Labor. It's work.

I was so eager to meet her. At 39 weeks of pregnancy, I had had it - I was tired of being immobile, hot, uncomfortable, and chained to the bathroom. I could not wait to hold her in my arms. I was impatient and curious - what did she look like, what would she smell like, what would her cry sound like? Would she recognize my voice when she heard it, and would I feel like I had known her for so many months already? Sometimes I would sit and poke my belly and say, "Come out and play with me!" and Paul would scold me because he said that she'd come on her own time, and that he wouldn't mind a few more days of sleep either.

Maybe somehow I willed her exit to happen. I woke up on July 10, 2011 in the middle of the night to discover my water had broken. It wasn't like in the movies where everything is wet. Things were only a little bit wet, yet I knew that it was water and not anything else. I waited and waited that morning, wondering if my contractions would begin and the process of labor would start. We waited some more, making plans to go to a friend's birthday party if she didn't come, repacking the hospital bag if she did come; yet nothing happened. I felt some Braxton-Hicks contractions, which are more like minor cramping, but nothing that told me that my body was going into actual labor.

I called my doctor that afternoon and she advised me to come into the hospital, saying that there was a risk for infection if my contractions didn't begin soon. Little did we know what we were in for. They tested to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid, and the test came out negative. But my doctor was dubious about the results and told me to walk around for an hour and take the test again. I was okay with that until the nurse told us that we had to stay on the eighth floor (the labor and delivery floor) of the hospital. This made the hour particularly slow, as I was moving at a snail's pace (I had pulled my groin in pre-natal yoga class the week before, making my walking ability that much more impaired!). Paul and I walked from one side of the hospital floor to another, stopping to stare out the same window about 50 times, sometimes laughing at the futility of the exercise and sometimes staring at the clock in disbelief. But what do you know - my doctor's instincts were correct. At the end of the hour, I took the test again, and it came out positive. My water had indeed broken, and the clock was on before the baby was at risk for infection. And so the ride began...

We settled into a rather large delivery room and the nurse stuck an IV in me and started me on a low dosage of Pitocin, a synthetic form of oxytocin used to induce contractions. As hours passed and they raised the Pitocin level notch by notch, we waited for my contractions to get stronger, but nothing seemed to be happening. I checked Facebook on my phone, played Words With Friends on my iPad, and even watched an episode of Friday Night Lights. It was boring and I wasn't doing anything; we were waiting for the drugs to do the work. I didn't feel good about that but nothing could be done. At one point, the fetal heart rate monitor indicated that the baby's heart rate began to drop and a barage of nurses burst into the room interrupting my sleep, flicking on all the lights and talking in loud, urgent voices. They threw an oxygen mask on me, did a rough cervical exam (ugh!) and waited to see if the baby's heart rate would go back up. Even though I felt like I was in the middle of an ER episode, I knew the baby was just fine because I could still feel her moving in my belly. They then had to turn off the Pitocin and start all over again from a low dosage.

Finally, after about 12 hours, my doctor figured that my water hadn't completely broken - it had just started leaking from the top of the bag, which prevented my body from receiving signals to go into labor. So she broke my water (I didn't even know this was happening when she did it) and then the contractions began to kick in so strongly that I knew I wouldn't be able to handle them for very long without pain medication. I had long kissed my dreams of a "as-natural-as-possible" birth goodbye, and had to accept that this was what was in the cards for me. Letting go of the desire for a natural birth was hard, as I had read all these books about it, including The Joy of Natural Childbirth which heralded all the ways birthing could be a beautiful, painless experience. But being on Pitocin, I couldn't use all the coping methods that we had learned in our birthing class, like walking around, using a birthing ball, taking a bath, shifting into different positions, etc. I was chained to the bed with an IV pumping antibiotics and fluid, a fetal heart rate monitor, and all kinds of things stuck invasively in every part of my body. And because the Pitocin made the contractions even more intense than they would have come on naturally, the pain was searing. In tears partly from the pain and partly from letting go of what I had wanted for my labor, I called for the epidural.

