My first child turned one a few weeks ago (cue racking sobs and blubbering about my baby!), and in that time I’ve learned a lot about parenthood and, surprisingly, myself. In the last twelve months I’ve learned that:
My body is a fascinating, glorious machine. It can swell and stretch, tear and heal, sustain and contain. My body built my baby, brick by microscopic brick, and it bibbidy-bobbity-booed a whole new organ in the process. My body gave way to bring a whole new person into the light and then, if that wasn’t enough, my body alone continued to nourish that new being for almost a year, all while simultaneously contracting back to (almost) its original parameters. When you really think about it, it’s easy to understand why fertility goddesses were a thing. The biology of motherhood is miraculous.
I like having a baby. Some people don’t. They count the days until their baby can do things by himself, ache for when they can leave for more than three hours at a time. I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t be one of them. It’s still a little surprising to me that I loved my son’s infancy so much. I would happily splash around in babyhood for years. I love having a baby and everything that comes with it. I love the nursing and the diapers and laundry and the delicious baby smells. I have a love affair with those fingernails, those crazy sharp, impossibly tiny fingernails. I love those giggles and coos, those gummy smiles, those chunky dimpled legs. I take immense pleasure in hearing my toddler call for his Mamamama, give me slobbery kisses, and cling to the backs of my knees. But, babyhood is such a sweet, short time. I already miss it.
I’m the authority on my baby. During those early weeks of my son’s life, I completely over-prepared. I read a few books and asked questions of my mother and my pediatrician and my mom friends, trying to arm myself with as much information as I could as I navigated this first year. Mostly though, I’ve found that, if I’m willing to pay attention, my baby is pretty good at communicating his needs, and I’m pretty good at meeting them. By the time he was three months old, I swear I knew what cry meant he was tired and what cry meant he was bored and what cry meant he was hungry. This ability to read my kid made us all happier and made the past twelve months the best time of my life.
I would be a horrible stay-at-home mom. I daydream about it sometimes, especially when the baby doesn’t understand that mommy needs to get up and function and no we can’t have a 3:00 a.m. dance party, but as much as I miss my baby during the weekdays, I 100% believe I am a better mother because I work. I’m lucky. I like my job and my coworkers, my hours are flexible, and I never need to take work home or check email at 8:00 p.m. When I leave for the day, I’m done. The rest of the day I can be present and engaged with my family. I know that, if I was home all day, the quality of our time together would decrease. I need adult interaction. I need my own money. I need to be able to take a sick day and actually use it to recuperate. I applaud the women who stay home with their kids (whether by choice or circumstance) and make it work. Their role in their family and in society is not an easy one to play. I am immensely thankful for the stay-at-home moms in my life. I benefit, as does my son, from knowing a plethora of women who can pinch-hit for me or schedule a girls’ night or just remind me that this time in my life is precious. In the past year I’ve learned that the women who stay home are worthy of much more respect and gratitude than they usually receive, especially as I learned it’s not a role I would play well. I always assumed stay-at-home-mommying was not a good choice for me, but I didn’t realize how much it was not my thing until I became a mom.
My baby is not much of a baby anymore, and while I will mourn the end of his infancy, I am so excited that I get to watch him grow. I can’t wait to see what the next years of childrearing will teach me about my son and about myself. It’s a wild ride, this mom gig, but I am ready. I will hold on tight, as long as he’ll let me.
Shannon J. Curtin is the poetry editor of The Quotable, a 2014 Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two collections of poetry, Motherland (Anchor and Plume Press), and File Cabinet Heart (ELJ Publications). Her writing has been featured in a variety of literary magazines including Mothers Always Write, The Muddy River Review, The Mom Egg Review, and The Elephant Journal. She holds an MBA, competitive shooting records, and her liquor. She’s the mother of Quinn, a real boy, and Bruno a dog that wishes he was a real boy. She would probably like you. You can find her at www.shannomazur.com and @Shannon_Mazur.
the number of a winner
of homeruns, fertile follicles
and home-made, juicy tarts
the number of blooming years
that have flown by
a frightening half-life
that has claimed her genetic garden
a georgia o’keefe painting
that has faded and paled
with the scorch of too much sun
and the wine of too many moon cycles
plus ninety-six more emoticons
and i could send a barren tweet
into a galaxy of frozen donor eggs
the number of breaths she takes
before diving into the ocean called hope
counting each crushing wave
of baby-soft longing
that laps up onto her gritty shores
each dark, silent night
Nicole M.Chambers is a fantasy writer, poet and non-fiction essayist. She holds a bachelor’s degree in social anthropology from Harvard University and a law degree from Harvard Law School. After becoming a mother and a certified yoga instructor, she eventually studied writing at Stanford University, where the seeds of her first novel, Eye of Fire, were sewn. She has also been a contributing writer to Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. Nicole lives in the heart of Silicon Valley, California with her husband and son.
