I cried with a stranger today.

I cried with a stranger today. It was awesome. Jake, my son, has been diagnosed with PDD-NOS. Basically atypical autism. He attends an Occupational Therapy "camp". Essentially it is a group therapy session he attends one hour each Wednesday for eight weeks. He is three years old. I am always tired.

Each week I wait in the waiting room with an older Indian woman. Her son is seeing the Speech Therapist. He is about 6 and appears to be lower functioning on the autism spectrum. We have spoken several times in the waiting room while our sons receive services, though we never discuss the needs and delays of our children.

This day, the US Women's soccer team defeated France in the London Olympic game-opener. I spoke of how I enjoyed the Olympics, especially since the Michael Phelps craze of the previous games. I spoke about the difference four years makes. Four years prior I was married and pregnant. Here I was now, pregnant and smack dab in the middle of a divorce. Four years. Life can change so much.

She gave me a pained smile. Her hair was frizzy and the dot between her eyes shifted as she furrowed her brow. Four years ago, she said, she would have done it so differently. Through a heavy accent she lost words I didn't need to hear, I grasped her pain. I tasted it. I smelled it. The icy blood in her veins, the echo of the scream "No!!!!" as you silently nod, and how, while you want to put your hands up, close your eyes and yell "STOP IT!", you blink, maybe even manage a vapid smile, and feel your soul die as your fears are realized. There is something wrong with your child. 

At this point, the womans eyes fill up. As my throat begins to close, I manage to choke out a pitiful "it's so hard". She nods. The tears slip out of her eyes.

"I cannot help this. I will always wonder if this is all because of me.  The science, the studies, the do not matter. This is my child. I will always, in some way, in my head, blame myself."

I do not correct her. I know the studies. I know the science, the statistics. I know what I tell the parents of children with special needs. I am a mother. Until I die, I will, in some part, blame myself. It is illogical, irrational, but it is reality. No matter how informed, how rational, there will always be the tiny compartmentalized notion that Jakes delays and needs are all. my. fault. 

As my eyes begin to fill, the Indian woman dabs her own as she struggles to continue. She begins to delve into my lease favorite (and perhaps most selfish) part of parenting a child with special needs: the fears. Fearing judgement. The fear that no one will see the wonderful, brilliant, soulful child beyond the ever-present symptoms of his condition. The constant explaining "Forgive us, he has this disorder." The terrifying "And what of him after I am gone?" The pain of avoiding the few birthday parties to which he as received invitations. The gripping fear that no one will give him the chances he deserves.

These fears are almost unfounded, yet there they are: hiding in the recesses of my brain, only poking their heads out often enough to remind me that this will always be my reality. 

Usually I can keep these hurtful and quite useless thoughts at bay. But today, in this conversation, I can only relate. 

I need her to keep talking. I need to hear her pain, to see my own reflected back at me. 

With all of the support I have, the specialists, my co-workers, my family, my friends, I am, with this women, finally understood. As is she. We are not embracing. We are not saying "It will all be ok". We aren't pointing out the blaring untruths in our fears. We are validating the challenge. These thoughts are not all consuming. They don't hover like Charlie Brown-esque rain clouds. They are shoved into the dark corners of our psyche, pushed away and held at bay by all of the tasks and duties of life.  But they are real. The pain in real,  the fear. Useless and stupid, absolutely. But present. 

Except, of course, in the joy. The fears, the pain for my child, keeps me awake at night. Sleepless, I fret for my son. As he sleeps and dreams, I worry. When will he have another meltdown? When will he lose it and I wont be able to help? Is there anything anything ANYTHING more I can do for him? Knowing that my child needs something, but not having a clue what that thing is, breaks my heart. 

To this the woman nods.

I equate it to watching a car crash in slow motion and being completely unable to do anything. Just forced to watch the scene unfold. 

Her visual is more accurate. 

She closes her eyes and says that she can see when her son begins to become agitated. On good days she is able to redirect. Most days, though, she says that she is in the bottom of an hourglass, trying to stop the grains of sand from falling one at a time. Before she knows it she is buried.

Then she says something I have yet to acknowledge: at times I almost feel like I resent him. 

I know she is speaking of her child. I know this because I feel the same. Shame has never allowed me to say it but it is truth. At times I feel resentment toward my son. My angel. My heart. This is her truth. This is mine. She exhales. Leans back. I nod. 

