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sep 4, 2017

Today, September 6, 2017 would be my mom’s 59th birthday if she were still alive.

When I think about being a mom, my own role as Giles’ mom, I think a thousand times a day what my own mama would think about how I am doing. How would she do this or that…and especially the light on her face as she would hold Giles, play with him, talk with him.

Grief doesn’t go away. You don’t move on. Sometimes I know how to hold it and sometimes I don’t.

I put Nina Simone on for Giles’ nap today. Her voice, cool and deep and full– music seems to be Giles favorite thing, the thing that fills his heart. Well, that and food. And books. And balls. And laughing. He loves it all.

Mama was the most alive person I knew. Until Giles. He is so very alive.

She is in his eyes. She is somewhere in him.

Viola Rose Moriarty would be 59 today. She was an artist. Her life was her best art. She was my mom.

From her blog, April 4, 2010:

Today I called my family in Denver to wish them a Happy Easter. We had coffee with the NYTimes and sportsreporters and Ina…the Sunday morning slow start. Ahhhh…….

And then we finally pulled on some work clothes and got started.

We worked on our list of home chores, taking care of the live things first. Toilet scrubbing and floor washing and paying bills and writing thank yous and making donations, both in things to pass on and in the checks we could write now. We prepped for the week and cleaned the fish tank and the litter box and filled bird feeders and cleaned out the gardens, watered and fed the plants, finally making lists for things that can’t be done today and how much we’ll need to fix or do them later—all the little and big maintenance things that keep a home running.

Today we “counted” the chickadees starting their nest in the little house just outside our backdoor as they do every spring, and the forsythia’s first yellow blooms. We counted the garlics and crocuses and bits of herbs and bulbs that all made it through another winter. They survived and so did we. We tested the fish tank water and put out the bird baths.

And then we had a good salad for an early dinner and went to a movie at our arthouse theatre where we are members.

I love this feeling of participating in my life, of doing it together with Jon. Of making a home.

Foundation in lovingkindness. We do the best we can for all who reside here with us and around us.

This “making a home” stuff– this is where I feel most like my mom. More even than making art. I am making a home, participating in my own life. Foundation in lovingkindness.

Happy birthday, Mama. I love you.

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dads

14054393_10100425891766627_1236325483141110257_o.jpg  photo by Leah Barad

I have a really great dad. He’s always been there for me and my sister, has always been loving and fun and patient and kind. I always loved when he’d pick me up from the train station and we’d have that long car ride together, talking about everything that was going on in our lives. I have never had to doubt for one moment that my dad is proud of me and loves me. That is a truly wonderful (and too rare) thing. And now he is a grandfather, “Poppy,” to my son, and they are best buds. Giles smiles so big when Poppy walks into the room. They have this sweet connection, something really special, that I know they will always share.

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When Greg and I first started dating I said to him, “I want to have kids. Soon.” He responded with something like, “Okay, cool.” Once we were engaged I said I wanted to start trying for a baby as soon as we got married. Again, Greg agreed, probably thinking it would take awhile to actually make one of those tiny human things. But, low and behold, we got pregnant on the first try. And from the first moment Greg has stepped into his role as Dad so beautifully and completely. Watching him and Giles together makes me fall in love with him more every day.

Thank you Pops, for always loving me and supporting me and taking care of me, and for being my friend. Thank you Greg, for being our kid’s dad, you’re so damn good at it. I love you both so much.

So, here’s to the dads. And the moms who have to be both mom and dad to their kids. And to the people who’ve lost their dads. And the dads who’ve lost their kids. And to the surrogate father figures, and those who struggle with dad relationships. Love to all of you.

business

I have worked a lot of jobs. At age eighteen I went to college to study theater, writing, comics, and dance, with the dream that I’d make it work somehow– I’d find a way to make a living at this crazy thing called Art. So I never committed myself to a full-time job. I worked multiple part-time jobs at once, scrounging for any little bit of time to draw and write. I drew comics in the box office and the projection booth at move theaters. I wrote short stories in emails to myself at receptionist desks. I sketched on the subway, worked on story ideas at babysitting gigs after the kids went to bed, wrote in diners at 6am. I lived close to the bone, making just enough money to survive.