About 20 minutes later, the anesthesiologist showed up. He was a little Korean man with a cart full of drugs. I imagine he must be a popular guy whenever he enters a hospital room. It took about 15 minutes to administer the shot in my back as he casually made small talk with my nurse about last year's hospital holiday party, and almost immediately I felt a numbing sensation come over my lower body that finally brought relief from the intense contractions that had had me writhing in pain. Ahhhhh. I smiled, relaxed, and felt like myself again, wanting to hug him. It was the perfect dosage - I was relieved from the pain, but could still wiggle my toes and feel my feet. I was able to sleep intermittently for the next part of my labor, as I wanted to rest as much as possible for delivery. But the nurses watching the baby's heart monitor again burst into my room a few hours later, repeating the exercise from what was now the day before, saying the baby's heart rate had dropped and they had to turn off the Pitocin once again. It was another scare, but deep down I knew she was just fine. At this point, I realized that so much of obstetrics is about preventing the worst-case scenario, despite a mother's intuition telling her that everything is okay.

I had now been in the labor process for almost 24 hours. At this point, my contractions were still going even without the Pitocin, and once they turned it back on again, I was finally closer to the right amount of dilation. At last, I was at about 8.5 to 9 cm dilated, and it was almost time to push. But my doctor came in with a doubtful look on her face. "I'm really praying that the baby will start moving down more, but I don't know..." She was worried about the amount of time since my water had broken, which was approaching a point dangerous enough that a C-section could be a safer route since the more time that passed increased the chances that the baby could get an infection, and the baby was still feeling a little too high up. With all the antibiotics they were pumping into my system, I didn't feel that worried and something told me that somehow, my body was going to make a way to get this baby out safely.

Finally, I was dilated enough that it was time to push even though the baby was still pretty high. And push I did. With a nurse holding one leg and Paul holding the other, I pushed with all my might because it was the only way to bring relief to the intense contractions that I was feeling now that my doctor had turned the epidural off. I thought about the technique I had read about in my Hypnobirthing book that discouraged traditional "purple pushing" and instead advocated for the mother to "breathe your baby down." Well, I hadn't taken the class, I'd just read the book - but at this point there was no way that just deep breathing was going to make this baby come out. Maybe next time, oh somewhat-misleading-natural-birthing-methods.

Continuing to push, I went through bouts of frustration, asking my doctor desperately, "Why isn't my body helping me?" to which she replied sympathetically, "I don't know, Connie. I don't know." I pushed through sweat and tears, groaning and using every last ounce of energy in my body. Nearly two hours later, I finally heard my cheerleading team screaming more optimistic chants such as - "You're almost there!" (me: "You promise?!") and "I see the head!" (me: "Are you serious?!") "You're doing amazing!" (me: "Really?") and "Oh my God!" from Paul, shocked by what he was seeing, along with a rather sweet, "Thank you, thank you" he whispered in my ear seconds later. Then, a final push, my doctor saying, "I know you have a birth plan and you didn't want a vacuum used-" and me saying, "IT'S OK, JUST DO IT!" And then, a cry. A very sweet cry.

A crying, wet baby was placed on my chest and though I couldn't see (didn't have my glasses on) and all I really wanted to do was take a shower and sleep for 10 hours, I was amazed at this little person wriggling around finding her way to my breast. She was really here. I felt a strange sense of peace and rationality float over me, and this first encounter was nothing like what I thought it would be. I had imagined myself bowled over with emotion, crying at my first glimpse of her. But instead it sunk in slowly - I was a mother; I was calm and collected, and here was my baby at long last, needing me for survival, wanting me, and in her own little way, loving me. I strained to see Paul and the baby as he cut the umbilical cord. I wanted so badly to be standing there next to him and the team of nurses hovering over the baby, but I was still lying in the bed with my IV in as my doctor was quietly focused on stitching me up. I kept asking her if she was done, and finally she said she was, putting away her collection of scissors and tools that had made me cringe at first glance. She looked over at the baby and from behind her scrubs, shower cap and face shield said, "Happy birthday" to the baby softly, and then, "Oh, you guys - she's so cute!"

And then it was all over. Paul held a calm, quiet, clean baby in his arms wrapped up in a pink and blue hospital blanket and cap. He had this huge grin on his face with a tenderness in his eyes that I had never seen before. The nurse helped me get cleaned up and use the bathroom, and I nearly fainted from dizziness and pain. I got refueled on some cranapple juice and was moved to another room in the postpartum wing, where I nursed the baby again and gazed down at her little face. I melted as she held my index finger tightly in her tiny grasp, feeling a deep love wash over me. She was perfect, healthy, and nothing seemed to matter except for the three of us in this tiny room, soaking in the bliss of being a little family.

Introducing Elisa!