I usually cover my face when I cry but now I sit staring at her. My jaw is locked. My face is hard. She looks back at me. We have the same tired lines at our eyes. The same weak but hopeful smile. She is late 40s, I am barely into my 30s.  Her tears are mine. Her pain is mine. Her fears are my own.  We are the same.

The door opens. My son, an incredibly high-functioning three year old with social and sensory integration delays cheerfully bounds into the waiting room. We embrace. I speak with his OT for an update. I turn to the Indian woman. She waves to Jake, smiling, eyes bright. I know it has passed, our moment of honesty, the shared succumbing to our thoughts. The brief lapse in strength. We are again composed, back together. No different than before we began our discussion.

Well, maybe a little different: stronger. Free. The kind of peace that only comes with honesty. We love our sons. Would die for them. We fear for them. Love them. Live for them. We are mothers. 

As I smile at my new friend, I am overwhelmed with love. For this woman, her strength. Love for moments like this, profound epiphanies that change how I view myself and the world. Love for my son, perfect just as he is. The raw and uncensored encounter, all about pain and fear, has erased some pain, relieved some fear. I offer a grateful smile. She nods, closes her eyes and leans her head back. I know her moment is not over. But soon her son will be out and she won’t have time to focus on her own feelings. And that is how she likes it. I know this because she is me. I am she.

We will be ok.

Sticking my finger in the eye of the beholder.

By the time I was 32 weeks pregnant, my legs and ankles ad swollen to the point of Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man status. I stomped around, expanding by the second and inhaling food like a Japanese hot dog champion. My fingers were not mere sausages, but bratwursts. When my wedding ring no longer squeezed down my supersized finger, I found a gaudy bauble, hoping that a little sparkle and dazzle would make my freakish alien hands appear a little more human. It didn't work.

This is the same time I became taken over by veins. I looked like a road atlas. I had heard (a big fat lie) about some blue lines possibly appearing on my chest, but these were striking red and blue webs streaking up my neck, across my arms and down my giant legs. I looked, well, scary.

I am a light sleeper when I am not harboring a fetus, but at this point in my pregnancy, sleep was a near impossibility for me. I got pregnancy rhinitis, meaning my nose was always stuffy, and as soon as I felt myself drifting into what would eventually be restless and uncomfortable sleep, I would wake myself up with my own loud snoring. Then when I tried to roll from one side to the next I would have to physically lift my giant mountain of a stomach and flip, only to find myself uncomfortable again minutes later. The lack of sleep contributed to my growing beauty with deep purple eye circles.

The one pregnancy symptom I had read about that didn't seem too terrible was the "mask of pregnancy". I little smattering of color across my nose and the apples of my cheeks, a healthy suntan look. I thought that this might actually be complimentary of my pale, freckled skin. Well, think again. My "mask of pregnancy" wasn't so much a mask. It wasn't even on my face. Mine was more of a dark brown neck-beard that looked like I hadn't bathed in a while.

It was horrible. I would waddle down the halls of the school where I teach, sweaty and veiny with black eyes and crumbs falling out of my mouth, eyeballing each classroom for leftover snacks, huffing and puffing and grunting with what appeared to be a dirt beard. Parents pulled their children out of my path. People I didn't even know would say that it would all be over soon, but I never knew if they were reassuring me or themselves.

Winter break couldn't come soon enough.

When I was 36 weeks my OB appointments went from every two weeks to each week. Every time I went in I tried to grin, but my face had gotten so fat that every time I smiled, my eyes would shut. My doctor kept checking me and each time I knew, I just knew that I had made some progress. But each time my doctor told me that no, nothing had changed and that I needed to be patient. She also told me if I wanted to induce labor naturally, I could try several things. Long walks, spicy foods, sex...

When I went home and told my husband my doctors suggestions, we both looked at what had become his Frankenwife (he will deny this until the day he dies but we both know it's true) and we immediately took a three mile walk, followed by spicy curry for dinner. No change. The only other option was sex. We talked about it. I looked in the mirror. I thought, oh just do it, it's no big deal, you don't look that bad. I smiled at my reflection. Then I had an acid-reflux burp.

We decided the baby would come when he was ready.

Friends in High Places.

