Rami’s First Thanksgiving and Reflections on Lament

Rami and I have just returned from a trip to Atlanta where we celebrated Thanksgiving with my mom’s side of the family. Rami met mostly everyone, including his namesake and his other great grandmother. He was held and adored by cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, brothers. He spent most of his time in the arms of his grandfather, my dad, who stepped in to help me not feel so overwhelmed at every possible moment. Rami took it all in stride, cooing, talking, and smiling at everyone, navigating new faces and places with ease. He took every opportunity to show off his many talents, which continue to include his happy baby pose and sticking as many fingers in his mouth as humanly possible. I was immensely proud of him even though I was and still am dead tired. It would be easy for me to leave my reflections on Thanksgiving at that – watching my little 3.5 month old take in his family and being embraced by the generations before him. But that would be sugarcoating some significant difficulties of the last month and not a true and accurate portrayal of our evolving life as a family of three.

There have been several challenges over the last month that have made it one of the hardest yet. Rami developed acid reflux that caused a lot of discomfort and fussiness, we have had many nursing problems, and what seems to be a string of sleep regressions. On top of that, Feras’ schedule has been particularly consuming, which means that I have continually felt like I am navigating all of these challenges on my own without getting necessary breaks. At times I have felt so sleep deprived that I can’t imagine how I will make it through the following day awake enough to play with my son or pick him up. It has been an exhausting and emotional month.

On top of that, the election happened and that has sent us into a tailspin. I’ll never forget watching the election results with Feras. Rami was asleep and I was dozing on the couch, certain that Florida would be called for Hillary and confident that Trump would be defeated handily. I remember waking up from a catnap and Feras looked at me with a blank face and said that Trump won Florida. We couldn’t believe it. We ended up going to bed way before the election was called, hoping that we’d wake up to headlines announcing that Hillary was our next President. I woke up to feed Rami around 3:30 and was reading the NYT when Feras walked out of the room looking like a ghost. He looked at me and said, “What have we done?” That question has played repeatedly in my head. It eludes me how so many people heard Trump talk about a Muslim registry or banning people from certain countries because of their religion, about women in such a degrading, repulsive and predatory way, dismiss the Black Lives Matter movement, threaten massive deportations of immigrants, and decided to cast a vote for him anyway. Even if those votes were not cast for those despicable reasons, people actually looked past his racist and hate-filled policy positions, actions, and sentiments and voted for him anyway. Feras and I are still sorting through the pain and emotions of this reality — what it will mean for our family, our wider community, and also how we communicate with those on the other side of the political divide. Overall, we just feel devastated.

It almost seems ironic that Thanksgiving would fall in the midst of this whirlwind of struggle. While there was (necessary) shared lament over the election results this week, that did not overpower the time together. Before we sat down for the Thanksgiving meal, my dad led us in a prayer of thanksgiving that did not sidestep the real sadness of the election results, but that turned the lament into thanksgiving. Thanksgiving for immigrants – documented and undocumented, for sustained and empowered justice movements, for our Muslim brothers and sisters, for women who continue to demand equality, and for God who is steadfastly good. The first four verses of Psalm 108 were read – verses that, on first glance, seemed out of place given this political (and in many ways, existential) reality, but instead were powerful words of resistance, renewal, and rejuvenation. Saying these words felt like an act of resistance. I was reminded that the path ahead is blessed and made possible by faith, praise, steadfastness – much like the paths of resistance throughout history. These verses reminded me that God’s love and goodness transcend my lamentation and remain, even when I feel hopeless. So I share these verses with you in case they offer a similar sense of renewal (and I encourage you to read them aloud!):

My heart, O God, is steadfast;
    I will sing and make music with all my soul.
Awake, harp and lyre!
    I will awaken the dawn.
I will praise you, Lord, among the nations;
    I will sing of you among the peoples.
For great is your love, higher than the heavens;
    your faithfulness reaches to the skies.

