Window Watching

Garbage truck or mail truck, he's at the window with his little stool watching them at work.

Two

We're here. Two. Right in the thick of toddlerhood. And that he is: A toddler, through and through. Curse the people who call them the Terrible Twos. So far (all two days of them, but really, what parent doesn't deal with challenges before and after two?), we love the twos the best. Isaac is more fun, more challenging, more independent, more opinionated and expressive, and best of all, more loving than ever before. We are the proud parents of a two-year-old.

To keep with some of my past posts, I'll share with you some of our favorite Isaac-isms at two:

"Piss" (kiss)
"Fock" (fox)
"Ha-tee, ha-tee, ha-tee, ho!" (When asked, what does the fox say?)
The way he says 'konnichiwa' which you absolutely have to hear--see video!
"Oopies!" (Oopsie!)
"Oh, shore!" (Oh, sure!)
"Oh, goodness!"
"What happened Santa, Mommy?" (Referring to the blowup Santa in our yard when he is deflated.)
"Ha der." (Here you go. This one he has said since he was at least 18 months old and it has never changed despite his always-improving pronunciation.)
"Watch out, snowman!" (Said while we are driving--does he mean snow? I can't be sure.)
"Ike" (What he sometimes calls himself.)
"Key Bee" (T.V.)
When asked, "Isaac, are you pooping?" he responded, "No, Daddy pooping."
How old are you? "Eight!" or, alternatively, "Green!" (His answer to everything.)
"Cupcakes, woohoo!"
Sings: "Happy birfday to you, I-gac dear." and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town!" though his favorite song to listen to is Frosty the Snowman. In particular, this version.
"Daddy/Mommy, don't push me." (After he trips and falls.)
"Thank you so much, Mommy, a-making dinner." (Wha?!)

We are forever asking him to say please. He doesn't make polite requests, but commands. So matter-of-fact, our boy.

Green Octagon:

Konnichiwa:

A story:
We were at our good friends Jamie and Kory's place a couple of weeks before Christmas. As I mentioned, Isaac was very excited about Santa and Christmas after meeting Santa on the train and subsequently reading many Christmas stories and singing carols throughout the month of December. Some "jingle" bells that were hanging on a door handle were bumped and rang. Isaac looked at me, eyes round and hopeful, and gasped. Then he whispered, "Oh! Santa! Santa coming! Presents!" Until then I had no idea that he was threading together the stories and songs we were teaching him. He not only understood some of what Christmas is all about (I know, Christmas is about much more than Santa and presents, but it's a start.), but he was full of wonder and excitement about it all. At two!

This face. This boy. This lucky, lucky life.

For me, looking back on the past year, I know now that it was meant for expansion. And, as growth often has a way of being, it was--is--a slow, arduous effort. It is uncomfortable, like the ache of lengthening of bone and hypertrophy of muscle. That dull throbbing fatigue. Tiresome. Something I all too often wish I could ignore so it would go away. But the most profound growth comes when we allow ourselves to be present with our discomfort, acknowledging uncertainty, doubt and fear. This vulnerability, the uncomfortable openness, is the path through, I've come to learn. And in spite of any difficulty I might have experienced along the way, the growth and expansion beyond who I was before has only been for the best. And I have my toddler, my forever-teacher to thank for that.

This year, I did not change who I am, but learned to be who I am. I've transformed. Today, I am a mother of a two-year-old. I am a wife. I am a friend. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am a once second-in-the-nation-miler turned recreational runner. I am a part-time researcher. I am a sometimes, when the mood strikes me, yogi. I am a novice cross country skier. I am a lover of woods and water and hills. Of sunshine and snow. Of solitude and community, both. I am trying, every day, to be more present in my life. As a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife, a friend. If this year taught me anything, it is to embrace who I am, who I was before and who I aspire to become. I am not perfect, not by a long shot, but I am learning to be more comfortable in my skin. I'm shedding layers (both of myself and layers of my life) that no longer serve me and discovering what lies underneath the old, still raw and tender. I feel both expanded and humbled by the process. And I hope I'm a better person for it--a better mother, daughter, sister, wife and friend.

