Sabrina's Birth: An unexpected arrival

Sabrina's pregnancy brought a tsunami of complicated emotions for me.
Since I'd had a miscarriage almost one year prior to her conception, I was nothing less than a worrier with a 'bump.'  My biggest angst with her pregnancy was 'making it' to full term.
I didn't want to lose another baby.  

{Pregnant in Paris}

November 2003.  I was 6 months pregnant with Sabrina and very tired.
That's the Louvre behind me.

{Musée D'Orsay: Paris, France}

I loved walking the streets of Paris while being in full gestating bloom but when I visited the museums, I took 20 minute naps on any ottoman or bench I found.  

Sleepy was an understatement.

On January 7th, 2004, I woke up feeling emotionally down.  I don't know why because I was only tired and swollen and always hungry and did I mention, tired?

I ate a slice of cinnamon swirl toast lathered in nutella spread for breakfast (I'd pay for that later!) while listening to Norah Jones on my iMac. I was in a crabby mood, nevertheless.

Aside from being in a terrible mood that day, I was obsessed with having to go shop for baby booties and newborn hats.  No idea why this was a huge 'to do' being that I was so very tired.
Regardless of all this, I ended up dragging my mother out with me to TJMaxx.

The entire time I was shopping I was having low back pain and some little cramps here and there.  The baby was constantly moving about.  Oddly enough, in addition to shopping for baby booties and newborn hats, I also shopped for after delivery pajama's.  While shopping, I kept telling my mom that my low back hurt but I immediately blew them off as 'normal pregnancy' symptoms.

Just before we were about to pay, I mention to my mom that I needed to use the restroom.  So I waddled my way to the back of the store with what I thought was the need to relieve my very full bladder.

My khaki maternity pants were way past my knees as I attempted to half squat over the toilet when I noticed a drip, drip, drip.  'Not normal', I immediately thought.

'I think I'm dripping' I told my mom.

'What? Dripping? What do you mean?' She questioned hysterically.

'Mom, yes, dripping.  You need to relax.' I told her.
You'd think that the nervous one at that moment would be the very pregnant woman with her pants down to her ankles and an uncontrollable drip? Ha! Right!  


'Well...what'r going to do?' She nervously asked.

'I need to call Sheila' I said.

Sheila was our midwife.  We had been planning a homebirth all along.  I spoke too soon because the first person I ended up call was darling hubby.

'Hello?' He said.

'Honey, I think my water broke.' I said in my calmest voice.

'What? Oh shit.  Did you call Sheila?' He panicked.

'No, not yet.' I responded.

'Okay, you call her and then call me back.' He said trying to sound completely in control but I knew better.

Of course I KNEW what my midwife would say to to me once she'd learn that I was potentially leaking amniotic fluid.  I was not happy.  Not one bit.  Since I was 3 days shy of 35 weeks, I knew that I'd HAVE to go to the hospital because in my state, a woman MUST be 37 weeks or more in order to deliver her baby at home with a midwife.

In a matter of minutes my baby had changed all of our plans.  FYI, birth plans are never etched in stone.  My BIG lesson here.

Since I knew that I wasn't leaking pee, I waddled my way back to the front of the store with my mother.  Never mind the huge wet spot on my khaki maternity pants I was sporting while shoppers just starred at me hoping I wasn't going to plop, squat and push my baby out right THERE in front of them.  Still, so embarrassing.

We made it home.  I was scared.  Really, really scared because I was still not due for another five + weeks.  I lost my mucous plug at home after going to the bathroom and my crazy dog was trying to lick up my amniotic fluid off of the bathroom floor, "No! Miss Goldie!"

The back up OB called and asked me to go to the hospital within the next hour or so.

I cried while I laid on my side.  I whimpered for the home birth I knew I wasn't going to have.
I was terrified of having a baby too vulnerable to live outside of my womb.
It was a heart wrenching feeling to go through.

