I'm working on writing out Theo's birth story, but lest anyone think we fell off the planet, here are some tidbits:
How are you?
I'm as fine as you can be when sleeping two hours together feels like a lot.
How's the recovery going?
Way, way better than I expected and more slowly than I'd like. I'm still not supposed to pick up much more than the baby, so my toddler is frustrated and so am I. But I was off the heavy painkillers within a week and off the ibuprofin within two. Every so often I grab an Advil, but otherwise I'm in pretty good shape as far as the pain goes. Still have trouble bending over and finding a comfortable sleeping position, but pregnancy got me used to that!
What does Sebastian think of Theo?
At this point, not too much. Theo eats and sleeps a lot, which isn't all that interesting. He likes him best when he's alert, at which point he wants to hug and kiss him and hold his hand. It's very sweet.
Sebastian's still getting lots of attention with so many adults in the house, so he hasn't been jealous much. He doesn't like being asked to be quiet when anyone is sleeping, so that's probably his number one complaint. Our chief complaint is that he likes to scream when he doesn't get his way, which is irritating regardless of whether anyone is sleeping! We're working on it, but I sense some time-outs in our near future...
What's it like having a newborn again?
It's both wonderful and terrible, as anyone who's had one knows. We are exhausted, thrilled, remembering our way, and charting new territory all at the same time.
Theo is a fabulous sleeper except around 2 a.m., and ate his way to an impressive one pound gain over his birth weight within his first 11 days of life! Haven't weighed him since then, but it's a relief that so far the eating and sleeping are going so much better than they did the first time around. He cries mostly when he gets his diaper changed, and wakes up grunting and squeaking to tell me he's hungry, rather than wailing.
Speaking of which, there's my little squeaker now...
What's in a name?
Well, I'm finally returning to the land of the living after a week and a half. Many people have asked about the c-section experience (compared to the first), how my recovery is going, what it's like having a newborn again, how Sebastian is handling it all, etc. Sounds like I need to do a FAQ post next. But the name thing is what's on my mind today, so that's what I'm going to write about.
First, about the easy parts of the names. People have asked me how we chose the boys' names, if they have any significance, etc. So the answer is yes and no. We just liked Sebastian and Theodore. They felt right and were not ridiculously common (I hated being "Jessica F." all through school, even though I loved my name), but are traditional enough to not be confusing to people or often misspelled or mispronounced.
As for middle names, we took Sebastian's middle name - Paul - from many members of our family. Most notably, that is my grandfather's first name and my brother's middle name. It is also the name or middle name of several uncles and a cousin.
Theo's middle name - Nathan - came from taking off the first two letters off Jonathan's name. We contemplated using Nathan as a first name, but it's just crazy common and didn't seem to fit this little person. My husband also thinks it's cool that Theodore has the same name meaning as Jonathan, which is "gift of God."
So that's it for the first two names. Now for the last two...
If you know us in real life or have read on the blog, you know that "Rasler" is not the official last name of any member of my family. It is a blend of my last name and my husband's that we use as a kind of unifier when it's helpful to refer to ourselves collectively. In my experience, this is the main reason why so many people (women, mostly) change their names when they get married - to feel like they are part of one family unit.
For lots of reasons that I will write about passionately at some other time, I didn't change my name when I got married, but I still craved that sense of family unity, and it only intensified when we started talking about having kids. What would their last name be??
As a teacher, I've bumped into many families in which the children had a different last name from one or both parents. Usually this was due to the fact that one parent was a step-parent or that the mom kept her own name upon getting married. Never once in all of my experience with different schools, states, and families had I ever met a child who had his or her mother's last name and not the father's if they weren't the same.
Never once.
Not even when the child lived with only the mother.
I find this bothersome. Extremely. Especially in those cases in which the child's father was barely or not at all in the picture.
(Note: There are instances - now even with one of my cousins! - in which this isn't the case. It just was the fact two+ years ago when my husband and I were debating this.)