When reviewing a book, I ask myself such things as: Was it an enjoyable read,Did the plot make a logical progression, Are the characters believable, Is the information helpful? Having read Kelly Kittel’s Breathe: A Memoir of Motherhood, Grief, and Family Conflict,the question foremost in my mind is, “How dare I say anything at all about this family’s huge tragedy?” I wish I could just cry with Kittel and tell her how very, very sorry I am that this happened to her.
The details are plentiful, raw and vivid. Kittel remembers every single thing that happened at this horrific period in her family’s history. The story is compelling and suspenseful, and that suspense is certainly necessary to keep you reading a story so filled with tragedy: Kittel’s toddler son, Noah, was killed in an accident and nine months later, a second son, Jonah, was stillborn. On top of that, her formerly close relationship with her in-laws turned hostile, her marriage was strained, and, ultimately, she and her husband ended up taking their obstetrician to court.
That telling this story was cathartic to Kittel, there is no doubt, but what does it do for the reader? Kelly’s cherishing of her children, remembering the curves of their cheeks and the fluttering of their eyelashes and their weight in her arms, has changed my enjoyment of my own children for the better. I am relishing their childhood more, despite frequent frustration. I treasure moments and details more, their coziness beside me, their chatter at bedtime, their songs and jokes. The most important role of the book, I believe, is that it memorializes two people that the world would not know otherwise, Noah and Jonah Kittel. If only for them, one should read Breathe.
It is a testament to Kittel’s strength as a writer and her integrity as a person that she tells her story in such a way that I can imagine her sister-in-law’s motivations when she is sometimes brusque, rude, aggressive, hurtful; I can trace the line of tragedy and hardship in Cody’s own life—mothering an already troubled teen who is then scarred by tragedy, a painful and costly lawsuit against her husband that colored her perception of medical lawsuits in general. These tragedies aren’t on a par with the deaths of two children; they are nonetheless very weighty and life-changing. It is generous for Kittel to allow me to feel sympathy for both herself and her adversary.
Breathe does end on a hopeful note, with the births of babies Isaiah and Bella into the Kittel family, bringing comfort and joy with them.
Breathe is a book that reads easily and quickly, but the sadness lingers for a long, long time. Do read it, but steel yourself to face unthinkable sorrow. I think Kittel describes it best herself:
“A memoir about grief and family conflict may not be the story you feel like reading; Lord knows it’s not the story I felt like living…telling the story of my sons is the last thing I can do for them besides carry their cells to my grave. My story isn’t always pleasant, though it has many joyful moments. And it may not always be believable, because truth is stranger than fiction. But if you need a kindred spirit to help you untangle the weave of your own undeniable grief or family drama, know that I wrote this for you.”
Kelly Kittel is an author and a mother. She’s had 13 pregnancies and has five living children, her best work beyond compare. She lives with her husband and their three youngest children on Aquidneck Island but her favorite writing space is in their yurts on the coast of Oregon. She has written many notes to teachers and has been published in blogs, magazines and anthologies. Her first book, Breathe, A Memoir of Motherhood, Grief, and Family Conflict, was recently awarded the IPNE Book of the Year and Best Narrative Nonfiction Book and was also an award-winning Honorable Finalist in the Readers Choice International Book Awards. She can be found at www.kellykittel.com.
Book Giveaway: Kelly loves to meet with book groups. Be the first book group to invite Kelly to meet with your group to discuss Breathe and she will send your group one free copy of Breathe. (Kelly will visit in person in RI or Southern MA or by Skype if you are located outside of this area.) Contact Kelly through the comments section on her website.
A while ago, a friend and colleague received some devastating news. She and her husband were expecting their second daughter, and at over three months into the pregnancy they had assumed everything was fine. A routine ultrasound unexpectedly revealed multiple birth defects and a tumor, called a terratoma, attached to the base of the baby’s spine.
They were told they could choose to terminate this pregnancy, as the effects of those birth defects were not clear. Or, they could try to carry the baby to term and hope that surgery might be able to correct the problems.
As she shared her news with me, her despair carefully but not completely masked, I was brought back to the moment many years earlier, when I had received similar news. A tiny tsunami of nausea intermingled with terror and regret, flooded my body.