While living in New York City I walked around to comic book shops asking them to sell my little self-published mini comics, and got feedback from store owners about how to make them look more professional. I modeled for life drawing classes. I submitted to short story competitions. I volunteered at MoCCA Fest in exchange for a couple hours of table time selling my comics. Any small way to make a tiny amount of dough from my art.

March 1st marks my one year anniversary of being “self-employed.” I quit my job to be a full-time artist and stay-at-home mom (we need a better term for this). So, how do I make money?

The short answer is that I don’t make very much. I am fortunate to have a partner who believes in me, believes in my work as an artist, and takes on the responsibility of supporting our family financially. This is the first time I have not supported myself completely since college. It’s hard sometimes, to reconcile this fact in my head, that my husband supports me financially.

But the truth is, if I were to go work at a job I wouldn’t make enough to pay for daycare or to make it worth it to not be home with my baby. And I would likely be sad and unfulfilled. So instead, I stay home and take care of Giles, which is a very important contribution to our family. And twice a week my mother-in-law takes care of him at her house so I can do my artwork.

Art Work. It is really, really wonderful that my only work (besides being a mom) is making art. It is also really hard. In the first couple months of Full-Time Artist Life I made just as much money as I did at my previous job. I taught a comics workshop, sold a few commission portraits, sold some drawings from an exhibit. Art income often comes in windfalls like that– for a few months I will sell a bunch of things, and then there will be long dry spells.

These are the ways I make money:

Teaching: this is relatively new to me. Last year I taught a five week Autobiographical Comics workshop for adults at a local art school. I am about to start teaching another workshop with the same school. This is a really nice way to make some money, the highest hourly wage I have ever been paid in my life– about $25/hour. It’s also inspiring, working with students and seeing their ideas and growth. A great way to make money in my field that is truly connected to what I love. It’s also a lot of work, and takes time and energy away from making my own things.

Commissioned Portraits: this is something I’ve been doing for a while. I don’t get a lot of commissions. Most art from people I know, friends and family. On my Etsy site I offer portraits, holiday cards, and invitations. Commission work can be tricky– early on I learned to be very clear with customers about what I do, what my style is, and that I will not copy the work or style of other artists. I change my prices pretty often, never sure of how much to charge, balancing how much I value my time with how much someone will realistically pay me.

Exhibits: these can be great or not so great. It’s a lot of work (and often expense) to put up a show and there’s no guarantee that I’ll sell anything. It can be fun, and it sure feels good to sell work off the wall. It can also be disappointing, and exhausting to smile and make small talk at openings, to hang and rehang work, to sell myself. My favorite part about doing exhibits is when someone I don’t know responds to a piece I made, and especially when they buy it.

Selling Other Stuff: I also make and sell t-shirts, tote bags, cards, etc. This is more intermittent, for example, when I have a specific idea for a shirt design and enough money to make a bunch of them up front. Then I sell them on my Etsy site until they run out. Shirts are hard because I never know how many of each size to print ahead of time, and often end up with leftover sizes that no one wants. Because of this, sometimes I will wait to actually print the shirts until I have several pre-orders. Cards are the easiest because they are cost-effective (they aren’t expensive to make, so I can charge less and still make a small profit. I’m a big believer in affordable art).

My ultimate goal is to get an agent and a publisher and have my comic books and short story collections published and for sale at stores. To contribute financially to my family and have lots of people read my work. The way that I am making this happen is by putting my work out into the world any way I can. Posting my comics on my blog, selling at indie comic conventions, submitting stories to magazines– just putting it out there and putting it out there. I am a big believer in doing things myself. I don’t like to rely on other people’s approval. If I can’t find someone else to publish my comics, I make them into books myself and find a way to sell them. I just keep going, keep making the work, keep sharing it, and things will happen.

Other artists make their livings in different ways, have different methods and different measures of success. This is how I work.

I’d like to give a special shout out here, to my dad. I often write about my mom on this blog, and how she is part of my artistic life. But my dad has always supported me– emotionally and creatively, even financially when I’ve found myself in a tough spot. He is the BEST exhibit hanging partner, audience member, and starred in an early short film I made. He may claim to be the non-creative person in our family, but he is an artist in life, in his own work, and in being a dad. I owe him a lot. So, thanks Pops. I love you.

bananas

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The top photo is me as a baby, and the bottom one is Giles.