Thank you, Isaac Michael, for your fierce love, your head-smashing cuddles, your challenging behavior, your wild giggles. For the tough and the easy. Your Dada and I are so, so lucky to call you our son.

Choo Choo! Isaac is Two!

We celebrated Isaac's birthday with friends today. Because, for the better part of the last year, Isaac has been crazy about trains, of course we had a train-themed party! All morning before the party he ran around the house yelling, "Birfday cupcakes, woo hoo!" He was beyond excited for his party. He proudly strutted around in his special birthday shirt and engineer hat, flashing cheesy grins and singing his signature birthday song to himself. His excitement made the party so worth it.

I really enjoy party planning when I have the time and energy, and this year I had a lot of fun with the decorations. I think they turned out really cute!

I made train engine sugar cookies the night before the party. This is actually the second batch. If you look carefully in the photos from my last post, you'll see a bunch of chocolate chips in some cookie dough. That would be the birthday boy's contribution to the first batch of sugar cookie dough. Sigh.

Easy peasy streamers as the backdrop for the food table. T-W-O cardboard letters painted by yours truly. Food: cheese and crackers, veggies, pretzels and hummus, veggie straws, fruit salad, cookies, trail mix, salad and hot beef sandwiches. 

I used Isaac's wooden train set for a lot of the decor. He has plenty, which made it convenient. 

I also purchased a birthday package from this Etsy seller. I couldn't resist the adorable banner, invitations and favors. Plus, as much as I would like to be, I am not a very artistic person. I was so happy with Diane's work--much happier than I could ever be with my own! I did make some cute train cupcake liners that I ended up using with the cups of trail mix. I ordered the cupcakes at the last minute from Costco and they were gargantuan. The liners wouldn't work for them. 

Railroad crossing fruit kabobs.

An (incomplete) list of things Isaac loves at two.

Isaac's daddy created the train track set-up. By the end of the party, every single section of track was pulled apart so the entire thing was in pieces. At least someone took pleasure in dismantling it!

The birthday banner. (Please ignore the shoddy work on the painted #2 on the mantle. A clear example of my artistic abilities.)

Favors included the train cookies in the engine favor boxes and these engineer hats.

The cheesy-grinned birthday boy! (Awesome shirt from this Etsy seller.)

And finally, the birthday celebration!

Huge cupcake, little man.

The gift opening turned into a major to-do for all the kids. Tesla started things off by opening Isaac's first present with him. He was interested in checking out each new gift, but the rest of the kids were anxious to see what all the other packages held, so they carried on without him. Eventually, all the kids were opening Isaac's gift and handing them to him. He didn't seem to mind sharing the spotlight. 

Thank you cards should be interesting considering we have no clue who gifted what!

I ended up purchasing a lot of the party decor because, while I was excited to run away with the train theme, I also wanted to balance my time preparing for the party with spending time with our birthday boy. After all, he only turns two once! Making more of the decorations and food would have meant a lot of my time on Isaac's actual birthday (the day before the party) would have been spent prepping. Instead, I spent a really quality day with him on his birthday and Isaac had a great time at his party. And his happiness is what really matters in the end!

Happy, happy birthday, Isaac! 

Happy Birthday to You, Isaac Dear

We spent the day doing a few of Isaac's favorite things: eating Dizzy's Donuts, baking cookies (for his birthday party), playing Legos (a new favorite!), and finally, a pre-bedtime trip to Sweet Cow for "ice sweam," of course!

Happy birthday, Isaac Michael! Mommy and Daddy love you so much!

Isaac: Talking at Two

These videos are examples of Isaac's speech, a day before he turns two. I think it will be fun to compare each year. He has some adorable sayings right now, including, "Oh, sure!" and "Goodness." I caught some of them on film this morning.