There are millions of words my family would use to describe me. Patient is not on the tippy-top of that list. I know this is surprising, seeing as I am a teacher of 15 three year olds for eight hours each day, but it's true. Let's just say I have selective patience. If I see a trailer for a movie I might possibly be interested in, I go online and look up the spoilers. If I am really into a great book and can't wait to see the fates of the characters, I simply flip to the last chapter. In fact, I read the epilogue of the last Harry Potter book months before I cracked open the first novel in the series. I can also, quite patiently, tie shoes, change a wet child out of clothes, listen to "But why? But why? But why? But why? But why?" all while singing the abc's and wiping snotty noses. Yet I am often referred to by the people who know me best as impatient. Children, unending patience. Anything else, ehhh, maybe not so much.

To really comprehend the true level of impatience I am describing, I am going to have to confess something that I don't particularly broadcast. A little tidbit of my life that I never planned on revealing. A special little secret that few people know: I found out the sex of my unborn child by getting a sonogram at the vet.

You read it correctly. Your average gender-announcing exciting obstetrician recommended ultrasound happens around the 20th week of gestation. The midway point, halfway to due date. I found out I was pregnant in the very beginning of May. My 20th week would be sometime in mid to late-ish August. F o r e v e r away.

Now I am not saying what I did was right, I am just saying this is what happened. It was early summer. I was just starting to show and even though I felt flu-ish most of the time, the warm weather perked me up a bit and the sun had finally turned my face from seasick green to rosy pink. I had recently announced to my students and their parents that I was expecting and each day was getting congratulatory hugs from moms and high fives from kids. One of the mothers in my class is a veterinarian. She always had been kind to me and truly thrilled to hear I was carrying a little bundle of joy. When she asked if I was going to find out the sex, I told her that my husband wanted to wait to find out, but that I was dying to know. When I told her that my appointment wasn't until August (giving me plenty of time to convince my husband to change his mind), she informed me that gender can be determined as early as 14 weeks. She then asked me how far along I was. And did I know that she had ultrasound equipment in her office. She ended our conversation by saying that if I ever wanted to get an ultrasound, just call her office and she'd be happy to do one for me.

This conversation took place at 9:00 am

I called her office that same day at noon.

The whole drive to the vets office I replayed the conversation in my head. She had performed weekly ultrasounds on herself for both of her pregnancies, and her kids seemed just fine. She is a licensed doctor. What's wrong with that? Ok, so she probably spent the morning performing ultrasounds on Asian potbellied pigs, but so what, August felt like years away, and I simply couldn't wait.

When I arrived to the veterinary office, a nurse (I guess she was a nurse, do vets have nurses?) took me back to the operating room where my vet (I suppose I was her patient now) was removing kidney stones from a cat. Here I was, pregnant, on my lunch break, in the O.R. of a vets office, sitting on a stainless steel operating table waiting for the ultrasound to tell me the gender of my child. Not once did it cross my mind that this was not normal. I could think was "Stitch that old cat up quicker, I need to know if we're blue or pink."

When the cat was stoneless and properly sutured, I followed the vet out of the operating room and into an exam room where I hopped up on the table. Seeing as the examining table is for animals and not humans, it wasn't easy for me to lie down properly. Not to worry, the vet brought in bags of dog food (I swear this is true) for me to use as a pillow, and she wheeled over the ultrasound equipment. "Don't worry", she assured me, "the equipment is sterile." "Thanks" I replied from my pile of dog food bags.

When she pressed the equipment into my belly and I looked at the screen, I saw my child. I had gotten an ultrasound at 8 weeks, but all I really could see that time was a tiny kidney bean with a heartbeat. This was a little teeny tiny person. And this person was active. Little baby arms and legs were moving all over the place. Fluttering back and forth, turning it's head as if to face the camera, giving me a thumbs up. I didn't feel sick anymore, I didn't feel tired. I felt connected. I felt excited. I felt so much love.

"Okay, let's see now if we can get the money shot." I had forgotten I was there to find out the sex of this little miracle. She jiggled my stomach a bit, and immediately the baby slid butt-first to the camera, legs spread wide. "Can you tell what you have there?" she asked me. I looked closely. Equipment or no equipment, pink or blue...

Equipment. I was having a boy.

