienced one of the pinnacles of my career, a chamber music performance at the International Clarinet Association Conference with Larry Combs -- when Anna was 7-1/2 months old.

Another pinnacle of sorts happened a few weeks ago, at what was likely to be my last solo recital. Before I began, I was emotionally unstable -- one of the musicians who came to play the Appalachian Spring with me was simply awestruck that I, with a 2-year old (and an almost 4-year old!) would be giving a recital. Her own daughter was nearly 2. I wanted to tell her that I wasn't what I looked to be -- I wasn't at all "together" or balancing my career with motherhood the way it obviously seemed to her. I wanted to tell her that I was losing my mind and feeling completely out of control...but I didn't.

People I worked with came to my recital, which I didn't want to know before I played but I saw them coming in. I expected some of them -- my friends, who had come to support me. It was the "others" that surprised and unnerved me, the colleagues who probably say mean things about me behind my back and just bring negative energy to the room. One (confirimed) friend later told me how neat it was to see so many of our co-workers there, and I shared with her that I thought some were there for the sheer spectacle of what they expected to be a terrible performance. She was shocked that I could be so cynical, but there it was. Knowing "they" were there rattled me enough that I performed with an element of fear for a little while.

Of course, that was almost completely counterbalanced by the presence of the most incredibly lovely man alive (I can't control the tears even today as I type about him!), my clarinet teacher from high school. Mr. Scott is big as a mountain, with a heart of gold even bigger than his body, and he came to hear me play. I choked back the tears before I took my place beside the piano, and said aloud, "I can't possibly play poorly with Mr. Scott in the room!" (OK, I'm sobbing all out now, and I don't even have PMS.) God brought me to Mr. Scott halfway through my freshman year of high school. I will do an entire blog entry about him someday, for sure. He gave me a lot of what I should have gotten from my father during my adolescence -- encouragement, love, patience, and the expectation of greatness. I worked so hard to live up to his perceptions of me. At my recital, I was boosted again by the years-old desire to make him proud of me. Several years ago, at his retirement dinner, he announced to everyone in attendance that I was "the best" he had ever taught. I went home that night and cried for hours, that I could be that significant to a man as he wrapped up decades of teaching.

I chose a program for the recital that I would feel connected to, pieces of music that I felt spoke of my past, my present, and my future as a clarinet player, and as a human. Honestly, though...I had no idea just how connected I would feel until I was actually giving the performance. It was the first time in years (really, in years!) that I wasn't just playing the notes. I had something to say. A lot of things to say, about who I was, what I am going through, what I look forward to and desire.

I made my best stab at the clarinet concerto of Aaron Copland. I had performed it before, but only recently realized just how freaking HARD it is! My standards have evolved, I guess. What struck me as funny during the recital was how everything I used to totally suck at -- smooth, legato connections; intonation, especially in the high register; tone quality -- these were the aspects of my performance that were terrific ("sublime," as one friend described it). The things that used to define me as the best around -- my fast tongue and fingers, my aggressive style -- I missed the mark. I left the stage feeling like I shouldn't have attempted the piece. I was later chastised for not taking a second bow, because the audience kept clapping after I left. I just couldn't go back out there after I played the way I felt I did. I felt that I hadn't properly honored the musician I used to be, and I was kind of pissed off about it!

My second piece was the song As It Fell Upon a Day, which I performed with two very strong women -- women who have endured tremendous hardship in their lives. I chose them not for their musicianship (though they are both excellent musicians), but for their presence in my life and for the example they have set for me in how they've lived their lives with grace and dignity, even through difficulties. I knew I had a connection to the words of the song, and as we performed, even though there were minor flaws in the execution, I felt as if I was appropriately honoring my place in time today -- respecting that I am encountering a bump in the road, but that no one would feel sorry for me, because that bump is mine alone to get over. Most people wouldn't even begin to understand how or why this circumstance creates such a quandary for me, anyway...people change careers, or decide to stay home with their kids all the time, right?

I had waited 15 years to perform Appalachian Spring. I nearly had a chance my senior year of college, when I was slotted to play it with an ensemble at school. My audition for my current job was scheduled for a Thursday and I would miss the dress rehearsal for Appalachian Spring, which was to be performed on Saturday evening. My conductor, with whom I had a great relationship, let me know that he was uncomfortable with that situation. I considered not taking the audition in favor of performing the work, but chose instead to go get myself a job, figuring I would have an opportunity to play it someday. Eleven years later, I still hadn't played it, and I knew I needed to make it happen -- now or never.

