Mendolonium

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

We are officially changing our baby’s name to Theodore Henry…

My last pregnancy was a difficult one; filled with a pervasive never-ending “morning” sickness, punctuated by anomalous test results.  When our baby boy was born unexpectedly and unnaturally a few weeks early I was at a loss as to what to name him.  Feeling as if I owed him a proper name at the very least we settled, somewhat uneasily, on the name Henry, the name we had most often discussed during my pregnancy.

What most people don’t know is that for a time, when he was a day or two old, we called him Theodore.  The idea of Theodore as a name was a relatively late addition to our pregnancy discussions and I was unsure about choosing a name for our baby that I thought I had not mulled over sufficiently.  I also didn’t want to be one of those families who named their children with names all beginning with the same initial.  Never mind that there was no rule that if I named our second child Theodore, that the third child would then be required to have a name beginning with T as well.  So Theodore was out and Henry was in.  And although his name read Henry William on his birth certificate, at night I sang Theodore to sleep and every so often I used the name Theodore in the light of day.

When I was pregnant with our baby I worried that I didn’t know him as well as I knew his brother.  This second child was more of an enigma; he moved less in utero, more deliberately, less frantically than his brother had.  I was distracted by the demands of caring for a toddler.   I longed to make a deeper connection to him and I hoped that it would come naturally after his birth.  About two hours after he was born, I rested in my hospital bed, the baby swaddled beside me, Jeff sleeping in a chair.  The baby began to fuss.  I tried nursing…pretty much my one infant calming trick.  No, he wasn’t interested.  “Now what?”, I thought considering waking Jeff, the baby soothing master.  I hadn’t slept properly in thirty-six hours and I was  suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion and a slight edge of panic.  What did he need?  I am his mother, I should know how to help him.   And then a thought came to my mind, “Pick him up and hold him up against your chest.  Rub his back.  He will like that.”  I did so and he instantly calmed down and contentedly fell asleep.  It was like magic; completely out of the blue…I had never held Thomas like that, to this day Thomas is not particularly fond of being touched much less massaged.  But somehow, somewhat inexplicably,  I knew this new little baby, I knew that he would like being held just like that.  I leaned back with my perfect new baby against me, the morning sunlight streaming through the window onto us and I thought, “I know you…”.

I did know him and I should have trusted my instincts about him and his name.  He is not Henry William.  He is Theodore Henry and he knows it.  And when I call him Theodore he comes smiling.

“Make sure you take care of the older child first.  The baby won’t remember being ignored, but the older child will.”

Probably the most oft given advice to parents expecting their second child.  And quite possibly the biggest, stinking, steaming bullshit pile of advice I have ever been given.

Thomas, Jeff, and I are each the oldest child in our families.  When I was pregnant with Henry I wondered how our new baby, our second child, might feel about his place in our family as he grew up.  In many ways he would have a fundamentally different experience as compared to his older brother.  Henry will never be the “only child” – over his life our focus will always be divided between two (or more) children.  Yet Henry has the benefit of more experienced, relaxed  parents.  I vowed that, to the maximum extent possible, I would not treat either child differently based on their birth order.  Thomas would not be made to grow up faster simply because he was going to become a big brother.  The new baby would never be “ignored”.  I even went so far as to ask Jeff’s younger brother if, as a second child himself, he had any advice for us.  I remember thinking about our new baby and how deeply I loved him – I couldn’t bear the thought of him ever feeling neglected.

It was easy to make a promise while pregnant, when balancing two children meant telling Thomas he needed to wait a few minutes for a story while a morning sick Mama threw up her breakfast in the kitchen sink.  One year into Henry’s life, I still feel as if most days I am almost physically split in two:  one half of me constructing Lego creations named “Helicopter Ski Face” with Thomas, while the other half of me sprints after a bored Henry seeking out the dog’s water dish.  The truth is, while love might be infinite, time and attention are not.  Thomas is often getting half of the attention that he was prior to Henry’s birth.  Henry is getting about half as much one-on-one attention as Thomas did at the same age.  But no one is getting ignored – most certainly not the baby.  Neither boy will consciously remember how we always picked them up when they stretched out their little arms to us, how we helped them back to sleep each and every time they woke up, how we celebrated their every milestone.  But I believe that the things we do for our children are as important from day one as they are on day 1000.  It isn’t about making a memory, but about making a bond between us.

We all have our needs and in a family we all help each other get them met.  Henry’s cries are always answered – just as his brother’s were before him and his hypothetical siblings will be after him.  Thomas requests for a cuddle and a story are always honored.  I try to keep the boys playing quietly while Jeff is catching up on some much needed sleep in the morning.  Jeff  takes care of the boys while I exercise.  It’s important for them to realize that grown-ups have needs too.

Lately keeping both boys happy and engaged at the same time has become easier.  This week when Thomas and I sat down to build a Lego tower, Thomas spontaneously offered to “build one for Henry to destroy first”.  I smiled and hugged them both.  They may not remember but I think they’ll both know that in our family no one will ever be ignored.

Tell me about bad advice that you have received?

Henry has a new favorite pastime, we call it dark/light.  It’s really quite simple:  we hold him up to a light switch and he turns the light on and off exclaiming “light” and “dark” in self-satisfied awe.  He is fascinated by the power to change the illumination with the flick of a finger.  When he wakes up in the morning he rolls over, points to the light fixture above our bed, and pronounces it “Dark!”.   He’s even created his own sign for dark, a sort of hand-over-his heart, pledge of allegiance style, quick salute.