“It’s crazy how much you still look exactly the same,” my sister wrote on Gchat when I sent her this picture combo.

The older Giles gets, the more I see myself in him. Of course, yes, he looks so much like Greg. But those eyes. He has my eyes. And my hair. And are those my ears? I can see pieces of both Greg and I, and other family members, but there is also something that is just Giles. He is already himself and that’s incredibly special to watch.

I was talking to my sister yesterday, and saying how excited I am for her to see Giles’ daily life when she visits next: waking up, eating with him, doing bedtime. And she said, “It’s really good you are a mom.” It’s true. I get a lot of joy out of these small daily things. Because really they are not small. This tiny human is growing and changing and learning every single minute. Our little family of three is the most important thing in my life, the best thing. Creating it brings me deep joy. I’m reminded constantly of my family when I was little– growing up with “four wheels on the car” as we called it. Playing games together, cooking, eating, hiking, camping, dancing in the living room. As I read to Giles favorite books from my childhood, I can hear my mom’s voice and cadence reading the same words.

There are moments when I don’t love it. Or, I still love it, but I am exhausted or sad or lonely or the hours are dragging by and I haven’t had a minute to myself or its’ too cold to leave the house and I’m going crazy. There are moments when I miss my perky D cup breasts (they seem so small and so long ago!), and my strong flat stomach, and my pretty dresses that hang in the closet but I can’t wear and may never wear again. There are moments when I am heavy with the weight of responsibility for this lovely young life, hoping I am doing all the right things. There are moments when my own small self feels lost or neglected or gone completely.

Being a mom is hard. If you know a mom, especially a new one, please be really nice to her.

Parenting articles are always popping up on my Facebook news feed. “15 Scary Things Evert New Parent Does That Will Destroy Their Baby” or “10 Foods You Should Have Never Eaten In Your Life Or Your Breastmilk Will Be Forever Tainted.” I used to read them, thinking there was information there that I had a responsibility to learn. Maybe there are things I am doing that I don’t know are bad! But I don’t read them anymore. They are terrible. And dumb. And stupid. They make me feel guilty and worried and I’m already worried/guilty/tired/stressed ALL THE TIME. It’s enough.

I’m enough. Keep repeating that. I’m enough. 

 

sometimes

sometimes

other times

Being a mom is so complex. I am so in love, and deep parts of myself that have been waiting are coming to the surface and blooming. Being a mom is something I’ve always wanted.

But there are moments, sometimes whole days, when I feel completely overwhelmed and like my whole existence is dedicated to this tiny human and there’s none left over for me.

Sometimes I cry a lot.

Sometimes Giles smiles and my whole being melts.

Sometimes I want to ask for help and I don’t know how. Or I want so badly to figure it out for myself, do it my own way, that I just don’t want anyone’s help.

I try to take a few minutes each day to do something that makes me feel like myself. And I try to let other people help me. It’s good for Giles and me to have breaks from each other, for him to be with other people and for me to be by myself. I’ve always needed alone time and being a mom doesn’t make that go away.

I’m still navigating this. How to be a mom and be a wife and be me and be an artist and do all the things. We’ll figure it out. As a family. I think I’m doing pretty okay so far.

 

my house is me and i am it

1075395_953829920068_303375294_o.jpg This photo is from August 1, 2013, the first night Greg and I spent in our apartment on Hoxsey Street. Today we are officially moved out, and moved into our first house.

That apartment was the first place we lived together. It’s where we lived when we got engaged. It’s where we spent our wedding weekend with several guests staying over in every nook and cranny– one of the best weekends of my life. It’s where we grew our family by adding two kittens, and also where we learned our family would be growing even more with the addition of a human baby. The first home Giles ever had. The first place I lived in that my mom never saw.

 

I never thought I’d buy a house. From my first night in New York City at age eighteen I knew I’d be an apartment gal for life, always renting, always ready to be on the move, not having to fix things like plumbing, calling the electric company when the pilot light went out.

Greg convinced me a house was the right move, and I started to understand why it might be nice. Rent money just disappears, this is an investment. More space for cats and babies. A yard. Painting the walls any crazy color I want. Putting more of ourselves into our space.