 

Thanksgiving 2016

   

 

3 Months of Rami James

Today is November 8, 2016. Rami’s three month birthday, but more widely known as Election Day. It is hard not to assume a more profound meaning in this overlap and take it as a sign that the election results will end up the way I want them to. Perhaps this is a way to find hope in the midst of an election season that has stripped us of our humanity and tried to convince us that self-interest should guide our vote. It has been increasingly easier to despair over the current state of affairs.

I woke up this morning expecting to feel that same sense of dread, teetering on the edge of despair. What I felt was quite the opposite. I woke up wide-eyed, excited, emotional. This is an historic day. It’s historic not because of what we are working against – namely, a candidate that openly espouses bigotry, hatred, Islamaphobia, and the list goes on. The candidate that would see my son, my husband, my mother in law, as dangerous and conspiring. Instead, today I have the opportunity to take my three month old son to vote for the first female president of the United States.

I could not have predicted that the first time I get to cast a ballot for a female to hold the Office of the President, I would have a child. I could not have predicted the range of emotions I feel thinking about Rami’s future and how, if Hillary is elected today, he won’t think that it’s radical for a woman to hold this most esteemed position. I could not have predicted the range of emotions thinking about my female ancestors who paved the way for this day – when I as a woman get to cast my vote for a woman. Those ancestors who walked up hills and stairs on crutches, literally and metaphorically, because they refused to relinquish their passion and the cultural mantra of “no you can’t.” Today is an historic day for this country, for me as a woman, and for my three month old child who will one day understand why this was such an historic day and will hopefully think, what took them so long to elect a woman? 

The past three months with Rami have invited me to see the world in a new way, to put despair on the shelf when it threatens to overtake me. He delights in the tiniest of things – a noise, a smile, me dancing in the kitchen, seeing the sky. Every bath he takes is like he is experiencing the warmth and comfort for the first time. He looks up at Feras and me, his feet propped up, with an expression that says it all: This is what I’m talking about! This is my jam! 

Rami recently learned that he has hands and he has feet, and his hands can grab his feet. This newfound talent has permeated every diaper change and every time Rami is on his back. I honestly now understand why in yoga this is called the happy baby pose. He is happy, he is proud. He does not want to stop showing off his talent. He has also become much more communicative, practicing his language of Rami jibberish whenever he can. We have rather involved conversations, he and I, going back and forth discussing the topic of the day. He concentrates so hard, as if he firmly believes that he is speaking my language.

He has become distractible and interested in everything. When he’s supposed to be nursing, I’ll look down and he is staring at me, smiling. Then he starts to giggle a bit before I gently remind him that he’s mid-meal. He follows Feras with great curiosity. I firmly believe that he is a more relaxed and easy baby when Feras is home and knows when he isn’t around. It’s like he is communicating his need for both of us to feel balanced, complete.

Rami’s best time is when he wakes up in the morning, around 7am. He starts stirring and if Feras is home, we race to the bassinet to welcome him to a new day. Whoever gets there first sees this little boy open his eyes and give the biggest smile of the day. Then, while he’s smiling, he starts stretching – both arms up, both legs down. He does this a few times and then we pick him up, at which point he promptly melts on our shoulders in the best cuddle ever. It is a gift to witness that each day.

 

It’s hard to believe that Rami is three months old, and perhaps even harder to believe that this time last year we didn’t know we were going to have a baby. He has made us slow down, savor moments that we would otherwise fly by, and see the world as a beautiful, wide place with little moments that take our breath away. He has transformed our hearts, our sleep patterns, and how we think about our lives. As sleep deprived as we are, the smile that lights up Rami’s face so often brings us to our knees and reminds us that the most beautiful thing in the world is to love, to hold, to breathe life in others even when we don’t necessarily feel the breath in ourselves.