The (Very Long) Story of Isaac's Birth

On the eve of Isaac's second birthday, I want to share with you the story of his birth.

Preparation:

First, let me say that there is much to be learned from carrying your baby for 9 months before you meet them. For instance, we knew before the ultrasound that our baby was a boy—call it intuition. We knew he would be active, thanks to his constant kicks, jabs and rolls. We knew he'd like certain foods since I craved them so often during pregnancy (Dairy, fruit and baked goods--check, check and check!). And we definitely knew he would be strong-willed and determined because he was a breech baby who would. not. budge.

~

I loved being pregnant. I loved every flutter, every baby hiccup, every craving and every pound gained. I looked forward to each appointment with my doting midwives. I perched on my yoga mat every Sunday, round and happy, discussing every pregnancy detail with other mama-to-be yogis. I watched in awe as my body transformed and nurtured the growing life inside of me, as if I were merely the vehicle for this baby, privileged as I was to be along for the ride to motherhood.  I thought I would breeze through pregnancy and into the early days of motherhood when I could nuzzle my sweet sleeping babe from sunup to sundown. But in my third trimester, my easy, happy pregnancy was turned upside down. It was at the beginning of that trimester when we learned that our baby was presenting in the breech position.

I had a sneaking suspicion he was breech based on the location of his kicks. The midwife who checked my growing belly during my 27-week appointment asked another midwife to come in and verify what she felt: that hard bulge at the top of my belly—dead-center, just below my sternum—was, in fact, our son’s head and not his butt. It was still early, they assured me, plenty of time for him to turn. But just in case, I was given suggestions to nudge him in the direction of turning. The weeks went by and at every checkup the midwives’ hands would find our baby’s head right where it was the last time. He was not turning. I knew this as every day I’d lay with my hands on that round belly of mine, palpitating and praying it was a head and not a butt I felt down low. At first, this was nothing more than a small inconvenience. I made the time to lug my myself into a pool to do countless front flips (while my pool-mates cast startled looks in my direction), much like my not-so-distant relation, Shamu. I dished out gobs of money every week for specialized chiropractic care in the back room of my prenatal yoga studio, and sought out some crazy moxibustion acupuncture wherein my pinky toes were lit on fire. I mean, I was borderline practicing witchcraft to flip this baby. As my due date drew nearer, I started to wonder if he would ever make the turn so many assured me he would.

During my 32-week appointment, it dawned on me that I had no idea what birth would look like if our baby didn't flip. Perhaps I knew that I wouldn't like the answer. I asked my midwife anyway.

Cesarean surgery, she said. I recall the way she said it, with a knowing look in her eyes. She’s done this before. This is not news she likes giving. And I recall how I felt as the words left her mouth: my breath catching in my throat, that feeling of free falling.

“No other options?” I asked breathlessly, tears welling and my chest tightening with emotion. I felt so helpless in that moment, and it was as if a switch was flipped and my sensitive and understanding midwife became a logical and preachy one. She pointed out what she deemed as positives: We're lucky we live in this day and age (I can't tell you how many times I heard this), and surgery is so much safer than vaginal birth of a breech baby. My tears spilled over. She pushed further, telling me she worked with a family who tried for a vaginal breech birth and lost their baby. I was alone in my despair. I was crushed by the thought of losing all control over my birth. And what I needed right then was someone who understood that I was mourning a loss instead of someone who treated my feelings as if they were petty and unwarranted.

Eventually my shock and sadness gave way to panic.  My carefully crafted birth plan was going up in smoke. No natural birth. No early labor walking on our beloved trails--perhaps no labor at all. Surgery. It was as if the rug had been pulled out from under me and I was flat on my back, hugely pregnant and defenseless.

