Motherhood

I could have added to yesterday's post of confessions the following: Oftentimes, I really don't feel like I am a mother.

I say I am a mother to myself as a point of fact and a reminder. Especially after Ewan Eliezer died and before Austen Brielle was a tiny cluster of cells in my belly, I didn't know how to think of motherhood. I wore it differently than I had ever hoped or anticipated, looking nothing at all like what I understood it to be. Instead of sleepless nights rocking a fussy baby, I remained awake with nightmarish memories of a 16-day hospital stay. Instead soothing his tears and cries, I gave sway to mine, letting them take me where they would. Instead of caring for a child at home, I tended to the empty evidences everywhere all around me of what we had once hoped for.

From the spray of flowers on his casket

There are those who would say to me here that I shouldn't concern myself with labels and to a great extent, I agree with them. With one child gone and one soon on the way, the last thing I need is to concern myself with how I'm fitting into a definition of something that is perhaps too narrowly understood.

The truth is, I would have given anything to be servicing the types complaints I heard from other mothers. Not wanting to use my grief as a weapon, I kept to myself the thoughts of, "You have no idea how lucky you are to be doing that." And then when I became pregnant again, oozing joy and hopefulness and anticipation for the new life inside me, then came the "Just wait until your baby is doing this ..." comments, words that pointed a finger at my inexperience with the normal dailiness of mothering and (it seemed to me), seeking to temper the unbridled joy I had that someone new was alive. I could have said, "It's better than the alternative," or yet, "I will learn these things the same way you and every mother before you in the history of the world did -- by my own experience," but again -- these are thoughts I kept to myself.

I thanked God for those who taught me to think of it differently. It was Annie (our doula) who, when she heard the story of how Ewan died, told me, "You mothered him right up until the very end." A friend of mine who flew from Texas for his funeral said that as far as she was concerned, I had been thrown into the deep end of motherhood: "It's loving your child more than yourself, doing what's best for him, and knowing when to let go. Most of us learn to let go of our children a little bit at a time. You had to learn all at once."

In the weeks and months that followed, I began to think of my motherhood taking the form of what I call mothering memory. With all the attendant instincts and no living child for whom to care, I mothered a memory and tended carefully to the heart of mine that my son had turned inside out -- this, too, was part of and evidence of his life. It didn't look like motherhood as I had previously conceived of it and maybe that's why I never felt like I really was one. My motherhood took on a kind of dailiness, but in a very different form.

I still have difficulty in understanding myself as a mother. I know how most people understand it and in the world at large, how many women embody it. By all appearances, motherhood may be comprised in its early days of diaper changes and feedings and blowouts; later on, it will look like potty training and manners training and tantrum management; and later than that it will look like a great many other things. But I wonder if at the root of it all is what my friend said: loving your child, knowing and doing what is best for him and when it is time, letting go of what you once held on to.

There are many of us out there who have been forced too early into the deep end, skipping past all the normal dailiness and while we are still in motherhood's infancy, letting go all at once. Maybe that's part of why grieving a child feels so impossible. Most mothers, in a sense, grow into their motherhood as their children grow into maturity. But when motherhood is cut off in its infancy, we are pushed to the end of the mothering line as it were, widowed in motherhood before we've even had a chance to enjoy the honeymoon.

Of those of us who have experienced the abrupt letting go of a child, I know many of us are giving motherhood a chance again, looking forward to embracing the more commonly understood dailiness about which we've heard other people complain. We are, I know, looking forward to loving these children and embracing the dailiness that many see as mundane. We're looking forward to having the chance to make memories and savoring the everyday. And after the traumas of having to let go all at once -- finally -- we are going to learn what it's like to let go gradually, just a little bit at a time.

Coming Home

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner, but I'm here.

We left Bellevue about 6 am on the morning of Monday, July 11 and after stops in Midway, UT, then Englewood, CO, then Holyrood, KS, then Jefferson City, MO, then Franklin, TN, I finally pulled into the driveway of the new place I call home in Casselberry, FL at about 9 pm Saturday evening, July 16. 3,507.7 miles driven over about 58 hours and 6 days, and I was finally able to hang up the keys to the Toyota pickup and eat something other than food from truck stops or Subway stands.

A map of our cross-country trek: click to enlarge

Seeing James after an absence of 12 weeks was nothing less than surreal. We had conversed via Skype many times over those twelve weeks. Skype is great for what it is and definitely helped, but it's a poor substitute for actually being with someone you love. Seeing him again and being with him again was like waking up to find the best dream I ever had was true.

Many tried to tell us that twelve weeks was not "that bad." To be sure, our respective times apart were filled with preparations for a major move, wrapping up one life while trying to prepare ourselves for the next, saying goodbye, packing storage units, renting moving trucks, and for me, dealing with the persistent nausea that marked the first 15 weeks of my pregnancy. While apart, both our strengths and our weaknesses were amplified. Those things for which I leaned upon him -- things that (admittedly) he is better at than me -- became things I had to do on my own. And I didn't handle them well.