My first pregnancy was planned, but happened sooner than expected. Exhausted from full time work and a year of studying for a post-grad certification, my body was not in peak condition. My husband and I had fully intended to start trying for a baby once my exams were over, but the universe was impatient and so conception was precipitous.
We were overjoyed none-the-less, and I did what assume every mother-to-be did. I bought parenting books, baby-name books, maternal vitamins, I started to worry about never sleeping again, and I prepared to say goodbye to my thirty-something pre-baby body.
Despite my focused efforts to nurture this tiny creature percolating inside my weary body, I worried. Something indefinable, a small irritating something, pricked at my consciousness and created unrest.
I had been diagnosed with hypothyroidism in my twenties but frequent testing revealed that medication had it under control. Unfortunately, during the early days of this pregnancy, my TSH levels fluctuated widely. Concerned, I scoured every available source to determine if this would impact my pregnancy. I found no information confirming this fear.
Still I worried.
Six years earlier, my husband’s brother and his wife had delivered their first child. They were both in their early thirties at the time with no health concerns, and so were stunned when their beautiful little girl was born with Trisomy 21, Down’s syndrome. The family was shocked but fell immediately in love with this sweet child. One month later, my husband’s sister and her husband gave birth to their own little girl. Her appearance raised concerns. Her small, low set ears, and the epicanthal folds covering the inside corners of her eyes seemed to suggest she suffered from the same genetic condition as her cousin. Further testing revealed that although she did not have Down’s syndrome, she did have other genetic concerns.
So I worried.
A dating ultrasound at eleven weeks had shown our baby’s crown-rump length, a measurement used to determine the developmental age of a fetus, to be off. “No worries,” they assured me. “You’re dates are just off a bit.”
I told myself to heed their words, but I could not. I knew my dates were not off. Still, I pushed away my concern and tried to carry on as if all was well.
But I still worried.
With this knowledge chewing holes in my stomach, with my husband’s unusual family history, and with the persistent itch of worry that continued to keep me awake at night, I finally asked my family doctor to send me for genetic counseling. He did, but grudgingly, convinced my concern was unfounded.
My appointment with the genetic counselor would be at 20 weeks of pregnancy, and I would have a detailed ultrasound at the same appointment. Outwardly calm I was calm, but inside I was a mangled mess of misery.
My husband was unable to come to the appointment with me because of work commitments, so I drove to the hospital on my own, chanting my mantra, ‘All will be well, don’t stress about this,’ for the entire trip.
The counselor was the perfect combination of concern and reassurance. She went over our detailed family history and explained that both cousins were victims of multifactorial causes, and nothing that could be passed on genetically. And, my thyroid problems were a non-issue. There was absolutely nothing for me to worry about. “Relax,” she told me.
I worried all the way down to the ultrasound appointment.
Lying on the table, bladder filled to the point of panic, I watched the monitor and the grainy black and white pictures that filled the screen.
A beating heart, all four chambers clearly visible, and a small hand that stretched upwards were comforting signs that all was well. The baby rolled, and I could make out tiny linking segments. The spine. But, as I scrunched my eyes to make out more details, the technician spoke.
My heart stuttered. Dread, like a lead lined casket, descended and crushed.
“I’m just going to borrow the screen for a moment, dear.”
She punched the keyboard and swirled the sound head over my swollen belly. The clacking of the keys and the ‘swoosh’ of metal over gel covered skin were the only sounds in the room. I’m sure my breathing had stopped.
She spoke again, “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get the doctor.”
As the door closed behind her, all sound disappeared. The air, heavy and thick, refused to enter my lungs. My hands flew to my stomach, to the child I had just watched roll happily in its liquid world, and I finally managed to take a gasping breath.
The term for my baby’s condition was Acrania, a neural tube defect, a failure of the bony components of the skeletal system to develop properly and fuse. A condition that was not compatible with life.
Not compatible with life. What a horribly tidy way to sum up a baby’s future. Our baby. MY baby. Safe and secure within his watery world, rolling and reaching and hanging on to life with a tiny fervor; he was doomed.
I had a choice, they told me. Ha. A choice?
I could try to carry the baby to term, but it was likely he wouldn’t survive that long. If he did and I delivered, he would not survive the birth. If they did a caesarian, he would die soon after. Or, I could terminate the pregnancy before the baby suffered even more.
Oh yes, a choice.
My family doctor, staunchly pro-life, was surprisingly supportive. He told us to feel no remorse over our decision. We were not terminating a life but instead a non-viable life form.