By the end of the day today, or at least tomorrow, we will know who will be the new President of the United States. And while I very much hope that it is Hillary, I am heartened looking into Rami’s face, watching him take in this place.  He is going to eat up this world, embrace it, and make it a better place, no matter who is in the White House. That’s worth celebrating.

three months old! (now sleep!)

he protests wearing socks on a daily basis.

bundled up!

finally have a baby wrap that he will mildly tolerate.

 

the littlest ghost for halloween (aka mom made my costume last minute!)

1. It bodes well that Rami is trying to hold hands with Rosie the Riveter. 2. He can’t help but show off his foot-grabbing talent. Typical male. She seems unimpressed.

Halloween party for babies (or really for the mamas since the babies are clueless)

Rami travels with his toy entourage.

Hanging out with Vanzy!

Perfectly content and contemplative baby hanging out with his Baba before bath time.

How did he get to be so big!?

At Obama’s Inauguration, Jan. 2009. Historic occasion. Hope we can update this page with a similar picture from Election Day 2016.

 

Identity

I originally thought that my next topic for this blog would be exploring expectations around learning and how having a baby upends the notion that it operates in a linear fashion. Still an important topic as we continue to navigate progress and regressions and how they go hand in hand, but I thought that I should reflect on what I have been struggling with the most lately: identity. Oof.

I’ve heard from many mothers that identity is a constant struggle, even once your baby develops into a self sufficient human being, but I don’t think I fully appreciated how many layers there are to the struggle until now – almost 2.5 months after having Rami. [And let’s be honest, I’m sure I’ll keep discovering layers as this journey continues!] The challenge of integrating the varied roles that mothers play is perplexing, disorienting, and intertwined with a healthy dose of self doubt and guilt. I’m still on maternity leave, so each day is focused on Rami – his needs, his schedule, his cues, and, of course, eating. And even though each day is not that different from the next, I have markedly different attitudes towards each one. Some days I am quite content to spend every waking hour with Rami and am at peace (at least as much as possible) with the sedentary nature of nursing. On those days, I can relish in this special time that is totally separate and apart from the hustle and bustle of my former life that was, I admit, defined by how productive I could be on any given day. Before Rami, I would make it a goal to be as balanced, efficient and productive as possible. After Rami, there are days when a walk outside is a true feat. My concept of productivity has been turned upside down and reconstituted. Did Rami take two good naps this morning? What color is his poop? Should I call the pediatrician? How many hours has he logged in the car seat and stroller today and should that be a cause for concern? Though I anticipated being consumed with minutia to a certain degree, I most definitely did not — and could not — have anticipated how all consuming this new role is. Some days, that aspect gets the better of me and I find myself wondering who I am, how I got here, and how I am supposed to fulfill all of the roles to which I feel obligated.

One of my most recent struggles is what this new role as mother and its attendant duties mean for me as a woman and as a professional. During one of my parent groups, the facilitator came out and said, “I’m going to name this. It’s one of the most un-feminist times that we experience.” There was resounding agreement around the room. Until then, I had not allowed myself to name the feelings that were bubbling up under the surface. Did I have moments when I resented the lack of balance between me and Feras? Sure! Were there moments when I felt like I had inadvertently assumed roles that I had worked so hard in my adult life to resist? Yes! But I felt bad naming it – like my role as a new mother should be more than enough and that I should always remember that my protected time with Rami was very much a decision that I was empowered to make and not at all forced into. But when the facilitator said this, I felt a sigh of relief. The fact that others felt the same way somehow made my guilt subside a bit, and I allowed myself to realize that it is not an affront to Rami to reflect critically on my changing roles and how to integrate them, claim them, even resist them sometimes.