My normally frenetic mother carefully packed my hospital bag and even remembered to pack my make-up and warm fuzzy socks.  She'd later surprise me even more when she'd show me that she'd also brought my 'Birth Art' (from my Birthing From Within class) for me to look at during my labor.
I was so proud of her for being so helpful and quick thinking.

DH and I headed to the nearest hospital and I was given a wheelchair upon arrival.  Next, my leaky fluid was tested to confirm that it was indeed my amniotic sack that had ruptured.

It was.

I was admitted and before I knew it, I was hooked up, IV'd and pinned to a bed.  Yes, 'pinned' because they did not let me get up ONCE to pee in privacy, let alone the freedom to walk.  Awful.

I was not having a positive hospital 'labor' experience.  I ran a low grade fever and soon thereafter was put on an antibiotic drip, 'in case' of infection.  (I'll save the worry and tell you now that I nor baby had an infection.  It was simply 'protocol' on the hospital's part.)

The worst part for me was having the nurses randomly come in, slip on a latex glove, slather their latex'd finger tips with cold K-Y Jelly and say 'We're going to check you now, mommy.'
A feeling beyond uncomfortable.  I didn't like that part either.

A few hours after I was hooked up to monitors, the back up OB ordered a 'Pitocin' (PIT) drip to be started.  I refused an epidural.  

The 'real' pain didn't get started until that terrible PIT got working into my system and uterus.

I. Wanted. To. Die.

But still, I refused that pesky epidural because at THAT point, I had no idea just terrible the PIT was going to make me feel.  Truly. No. Clue.

The night continued on and I rode each contraction with a deep 'humming' sound that I carried from my pelvic floor up and out through my throat.  My visual was 'an opening flower' and an 'open' and safe passage for my baby to come through.  Visuals helped me tremendously during my labor.  That, plus the instrumental music that wonderful DH remembered to bring to the hospital.  Thank goodness!

January 8th around 9:30 a.m. & beyond


My contractions are so intense I cannot cry.  Instead, I whimper a like a puppy needing its mother.  I whimper from the harsh pain that invades my uterus, my lower back and my baby.  I cannot escape the pain.  I sit with it like a thrumming engine that will not cool down.

My labor music plays subtly in the background.  Soft notes played by wind chimes, flutes and tibetan prayer bells.  I carry myself with each individual chime whenever a deep contraction begins.

I cannot move from my bed.  I cannot wriggle my baby through the birth canal into a better position because the hospital has limited my movement.

I am on my back.  It hurts to lay down.  My body does not want to be in this stifling position.
I resist to conform to what the nurses 'want' for me to do.  I'm listening to my body and my baby, not the nurses.  

The nurse continues to ask me if I want an epidural.  "No, I'm sure." I say firmly.  Her voice, like a distant echo I do not want to comply with.  My husband is by my side, he's rubbing and soothing the pain shooting from my sacrum and breathes along with me through each intense contraction.
I squeeze his hand so tightly, I leave the imprints of my swollen fingers in his palm.

I feel like a wounded animal unable to do much but BE with the pain.

I've been given a sedative that makes me groggy.  It shoots up my IV like an unstoppable force.  I cannot keep my eyes open.  I feel drunk.  I don't like the feeling and the pain is more intense.

The OB walks in and attempts to instruct me on how to birth my baby.  He is a 'man' but still, he gives me instructions.  "Oh shut up you idiot!", I tell him 'in my mind' because he'll never know this kind of pain or this amount of unrelenting intensity, ever.  The mind shuts off in labor.  It's not an intellectual act, it's a physical force to be reckoned with.  

I am in a dance with my baby.  No one else will 'do' this for me.  I know I am strapped to a bed but my mind and body imagines a beautiful dance with my baby.  We are both working together to meet one another, a painful but most anticipated welcoming into the world.  We are both very tired, still.  

I'm in an out of groggy sleep and I want to meet my baby.  I begin to push without instruction.
My body takes over and all of my mind shuts off.

I'm scared but I push.