Lucky for me, Ben and I began our childbirth classes the very same week with Katie at our prenatal yoga studio. As soon as I met her, I knew I loved her.  Katie was funny, sincere and completely supportive from the beginning. I felt safe in her presence. I expressed my doubts and fears about a breech birth and Cesarean and Katie rallied for us. She was on our side. She gave us a couple of references for doctors who deliver breech babies vaginally in our area. I was elated. Simultaneously, we learned about her doula practice. We were very aware of what doulas could offer during a birth, having gone to a doula info session early in our pregnancy. But that early on, Ben thought we wouldn't need a doula, at least not for the price. We did talk about who we might choose among those we'd met that day though, and we both agreed we loved a doula named Jenevieve. She had such a calming and supportive presence about her.We hadn't looked any further into a doula service again, so it must have been fate when Katie talked about her practice and the women she partnered with, because wouldn't you know it, Jenevieve was now part of the doula circle. Ben was sold, and since I'd never questioned the value of a doula, we began working with Katie and the Boulder Doula Circle during our third trimester.

When I was 35 weeks along, I met with one of the doctor's Katie recommended down in Denver.  Dr. Mill*, an older man with white hair who looked strikingly similar to Colonel Sanders, introduced himself. He gave me the history of his practice and told me, with a clear sense of passion in his tone, that he is completely in support of vaginal breech birth--in the right situation. “I will not pull your baby out for you; you will do all of the work.” These words struck me as odd, as if he had been hardened by his work over the years. The consultation was quick. A conversation about what breech birth looks like, the standards by which he decides whether it is possible or not to have a vaginal birth, and an ultrasound to confirm the size and position of baby. That was that. I had very little time to get to know this man who might very well be helping me through labor and delivery of my breech baby. The consult was over and I was brought to the appointment desk to schedule an external version.

External Cephalic Version:

The version was scheduled for 1 p.m. on a bright, chilly December day. Ben and I took off of work, drove down to Denver and checked in to the hospital at 10 a.m. sharp. I was nervous. In preparation, I read varying accounts of how a version might feel, and something told me I wasn't going to enjoy it. But with a 58% success rate, I was willing to give it a shot. I was gambling, hoping the odds were in our favor. After giving consent, I was brought to Labor & Delivery and instructed to disrobe and put on a hospital gown. A nurse hooked me up to a fetal monitor and placed an IV in my arm for the turbutaline that would be administered prior to the version.  My mouth filled with a copper taste as the saline entered my body. We were left alone in the delivery room for hours, with only a nurse popping in now and again. Ben and I were mostly silent, occasionally filling the void between us with idle conversation. I stared at the activity on the fetal monitor, watching each bump rise and fall with the Braxton Hicks contractions. I could hardly stand the anticipation.

At noon, Jenevieve arrived, and with her a magical bag of labor tricks we could use during the version. Ben and I were both relieved by her arrival and practiced with new-found hope the breathing and hand massage techniques she taught. Thirty minutes before the version was set to begin, the flurry of activity began. Nurses and doctors hustled in and out of the room. An echo machine was set up to my right. A nurse started the turbutaline infusion. And finally Dr. Mill came in, guns blazing, ready for action. He quickly squeezed electrode gel on my belly and confirmed our fetus was complete breech. He warned me that I should be ready for two minutes of intense pressure and pain, but no more than that. Jenevieve interjected and asked if he would use some calming oil with his lubricant to help keep the environment more relaxed. He did, and chuckled at the grief he would hear from the staff later on. During the ultrasound, Ben had moved to the bottom of the bed to catch another glimpse of baby, and he was still there as the procedure was set to begin. Jenevieve tucked herself alongside the echo machine near my head and asked if I was alright with her there instead of Ben. Nervous, I nodded, though immediately I wished I had asked Ben to move up to my head instead. I could sense his energy, and I knew he wanted to be closer to me. Jenevieve grabbed my hand and I held on tightly; I needed to be held and she knew that. She told Ben to firmly grab my feet to create pressure somewhere other than my belly. Then, on Dr. Mill’s orders, we were off.