Emerging from the darkness of post-postpartum depression (more accurately partum and post-postpartum depression as it plagued me my entire pregnancy) hasn’t been nearly as easy as flipping a switch.   I had a hard time sleeping last night,and not just because my soon-to-be one year old woke up to nurse every two hours like clockwork.  I tossed and turned remembering where I was one year ago; sick with anxiety over why my water had broken early, why my baby didn’t seem to be growing appropriately, why his movements had slowed down.  I really didn’t know if my baby was going to be “OK” and I was exactly where I didn’t want to be:  in the hospital, chained to monitors, with Pitocin coursing though my body.  I looked at the clock at about 1:30 this morning and thought about how exactly one year ago I was about to ask for an epidural and how badly that made me feel about myself; yet I had been in so much emotional pain for months I just couldn’t take one more minute of physical pain.  I really wasn’t ready to have a baby on that day – I  was scared of a medically induced labor in the hospital;  I still had innumerable items on my before the baby comes do-list; we hadn’t even come close to deciding on  name.  Birth , however, waits for no woman and at 6:30 in the morning on March 25th 2009 our baby boy slipped easily into the world.  He was small, but wonderfully healthy; a beautiful, calm, presence from his first moment on Earth.

While pregnant, I hadn’t been able to acknowledge my depression to anyone, not even myself.  The first few weeks and months after Henry’s birth were dark ones for me; I loved my perfect baby boy so very deeply, but was so lost, so paralyzed by sadness.  I was overwhelmed with two children, sleep deprived with the demands of a newborn, and wondering what had happened to my identity.  I could have  easily resented Henry for my depression, but I never did.  I was perfectly happy and content when I held him; usually upright against my chest with his head tucked under my chin, as was his preferred position.  He hated to be put down (still does, in fact, if he is not actively exploring something new) and carrying him around, rocking him for hours gave me purpose.  At my six week postpartum check-up I thought about Henry and told my OB that I thought I might be depressed.  It was Henry that flipped the switch giving me light and helping me to start to figure myself out.  My little Henry turned one today and it was only this week that I finally was able to say that I don’t think I am depressed anymore.  I am so very grateful that Henry is exactly the person who he is and that he was born exactly when he was.  I love him so much.  I wouldn’t be the same without him.

It’s ten-thirty and Jeff has just emerged from the boys’ room after putting Thomas to bed, “What did you read him tonight?” he asks shaking his head.  “He’s scared of panthers.”.  “Oh”, I reply knowingly, “Not tonight…last night.  The story of grandpa and the panther in chapter two.  Tonight was chapter three:  The Long Rifle.”

Two nights ago I decided that Thomas and I had had enough of children’s books about bunnies, bears, and the occasional hapless monster.  I decided it was time to introduce Thomas to my favorite books of all time:  The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I explained to him that we would read a chapter every night.  The past three nights he has listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word.  While the stories of wolves, butchering pigs, and loading guns must in many ways seem like utter fantasy to a boy who has spent his entire life in vegetarian household located a densely populated inner suburb, he seems to grasp my explanation that the books are real, that they tell a story of the way things were.  After each chapter he asks me questions rapid-fire, like a tiny sleeper clad lawyer cross-examining a witness that he knows holds the truth.   “Why does Laura not want Susan [her corncob doll] to see her holding Mary’s doll?”, “Where are Laura and Mary’s toys?”, “Is a panther a bad animal?”.

A few minutes after Jeff came out of the den of supposedly sleeping boys Henry woke up for the 3rd time tonight.  It was my turn so I went in to soothe him back to sleep, pausing to listen at the boys’ door – just to make sure he did not settle him back to sleep.  For a brief few moments there was silence and then a wail punctuated the darkness seemed to demand, “Pick me up right now!”  I sprung into the room and swept Henry from his crib.  And then I heard a small, quiet sobbing from Thomas’ bed.  I looked over to see him huddled in the corner, tears shining on his face.  I sat down with Henry on Thomas’ bed – trying to comfort my two sad little boys.  I quickly called Jeff in and handed him the baby – instantly eliciting sobs of unjust protest from Henry.  Jeff left the room to walk with Henry and I asked Thomas what was wrong.  “I’m scared.”  “What is scaring you?” I asked with concern.  “Henry crying”, he replied pitifully, “He was crying and Mama needed to come pick him up.”  “Oh”, I said touched by his empathy for his brother and his obvious dependence on us as his parents to fix that which ails them.  I stroked his head, a gesture he usually shrugs away from, but tonight allowed me and told him that we would always take care of him and his brother; that we loved them so much; that we will keep them safe.  Thomas quieted and I breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes popped open and he stated with a bit of a question in his voice, “Panthers only live in Florida…”  “Yes, that’s right.  There are no panthers in California.  And our house has big strong walls, and doors, and windows so even if there were panthers here they could not get in.  And Kermit would bark at them so we would know they were coming.”  I said giving everything I had in reassurance.   The thought of our fourteen pound dog yapping away at a panther either comforted him of amused him and he smiled.  Jeff came back in the room with a now sleeping Henry.  For a few minutes the four of us were together in quiet darkness, warm in the only heated room in the house, secure in the knowledge that we and those that we love the most were all safe.

To my boys:  we may put you down, we may leave the room, but we will never let the panthers get you.