I was going to discontinue this blog, but I have been itching to journal some of the experiences that have been my life for the past three or so weeks. So this site has now been transformed into my M.O.M. blog = Musings On Motherhood. Thank you for being curious about this new journey. I'm overwhelmed, but so excited about this road ahead.

So far, it's been this whirlwind of emotions - some which I expected, some I had no idea even existed. I don't think I realized from the very beginning that pregnancy was the easiest part, no matter how uncomfortable I was at nine months. I was so tired of people giving me stupid comments like, "Wow, you look like you're about to pop!" or "How in the world can you still play the guitar?" But it was true - I was pretty much unable to play the guitar with my belly that big, and walked about as fast as an elephant on sedatives. I also had to be near a bathroom at all times, which limited my choice of activities so much so that my idea of "exercise" became walking down every aisle of Target soaking up the air conditioning. And then there was my 36 hours of labor and delivery (the most pain I have ever experienced in my life), which was followed by a crying, wet baby being placed on my chest, leaving me confused about why I wasn't allowed to just sleep 10 hours right then, but that now I was supposed to learn the beautiful "art" of breastfeeding?!

You're supposed to fall in love with your baby when you first lay eyes on her, but I didn't have my glasses on and I was really sweaty. So as they stitched me up and I was straining to see what was going on, asking my doctor if she was almost done and asking my husband, "What does she look like?!" - I guess you could say I fell in love with her the second time I laid eyes on her, when I was a little more alert and had corrective vision working for me.

And now, as I watch her grow and change every day, I'm overwhelmed - that this little person somehow came out of my body; that she will grow up and be an adult someday; that when she smiles, I see my husband's face on her; and that we are inextricably linked to her even after we both pass, however depressing that may be. I look into her wide eyes as she spits up on my shirt or pees on my hand while I change her diaper, and I think - wow, you are the most amazing creature I have ever seen. You are so amazingly beautiful I just want to eat you. (Her middle name is Madeleine, which is a cake after all.) And I am overwhelmed with love, and even at 3am when I am feeding her for the zillionth time, I understand why people do this.

Moving time

I'm not sure how many people are still following this blog, but I do need to tell any of you loyal readers out there that my blog is now moving here. This is in an attempt to gain a bigger readership, hold me accountable to blogging more frequently, and not be ashamed to integrate my faith and spirituality with my artistic and professional life. The two have never been separate for me, so why should I act as if they are?

In my last few weeks of pregnancy, I've got tons of time - some of which is used well (sleeping 11 hours!), and some of which isn't (watching my sister slaughter me in a round of Words With Friends). I've read so much about labor and pregnancy that my head is spinning. The hospital bag is packed, my birthing ball is blown up, and now it's time to just wait...and wait until this baby girl decides its her time to make her grand entrance into our beautiful world. I am so eager to meet her and wonder daily, what will she look like, feel like, sound like? My husband's typical reply is simply, "Probably a little bit like us!"

So thank you for your loyal readership - my blog will now be transitioning into my website, and I hope that you'll still follow me on your blogrolls and RSS feeds. I admittedly haven't played much guitar lately (it's kind of hard when your belly is so big that you can't see your fingerboard any longer) but I'm daily on the lookout for some artistic inspiration so that my insides don't crumble and dry up. Today - a new book on my iPad and a movie on Gustavo Dudamel and El Sistema. I'll let you know how I like both of them.

Manna

I haven't blogged in so long that my computer doesn't remember the address in the browser. It's been a little busy around here in sunny LA - I spent three months in hibernation studying for qualifying exams, watched my husband run a marathon in the only torrential downpour that LA has ever experienced, and have been going crazy with my "nesting" instincts. Pregnancy is going by fast, this being the final week of my second trimester. I can't believe that my belly is going to grow even larger than it is now and that this is the final stretch before we get to meet our little girl.

This has proven to be one of the most thrilling and yet totally anxiety-ridden seasons of my life. A few months ago, P lost his job and we were faced with the reality that we are once again in a season of financial strain. Graduating this May will be thrilling and freeing, but is putting me out on the market for a college teaching job that doesn't seem to exist right now. I am for once more qualified than ever to do what I've dreamed of doing - teaching guitar at the college level and having a performing career - and yet the steps to making that a reality sometimes seem so far away.