Now all our stuff is here, in our house. The walls are painted. Greg is hard at work on remodeling projects. The neighborhood is full of kids and quiet and crickets and an ice cream truck that comes around.

unnamed.jpg My mom’s paintings are hung. I hope she’s here, in the brightly colored walls and skeletons and songs and food we will eventually cook once the kitchen is done.

In both of these photos I am wearing the same pair of choo-choo overalls, that once belonged to my mom, now cutoff into shorts.

My house is me and I am it. My house is where I like to be and it looks like all my dreams.
~ Mr. Plumbean (The Big Orange Splot)

the women in my family get breast cancer

the women in my family 1

the women in my family 2

I know getting a mammogram doesn’t really mean I will get diagnosed with cancer. I know this. Getting mammograms regularly and doing self exams is how they would diagnose breast cancer early enough that my survival chances would be much better. And maybe I will never get cancer, that’s also a possibility.

But still.

I think I will always be waiting for that shoe to drop, in the back of my mind. Grasping on the edge of fear every time my breasts are squished between two glass plates, worrying that this mammogram might be The Mammogram. Every time I prod my breasts with my fingers in a circular pattern, dreading the possibility of A Lump.

I know that I am not guaranteed to get breast cancer.

But still.

I’m really scared that I will. That my body will betray me. That my son will sit with me at chemo, shave my head for me, make me radiation mix tapes, hear me vomit in the middle of the night and lie awake with the terrible knowledge that his mama might die. That he’ll have to live un-mothered too young.

I want to live to be really, really old, with Greg at my side reminding me where my glasses are, getting to watch our children grow up. I want to live at the beach. I want to LIVE. Live, live live. Grow to a ripe old age. Mother my children, love my husband, document and process my experiences through art, watch all the movies, eat all the popcorn, dance with my sister, howl at the moon, love it all.

i pushed a baby out of my body

What follows is my birth story. I don’t hold back, so just be warned (re: blood, guts, poop, pain). I like reading this kind of stuff, and read a lot of birth stories while pregnant, but some pregnant women find them scary, so only keep going if you are comfortable with this kind of thing. I’ll be straight with you: it was really hard and really painful and really long, but it all ends up okay with a beautiful baby and everyone healthy.  

On Thursday May 5, 2016 at around 5:30pm, I started having contractions.

Only I didn’t know they were contractions. We had just left my OB’s office where she’d done a cervical exam and had said that I’d experience some cramping afterwards. So I assumed what I was feeling were just cramps from the exam. They started as we were walking through the parking lot to the car, and weren’t too bad at first, kind of like mild menstrual cramps. They happened every few minutes right from the start, which is one of the reasons I didn’t even consider them being contractions. I thought contractions started much further apart and got closer together as they progressed.

Greg dropped my sister Phoebe and I off at home while he went to a bowling event for one of his coworkers. We lay on the couch and watched Broad City, both of us so tired. The cramps kept coming, still a few minutes apart, but steadily getting more painful, I tried breathing through them. The whole night is kind of a blur to me. There was a lot of pain, crying , screaming. At some point later in the night I said to Greg, “I know I wanted to try labor without the epidural, but I want ALL THE DRUGS. Even if I tell you I don’t want it when we are at the hospital, tell them to give it to me anyway.” Greg helped me through each bout of pain, breathing with me and helping me into different positions. Neither of us slept all night.

From Greg’s POV:
“I got home a little after 8pm and started making mac and cheese. Your cramps didn’t seem as bad to me at the beginning.

I think your sister left around 9pm when your dad came to pick her up.  We talked about how you weren’t having contractions and even started timing them. Even though they were coming at regular intervals they were so close together we thought strong cramps from exam. I called the doctor around 9:30 and asked if there was anything we could do. He suggested hot shower or to come in. I think we started The Daily Show at 9ish and Juno at 9:30ish, by the end of it the cramps were pretty bad and we knew you couldn’t sleep so we put on 27 Dresses. Great movie.

Cramps worse and worse. We put on Amy Schumer around 1:30am and kept pausing it because cramps so bad. [Anna here– I was crying and screaming through them at this point, saying “I can’t do this,” and “What is happening to me?”] By that time you were going to hands and knees because of pain. We talked about hospital and you agreed to try a hot shower around 2am which definitely helped. We were in the bedroom from 2am to 5am with pretty constant contractions every 5min or so.