Anyway. So whose last name should the child get in our family?? My husband and I knew that we needed and wanted both our last names represented in the child's full name, particularly so that there would never be an issue crossing the border to visit relatives in Canada and having a border guard not believe that a child belonged to one of us due to the different names. So we decided to give all of our children four names - one first, two middle, one last. This would solve the passport and doctor problems should there be any concern, but leave things simple enough for school and everyday use so that we would avoid the dreaded hyphenated last name!
So whose last name would be last?? We decided to let the sex of the first baby be the coin toss. If we had a boy, his last name would be my husband's. If a girl, my last name. The second child would be the opposite regardless of sex so that no one parent would be the odd one out should we have all girls or all boys.
And so. Sebastian has my name as his second middle name, and his father's name as his last. Which means Theo has my name last.
In a short time this has already brought up a bunch of questions. Here are my answers.
Do you think it will be confusing to the boys to have different last names?
Probably not much. They will see each other as brothers first and know that they each have both names in their full names. Sebastian doesn't seem at all confused about the fact that his parents have different last names because kids don't come preprogrammed with that cultural knowledge. For all he knows now, all parents are like that. And when he's old enough to ask questions, we have plenty of answers about why we made the choices we did. It will be the same about why they have their names in opposite order.
Do you worry that they won't think they're brothers?
Not in the slightest. If anything, they may thank us someday for allowing them some breathing room in school from always being compared to each other right away.
Will other people be confused?
From only 12 days of Theo's existence, I can already say that the answer to this will be yes. People will assume that Theo is mine but not Jonathan's, which will be confusing to them since we're still married and Sebastian has his last name. They will ask questions like whether Theo is his natural son or whether the boys are related (yes, I have already gotten both questions from the health professionals we've seen in the past week and a half). They may think we are odd or overly PC or that I have some sort of commitment issue to my marriage (yes, I've had people make comments and jokes about that many times in the six years of married life).
I don't care. It made me beyond happy today to not have to specify that Theo's last name was different than mine when I took him to his first official doctor's appointment. And I'm sure it makes my husband happy that Sebastian has his name. And it makes us both happy that when you say their full names, they are both little Raslers - a wonderful combination of us and the people who gave us our names in the first place.
So what's in a name? In the case of our boys, a lot of thought and love and family ties, and just enough confusion to make people stop and think.
First, about the easy parts of the names. People have asked me how we chose the boys' names, if they have any significance, etc. So the answer is yes and no. We just liked Sebastian and Theodore. They felt right and were not ridiculously common (I hated being "Jessica F." all through school, even though I loved my name), but are traditional enough to not be confusing to people or often misspelled or mispronounced.
As for middle names, we took Sebastian's middle name - Paul - from many members of our family. Most notably, that is my grandfather's first name and my brother's middle name. It is also the name or middle name of several uncles and a cousin.
Theo's middle name - Nathan - came from taking off the first two letters off Jonathan's name. We contemplated using Nathan as a first name, but it's just crazy common and didn't seem to fit this little person. My husband also thinks it's cool that Theodore has the same name meaning as Jonathan, which is "gift of God."
So that's it for the first two names. Now for the last two...
If you know us in real life or have read on the blog, you know that "Rasler" is not the official last name of any member of my family. It is a blend of my last name and my husband's that we use as a kind of unifier when it's helpful to refer to ourselves collectively. In my experience, this is the main reason why so many people (women, mostly) change their names when they get married - to feel like they are part of one family unit.
For lots of reasons that I will write about passionately at some other time, I didn't change my name when I got married, but I still craved that sense of family unity, and it only intensified when we started talking about having kids. What would their last name be??
As a teacher, I've bumped into many families in which the children had a different last name from one or both parents. Usually this was due to the fact that one parent was a step-parent or that the mom kept her own name upon getting married. Never once in all of my experience with different schools, states, and families had I ever met a child who had his or her mother's last name and not the father's if they weren't the same.