Some doors are currently closing and some doors are opening. For now, I have a few really great concerts lined up for next season and am trying hard to create more opportunities in that area. I've tried to use every outlet of my current network to find teaching jobs and have gotten a few maybes, a few no's, some complete lack of responses, and have tried to pick myself up after each one and continue to think creatively about my career. But despite all my feminist convictions about balancing a hefty career with impending motherhood, if God says this is a season for me to have the luxury of being home part-time with baby, than I have no reason to doubt that could be the best thing for our family.

I've admired the way that P has made a challenging situation into a time of self-discovery, exploration, and contemplation. It's made us all the more reflective over what is truly important for our child to have in her life. There's a crib in our dining room right now, a sight that the practical, get-it-done side of me thought would be fine, rationalizing it with a good friend and mother of three's humorous words in my head: "Babies don't need their own room. You could put a baby on the floor and it wouldn't know the difference!" But the night I came home and saw P building the crib that we snagged on craigslist, I burst into tears, pained by emotions that I'd never experienced before - the fear of not being able to provide for our child. I realized that this fear was not completely legitimate; I mean, I don't fear not being able to give the baby food, shelter and clothing, but I only fear not being able to give it all the things that our culture says is necessary for our little ones.

Realizing this, I'm trying hard to see past the American need for more stuff and more space, the controlling, materialistic urges and idols that plague American parents and tell us that we absolutely need all these things for such a tiny little person, that if you don't get this thing, then that could happen to your baby, etc. It is ridiculous the way that the baby gear industry instills fear into parents and guilts them into buying more stuff and more expensive stuff. As P reminded me the other day, sometimes God gives us manna, and you get only what you need for the day. But sometimes the baskets of loaves and fishes indeed overflow, and the abundance of his grace showers us. Right now, our manna is more than enough. He has promised us this, and I have no reason to doubt the right provisions will come in time.

So we've decided to name our baby Elisa, which means "God's promise" - a reminder of the necessity of a season in which we are utterly dependent on His provision and promise, and the character we pray that will develop in our daughter as a result of trusting in His promises.

Expecting?

We were going through security for the umpteenth time at the Rome airport, victims of a delayed plane with a flat tire that resulted in us spending two full days in the very proudly named Leonardo Da Vinci Airport.

Cranky and tired, I moved through the security line with dragging feet, knowing the drill. The coat comes off, the boots could stay on, the liquids came out. As we got to the front of the line, the security woman checked our boarding passes and passports. A family with children moved to the left in a shorter line for people with kids, their baby crying and toddler whining. The woman, a pretty Italian in her 30's, glanced at me and I felt her gaze move downwards to my belly.

"Aspetta?" she asked.

"Sorry?" I said, not sure what this word meant in our current context. When I spent a summer in Italy at a guitar festival, I had an Italian roommate who said this word quite a bit as she fumbled to look stuff up in her Italian-English dictionary. I had gathered it to be a sort of Italian space filler like, "Umm" or "Hold on..." I also knew it to come from the verb aspettar, or to wait.

But here the security woman smiled matter of factly, drawing a gesture of a rounded belly with her hand.

"Aspetta?" she asked again, this time with the tummy gesture.

"Oh," I said. "Oh, um...yes. Er- si."

The secret was out at 12 weeks. She smiled again and pointed for us to go in the shorter family line with screaming babies and whiny toddlers.

So it's true - I'm pregnant, but this had sort of been our secret until now. It was kind of fun having this huge piece of information and keeping it from the world, like we had formed some sort of elitist club with only our closest friends and family. I've reveled at knowing that I have this thing growing inside of me that is going to turn our lives upside down and never leave us the same again. I was a secret agent of sorts with an important mission - to stay healthy, happy, and provide a nice warm place for baby to float around and be comfortable.

But now it appeared that the cat could easily be let out of the bag. My cover was blown, at least by this woman who possessed the Italian panache to say so very directly. I knew this time would come - I was sometimes almost eager for it so that I could be honest and authentic with those around me, sharing the news with excitement. But I suppose all the pasta I had eaten during our 10 day blitz through Rome and Amalfi expedited the formation of the baby bump, and the baggy gray dress I was wearing wasn't so baggy that day. The public had now confirmed to me - it's true! We know you're having a baby! Congratulations and walk through this shorter and supposedly faster moving line with screaming children since you'll soon have one of your own!

I passed through the metal detector blinking back tears (oh, hormones) and realizing all over again the magnitude of this new thing in our lines, flooded with a swirl of emotions - anxiety, joy, fear, peace, excitement, trepidation, anticipation. The responsibility, the miracle, the changes, the exhilaration. It's really happening; the nausea, gas, hunger, and multiple trips to the bathroom are not just in my head. I really am entering the world of motherhood... and never going back.