During that time there were general discussions of going to hospital and while you were in pain you agreed but the car ride scared you after they stopped [The hospital is a 30 minute drive away, and I was scared to try riding in the car with all the pain]. At 5:30am we agreed to go. I grabbed the bags and got you dressed and we called the hosptial again. I missed the first time you said you were ready and you had to lie down on the kitchen floor again on the chair [At this point the best position was on my knees, leaning over the seat of a chair, rocking, in order to get through the pain]. Once you got enough strength you got to the top of our stairs and then the landing and then the car. The seat warmers helped a lot but you still had several contractions on the way there. We got to the hospital right around 6:30am.”

I still didn’t think I was really in labor. At some point while we were still at home I texted my friend Shana (who is a doctor) as well as my primary care doctor, Bonnie (who is also a friend), and they were the only ones who told me this could possibly be early labor. But even as we checked in at the hospital ER I thought they were going to send us home, saying these were just cramps, despite the fact that the pain was so strong and this had been going on for 13 hours. Because I didn’t know I was in labor, I wasn’t really able to use any of the techniques I’d learned to help with contractions. Also, there was no room in my brain for anything but the pain.

At the hospital they checked us in really quickly, and seemed to recognize that these were definitely contractions. A nurse pushed me in a wheel chair to the assessment room, it was a little after 6:30am (now Friday May 6), and the shifts were just about to change. We got a really nice nurse and student nurse who would be with me for the majority of the experience. They put belly bands on me to monitor the baby’s heart rate and my contractions, which were still very painful and happening every few minutes. The nurse needed to check my cervix, and I wouldn’t let her because all this pain had started with a cervical exam the previous afternoon, so the idea of anyone’s hands going between my legs at this point was terrifying. The nurse was so kind, telling me that she was very gentle when doing these exams, and that she really, really needed to see how far along I was. Finally, in a brief moment between contractions, I let her check my cervix, and it turned out I was 5cm dilated! We were staying at the hospital and I was having this baby. We told her I wanted an epidural as soon as possible.

We were then moved to a different room, the labor and delivery room. The anesthesiologist came in and administered the epidural, which took a while. There was a lot of set up, and I was still having those dang contractions every few minutes. He kept telling me to keep still, that this was a delicate procedure and if I moved I would mess it up. This made me very nervous. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, Greg on one side holding my shoulder and hand, the nurse on the other side holding that shoulder and I rested my head against hers. She whispered things to me that I don’t remember now, but they were very comforting. I was nervous that the epidural would hurt, but it didn’t. It was about 9:45am by the time the anesthesiologist finished and it started to kick in. That’s also when Phoebe and my dad arrived. Phoebe stayed in the room with us and my dad went to the waiting room, where he’d later be joined by his girlfriend Wendy as well as Greg’s parents.

Once the epidural started working I felt great. I’d been having contractions for about 15 hours at this point and felt exhausted by both the intense pain and the lack of sleep. Now I finally had a break, feeling no pain. My legs and feet weren’t numb, but felt heavy and tingly. I could relax. I felt like this whole birth thing was entirely possible now. I could do this. Phoebe read to me from a Cosmo magazine, she and Greg took turns going to get snacks and check in on the family in the waiting room, the nurse checked my blood pressure, temperature, and contractions (which I couldn’t feel at all). The baby’s heart rate was our background music to everything, and he sounded strong and good. At some point the doctor came in, one of the OBs I hadn’t met yet. He introduced himself and seemed very nice. I was happy with everything.

After a while the doctor came back to check my cervix. I was still only 5cm dilated, and he said he might have to break my water himself if I didn’t progress in the next couple hours. The nurse inserted a catheter to empty my bladder, which was very full, and after that I quickly dilated to 7cm and my water broke on its own. I didn’t feel it break– we only found out once the doctor came back to check me and under my blanket was a bunch of bloody fluid and my mucus plug. I continued progressing on my own, with the catheter in as well as IV fluids which had been started before the epidural. Phoebe and Greg took turns feeding me ice chips. By the time I was 8cm dilated I started feeling the contractions again, first just as pressure and quickly it turned to pain. It was about 3pm now, and our sweet nurse was leaving at 3:30. Somehow I thought I could be pushing this baby out by then, since I was so close to 10cm and feeling those painful transition contractions.