The nurse in charge of the IV was timing the doctors, counting down in 30-second increments. A female doctor was putting her back into moving our baby’s head while Dr. Mill was pushing with all his might at the butt. The pain was inscrutable. I tried my best to focus on steady breathing and squeezing Jenevieve's hand in rhythm, but really I was just biting my lip and trying not to scream. The amount of force the doctors used was clear by their faces, which contorted with effort, and their ragged breathing. I watched Ben as a look of shock spread across his face. He told me later that my pregnant belly was gone and all he could see was this alien form turning inside of me. At 1 minute they stopped and Dr. Mill quickly put the ultrasound probe back on. They were back at it again before I had any time to recover or catch the baby’s position, though if I were to guess based on the discomfort I felt, he was sideways within me. With one final, pain-searing push, an involuntary shriek escaped me. Dr. Mill called it off. He quickly checked the position once more, and despite everyone’s expectation that the baby had turned, the echo revealed that baby was right back where he started. “That’s all. No more turning,” Dr. Mill said. I wanted to protest, but I knew he had his reasons for stopping.

That was it. Our baby was not going to turn, and I had known all along.

Despite my disappointing experience with the midwives when I learned I might have to deliver by C-section, they were generally very nurturing and advocated for an empowering birth experience. Dr. Mill was a bit more bristly. He struck me as a no bullshit straight shooter, appearing to give you the birth you desire, but still sizing you up all the while to be sure you meet his standards for delivery. He checked me for any progression toward labor just after the version, and it felt very rough and public, considering there were five other people in the room. It was at that point when I realized I wouldn't be able to build the same relationship with him that I had so carefully crafted with my midwives all these months. It was then when my doubts about working with him set in.

Turning Point (No, not the baby.):

After the unsuccessful version, the clock was ticking. We had roughly 2 weeks to decide which route we were going to take for our birth: An almost certain Cesarean surgery with the midwives or a vaginal breech birth that could possibly turn into a surgery with Dr. Mill. One way or another, this baby was coming out soon. I felt uncertain about working with Dr. Mill and wished we could just work with the midwives and have a vaginal birth. Even though all along I doubted our baby would turn, I had yet to come to terms with it. I also felt like we were forced into making some hasty decisions, and I didn't like it. I don’t have the best history when it comes to making rash decisions; Ben and I joke that I always make the wrong decision under pressure. I needed more time, but that just wasn't a possibility.

Then, news came: My insurance company denied the services provided by Dr. Mill.

What?!

I was certain I had checked and double-checked that everything would be covered under my plan. But alas, at 38 weeks, after I made numerous calls, it was confirmed. A computer glitch in the online search methods falsely told me Dr. Mill was covered.

This sent Ben and I into another frenzy. We considered heading straight to the courthouse to get married so I could continue care with Dr. Mill under Ben’s insurance. We briefly discussed paying out of pocket for the care. Finally, we looked at things as logically as possible. The fact was we still didn't know if we were candidates for vaginal breech birth. We could go through all of this trouble to have the birth we so desired all for naught and with a doctor I wasn't sure I wanted to work with anyway.

For the first time, I felt in control of something after all these months of uncertainty. The decision became clear to me. At 38.5 weeks, we switched our care back to the nurse midwives, scheduled a Cesarean surgery, and worked with our doulas to create a new and empowering surgery birth plan.

~

Four days before the surgery, I sat in an empty Mexican restaurant with Ben and our birthing doula Maria, snacking on chips and salsa, wishing for a margarita, and discussing any remaining barriers to our Cesarean birth plan. Maria knew the owners of the restaurant; she was their doula. She chatted with the friendly man behind the counter when we ordered, and I couldn't help but feel jealous of what his birth experience might have been like. Did he manage to have the dreamy birth I was hoping for? Did he even realize how lucky he was if he did? That jerk. Clearly I had some unresolved feelings to address.