Never once.
Not even when the child lived with only the mother.
I find this bothersome. Extremely. Especially in those cases in which the child's father was barely or not at all in the picture.
(Note: There are instances - now even with one of my cousins! - in which this isn't the case. It just was the fact two+ years ago when my husband and I were debating this.)
Anyway. So whose last name should the child get in our family?? My husband and I knew that we needed and wanted both our last names represented in the child's full name, particularly so that there would never be an issue crossing the border to visit relatives in Canada and having a border guard not believe that a child belonged to one of us due to the different names. So we decided to give all of our children four names - one first, two middle, one last. This would solve the passport and doctor problems should there be any concern, but leave things simple enough for school and everyday use so that we would avoid the dreaded hyphenated last name!
So whose last name would be last?? We decided to let the sex of the first baby be the coin toss. If we had a boy, his last name would be my husband's. If a girl, my last name. The second child would be the opposite regardless of sex so that no one parent would be the odd one out should we have all girls or all boys.
And so. Sebastian has my name as his second middle name, and his father's name as his last. Which means Theo has my name last.
In a short time this has already brought up a bunch of questions. Here are my answers.
Do you think it will be confusing to the boys to have different last names?
Probably not much. They will see each other as brothers first and know that they each have both names in their full names. Sebastian doesn't seem at all confused about the fact that his parents have different last names because kids don't come preprogrammed with that cultural knowledge. For all he knows now, all parents are like that. And when he's old enough to ask questions, we have plenty of answers about why we made the choices we did. It will be the same about why they have their names in opposite order.
Do you worry that they won't think they're brothers?
Not in the slightest. If anything, they may thank us someday for allowing them some breathing room in school from always being compared to each other right away.
Will other people be confused?
From only 12 days of Theo's existence, I can already say that the answer to this will be yes. People will assume that Theo is mine but not Jonathan's, which will be confusing to them since we're still married and Sebastian has his last name. They will ask questions like whether Theo is his natural son or whether the boys are related (yes, I have already gotten both questions from the health professionals we've seen in the past week and a half). They may think we are odd or overly PC or that I have some sort of commitment issue to my marriage (yes, I've had people make comments and jokes about that many times in the six years of married life).
I don't care. It made me beyond happy today to not have to specify that Theo's last name was different than mine when I took him to his first official doctor's appointment. And I'm sure it makes my husband happy that Sebastian has his name. And it makes us both happy that when you say their full names, they are both little Raslers - a wonderful combination of us and the people who gave us our names in the first place.
So what's in a name? In the case of our boys, a lot of thought and love and family ties, and just enough confusion to make people stop and think.
Introducing
...the newest little Rasler!
This is Theodore Nathan.
Baby Theo arrived at 1:39 p.m. on July 10th. He was 6 lbs. 13 oz. and 18.5 inches tall.
His story - so different from his brother's - will be posted at some point, but right now there is sleep to be had.
This is Theodore Nathan.
Baby Theo arrived at 1:39 p.m. on July 10th. He was 6 lbs. 13 oz. and 18.5 inches tall.
His story - so different from his brother's - will be posted at some point, but right now there is sleep to be had.
Our story
Two years ago.
It seems like it could have been yesterday. Or something more like ten years.
I was sitting in the rocking chair in Sebastian's room. It was about 10:30 p.m. on July 7th. I had told Jonathan that I was going to sit up and read until this round of contractions had passed because I couldn't sleep through them. "Just go to sleep," I told him. "I'm sure it's nothing." I promised to wake him if I needed anything.
I loved the rocking chair in the nursery. Loved sitting there, imagining. Whenever I was too uncomfortable to sleep, I ended up in there: reading, rocking, wondering. I was working my way through the Anne of Green Gables series that I had loved as a child. I think I was somewhere around the fourth book, but I couldn't really focus.