My husband told me he would stand by whatever decision I made. After all, the doctor had told us it was non-viable-life-form, and it was my body.
I slammed him with a look that should have ruptured his aorta. “It…is not a non-viable-life form. It…is a baby. Our baby. Then I promptly dissolved into a quivering pile of 20% terror, 20% guilt and 60% despair.
In the end, we did what they expected us to do. To terminate the pregnancy at twenty-two weeks meant that after being induced and enduring labor, I would have to deliver this child.
It took ten days to make the arrangements.
Ten long days, during which I stared at every pregnant mother I saw, wondering if she was taking proper care of her unborn child. Was she drinking coffee, or alcohol? Was she eating properly? Did she take her vitamins, and especially her folic acid supplement? (The doctor told us that taking adequate folic acid could prevent most neural tube defects.)
Ten tortuous days, in which I lost more than a little bit of my mind. I’d sit and rub my belly, singing a disturbing little ditty, “Momma’s going to kill you don’t you know,” to the tune of “Momma’s going to buy you a mocking bird.”
My poor husband didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t understand. The baby was not real to him yet. He did not feel the connection that every woman who has carried a life within her body knows.
From the instant my pregnancy was confirmed, the baby was real to me. The physical effects of pregnancy are hard to deny: nausea, weight gain, tender and enlarged breasts, and finally the movement. Those tiny tickles of touch that at first you’re not really sure about. Then as the movement grows stronger, you know.
Sadly a man never gets to experience that.
He offered his support by never questioning any of my reactions. He just loved me.
And so we made it through the process physically intact, but emotionally scarred. I have only a hazy memory of the events of that day, perhaps from the pain medication, or perhaps because I have blocked those memories. I think it’s better I can’t remember.
I have regrets.
I regret I didn’t know about folic acid.
I regret we got pregnant before my body was ready.
I regret not holding my son. I had been too terrified of losing what was left of my mind to do so. I was a coward.
I regret being a coward.
I regret not having a funeral for him.
But, I do not regret having him. We named him Simon.
His gifts to us were his sisters. If things had worked out differently, if I had not gotten pregnant with Simon at that particular moment, if he had been born healthy at full term, then the eggs that became my two amazing daughters would not have been fertilized by the spermatozoa that gave them each the other half of their genetic material.
If Simon had not existed neither would have my two beautiful daughters.
I try to find comfort in that knowledge. My girls know they had a brother who did not survive and they know they are his gifts to us. They also know they need to take folic acid before they consider getting pregnant. I made sure of that.
My colleague decided to try to carry her baby to full term. Although the doctors had never seen a baby with two such rare birth defects, a heart defect known as atrophic left ventricle syndrome, and a terratoma, there was a chance surgical intervention could save the baby’s life.
The tumor was removed immediately following her birth. By the time she was delivered, the tumor had grown to four pounds.
Surgery to correct the underdeveloped left side of her heart took place as soon as she was stable and strong enough after the first operation, to tolerate the second.
Unfortunately, upon opening the baby’s chest, the surgeon discovered her heart was more severely malformed than he had anticipated. So much so that he had no idea of what to do for her. He improvised and she survived the surgery. The first attempt to take her off the heart lung bypass machine failed. They had to put her back on. When she was stable, they tried again. Again she failed. They told my friends they could try only one more time. If her heart failed to beat following this attempt, they could not put her back on the machine again.
Her heart failed to start. Fifteen days after they welcomed their precious daughter to the world, they had to say goodbye.
I watched them struggle to make sense of everything that happened to their tiny daughter. I saw their stress, their heartbreak, and the emotional roller coaster they were on, and I knew the pain their precious girl had to endure. I also watched them hold that tiny girl in their arms and kiss her with a powerful love.
They had fifteen days to love their sweet baby. I had none.
I was filled with sadness for their loss, but also with an intolerable regret for our own. I worried all over again that we had made the wrong decision. Then I realized that although their child had as little chance of surviving as ours did, they were given one formidable gift we weren’t.
Leslie Wibberley is physiotherapist by profession, a slightly maddened mother to two outstanding young women and one slightly insane cocker spaniel, and wife to a loving and extremely tolerant husband. Writing has always been her passion but one she has only recently re-committed her life to. With one middle grade novel complete, one young adult novel in the throngs of revision, and numerous short stories and personal essays lying in repose in her beloved MacBook Air, she is now proud to call herself a writer. Her article RAISING A CHILD WITH SPECIAL NEEDS, A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE recently won 6th place in Writer’s Digest annual contest.