The contractions got stronger, and were lasting longer. The shift change came, and our new nurse came in. The student nurse who’d been with us all day was on until 7. Around 4:30pm I started feeling an urge to push along with the contractions. It felt like I had to poop really badly. The nurse told me not to push because I wasn’t 10cm yet. The contractions were really hurting and I started crying a little. Phoebe and Greg stood on either side of me, holding my hands, I squeezed theirs hard. I tried to do the breathing techniques from birth class, trying hard not to push. Finally at 5pm the nurse checked me and said I was 10cm and I could push when I felt the urge. I thought I was almost done. I figured the pushing part took around 30 to 90 minutes, according to what I’d read and learned during pregnancy. Soon I would be holding my baby. We were almost there.

As soon as I was allowed to push, it was harder to recognize the urge. The nurse said, “Push into your bottom,” which I did, and poop came out. She said this was good, that it meant I was pushing in the right place. I pooped about seven times at least, probably more. It seemed like all I did was push poop out. As more time went by the pain got worse and worse with each contraction. I couldn’t even really rest in between because my legs were shaking with the effort and the pain. The nurse kept telling me to relax my legs, to use all my effort in pushing and not in straining my legs. I knew I needed to do that, but could not relax my shaking legs even with people holding them up for me. I kept pushing every few minutes with the contractions, trying not to yell out because they told me not to, that I needed every ounce of energy for pushing. I started to hate the nurse, but every time she left the room I called out to her to come back. I knew that I needed her to get this baby out. Phoebe and Greg kept telling me that I could do this, that I was doing great. I did not believe them. I looked into their eyes, pleading for help, and each time they said, “You’re doing great” I just looked at them like, “Yeah, right.” The nurse told me to believe in myself. When I asked, “Can I do this?” she told me I had to work hard and push hard. This did not inspire confidence in me. At one point she asked, “Do you do meditation?” and I said, “No. That doesn’t work for me.” She then said, “Well, maybe try some of that.”

The doctor checked in sometimes, only for a minute. He would look at my progress, I would plead for help from him, and he would just say, “You are doing it, you need to focus, push harder.” Time felt infinite. Every second stretched on for days. At some point, everyone around me had started counting to ten with each contraction as I pushed. Phoebe and Greg were counting very loudly, and the nurse told them to be quieter and I yelled, “No, I like it!” I needed the counting. It helped me get through each push. I kept saying, “I can’t do this!” and I really believed it. It was taking too long. I didn’t understand how it could take this long to get my baby out. How long had I been pushing? I cried, “I am not this kind of woman!” I could not do this, it was too much pain. I couldn’t handle it, I wasn’t strong enough. Someone had to get this baby out, and I didn’t know how, but it had to be without me. Clearly I wasn’t doing it right. The doctor came in and I begged him to help me with tears streaming down my face. “I know what you’re asking,” he said, “but it’s too soon.” I stared into the nurse’s eyes, I was so angry with her for telling me to “push better” and at the same time I knew I needed her. My arms were being pulled forward as I pushed now, so my belly squished up to help with the pushing. For a little while I pushed on my hands and knees, which helped somewhat, the baby got down a little further, until I couldn’t hold myself up anymore, so I moved to my back again. I was sweating, sweating, sometimes someone put a cold washcloth on my forehead. Everything hurt in a way I never knew was possible. It was so intense that it’s hard for me to think about, even now. I told Greg, “You’re doing the next one!” (meaning the next baby) because I knew I could never withstand this again, if I could even do it now. I started a mantra in my head: Push. This. Fucking. Baby. Out. I wanted help, why wasn’t anyone helping me? I knew I had to push better, to let go into the pain and just push into it. But I just couldn’t do it. I wanted a break. I wanted it to be over. Around 7:00pm Bonnie came in. Her energy was just what we needed at that time. She massaged my hips and joined in on the counting. I stared at her like I stared at the others, pleading with my eyes for help. She said encouraging things just like Greg and Phoebe, and told me I was doing it, that I was really close. What did everyone know that I didn’t? The pain was too much. I was trying so hard and didn’t understand why it wasn’t over yet. The nurse yelled, “Stop fighting it, Anna! Relax your legs and push!”