One of the manifestations of this struggle has been me questioning my career, the changing nature of my marriage, and whether I made the “right” decisions about my life (just to name a few small things ;). I have questioned my decision to attend UConn Law over other, more prestigious institutions. I have wondered where I would be if I had been a Berkeley grad or been more aggressive about pursuing more prestigious fellowships. I have wondered whether my commitment to Feras, community, and the work I felt called to do prevented me from other things that society would consider more impressive and perhaps, more feminist.  I have been reflecting on this against a backdrop of feeling considerable angst about going back to work and being able to balance my life as a professional with my life as a mother. How am I going to manage this? Will Rami feel abandoned? Will our bond remain strong when I’m not attending to his every need all day everyday? How will he feel? On top of all that, my relationship with Feras has changed. When we put Rami to bed after tag-teaming the bedtime routine and making sure there is some food for us to eat, we sit looking at each other bleary eyed, too exhausted to inquire about the other person’s day, much less how they are doing on a deep emotional, spiritual level. Did I mention how many layers there are to my struggle around identity?!

Having a child has changed literally everything – from morning routines to my conception of the divine, from what it means to love to putting endless energy into researching things like sleep, poop, and gas. It has drained all energy that I have for my formerly scheduled life and made me once again grapple with how I will navigate these new roles in a way that is true to my faith, my feminist convictions, and my values. I don’t have any answers at the moment other than knowing that there aren’t any true, final answers. The journey of motherhood, of life, seems to be a constant negotiation of these roles and attempting to live into them in ways that are true to my faith, my feminist convictions, and my values. And, especially for this precious protected time with Rami, to forgive myself for struggling, questioning, reevaluating, failing at times, and for not fulfilling all of my roles perfectly 100% of the time.

Our little two month old who loves to smile 🙂

Celebrating the end of our mama group in fine form with mimosas and baked goods

Rami means serious business

Feras captioned this picture, though I’m sure that’s quite obvious

Bugaboo!

Rami’s first day at yoga class. Stretching out that left arm like a boss.

Ten minutes after meeting Hannah, Rami pooped on her. It’s true love.

Rami and Poe- two peas in a pod!

Our fall baby!

Reflections on Rami’s Birth

Several topics come to mind each day that I want to explore here, but I think I have to share some reflections on Rami’s birth first – in many ways it has set the context for the journey so far. Don’t worry, I won’t share a detailed birth story – that in and of itself might turn folks off from reading anything else I ever post. But I do think that the emotions and reflections that labor stirred up should be shared, if anything to help me continue to work through the experience.

Rami was born nine days late. As anyone who has had a late baby can attest, going past a due date is absolutely demoralizing, even if you know that a “due date” is a farce (I mean, I read articles from moms calling for a “due period” so that we wouldn’t get hung up on a day.. kinda brilliant, I think). But what is even more demoralizing is having fierce and unrelenting prodromal labor starting around your due date and continuing for over a week. For those that don’t know (and I didn’t until I was experiencing it), prodromal labor is a type of labor that happens before active labor kicks in. It’s sometimes referred to as “false” labor, but the individual who named it that must have been a man because what I was feeling was not false. The contractions were legit. They just didn’t go anywhere. Another thing that I didn’t know is that labor really isn’t considered active until the contractions are approximately 3-5 minutes apart and painful enough that you can’t really talk through them. Oh, and that usually happens when you are 3-5 centimeters dilated. So getting to 3 cm can be brutal and take forever. Which is what I was experiencing for what felt like eternity.

On top of the prodromal labor, my mom had come to Boston when I was 38.5 weeks pregnant and Feras’ paternity leave started 4 days before Rami’s due date. Feras had four weeks off, but they had to correspond to rotation weeks so he couldn’t start his leave when Rami was born. That meant that the later Rami came, the less time Feras was going to have  with him when he arrived. All that to say, there was much at stake for Rami to make an early or on time arrival.

The confluence of these factors heightened the whole situation, especially for me. I so badly wanted to go into labor and for it all to go “as planned.” And I wasn’t even picky about how labor/delivery happened, as long as I felt like I could make choices for myself and feel empowered by those decisions. None of that happened. Nothing went as planned. Each day that passed after my due date was agonizing. I prayed and prayed for labor to kick in. I would wake up with painful contractions and pray, I’d go to bed and pray. I’d pray that labor would kick in so that Feras could have quality weeks with us at home as a family of three before he was whisked back into the crazy world of residency. And when I didn’t go into labor each day, I’d pray that the next day would be different. After a while, my prayers significantly changed in tone: at the beginning I was praying “nicely”; after a while, I became much more demanding and frustrated. I started taking my protracted experience personally. And despite my late night fits to God, nothing changed.