I'm scared but I listen to my body.

I'm scared but I intuitively 'know' what I'm doing.  This amazes and bewilders me.

I close my eyes tightly.  I don't make a sound.  I push with all the force I can muster down to my bottom.  I'm sending love down to my baby for a safe passage through me.
I am the vessel within which is honored and blessed to carry this incredible feat forward.

Strength and love envelopes my baby and me.  

I feel a powerful heat rising to my face as I push with a sort of strength that only nature and the mysteries of life has granted me.  I'm incredibly exhausted but still, full of strength and elation to bring my baby forth.

My mind is not thinking, only my body working together with my baby.
I'm in blissful shock from the unimaginable strength that nature has bestowed upon my body.  

As my body and my 'will' pushes with each contraction, I soon feel a burning sensation from the baby's head crowing.  It's what I've heard the midwife call, 'the ring of fire' and I welcome it because I know that I'll soon meet my baby.

The room was saturated in the early morning sunlight as I danced my baby out into the world.
We danced while others watched us, breathing along, anticipating the arrival while we worked incredibly hard.

"Open your eyes, mommy", I hear the OB say to me.  "Feel your baby's head!", others say.
But I cannot open my eyes because somewhere deep down inside of me I'm still scared and cannot understand what I have been able to do with my body.  Nerves still exist in spite of the courage and strength I've mustered up.

"One more strong push, mommy!", the OB cheers on.  Within minutes of my last strong push, I feel my baby's entire body slip out of me.

Relief overcomes me.

I've birthed my baby.

Immediately, my body releases more of the wonderful hormone 'oxytocin' in copious amounts.  The 'love' hormone.  The pain subsides... the physical work ends... and I cannot wait to 'see' my baby.

"Open your eyes, see your baby, it's a girl!" says the OB.  I peel my eyes open and reach down to receive my seconds old baby girl.  "Oh, it's my princess Sabrina! Hello, my Sabrina!" I elatedly exclaim to my new baby.  

Tears fill my tired eyes.  My heart is swollen with joy and love and pure bliss.
This day marks a moveable miracle in my life.

The birth of my first daughter and myself, as a new mother.
I am forever changed.

On Thursday, January 8, 2004 @ 10:56 a.m., while the brilliant sun spilled into the delivery room, my splendid daughter, Sabrina Isabella was born.
A brilliant star in our lives and a most genuine and humble soul to many.

My Sabrina, minutes after birth.  5 lbs 6 oz. 18 1/2 inches

Hardworking and tired mama...

We couldn't believe she was here! 

Exhausted and elated...amazing!

Her first photo with her Daddy...

My sweet baby girl... I love you, my Sabrina ♥

To the Unsilenced

Image via Google

Today, I am UnSilenced.  Again.

I voiced my story to the world and again, I. am. heard.

My heart will always be heavy but my voice will NEVER be silenced.

This is my call to the 'silenced' ones... come and BE heard.

Our pain is REAL.  Our pain is RAW.  Our pain is NOT our fault.

No matter how much time passes or how many times you remind yourself that the 'little person' that those awful things happened to is now stronger, braver and loved more than ever, it will never erase the images and emotions that seared a permanent scar onto the soul.

I carry myself with the confidence to know that I AM a survivor because I AM brave and
I AM strong.

I also KNOW that in no way shape or form am I defined by WHAT happened TO ME but more what I CHOOSE to be.  My VOICE is heard loud and clear.

My daughters know what I, their mother, has experienced and how I have leaped forward in spite of my pain.

My daughters will understand all the troubled moments I have gone through because they will NEVER have to experience the terror and shame of abuse, so long as I am their mother.

My duty to them is to continue to be open and honest and raw.  Authenticity IS the cornerstone to my mothering them.

Another voice, I am.  Another 'unsilenced' survivor, I will always be.
Another echo of pain clearing the way...

The soul that resides in this body of mine will continue to move forward and BE heard no matter what lies ahead because this VOICE of mine, will NOT shut up.