It cost me more money than I could really afford, what with renting the parts and score (Boosey and Hawkes are pretty stingy with their music!) and paying the musicians (who all worked for dirt, really -- I appealed upon their sense of humanity in the hopes that people who would play for very little money and a bag of Bryan's chocolate chip cookies might also be the sorts who would pour their hearts into the music and not concern themselves with every little technical nuance), as well as properly thanking my friends/co-workers who also offered their time to fill out the wind parts and conduct. All told, I'm out $1000 for that experience, but it was worth every penny.

Another (confirmed) friend who came to hear my recital said later "Anyone who wasn't here today could never understand what exactly happened here." He is right. Appalachian Spring was truly the stuff dreams are made of. So my pianist wasn't always in the right place. The strings sometimes came in before the conductor cued them. I missed a few notes. But, it didn't matter, at least not to me or the people who could see my heart on my sleeve during that 25 minutes of my life. There were moments I just couldn't even believe -- perfectly in tune, broad lines shared between the bassoonist and myself; quiet but vibrant whipers by the strings, punctuated with a singing melody from my (confirmed!) friend's A-clarinet (which I boldly chose to play half an hour before the recital, knowing it would be better than mine -- and it was like driving a Ferrari!), the big, sweeping statement of "Simple Gifts" near the end of the work that told everyone there, whether they knew it or not, what I really want out of my life -- to be simple and free, to receive the gift of coming down, where I ought to be!

I sobbed (probably audibly, but I haven't listened to the recording yet) right there on the stage. One (confirmed) friend told me a few days after the recital that he had never seen me so happy as I was during that piece of music. I was filled with joy and sadness and direction and confusion about my future, all at once. I crave the simplicity of motherhood, without the shackles of all this "otherhood..." the negativity that has crept into my musical experience over the last few years that gives me real, tangible, physical pain every time I put my clarinet together; the hatred I feel in my bones for the people who have ruined my happy workplace with their rigidity and left-brained applications that just don't work in a right-brained endeavor like music; the despair I feel to my core because I can't just take what works for me and ignore the rest -- I can't ignore the people who value cold, stark precision over communication of a musical emotion, the bullshit of having to work 6 days a week "because you could be in Afghanistan," the demoralization of seeing people with real integrity getting squashed by others who are hollow and empty. That's not to say there aren't instances of humanity and beauty in my job anymore...they are just overshadowed by cynicism and a spirit of meanness. I'm guilty, too.

Therein lies the heart of why I cannot continue as a musician, why I can't swallow the difficult logistics of balancing my hard-sought career with my even harder-sought family (because let's face it, I've made it this far with two kids and a zillion stupid trips, I can do it for 8-3/4 more years if I wanted to!). I can't get past everything that is wrong about the human part of my job, because I can't possibly connect myself to the task of making music with people who have bought into the "other side" of what we do. I shut down years ago, probably before Anna was even born. I've finally given up hope that I'll ever feel like what I'm doing is worthwhile in the grand scheme of things -- I've realized that my mark on the world is going to be more significant if I concentrate my energies elsewhere, and my own sense of "center" will be easier to find once I'm away from the huge negative force that brings me such frustration and illness. Today, I got home after far too long at work, and spewed poison at Bryan for 20 minutes. I did not say one positive thing for 20 minutes. I finally got a bad, acid taste of heartburn -- I've been getting that a lot lately -- and knew I had to just take a breath and send the day away. I can't infect my kids with my anger. Tums can fix the reflux, but it can't give my babies a happy, responsive mother.

I feel that music chose me -- I know I could never have gone on to pursue anything else without feeling debilitating, paralyzing regret. Now, as "the end" is approaching for me, I wonder whether I'll look back on this time and wish I had found just a little more fortitude to get myself through the hard patch, or if I'll feel that I did the right thing by leaving my life as a musician. A few nights ago, still buoyed by the experience of my recital, I went into the music room to practice, and felt sad that I won't ever have anything to "sink my teeth into" again. I was looking for a challenge. I don't know whether I'll find a way to satisfy that need somehow, or if that part of me will just have to go unanswered.