At my 40.5 week midwifery appointment, I was so tired and so emotionally depleted that my midwife discussed starting an induction at 41 weeks on the nose. I didn’t have the mental energy or the willpower, having dealt with so many nights of contractions and no sleep, to not be tempted by that. And so we scheduled my induction process to begin early on Saturday morning, August 6. Then I prayed that the act of scheduling the induction would prompt labor since induction was NOT something I had ever planned on. Wasn’t for me. Surely God would know that and help things along. Nope.

My conversations with God were varied leading up to the dreaded induction on Saturday morning. Late at night they were stern, frustrated. In the morning the conversations were more hopeful and upbeat. I oscillated between demanding a divine intervention and being at peace with the process, induction or not – and maybe God had a “plan” for me and Rami after all. I was on a roller coaster of emotions and they were all directed at God like God was somehow orchestrating the whole situation with maniacal intent. As I write this now, I am amused at how self-important I sound. At the time, however, the struggle with faith was real, raw, extremely personal. More than I had ever experienced. At one point I had a meltdown on my living room floor wanting to scream at God- why had things gone like this? Why couldn’t something go right- be easy- go smoothly? You know when you get to this point, all of your unresolved issues come back up and somehow connect to what you are currently upset about. I started rehashing my anger about moving to Boston in the first place and how difficult the journey was initially. God was hearing A LOT of complaints. But honestly, as silly as it sounds, it was incredibly painful and I felt like my prayers were not being answered. Perhaps more honestly, I felt like they were being ignored.

The induction began promptly Saturday morning. By Saturday night my contractions had intensified and I finally felt like the “real” thing was happening. [A friendly note about terms used during the labor process: in addition to the real vs. false labor dichotomy, other crazy terms encountered included things like “cervical ripening” which just makes women feel like fruit and not human. Topic explored in a future blog post.] My water broke around 12:30 am on Sunday morning and I labored all night with Feras’ help. Newsroom was our TV show of choice and it helped me get through some painful contractions. But by 10:30am, contractions hadn’t progressed and were not getting closer together. With the encouragement of midwife extraordinaire, Jeri Lake, we decided to go to the hospital and just see what was happening. We were all fully prepared to return home for me to continue the labor process since that was what I had planned on happening.

By the time the midwife saw me, I was still only 2-3 cm dilated and not fully effaced. Given the past week and a half, she advised me to be admitted and get pitocin, the synthetic version of the hormone oxytocin that gets labor going. As many of you know, this meant that I was probably facing more intense pain earlier on and was going to be hooked up to an IV the whole labor –not ideal. But the prospect of continuing at home without any progress for the upteenth time was perhaps more daunting at that point and we agreed.

I was admitted and given pitocin. After about 4 hours or so, the contractions had become so horrible and so close together that I got an epidural, which I also had not wanted. But being around 3/4 cm dilated with transition-level contractions meant that I literally thought I would die if meeting my child wasn’t around the corner. But that meant no more moving around to labor and no eating or drinking anything but clear liquid, which was yet another thing I was bummed about. I wept as I told Feras and my mom I wanted the epidural (to which both of them said thank goodness). After that, I thought everything would go smoothly and quickly. Not so. Of course.

Sunday night, the monitor started showing Rami having concerning decelerations in his heart rate. In order to figure out what was going on with him, I was being turned in the bed every 5 minutes, preventing any meaningful rest, and was being given blood pressure medication and hooked up to other tubes. They cut all pitocin because he wasn’t handling the contractions, so everything was effectively stalled until they could see whether Rami’s heart rate could be stabilized. At this point, I was convinced they were going to take me to the OR for a c-section because things were not going well. But they found a position that Rami tolerated and they got my blood pressure up, so Monday morning they were able to slowly restart the pitocin. I was still 4 cm. My contractions got strong enough to start dilating me further around 12:30 or so on Monday and the midwife said that she would give me about 2 hours and then see if they had been effective. If they hadn’t, they would start recommending “other options.” Read: surgery.