To BE?

Every kid is asked, 'What do you want 'to be' when you grow up?'  My personal take on this question is this: It can stifle a young person.

Why?  Because you don't have to BE anything to be important, loved and valued.

I don't ask my children this question nor do I pressure them to decide on a single thing about the future  because the only thing that they 'need' to 'be' right now is a child full of life, wonder and curiosity.
This is what 'being' is (to me.)

I was asked what I wanted 'to be' as a child.  These are my stages of 'to be.'

At age 11, I wanted to a Lawyer.  I 'knew' that going to 'Law School' would give me the ability to defend the rights of children and help those in real need.  My desire to study law arose from my need to prove something to those who'd otherwise think that I'd turn out like my mother, i.e., married several times and have children from different men with zero education to fall back on.
Not the case.  (no pun intended)

At age 13, I admired Barbara Walters and her stories on 20/20.  I decided that I wanted to be a 'Journalist' because I felt that being a journalist meant that the stories that I'd tell would somehow impact people on a personal level and bring out the endearing quality of the human condition.

At age 18 I wrote my first children's story, 'Gordo the Green Penguin' (I still have it.)
I never knew that I had a children's story in me.  I surprised myself.
A couple of years later I decided that I wanted to be a 'Writer of children's books.'  I wanted to color a children's world with the canvas that I never enjoyed or imagined because being a child only happens once.  I wanted to capture the essence of innocence through a tender story.

I didn't become a lawyer or a journalist or a children's story book writer.  I do still desire to write children's books (I will!).

I write.      

I believe that my purpose for writing is first for the absolute LOVE it and second, I think that perhaps through my words, I will inevitably touch the lives of those who find some resonance with my thoughts, ideas and creativity.

Still, it doesn't matter because I'm happy being myself, raw, open, honest and real.

Whatever it is that my children end up doing when they become adults is not up to me.  I can only wish that whatever it ultimately is, makes their hearts happy.  I can only continue to inspire their senses and spark their creativity in subtle ways.  This is all I want for them.

What am I?  I am a writer, from the heart.

The Year of the Horse: A Love Story

It's the year of the horse and I've been invited to a Chinese New Year's party
by my apartment neighbor.

I'm reluctant to go.  I'm not much of a 'people I don't know' party person.  But my neighbor convinces me after he tells me that I don't have to stay too long.  I live alone and my only two obligations are my school and full time job.  I'm 24 years old and my big plan is to attend law school.  

I don't get too dressed up for the party; simple black leggings, a black microfiber tank, a long-sleeved burgundy crocheted sweater that ties only at the center of my torso and black thong sandaled heels.  I leave my hair in it's natural state with curls and locks abound.  

I arrive at the party after passing the house twice before.  The house is bursting with people.  

There's a large rectangular table at the center of the dining room with an assortment of Chinese food—Chow mien, Lo Mien, Fried rice, Won Ton soup, ribs, sweet n sour chicken and fortune cookies.  Also, beer and wine galore.  

I don't drink much alcohol and I'm not that hungry.  I see my neighbor. 

"Hey! You made it! Come, come, let me introduce you." 

"Hi!  Yes, thanks for the invite again." I say. 

I quickly meet a couple of his friends and then he ushers me off to serve myself a plate of food.    

I serve myself a spoonful of fried rice and one piece of sweet n sour chicken, to show that 'I'm eating.' 

Thirty minutes slowly pass by.  I'm not enjoying myself.  I prepare my car keys to leave but my neighbor spots me trying to dash.

"Hey, you're leaving so fast?" 

"Yeah... I had a long day at work.  Preparing for trial.  I'm a bit tired." I say.  

It's a half lie.  The work part is true but my real plans for the evening include going to read a book at my local Starbucks.  But I'm grateful that he invited me.

"Wait, before you go you have to participate in the ritual!"

"The ritual?  What ritual?" I say with all the skepticism I can muster up in one sentence.    