Maria had dutifully taken notes during our pre-op appointment with the surgeon and with her notes she came armed with ways to work with the hospital staff in order to help us get our longed-after birth story. We talked about what surgery would look like at our particular hospital, any doubts and fears we had about the birth, and most importantly, our desires. She helped to re-frame the picture of our birth. I left feeling more confident and excited than I had in weeks. With Ben, Maria and a midwife supporting me, I was sure to make it through to the other side of motherhood alright. Better than alright. I would be nuzzling that sweet baby soon enough.

We requested January 4th as our son's birthday since he was due January 5th. Instead we were offered January 3rd. Despite my thorough preparation for a Cesarean, I was still hoping to go into spontaneous labor prior to the surgery. One of my only unresolved fears about the birth was that bringing the baby into the world before he was ready would mean difficulty with breastfeeding and bonding. I walked and squatted—which I was not allowed to do until this point—and tried my hardest to start labor before surgery. We attended the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert and I thought I was starting labor right there in the Pepsi Center, but the contractions stopped as soon as the music finished. Besides an otherwise very uncomfortable holiday leading up to the surgery, there was very little change and no sign of labor.

~

Two years ago, on the eve of Isaac’s birthday, Ben and I dined at our favorite restaurant in Boulder. “The Last Supper,” Ben duly named our date. It was all so surreal, knowing it was truly our last meal as two, knowing how close we were to meeting our son and becoming three. We tried hard to imagine what meeting him would be like. Would he be blonde? (I was sure he’d be blonde.) Would he have his dad’s chin? His mom’s eyes? Would we fall instantly in love? How is that even possible? We could have never imagined how otherworldly meeting him would be.

Our Son’s Birthday:

At 5:30 a.m. on January 3rd, Ben and I walked through the emergency room doors of Boulder Foothills Hospital. As we headed down a hallway lined with large windows toward the elevators leading to the Family Birth Center, the reality of where we were going set in. It was still dark outside, but by the time the sun rose, our son would be born. We’d be meeting him in just a few short hours. Excitement and worry coursed through me, and I held my belly as we walked.

When we reached the floor that was to be our home for the next few days, we carried our bags and pillows to the recovery room connected to the room being prepped for my surgery. As we entered, I recalled our tour a few months back when they brought us into this room. It felt cold and bare and I was certain then that I wouldn’t return to it. Boy was I wrong.

Once again, I stripped and changed into a hospital gown in the private bathroom. This time, I catalogued every centimeter of my pregnant self. My ridiculously huge belly, the slight ache at the base of my curving back, my swollen breasts-- I was marvelously pregnant. I wanted to remember myself as I was that very moment. I came out of the bathroom in the bulky gown looking absurdly large. Ben tied it closed and hugged me without saying a word.  Our lives are changing, ready or not.

Maria arrived with coffee for Ben and plenty of positive energy to spare. She rubbed my feet and sang along to my birth mix, keeping the energy light, but focused on us. She celebrated the life we were about to bring into this world. Ben massaged my hands the way Jenevieve taught us during the version. We sat for a while this way before our midwife Sarit came in. She was happy to see Maria present, as she’s worked with her practice plenty. She knew I was in good hands, so she kept her time with me brief, asked me if I had any questions before the surgery and then headed off to scrub in.

When the anesthesiologist came in, I asked him if I could have two support people in the room during surgery, as we had discussed I would request. At the Mexican restaurant, Maria told us he was the man who would make that decision. We knew it was a long shot, so I wasn’t totally let down when he said no. Maria assured me she’d be waiting in the recovery room, readying the space for Ben and the baby. We planned for Ben to do skin-to-skin with our son if they weren’t able to stay in the surgical unit while I was being closed up. We had no idea whether it would be possible for Ben and the baby to stay, but I prayed they would.

Just before we were asked to make our way to the operating room, the sun began to rise. And oh my, what a brilliant sunrise it was. The pink and orange and purple hues seemed to envelope the room in their beauty, like a glowing prayer. I couldn't help but think it was a gift meant for our baby, for us.