There, on a doggy examining table in an veterinary office, I met my son. It was perfect. It still makes me go all misty.

Being pregnant doesn't make you rational, it doesn't make you know how to do everything right, and it doesn't make you know how to take care of yourself or anyone else. If you are wondering if you are ready to have a child, maybe it would be a better idea to get a nice pet. And if you do, I can recommend a fantastic vet.

Who says you can't go home again?

When my husband and I found ourselves unexpectedly expecting, we were not in the most desirable of financial situations. In fact, we were pretty much broke. We were renting a cute little house in a swanky artsy neighborhood and we were behind on rent. Between credit card bills, student loans and two not-so-lucrative jobs, we were struggling to say the least. One of the first thoughts I had after learning I was pregnant was "How are we going to provide for this child?" followed by the inevitable "What the hell have we gotten ourselves in to?"

When I called to tell my mother I was pregnant, she sounded genuinely excited for me. Or maybe excited for her, her only other grandchild lives out of town and here we are, 5 miles away. When she heard the fear in my voice over the phone, she realized that I was feeling more anxiety than your usual "Whoops we're pregnant" jitters. She hung up the phone and was on her way to our house.

There are several things I simply will not discuss with my mother: Sex, politics, and how to check her e-mail are just a few. Money is another one. Partly because I am too proud to admit that I can't do it all, and partly because I am embarrassed about some of the financial choices I have made in my past. The irony in all of this is that my mother would be the perfect person to talk to--she works in finance.

The night my mother came to our house and went over our money situation I will always consider to be the most anxious, humiliating, and uncomfortable night of my life. Not at all due to my mother of course. She looked over everything without any judgement at all. She blankly noted without a hint of sarcasm that I was still paying credit card interest on a weekend getaway I had taken with a boyfriend about 8 years earlier. Or that we were overdue on a personal loan my husband had taken out so we could get his car fixed (we used what was left over to go skydiving in Key West). No, my mother was incredible. The problem was accountability. This debt wasn't real unless people knew about it. My husband and I had stopped making ridiculous and outrageous purchases long before this. As long as we weren't spending like fools anymore, we were ok, right? Not so much.

As our bills spread out before us, littering our dining room table with the financial mistakes of our past, and my mother clicked away furiously at her calculator, I began to slowly understand something: we will not be able to do this on our own. It hit me like a ton of bricks and sucked the wind out of me. We have failed. We are adults who can't take care of themselves. We have a baby on the way and we are big fat failures. What are we going to do.

Tears were beginning to stream down my face as I began to run scenarios in my head: we can move into a one bedroom apartment in a nasty part of town. How much rent can we afford? We can maybe get a roommate... who wouldn't mind living with a married couple and a baby? We can get second jobs... I can probably two jobs until I am at least 7 or 8 months pregnant... Panic began to set in. My mind began to race. I can't believe we were so stupid. I can't believe we were so stupid. I can't believe we were so STUPID!!!

My mom looked up from her calculator. "The good news is that with some serious saving you can pay this all off fairly quickly. All we need to do is cut out some of your expenses. By the looks of it you spend most of your money on rent. If we can lower or get rid of that expense, you really will be able to make some headway into this debt."

I looked at my husband. "Well, we can look into some one bedrooms or even some studios. It doesn't really matter if its a bad area because by the time the baby is old enough for school we might be able to get a place in a nicer area."

"Or you could come stay with me."

I wasn't sure if I had heard her correctly. My mother still lives in the house in which my brother and I spent most of our youth. Not the largest of houses, it is cozy and some part of me always calls it home. A home that I had left ten years earlier to go off to college and find myself. I had gone to see the world, to leave my mark, to succeed and to contribute to the world at large. Here I was, married, pregnant, broke, in my late-twenties and unable to take care of myself. How embarrassing.

I tried to explain all of these things to my mother and husband but all I seemed to be able to get out were some tears and muffled variations of "I'm so sorry" and "I can't believe this is my life". (I tend to get a bit dramatic)

While my husband sat stoically staring at the wall (I'm guessing he was thinking the same things I was, just handling differently), my mother very tenderly explained to me that the economy was in terrible shape and that it was during these times throughout history that families come together to help each other. She said that she understood why I was upset but that being upset and wasn't going to help my situation. "What's done is done, you can't go back. It's time to move forward. It's not about you anymore, it's about this baby and what's best for him."