I'm back...

I haven't seen this screen for awhile. It looks strange. My banner is messed up. My readership has probably dwindled to zero. If you are out there somewhere, dear reader, I must apologize for my silence. I'm not sure what happened. It became habit not to write and I guess I have been in a too-busy-for-reflection sort of mode as I started teaching more and working for the Guitar Foundation of America. Life without reflection is not as good as it is with. So I'm going to start blogging again, mainly because so much stuff is happening and I'd like some record of it when I'm old and gray.

A new school year has begun (and the semester is 2 weeks from being over) and I am about as burnt out as bad toast. I just got through a stressful few months in which I premiered a new recital program that is probably the most meaningful to me that I've ever played. It went really well, and I got wonderful support and encouragement from all of my faculty mentors at USC. It's a program of original music written for guitar by women, much of which is not often played by many guitarists on the concert stage. This program makes me feel that I've somehow found part of my voice as an artist, that this series of miniscule finger movements and muscle memory are communicating some kind of voice for the voiceless. There is some part of an injustice that I feel that I am slowly helping to unravel. Because music by men is played day in and day out without any question of why there is a gender gap and why a program of music by female composers is a strange thing. But in all reality, life interrupts and music by women has often been tossed by the wayside, not taken seriously, or discounted because of the composer's gender. Or there were just not as many chances for these composers to get their music published, played, and circulated when it was written because opportunities like these were not available to these women.

There is still work to be done in the fight for equality between men and women. There's always been a bit of a feminist inside of me. I used to wear this Rosie the Riveter T-shirt in 8th grade with the WWII slogan on it, "We Can Do It!" Yes, you know the one. It was actually a slogan used to encourage more women into the workforce as men fought the war during the 40's. Well, in 2010, we still need to hear this slogan as woman juggle career, family, motherhood, marriage, etc. Somehow, playing the music on this program makes me feel connected to these female guitarists and composers throughout the ages, as I imagine them struggling in a male-dominated field just as I sometimes do today. But I thank them for being who they were and doing what they did, because my struggle is not nearly as difficult as theirs was.

Here is a piece by Emilia Giuliani, the daughter of well-known Italian composer and guitarist Mauro Giuliani. She died around 1840 of unknown causes at the age of 27. Before she died, she wrote over 50 opus works of music for guitar which show that she must have had some serious chops - they are not easy pieces! I've read before that she stopped writing and performing around the time that she got married, which I assume was because she did not want to overshadow her husband, who was a moderately successful opera composer. She was probably also expected to primarily be a wife and mother as well. I wish she had lived longer and that more of her pieces survived, but the ones that exist I will be tackling one by one. She fascinates me and I'm excited to be unearthing music that has never been recorded or performed much.

This is Variations on a Theme by Mercadante, op. 9 by Emilia Giuliani Guglielmi. Hope you like it.

Carpe Diem

I hope that I will never rest on my laurels, and continually strive to have enough motivation to get up and keep going. This season I've been seized by a surge of ambition once again, a quality that developed in me during my teens and has come in ebbs and flows during adulthood. I'm feeling a sense of stability in where I am, confidence in who I am, and the development of roots here that I haven't had for years after we've moved around so much. It feels good to be planted. Despite the way cities can wear down, they inspire me. I'm happy here.

I'm now preparing to put together an audition tape to enter a guitar competition that happens every two years in which the winner gets to perform with the Buffalo Philharmonic. The entry happens in two stages- first a recording of the first movement of the concerto you choose, along with a required set piece and five minutes of free choice music. If you make the semi-finals, you pay your own way to upstate NY this summer (very glamorous), and all four finalists perform with the Buffalo Phil as the judges chooses who wins.

I don't have high hopes, but I'd be thrilled if I made it to the semis. I very honestly doubt that I will, but I know I have to at least try. I've had so many moments this month where I just want to call it quits because of my dislike for the required piece. But I can't help wondering what could happen if I just put my nose to the grindstone once again and give it my all. Behind every win there are so, so many losses. Behind every decision to try, there are so many missed opportunities that pass by, untapped, potential sinking into the ground. One of my greatest fears is to live my life squandering what God has given me and to failing to recognize his hand in my life. And so although I'm tired, when I'm honing, working, trying, pressing on, I feel like I'm alive and I somehow feel free.