Though twelve months have passed, the calendar on the wall still reads November, 2020. As the wind rattles the rain streaked windows and the dark arrives before dinner, I can almost remember what it was like, one year ago, when we were confined to this apartment by the highest threat of a deadly virus and the piercing shriek of a newborn. Exhausted, elated and terrified, my husband and I shuffled sleeplessly through the hours by making a million micro decisions, each feeling more like a mountain than a molehill. Should we hold his bottle at a 45 or 37 degree angle? Would he keep sleeping if I laid him down now?…. Or now?…. How about now? Is the milk too warm? Too cold? Is he too warm? Too cold? Should I worry that his skin is yellow? That he’s losing weight? That my milk hasn’t come in? That his breathing is labored? How much should I worry? Though looking down at our new situation was daunting, it was certainly better than looking up - up at an untamed pandemic, up at the changing climate, the crooked politics and the societal unrest all threatening to reach their breaking point, up at the darkness. No, best to look down.

During the first couple of months my fatigue from delivery left me with little other choice. My “plan” of an unmedicated water birth at a freestanding birth center had imploded into a near-emergency c-section at the hospital across town. By the time my son was pulled from my belly at 7:07 am on November 4th, I had been in labor for over 80 hours. More than enough of these hours were spent battling the relentless waves of contractions, but other notable moments include being transported (twice) in our bumpy shocks-needing Toyota Echo, trying everything in my doulas bag of tricks to relieve my obstructed bladder, using the tepid water of the birthing tub to find a precious 15 minutes of sleep, going for a teetering walk and mournfully deciding to abandon the hope of a natural birth, impatiently waiting at the birth center for over an hour to hear what hospital had an open bed, parking in the wrong lot and having to waddle through a labyrinth of halls and skyways to find the appropriate ward, doing headstands on my knees - after an epidural - to try to get baby’s hand to move off of his face, navigating through the frustration of more stalled contractions, spiking a temp, getting an infection, and having to say yes to every question that my “plan” said no to. 

Perhaps the most excruciating part was the stubborn belief that I was still in full control, and therefore fully to blame for my state. If I were only able to relax my jaw, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess, I thought. I had read so many birthing books that so beautifully illustrated the ineffable power of women; my folly was believing it was as simple as that, though now I know that the venerable ceremony of birth has its own power. And, frankly, that sometimes things just happen. 

 Eventually, I was forced to surrender. Under the bright lights of the operating room with my arms splayed out beside me, my entire body quivering from drugs, and Ziggy Stardust playing in my ear, my 8 pound 14 oz, 22” baby was born. Acynclitic, in the occiput posterior position, and with his umbilical cord wrapped around him like a feather boa, birth by c-section was ever the only way out. 

The double blow of laboring for days and major surgery made for a slow recovery. For six weeks I nested on the couch in our apartment with all of the necessities within arms reach: a two gallon water pitcher, a stash of granola bars, pain killers, nipple cream, audiobooks and a newborn. My husband slept in the next room and would get up in the middle of the night for diaper changes and soothing as I did my best to nurse and use the bathroom without assistance. We witnessed time like distant trees in a watercolor; days and nights were merely an indistinguishable backdrop.

Nursing was another unexpected challenge. What I’d previously imagined as a picturesque exchange between mother and baby was, in my reality, a perpetual battle. My son had a tongue tie, my milk was late to come in and once it did, I struggled with low supply, and he would either immediately fall asleep or throw a fit when it was time to eat. Between waking him up, settling him down, and getting him to latch, each nursing session goal of eating for 10 minutes per side took nearly two hours. To increase my supply, I would pump every two to three hours around the clock; my picturesque vision of bonding applied more to me and my Spectra S2. 

In my darkest moments, I have felt like a failure; I wasn’t “mother” enough to birth him properly, and now I’m not “mother” enough to feed him properly. In my darkest moments, the crestfallen corridors of my mind have wondered if he would be better off without me. In my darkest moments, I have felt such a deep sadness that he was born out from a world that provided everything he could need and into a world where he is exposed, unprotected. In my darkest moments, I have felt grossly, unrepairably inadequate. 

But, like leaves on a river, those moments come and then they go; I know these thoughts are mere leaves, and I know that I am the river. As often as I have shed anxious tears, I’ve shed tears of gratitude. There have been so many moments where I’m struck by the wonder that we get to experience anything at all, by the simple truth that this is my son, created from my body, and that every second of every day is fleeting, is precious, is sacred. Despite all the dark moments, there has been more light than I ever imagined possible.    

Now, as I rock him to sleep, I cherish this time that I am able to hold his whole small body in mine. He rests his head on my shoulder, snoring softly, and I rest my head on his, humming lullabies. I turn him towards the felt animal banners on the wall above his crib, the banners I constructed while in early labor watching horror movies last Halloween, the few things in this room bursting with musical equipment and office supplies that are truly his. I stare up at the calendar on the wall, the time capsule warning me in big black scrawl around my due date to BE READY. While I’m still not sure that I’ll ever feel quite ready, today, perhaps, I can finally turn the page.

Homemade Spiced Hot Chocolate with Tahini

With lots of warm spices and the nutty addition of tahini, this hot chocolate is the drink equivalent to comfort food. Of course, you are the most knowledgable about what makes a good comfort food for you. Like more spice? Add ‘em in. More chocolate? Well duh. Coconut milk instead? Delicious. Sweeter? Glug in that syrup. Just know that the fat of whole milk (and copious amounts of whipped cream) carry the spices well, if you use a lower fat milk, maybe start with smaller amounts. Also, before the addition of chocolate, this is a delicious recipe for golden milk!

Serves: 2
Prep time: 5 minutes
Cook time: 10-15 minutes

2 cups milk (I used whole, but you could use your favorite alternative)
1/8 teaspoon turmeric
1/4 teaspoon ground coriander
3/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
A few grinds of black pepper
1/2 inch ginger, sliced into thin rounds
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1/8 heaping teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup dark or semi-sweet chocolate chips (50 grams)
2 teaspoons tahini

Whipped cream to serve

In a small saucepan, heat the milk, spices, and ginger over medium heat until bubbles start to appear around the edges of the pan. Turn heat to low, cover, add maple syrup and salt, and simmer gently for 10 to 15 minutes to infuse the flavors.

In a separate bowl or large liquid measuring cup, add chocolate chips and tahini. Strain the hot milk through a fine mesh strainer and into the chocolate (if you would prefer not to strain, simply remove the ginger using a spoon). Using a small whisk or fork, stir to melt. Pour into mugs, top with whipped cream, and enjoy immediately.