I looked up at my mother. "I'm so sorry mom".

"There is nothing to be sorry for, you can do this. It's just a matter of having the money to pay off the debt. This will eliminate your biggest expense."

My husband and I looked at each other. This wasn't going to be easy. I swallowed hard. I swallowed again. I felt a huge lump that I assumed was my pride go down my throat. I smiled gratefully at my mother. She smiled back. We made our decision. We were going to move in with my mother. This was going to be interesting.

You forgot to mention...

When I became pregnant I was filled with misconceived notions about what the next several months of my life would be like. Here are some of the lies I was told:

1. Pregnancy is 9 months long

FALSE. Pregnancy is ten long difficult exhausting months long.

2. Morning sickness only lasts for the first three months.

This is a two part lie. First off, morning sickness lasts all day. All freaking day long, and it can get worse in the evening, just when you are laying down in bed. And there is no magical switch that turns the sickness off at three months. The only magical switch I found came in the form of a prescription suppository my OB gave me. Sound awful? IT IS!! But it's the truth!

3. Pregnant women glow.

It's not a glow so much as sweat beading off of a bloated red face. There is no glow.

4. Sex is amazing when you are pregnant.

No. It's. Not.

Sex is exactly the same until you are so big you can't see your feet and then sex is awful. For your partner too.

Ok, so this might seem a little scary, so I will say this (which I knew but I didn't know):

EVERY PERSON HAS A DIFFERENT EXPERIENCE.

You got that, Judgy McJudgerson? Before you give me the runaround of your perfect pregnancy and how you hiked to the top of some mountain, competed in a tri-athalon, cooked a five course meal and had the best sex ever until the day you delivered, please understand this: I DON'T CARE. My pregnancy was hard. It was scary. And I whined, complained and sat around. It's who I am. And I, who stopped all exercise, gained 65 pounds, lived with my head in the toilet for six months and cried myself to sleep in fits of hormonal insanity, am judging YOU.

You see, I understand that my pregnancy was just that: mine. I have several friends who all had beautiful pregnancies, who say that they never felt better, who may have actually glowed. This was not my experience, and I think that if people are aware of how difficult and trying pregnancy can be, they might be better prepared. And if someone is having a difficult pregnancy, the last thing you should do is regale them with tales of your perfect pregnancy and how you felt you were floating on clouds of happiness each day. They might resent you for it (wink wink). If someone is having a difficult pregnancy, assure them that it is worth it, promise them that it will not last forever, and, in the most dire of cases, offer them a suppository.

You're joking, right?

Ok, so I was pregnant. I felt a sea of cold water wash over me as I stared in disbelief at the pregnancy test shaking in my hand. Ok, so it was my hand doing the shaking, not the test. My eyes starting seeing spots and my head felt light as a feather. I had forgotten to remember to breathe. I began to laugh and cry together, choking out sobs between fits of disbelieving giggles. I took several deep breaths and realized that I was still in a public outdoor trailer bathroom at Target. Peeking through the slats in the door I could see other women standing at the mirror, probably frozen in terror at the psychopath giggle-killer having a fit in the stall. I organized myself as best I could and stepped out of the stall into the loudest silence I'd ever encountered. I mashed my teeth together, smiled strained grins and said "I'll just use hand sanitizer" as I shuffled past the makeshift sinks and out of the trailer. It seemed important to me to let those women know I would be cleaning my hands. After all, I was going to be a mother now.

I've never been a person who reacts well in important situations. Once a homeless man attempted to carjack a car I was entering and while my friend calmly called the police I began to run circles around the car, shouting to my friend "Cary, I'm scared!". This time was no different. I drove directly to my husbands work, where he had just begun his day. I entered his building much like I imagine storm chasers entering their RV's: disheveled, heart pounding and ready to vomit. He smiled at me, then, after taking in the sight of me, he quickly brought me to a private room.