Around 3pm I was ready to push. We had all been so stressed and I had so little energy, having not had anything to eat in over a day, that I thought surely the pushing would be quick and easy. I thought, surely you will make something go right, God. This has been enough. Please. Help. Not so. I pushed for over three hours, Rami got stuck, and the room flooded with people prepared to intervene. At one point, I was so delirious and in pain (they turned the epidural way down so I could feel it) and so upset that it was taking so long and it was so hard that I really felt abandoned by God. I stopped calling on Her. I was convinced that God had peaced out of this experience with me, and I was angry.

Rami was finally born at 6:10pm. Thanks to a fabulous team of midwives, doctors, and nurses, I did not have to have a c-section. I was grateful for that- don’t get me wrong – but was consumed by feelings of failure, weakness, inability. I could not fully process what happened and felt traumatized. I was angry with God. In the days the followed, Feras, mom and dad and I talked at length about the experience and the overwhelming fear that we all experienced in different ways throughout the labor. What I could barely say out loud without breaking down and weeping was how strongly I felt abandoned by God. I felt like the more I pleaded with God, the more She laughed back at me and opted to be absent. I had never felt that before in such a prolonged and intense way, and it was painful to name.

Fast forward eight/nine weeks later. I am no longer reliving the labor when I close my eyes to sleep. I have actually done some work reshaping and reclaiming the labor narrative, thanks to Feras, mom, dad, and Jeri. I do not feel like a failure and am seeing the experience as something that I fought through and stuck with. I was strong. I brought Rami into this world and he is healthy and vibrant. Definitely worth the struggle.

But I haven’t fully made my peace with God. I can still feel the intensity of my disappointment and frustration when I reflect on my experience; I can still go back to the long nights awake and in pain calling on God, only to feel ignored. I wonder now how this has shaped my faith, or, more honestly, what God was telling me through it all.

A while ago, I was on the phone with my dad talking about our reflections on the experience. Dad had come to Boston when I was 40.5 weeks pregnant and was in the waiting room when I was pushing, unable to get any word on how I was going. He too had choice words for God as he paced around the hospital, praying for my well being and his grandson’s healthy entry into the world. I don’t want to coopt his reflections or his words about that experience, but he said something that has stuck with me. He said that in his fearful moments when he was talking sternly to God, he got the clear sense that God was saying back to him, YES, demand my presence. Do not come at me with kid gloves, do not tiptoe around me. I can handle your anger, your fear. Call on me and don’t sugar coat your feelings.

There is much about my experience that is beautiful. I had absolutely incredible support from Feras, mom and dad. There could not be a better team of people to help you through that than those three. I had people lifting me and Rami up in prayer all over the world. I gave birth at one of the best hospitals in the world and had midwives who carried me through to the end and had my complete trust. And y’all, I had a BABY. I persevered and I brought Rami into the world. I had to go through some dark places to get there, but I did it. As I look back, I know that that God was there, tending to my precious baby as he struggled to emerge and me as I struggled to help him emerge. And while I haven’t fully made my peace with God yet, I’m working on it. I am slowly realizing that instead of doubting faith in difficulty, that difficulty, pain, anger are where faith becomes the most real and less pie-in-the-sky. Where faith becomes the experience of taking steps without feet and coming out the other end with a Rami.

Rami has started smiling and it totally lights up his face! First time in Memphis and Jackson, TN, and so many new faces to smile at 🙂

Uncle David and New Hope Farm!

Meeting Kathy who had quite the rapport with Rami

At Nanny’s for her 91st and got to meet Aunt Susan for the first time

And Melinda!