"Come, come, you'll see." He says excitedly.  

He takes my hand and we walk out to the backyard of the house.  

I'm a little nervous.  I'm not the most trusting of people.  I begin to ask myself dumb questions like, 'Why did I agree to come to this stupid party.  I hope this isn't an swingers gathering.  

Goodness, I need to get the hello out of here!'

There's a gigantic bon fire in the center of the yard.  There are double the amount of people in the backyard.

My friend hands me two items. 

"Here, take this fake paper money and candle."

"What's this for?" 

"Go over to that bon fire with your items and make a wish.  Then, throw your candle and paper money in."

"A wish?  Are you serious?"

"Yeah! Come on! It's the Chinese New Year!"  He smiles and directs me to the flames.  

I think this is so ridiculous.  I don't make wishes.  What in the world am I supposed to wish for?

Some minutes pass.  I watch others dance around, kiss, throw their candles and fake paper money into the flames.  I stand there, still trying to think up a wish.  

I slowly walk closer to the flames, I look up at the night sky, laughter and voices all around me.  Then it comes to me, the wish.  I repeat it to myself: I wish for happiness.  If something is bound to bring me happiness, I welcome it.  Otherwise, I want nothing to do with it.  

I close my eyes, kiss the fake paper money and toss it in along with the candle.  

I say good-bye to my friend and head on home to pick up my book to go read at Starbucks.

I'm happy.  Alone and very happy.   

I stop at a local 7-Eleven before going home.  I purchase a lottery ticket.  I never do this.  

I arrive at Starbucks, grab a table in the patio and finally sit to read my book.  

Thirty minutes of reading pass by when a handsome gentleman approaches me and asks, 

"Excuse me?" I raise my head from my book.  "Do you think I could share this table with you?  I'd hate to hog one up all for myself."  His crisp blue eyes and gray knit shirt make a perfect pairing.  

"Sure! Go right ahead." I say as I motion to the empty chair in front of me.

He sits, turns his body away from me, plugs in his earphones and cracks open his book.  I resume reading my book.  His Starbucks 'Venti' cup has a tea tag hanging from one side.  I'm not drinking anything.

It's Saturday night and there is no other place I'd rather be than right here, at this table, reading.

The corner Starbucks is saturated with coffee drinkers, social groups, book lovers and smokers on this crisp February evening.  I enjoy being out alone with zero obligations.  The gentleman now sitting across from me seems to be enjoying the same.

I continue to read.  He also is reading.  After twenty minutes, I take a break, place my book face down, remove my reading glasses and stretch a bit of my sleeves down to my hands.

"It's a little chilly tonight, eh?" He asks.

"Yeah.  A bit." I respond.

We start to converse.  Small talk at first which later leads to more engaging conversation.

"Are you married?" I ask.

"No." He says.

"Any children?"

"No." He responds with a slight smile.

He asks me similar questions and I give him exactly the same answers he has given me.

The hours at Starbuck's pass by quickly.  Our conversation goes on for hours.  We realize that it's closing time and an employee kicks us out of the patio.  

We're not ready for the evening to end.

It doesn't end.

We talk until 7:30 a.m.  The time does not matter to us.  We've spend a total of nine hours talking, sharing and laughing.  It seems like just a couple of hours to us.  We are enthralled with each other's company and conversation.

It has remained this way ever since...

That evening became the beginning of our love and life together.  I would have never imagined it to happen this way but it's what was meant to be.

Ten years ago today, on a chilly February evening, my husband and I met at Starbucks.

It was an evening where the stars were aligned, a wish was made and a lottery ticket bought, which resulted in a chance encounter.  We were two people wanting to do the very same thing on the very same night which was simply to enjoy a night of reading a book while perfectly content with our own company.  Now we get to share a lifetime of love and 'happiness' together...

Happy 10 year Anniversary, my love...♥  

Here we are, today, at 'the' Starbuck's we met at 10 years ago.