And so while I appreciate the encouragement of those who said those weeks really wouldn't be all that bad, I say: we are better together. A twelve-week separation, while perhaps not equal to torture, is something less than pleasant where my spouse and I are concerned.

Since I've arrived, my days have been filled with unpacking and setting up, and with the daily tasks of keeping a home running. I'm never lacking anything to do -- my list looks like many others, I am sure: laundry and dishes, cooking and cleaning up, sifting through what feels like mountains of cardboard boxes and trying to find a place for everything.

I knew this would happen, but I'm still surprised at how much I need to nap, even after a good night's sleep. Especially in the weeks prior to my departure, my days were filled with work, preparations, and in wrapping up all the loose ends. There was plenty to do and not a lot of time for rest. And then came 10-15 hour days in the car for six days on end. So while unpacking isn't going as quickly as I like, I know this is the time to get rest, to be gentle with myself, and to try and get what I need.

And then there's all the work of living in a new state: transferring our insurance policies, getting new licenses and registrations for our cars, learning the lay of the land. We're also looking for a new prenatal care provider and have set up appointments to consult with both an OB/GYN office and a respected midwife in the area. In the evenings, we'll walk around the neighborhood and meet our neighbors. I've become accustomed to handling the inevitable question about this being our first child, and am relieved at the genuine sympathy displayed when they learn about Ewan's all-too-brief stay with us.

It is a huge adjustment being here: the climate is different, the culture is different, and nothing at all is familiar except my spouse. He's now at work all day, and for the first time in most of my life, I am not a full-time student or employee. Everything is new, which is both exciting and frustrating -- so I'm trying to take it slow, and am not expecting everything to be sparkly and beautiful right away. I miss my friends and family, and I miss the way things were familiar. This isn't the first time I've been new to a place, but there is a little bit of sadness in each time that happens. It takes time to get to know the place, and for the place to get to know you.

Fresh starts don't typically come without a few bumps along the way. For now, I'm here, thanking God for a safe and uneventful journey on the way here, and taking my time to learn this new life. Stay tuned for more ...

A few random things

Life these days is a little crazy (hold the "little") and fragmented, and so is this blog post! Here are just a few of the things going on these days ...


1. I don't think I've mentioned that once I get to Florida, I won't need to work anymore. Wahoo! This is both incredibly exciting to me, and just a tad unnerving. Not needing to work will give me the freedom to work on writing a book, spending more time on photography, and to do the oh-so glamorous work of growing a baby and maintaining a home. As excited as I am, I know it's going to be a tremendous adjustment. After graduating from college, I took a two-week break and then promptly began working full-time. I haven't stopped since then (11 years!), so it's going to be crazy not to be earning a paycheck of my own.

2. I have been consistently sick with this pregnancy -- just like clockwork. Though I doubt this little one's personality is exerting much influence over my hormones, I can't help but notice the fact that for the last several weeks, I've been getting sick on a very regular schedule. Could it be a sign of things to come?? ;o)

3. Seattle Children's Hospital is having a memorial service this coming Sunday to remember and honor all the children who have died in the past year. My family and I will be attending for Ewan, and visiting the cemetery where he is buried (which is very close by) afterward. I've visited the hospital just once or twice since his death to pick up some of his things, and to visit a family we met there -- so it will be strange to be back there again.

4. I can't wait to get to Florida. It's not because I'm not going to miss it here in Seattle -- I really, really am. I'm going to miss the place and the people I love here. But being so far from my husband for this long is hard on us both. Skype is wonderful, but only gets us so far. To say I'm looking forward to the day when we're together again is a tremendous understatement!

One of the many reasons I love Washington: woods like these!

Dear Baby ...

Dear Baby,

As much as I think about you, hope for you, and pray for you, I confess that I've also been spending a great deal of time thinking about your older brother. A day never goes by where I don't think of him and miss him, where I don't wish that things had turned out very differently than they did. This does not mean that I don't want you very much -- because I can assure you, I do -- it's just that my pregnancy with you so far is so much like the one I had with your brother. It is impossible for me not to connect the two in my mind.

Baby Petermann's older brother, Ewan

I have pictures of Ewan at my desk at work. I always look at them throughout the day and remember his soft skin, piercing blue eyes, and the demeanor that was as sweet as it was feisty. Today I found myself weeping uncontrollably every time I looked at them for no reason in particular other than the obvious: he died and he's gone, and I will never stop loving him.

It's because of this that I feel both incredibly hopeful for and protective of you. I don't have any strange or foreboding feelings that something is going to go wrong (like I did before we found out about your brother's heart, and which I dismissed as run-of-the-mill first-time mommy jitters), nor am I worried about losing you the way we lost Ewan. But because of Ewan, you should know even now what you mean to us. It will look different for you than it does for your brother, but you should know that even now, I love you every bit as fiercely as I do Ewan.