At 8:00pm the doctor came in and said I had two options. Have some pain medication that would stop labor for an hour, then push for another hour after that and if the baby wasn’t born then I’d have a c-section. Or he could get the forceps and he’d pull while I pushed and we’d be done in ten minutes. “You’ll still have to push and it will be very intense,” he said. I knew I wanted to choose the forceps and I looked at Greg, Phoebe, and Bonnie, searching for a sign that this was an okay choice. They all nodded. Greg and I had some kind of quick conversation to confirm that it was okay with him, that this was the choice we both wanted. Very quickly the forceps stuff was brought in, as well as the respiratory team and everything else needed for once the baby was out. I pushed at each contraction as the doctor prepared the forceps. The contractions felt almost on top of each other. When the doctor was ready he told me not to push, and he put the forceps in which hurt like hell. From my perspective they looked like metal salad tongs. The baby’s head was really close. At each contraction I pushed and the doctor pulled and it hurt a thousand times worse than the impossible pain I’d already felt. At one point the head was halfway out, the worst pain splitting me in two, ripping my whole body apart. Phoebe and Greg saw the head and said enthusiastically, “Keep pushing! The head’s almost out!” and the doctor yelled, “No! Don’t push without a contraction!”

Somehow I pushed the head out. Somehow I pushed the slippery body out right after. Pushing that head out was unexplainably painful, and I don’t understand how it happened or how I lived through that pain.

I saw the baby, my baby, lifted out of me after three and a half hours of pushing. His arms reached up, his hands with these long, long fingers. Phoebe cut the umbilical cord and I shouted, “Take a picture!” The doctor and nurse pushed on my belly to get the placenta out and it hurt so I cried and yelled. The baby was out but there was still so much pain. The placenta slipped out like a giant jellyfish. “It looks like a brain,” Phoebe said. I shouted, “Take a picture!”

They cleaned the baby and wrapped him up and handed him to Greg. I wanted to hold him so much, and I wanted the pain to be over. The doctor was stitching me up from a second degree tear. The stitching hurt a lot and felt like it took forever. He kept telling me to relax my legs but they were shaking and I couldn’t. Bonnie held one leg and the nurse held the other. Another nurse was putting a new IV in my arm for fluids (I’d knocked the other IV out during all the pushing) and Pitocin to help my uterus contract, and she was telling me to hold still. All this poking and stitching and pain and I was doing my best to keep still but all my muscles were shaking. I gripped Phoebe’s arm, looked into her eyes and said, “I just want the pain part to be over.” “I know,” she said. Then I said, “Is Mama here?” and she said through tears, “Yes, and you remind me of her so much right now.” The nurses pushed my belly to get more gushes of blood out.

I looked at the baby in Greg’s arms, saw him looking down and the baby looking up, their eyes focused on each other. Greg was crying. It was beautiful. I said, “The name– what do you think?” He said, “The one we– yeah, that’s it.” I said to Phoebe, “This is Giles Fox Moriarty-Lev-Howard.”

Finally they were done working on me. Finally the baby was in my arms, skin to skin. “We did it,” the doctor said. “Thank you,” I said, really meaning it. Now it was just Greg, Phoebe, Bonnie and the nurses. The student nurse who’d been with us all day and whose shift ended at 7:00 had stayed and extra hour and a half to be with us until the end, to see the baby born. I thanked her. I looked at Greg. We all marveled at this perfect, beautiful baby. I asked for pain meds (I think as soon as the baby was out I started asking for some kind of pain relief) and someone brought some eventually. At some point a nurse told us that she’d gone to the waiting room and informed our family that the baby was born and everything was okay. Phoebe went out to talk to them and came back with everyone’s phones to take pictures. Then she fixed my hair a little for me, helped me look presentable. The nurse gave me a diaper full of ice to help with the swelling, and then gave me a nursing tutorial. Then my dad, Wendy, and Greg’s parents came in.

Giles Fox Moriarty-Lev-Howard (aka “Smokey”) was born on May 6, 2016 at 8:28pm, weighing 7lbs. 12oz., after 28 hours of labor, 3.5 hours of pushing, and a forceps delivery. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was also the best day of my life.

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