By midnight, I was gently tapping his shoulder. "I'm sure it's just a false alarm," I told his sleepy face, "but the contractions have now been regular for over an hour." Without a word, he sat up and followed me into the nursery, handy pregnancy planner in tow so he could do the one job everyone unequivocally hands to the "support person" - time the contractions.
For a few hours he sat on the floor as I rocked in the chair, signaling the beginning and end of each one. By now I could tell this was the real deal, but I didn't want him to call the hospital. I was sure I would end up being one of those people who gets sent home at least twice before finally being admitted, and every book about natural childbirth says that the sooner you get to the hospital the less comfortable you will be. So I kept rocking.
Once we passed the official 4-1-1 (four minutes apart, about one minute long, for over one hour) that told us we should call, I agreed at least to let him wake up my mom. She came upstairs and sat with us as we continued to rock and time. I still felt like I could handle things at home, but we were getting to the point of having the contractions under 3 minutes apart when the two of them decided it was at least a good idea to call the hospital.
"You need to get her in here now," the labor and delivery nurse admonished. End of discussion. I was still sure they were going to send me back home, so I went reluctantly to get our bags and head out the door. As we drove to Overlake, my contractions predictably slowed. I groaned. "See?" I told Jonathan. "We'll see," he replied.
I arrived just after 5 a.m., checked in, and was told by the nurse who checked my progress that I was staying there. Five cm, she said. Halfway there! I thought. Yeah, not so much.
My sister was hurrying with our three-month old nephew to try to make it in time since it seemed like my labor was progressing quickly. She needn't have. Our little one wouldn't arrive for over twelve hours later.
Most of those twelve hours are a blur to me. I remember getting to the point pretty quickly in which I wanted quiet and only Jonathan with me. I can picture different places in the labor room that were supposed to help me stay comfortable: the tub/shower, the birthing ball, the rocking chair. None of them worked. I preferred sitting in bed, doing my focus and relaxation exercises.
I got to 7 cm, then 9 fairly quickly. Then nothing. For hours. Move around, they told me. I tried, but nothing happened. Another check and I was told that I was really more like 7. Yeah, you are NOT supposed to go backwards here! The nurse who had told me 9 apologized for her mistake. More trying, some tears, discussion of options.
I finally agreed to let the doctor break my water and then everything seemed to me to happen all at once. In just under an hour, I was ready to push. At what point my cheerleading section arrived is unclear to me, but by now my mom and sister were there, and we were ready for the finale.
The clock told me I pushed for about 50 minutes, but it felt a lot more like four pushes to me. I credit this to the fact that I had so many people there encouraging me, counting with me, telling me what a great job I was doing and to keep it up.
Then came the "ring of fire" the books all promised. The experts had told me to sit back and wait when I felt this. The doctor said, "One more push and you're done." Forget the experts. One more push! She was right. At 7:49 p.m., it was over.
"It's a boy," I heard close to my ear. I looked up at my husband. "Really?" I asked him. "Yes," he assured me, "a boy."
And then there he was. He was so pink and round and solid, I could hardly believe it. Shouldn't he look more tiny, wrinkly, and fragile? (Later I looked back on the pictures and realized that yes, he was all of those things, but my new mother's eyes didn't see them in that moment.)
After a few moments of holding him, they took him to the NICU because one of his lungs wouldn't inflate properly. They assured me that it happened often and was just a precaution, but it was one of the longest half hours of my life waiting for my guys to come back.
In the meantime, that final push had cost me a third-degree tear, because the experts had been right. The doctor called in another who had more experience and they began the part that turned out to be the most painful, but provided the only funny story (in retrospect) of the entire day. After 21 hours of medication-free labor, they gave me a local anesthetic and went to work. I shouted at the doctor - yes, shouted, after being relatively quiet through everything else - that he had to STOP. RIGHT. NOW. Which was ridiculous, of course.
The delivering doctor at my side spoke calmly. "Just breathe through it," she told me. I looked at her and said with clenched teeth and rays of death coming out of my eyes, "I. am. DONE. breathing. through. it." She wisely avoided speaking to me after that until it was over.