The websites tell me that right now, you're barely over an inch long and weigh somewhere around one gram. But don't let that fool you into thinking that even as I write this, that you are not mighty. I feel sick almost all day long and I need extra rest. There was a time when I minded all of this and while I won't sugarcoat things by saying that nausea and vomiting are a walk in the park or something I deal with while donning a smile, I am thankful for these signs that you are alive and well, thriving just as you should be. I do it for you, just as my mother did it for me.

You should also expect that we are all going to make quite a fuss over you. To say we will appreciate bringing you home, staying up with you, cleaning up your diaper explosions, and wiping up your spit is an understatement. While I don't expect I will coast through these moments without complaint, I do expect that I will find myself rejoicing that I get these moments with you at all. What others might see as mundane will be simply miraculous to me. This means there will be lots of kisses and cuddling, and that we may turn into the types of parents who cannot carry on a conversation without mentioning their child, or without photos popping out on display out of nowhere. When you're old enough to realize it, we will probably embarrass you. But if you're old enough to be embarrassed, hopefully you're old enough also to cut us a little bit of slack in that department.

Keep up the good work of growing, little one, and know that even now, there's a big brother who watches over you, loves you, and prays for you too. As big brothers go, I promise you that you really couldn't ask for a better one.

We love you to the moon and back again, and then some.

Roller Coaster

On the beach in Naples, Florida (2011)

What a year it's been! On this day last year, I was nearly 20 weeks pregnant and still looking forward to finding out if my squirmy little baby was a boy or a girl. It was just a couple of days later that our lives changed more than we could have possibly imagined.

Looking at all that's transpired since then is a dramatic journey: Ewan's birth, his death, everything that came after and in between, going back to work, my husband finding a job on the opposite side of the country, planning a cross-country move, finding out I'm pregnant again, preparing to leave the company where I've worked for the past 11 years, and most recently, my grandfather's death and the second eulogy I've delivered in the space of a year.

The question as to whether or not I've retained my sanity is, as far as I'm concerned, up for grabs. With so many ups and downs, twists and turns, going just a little nuts seems inevitable. I believe something so good is waiting for us in Florida -- a new, fresh start and a chance to begin again -- on the other side of this transition. It is my hope that this time my husband and I have to be apart is like the labor pains leading up to a birth -- that once I arrive, we can kick up our feet and catch our breath and rest a little. We've been through too much to expect life to be a breeze from here on out, but a vacation from all this turbulence would be nice.

Writing my grandfather's eulogy was a struggle. Of all the people that knew him -- many longer than I've been alive -- I was the one asked to put pen to paper and speak for our family. It was a humbling task and a daunting one. I felt pressure to find something fitting to say, to have the right words that would honor such an amazing man. When I expressed this to a friend, he said, "The Lord will give you the strength to do what you need to do." I chucked and replied, "The Lord has done that a lot this past year -- He has given me strength to do what I need to do. But I hope what He gives me next is a rest!"

And I do hope that. That is what I want, and what I feel like I need: a rest.

It's not without precedent in Biblical literature. After Job's great suffering, God blessed him with more than he had before. The roller coaster eventually stopped, and he was able to get off and recover. He enjoyed a season of blessing. I imagine Job had to feel something like rest or relief after all of that.

I don't know what waits for us on the other side of this. Nobody really does. But I think the roller coaster is already slowing down, and I have the hope that whatever it is that happens when we get off, it's going to be good.

In These Two Hands

I've written before about the tension in life that everything we've been through in the past year or so has made so evident -- how life is not in fact black or white, good or bad, joyous or painful. It is all these things almost all the time. And sometimes holding both feels like a push toward the edge of sanity.

As we are finalizing our choices about Ewan's grave marker, we also received news of a glad nature -- news that lightened our hearts even as we felt the knife twist from having to make choices about what our firstborn's grave marker would look like.

We just found out that Ewan is a big brother. We just found out that we are expecting Baby #2.

We've waited and hoped for this day for awhile now. And while in my mind I know that rejoicing over Ewan's sibling is in no way a dishonor to Ewan, there is something terribly bittersweet about it. This pregnancy can't help but call to mind my first, and the joy and anticipation with which we looked forward to the pregnancy and birth of our first child.

In the one hand, I hold hope and joy and the promise of a new beginning. In the other, I hold a knowledge of the world that I did not possess a year ago -- the knowledge of CHD, of fatal defects in those who are still being formed in the womb, of holding a son while his heart beats its last. I am not so naive anymore.

There is no reason to expect any of that will happen again. Statistically, what happened to Ewan was unlikely. Perhaps not so rare -- about one in one hundred according to some figures. But there is still a weightiness to this hope that, in the early stages of this pregnancy, surprises me somewhat.

In the one hand, hope and joy and new beginning. In the other, the memory and the ache of the child who left.  One does not cancel out the other. They are the realities I hold, one in each hand.

Even so, my joy is great and this new child -- this little poppyseed  who even now is kicking my butt -- is a reason to celebrate and hope for the best.