Here is where it gets a little tricky. I am a practical jokester. My husband is not. He hates them. I mean hates them. If someone dumped a bucket of ice cubes on me in the shower, I like to think I'd laugh and say "Good one, you really got me there!". Not my husband. I have learned that if would like to stay married, I am not allowed to mess with his shower, his food, or his sleep. That doesn't stop me from hiding around corners and jumping out to scare him, or telling him that the Redskins won (come on, how does he even fall for that one anymore?!), or any other little thing I can think of to mess with his head. So when I showed up at his work and tell him "I'm pregnant" and his response is "Nuh uh" I am not too surprised. So I show him the pregnancy test. He examined the test for a minute and says "Is this a pregnancy test? I don't know what this means." I took out the box and show him that two lines mean pregnant and there are, in fact, two blindingly red lines on my test. "Is this your test? Seriously are you messing with me? If this is a joke it's not funny." I spent the next five minutes convincing my husband that this is not a joke and that I am pregnant and that this is real. I was so busy trying to get him to believe me that I forgot to be freaked out. Then it hits us both at the same time: I am pregnant. This is real.

I was not prepared for this.

Motherhood. Something women long for. As if there is some biological turkey-thermometer that pops out in your mid-twenties and says "YES! I am ready! Impregnate me!" Well, that is not exactly how that happened for me. Maybe there is some innate force at work here. Some organic thing that said "You know what? Even though I am on birth control, my husband and I are working our way (very slowly) out of financial ruin, and I have FINALLY lost all 45 pounds to hit my weight loss goal, I MUST get pregnant. It is written in the stars". If my body was thinking any of that, my brain was unaware.

My adventure into motherhood began the day I found out I was pregnant. I am a preschool teacher, which is yet another reason why I had decided to hold off on children. One morning I went into work early to set up my classroom and I began to feel, well, odd. Bad. Sick. When you work with children, you tend to dismiss these initial pangs of illness as allergies or residual kinder-disease. It usually goes away pretty quickly and is just one of the perks of the job. This did not go away. This got bad. And fast. I was walking down the hallway towards my classroom when I felt the blood rush from my face, sweat prick the palms of my hands, and a skull filled with helium. Before I knew what happened, my face was in the nearest trash can and I had no control over what my body was doing (I've yet to regain much control of my life). When I lifted my head out of that can, I saw that I had an audience of parents and teachers. After assuring them that I must've eaten something that didn't agree with me, I pretended not to notice their knowing smirks as they walked away. A coworker hung back and asked me if I was okay. After saying that I was actually still feeling a bit queasy, she asked me the big question: Do you think you might be pregnant?

When someone asks you that question, even if you are one-hundred percent sure you are not, you always think: is it possible? Oh, no, my husband I haven't had time to have dinner together in almost two months, let alone..., there is no way. But... I did read about that girl in Iowa who got pregnant just by sitting in a hot tub... have I been in any hot tubs?

All of these thoughts were going through my head as I laughed and said something about between my hours and my husbands crazy new work schedule, it would be miracle.

By the time I had walked from the kitchen to my classroom, maybe 150 feet, I was sheet white again and barely made it to the trash can. This time, some early arriving students were witness to this display. Great.

I began calculating things in my head... about 8 weeks prior to that day I had taken a staff trip to Israel. I had been gone for two weeks and although the trip had been a beautiful and exciting learning experience, I missed my husband. For two weeks after my return, we spent most of our time as we did 6 years ago when we first started dating: just laying in bed staring at each other and being in love. Sometimes my husband would strum his guitar and sing to me, sometimes we order Chinese and eat in bed, tweaking each others noses with chopsticks and watching mindless tv. It was a short lived but phenomenal time in our marriage. A time that ended precisely six weeks ago...

I was able to get a substitute in my classroom for the day and I headed to Target. I bought three pregnancy tests and headed straight for the bathroom. In Target. I was so anxious I couldn't even wait to drive home. Unfortunately the bathrooms were unavailable as this particular target was being remodeled. My only option was a trailer bathroom outside of the Target. I took that option.

When I went in, I was so nervous that I didn't even notice the other people in the stalls. I took the first test and I waited. I looked at the instructions. One line : Not pregnant. Two lines : Pregnant. That seemed easy enough. As I looked at my test, the first bright line appeared. Immediately followed by another pink line. Two lines. I looked at the box. Two lines : Pregnant. Back at the test. Two lines. Maybe one will go away? I haven't waited the full 3 minutes... No, it's been about 7 minutes. In the stall of a trailer bathroom outside of a Target. With two lines. Two lines : Pregnant. Oh, God.