Then my baby was back in my arms with the thumbs up on his health. Jonathan and I conferred briefly to be sure we had the name that suited this tiny person, and we introduced him to the room, which now included his Gramma, Grampa, Auntie Gina, cousin X, Uncle Bill & Aunt Jen on the phone in Chicago, and his Nagymami and Grandpa Marv in Toronto.
This is Sebastian Paul.
I felt exhausted and proud as I held my son and stared at his perfect tiny features. We did it, I whispered to him. I fell asleep within an hour of moving to the recovery room, while Jonathan typed an email to send our friends and family who had been holding their breath all day waiting for the news.
What I had been imagining and yet still couldn't quite foresee was that this tiny baby would, two years later, already be this beautiful, smart, funny little boy:
Two years? Already? Sebastian tells me that he is NOT "one, two years old." He is THREE. Why three? Because to him three is big, and when he is big, he can cross our street by himself.
Not yet, I tell him. Just two years old.
And still my little boy, for now.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. You will always be my favorite Sebastian.
It seems like it could have been yesterday. Or something more like ten years.
I was sitting in the rocking chair in Sebastian's room. It was about 10:30 p.m. on July 7th. I had told Jonathan that I was going to sit up and read until this round of contractions had passed because I couldn't sleep through them. "Just go to sleep," I told him. "I'm sure it's nothing." I promised to wake him if I needed anything.
I loved the rocking chair in the nursery. Loved sitting there, imagining. Whenever I was too uncomfortable to sleep, I ended up in there: reading, rocking, wondering. I was working my way through the Anne of Green Gables series that I had loved as a child. I think I was somewhere around the fourth book, but I couldn't really focus.
By midnight, I was gently tapping his shoulder. "I'm sure it's just a false alarm," I told his sleepy face, "but the contractions have now been regular for over an hour." Without a word, he sat up and followed me into the nursery, handy pregnancy planner in tow so he could do the one job everyone unequivocally hands to the "support person" - time the contractions.
For a few hours he sat on the floor as I rocked in the chair, signaling the beginning and end of each one. By now I could tell this was the real deal, but I didn't want him to call the hospital. I was sure I would end up being one of those people who gets sent home at least twice before finally being admitted, and every book about natural childbirth says that the sooner you get to the hospital the less comfortable you will be. So I kept rocking.
Once we passed the official 4-1-1 (four minutes apart, about one minute long, for over one hour) that told us we should call, I agreed at least to let him wake up my mom. She came upstairs and sat with us as we continued to rock and time. I still felt like I could handle things at home, but we were getting to the point of having the contractions under 3 minutes apart when the two of them decided it was at least a good idea to call the hospital.
"You need to get her in here now," the labor and delivery nurse admonished. End of discussion. I was still sure they were going to send me back home, so I went reluctantly to get our bags and head out the door. As we drove to Overlake, my contractions predictably slowed. I groaned. "See?" I told Jonathan. "We'll see," he replied.
I arrived just after 5 a.m., checked in, and was told by the nurse who checked my progress that I was staying there. Five cm, she said. Halfway there! I thought. Yeah, not so much.
My sister was hurrying with our three-month old nephew to try to make it in time since it seemed like my labor was progressing quickly. She needn't have. Our little one wouldn't arrive for over twelve hours later.
Most of those twelve hours are a blur to me. I remember getting to the point pretty quickly in which I wanted quiet and only Jonathan with me. I can picture different places in the labor room that were supposed to help me stay comfortable: the tub/shower, the birthing ball, the rocking chair. None of them worked. I preferred sitting in bed, doing my focus and relaxation exercises.
I got to 7 cm, then 9 fairly quickly. Then nothing. For hours. Move around, they told me. I tried, but nothing happened. Another check and I was told that I was really more like 7. Yeah, you are NOT supposed to go backwards here! The nurse who had told me 9 apologized for her mistake. More trying, some tears, discussion of options.