In the operating room our surgeon was ready and waiting. Sarit put our music on and the nurses asked me to sit on the table. Everyone was covered from head to toe in blue. Everything was so cold and sterile. I am very familiar with this scene, thanks to my years working with the hospital. The anesthetist was cheerful and made idle conversation while he went to work on my spinal block. This was another one of my fears. I was nervous about how I would feel when half of my body was paralyzed. (I prefer to have control over my body, thank you.) It took me some time when he asked me the artist of a particular song before I could offer, “Jose Gonzales.” There was a major disconnect between the discussion taking place and my thoughts. To him, this was all in a day’s work, but to me, my life’s work was in his hands.

Before I knew it, I was on my back and the nurses were making quick work of placing a catheter and putting the partition up between my baby and me. I could still feel the lower half of my body, even if I couldn’t move it. It was an odd sensation, but I took comfort in knowing I had even a little bit of feeling. Ben sat near my head, ready with our camera and Maria’s video camera. He held my hand and as the swirl of activity surrounded us. We looked at each other in awe, with silly, nervous grins on our faces. “We’re about to meet our baby,” I said as the doctor made her cut.

It took no more than a few minutes for the surgical team to prepare me for the delivery. Ben stood to watch the birth of our baby boy from behind the partition, and gave me the play by play. First came the butt, and then a leg was born. I could hear the excitement growing in his voice as he spoke. And then I heard it, a little wail from our baby. The surgeon laughed because she hadn’t even pulled him out yet and he was already crying. (What a relief!) And finally, he was born. “He has dark hair!” Ben exclaimed. Our Isaac Michael Vanberg is here.

The nurses brought our baby boy over to the warming table to do their assessments and Ben followed to be by his side. He asked one of the nurses to move so Isaac would still be in my sights. Isaac, so small and helpless, cried on the table as he was manipulated. The nurses soothed him with their voices. Ben trimmed the cord and then our baby boy was wrapped in a blanket and placed on my chest so we were cheek to cheek. I couldn’t believe he was here. I tried to memorize every inch of his face and hands as I held him there. His dimpled chin and the chubby cheeks we glimpsed in the ultrasounds. His perfectly pursed lips. His surprisingly long fingernails. I can’t remember exactly what my first words to him were, but I know I shushed and soothed him as he cried.

After a minute or two, the nurse slipped a thermometer in Isaac’s armpit to check his temperature. Without a word, she unwrapped him from his swaddle and placed him under my gown. We stayed this way together, skin-to-skin, until I was stitched up and ready to be transferred to the recovery room. I am so thankful for that nurse whose name I have since forgotten, but whose actions had such a profound impact on my bonding with my son.

Ben followed the nurse who carried Isaac out of the delivery room. While I was wheeled in, Isaac was weighed and measured. Ben soothed Isaac by putting his finger in Isaac’s mouth. One of the things I remember about that moment was how surprised Ben was by Isaac’s strong suck. He was so proud and in love already. Instantly. Ben laid Isaac back on my chest and Maria helped me put him to my breast. All my thanks goes to Maria for remembering how important it was to me that Isaac nurse in the first hour after his birth--we made it, with ten minutes to spare. Isaac latched on like a champ and nursed right away. He stared into my eyes and I stared back. I was so overcome by him. He was finally here, my son. All that anticipation and worry vanished the instant I heard him cry out for the first time. He was absolutely breathtaking, my dark-haired, rosy-cheeked son. My whole world.

Ben, Isaac and I stayed in the recovery room together for a long time, a couple of hours, I think, but time stood still. Isaac was alert the whole while. We took turns cuddling him, rocking him, and sniffing in his sweet baby scent with pure love filling us. We were the proudest parents on earth in those moments. We were three.

*some names have been changed

Statistics:
Isaac Michael Vanberg
Born January 3, 2012 at 7:59 a.m. weighing 8 pounds 2 ounces, 20 inches long.

New Year, New Car

Oh yeah, we also bought a new car yesterday. We finally drank the Colorado Kool-Aid and bought in to the Subaru craze. And we love it.