And Allison, Sean, Sam, Luke and Thomas!

Makes my heart melt

Allison and me with our youngest babies – Thomas at 6 months, Rami at about 2 months. Rami has some catching up to do 🙂

These two are incredible grandparents, but who is surprised!? So much fun visiting them. Rami especially enjoyed the 4:30am snuggles with them every morning!

Rami attended his first wedding in LA – yay Van and Dan! (Also how cute are these guys!?)

West Coast baby (sleeping)

Family pic with SoCal in background. We could get used to 70 degrees and sunny all the time with mountains and ocean!

 

This Blog and Its Title

August 8, 2016 was a momentous day for many reasons. The center point of the momentous change was the birth of Rami James, my son, after a tumultuous labor and birth experience. Rami is now about five weeks old and still provoking changes everyday. In many ways, he is still a stranger that I am trying desperately to figure out minute by minute; in others, he is the closest and most precious relative that I feel I have always known. I am pretty sure that if you asked him how he feels about me, he’d say the same thing. He studies me with curious eyes, like he is trying to put his finger on why he knows me, but the next moment his eyebrows unfurrow and his face changes into an embrace like I’ve never known. It’s like he is saying, “oh you! I know you so well, love you so deeply, and I’m so glad you’re here.” And I mirror those same feelings back to him. Each day is a back and forth between us characterized by knowing and wondering, loving and being utterly perplexed.

I digress – sort of. This post is an introduction to this blog and its odd title. This blog is designed to be both a chronicle of my maternity leave journey and a place to document our growing family’s life together for those who are far away. Like the date August 8, the center of this blog will be Rami James, and the content will be the reflections this new journey sparks about family, love, parenting, faith, God, relationships. I do not anticipate that anything posted here will be earth-shattering or particularly novel, but I am eager to share my stories and thoughts in the hopes that the sharing brings me into a deeper understanding of myself, my faith, our new family, and this precious little baby.

Now for the title! “Taking A Step Without Feet” is an excerpt from a quote by the Sufi poet Rumi about what it means to love:

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.

Taking a step without feet felt – and still feels – like the appropriate description for every single day of the labor, delivery, and post partum periods with Rami, for both obvious and not so obvious reasons. I hope to parse out some of those not so obvious reasons in subsequent posts, but for now I’ll say that the long and laborious (ha) period leading up to Rami’s grand entrance into the world tested every ounce of my being, including how I thought about myself as a mother and woman, and my trust and faith in God. Every step of labor and delivery felt like I was taking a step without feet. And every day since meeting Rami has felt the same in a profoundly different way. This journey so far has been a lesson in surrendering to what feels unknown, and trusting in what is completely unfamiliar. And falling in love everyday.

A few pictures from the journey so far:

Just born! August 8, 2016 at 6:10 pm, 7 lbs 7 oz and 22 inches of deliciousness!

Utterly fascinated. He was just in my belly the day before!

Feras’ first hold. Completely smitten.

Granddad’s first Rami cuddle!

Rami and his Noni. She went through it all with us! They are definitely buddies.

Leaving the hospital on 8/10. It was about 90 degrees outside – you’d think we were taking him into a winter wonderland with the way we dressed him.

A few days old and hangin in his bouncer 🙂

Delight is holding your child and having him look at you like this.

Rami’s look for us after his first bath, which he hated. Does not bode well for his teenage years…

And this, Rami, pretty much sums up your uncle Hudson.

We called Maggie the infant whisperer – he LOVED her.

One of Rami’s expressions

Rami got to meet Aunt Maya and Aunt Sara – a beautiful bunch!

And his grandfather Akbik! His expression is priceless.

Trying to capture the Rami smile. It’s pretty great.

Good morning, sunshine!

Vintage Rami.

Hello, world!

Starting neuro lessons early

How I spend a good part of each day. But half of that time I’m covered in spit up and milk. Don’t let this picture fool you!