I finally agreed to let the doctor break my water and then everything seemed to me to happen all at once. In just under an hour, I was ready to push. At what point my cheerleading section arrived is unclear to me, but by now my mom and sister were there, and we were ready for the finale.
The clock told me I pushed for about 50 minutes, but it felt a lot more like four pushes to me. I credit this to the fact that I had so many people there encouraging me, counting with me, telling me what a great job I was doing and to keep it up.
Then came the "ring of fire" the books all promised. The experts had told me to sit back and wait when I felt this. The doctor said, "One more push and you're done." Forget the experts. One more push! She was right. At 7:49 p.m., it was over.
"It's a boy," I heard close to my ear. I looked up at my husband. "Really?" I asked him. "Yes," he assured me, "a boy."
And then there he was. He was so pink and round and solid, I could hardly believe it. Shouldn't he look more tiny, wrinkly, and fragile? (Later I looked back on the pictures and realized that yes, he was all of those things, but my new mother's eyes didn't see them in that moment.)
After a few moments of holding him, they took him to the NICU because one of his lungs wouldn't inflate properly. They assured me that it happened often and was just a precaution, but it was one of the longest half hours of my life waiting for my guys to come back.
In the meantime, that final push had cost me a third-degree tear, because the experts had been right. The doctor called in another who had more experience and they began the part that turned out to be the most painful, but provided the only funny story (in retrospect) of the entire day. After 21 hours of medication-free labor, they gave me a local anesthetic and went to work. I shouted at the doctor - yes, shouted, after being relatively quiet through everything else - that he had to STOP. RIGHT. NOW. Which was ridiculous, of course.
The delivering doctor at my side spoke calmly. "Just breathe through it," she told me. I looked at her and said with clenched teeth and rays of death coming out of my eyes, "I. am. DONE. breathing. through. it." She wisely avoided speaking to me after that until it was over.
Then my baby was back in my arms with the thumbs up on his health. Jonathan and I conferred briefly to be sure we had the name that suited this tiny person, and we introduced him to the room, which now included his Gramma, Grampa, Auntie Gina, cousin X, Uncle Bill & Aunt Jen on the phone in Chicago, and his Nagymami and Grandpa Marv in Toronto.
This is Sebastian Paul.
I felt exhausted and proud as I held my son and stared at his perfect tiny features. We did it, I whispered to him. I fell asleep within an hour of moving to the recovery room, while Jonathan typed an email to send our friends and family who had been holding their breath all day waiting for the news.
What I had been imagining and yet still couldn't quite foresee was that this tiny baby would, two years later, already be this beautiful, smart, funny little boy:
Two years? Already? Sebastian tells me that he is NOT "one, two years old." He is THREE. Why three? Because to him three is big, and when he is big, he can cross our street by himself.
Not yet, I tell him. Just two years old.
And still my little boy, for now.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. You will always be my favorite Sebastian.
This time
This time...
I won't
This time...
I will
I won't
- be afraid of dropping my newborn the first time I give him or her a bath.
- wait to use the great swaddle blankets that allow a newborn to sleep for longer stretches.
- cry if I have to supplement with formula.
- be jealous of moms with "easy" babies, because now I know how to deal with a tough cookie and still love him as fiercely as if he'd been a breeze.
- think that difficult phases will last forever.
- take on every night shift for almost a year.
- worry that I'll never get my body, brains, or self back.
This time...
I will
- avoid the going back to work battle when my baby is four months old, and be truly ready when the time comes to reenter my career.
- enjoy as many moments as I can in which I get to just stare at this new little person, even if those moments come when I am exhausted in the middle of the night.
- get out of the house more often in the first few months, or at least invite more people over.
- watch as my babies adjust to each other, solve conflicts, and learn to love each other.
- learn new lessons because this little one is already teaching me that every child is unique.
- remember that "the days are long, but the years are short."
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