Caste

Reading Caste, and feeling my brain both expanding and exploding.  Isabel Wilkerson, thank you for spoon feeding us a breakdown of the most complicated social dilemma of this country (and the world). 

It was in the making of the New World that Europeans became white, Africans black, and everyone else yellow, red, or brown.  It was in the  making of the New World that humans were set apart on the basis of what they looked like, identified solely in contrast to one another,, and ranked to form a caste system based on a new concept called race.  It was in the process of ranking that we were all cast into assigned roles to meet the needs of the larger production.  

None of us are ourselves. 

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In 1994, when I stepped off that airplane, little did I know I would be cast into a caste system (the middle caste, as it were), a social construct that is singularly American.  I had spend my entire subsequent years to "fit in", but into what, I didn't know until now.  It was an innate "fight or flight" response I had to assimilate or fail.  In doing so, I had given up my unique identity and rooted more and more tightly to my assigned caste (for as it turns out, one cannot move from one caste into another).  It is not social, it is not racial, it is not cultural, it is all of these and more.  

I have not felt like myself since.  Now I know why.  And in that, there is clarity and relief.  

I have tried to explain my trips of homegoing, how nice it is to hear my native tongue, to look around and see similar complexions and features.  What accounts for that instant sense of arrival and belonging?  I have not understood it until now.  When I go "home", it is the ultimate reclaiming of self, just another human on her native land, no more and no less.  The opposite has always been an undercurrent of my life in this country.  Since the Pandemic, since the era of Trump, it has been imperative that I identify it, name it, and speak out against it.  Not to traverse castes, but fight to abolish it altogether. 

IXD

We knew we wanted a second baby.  Isla completed our family.

I found out I was pregnant with Isla in May, same month as O.  I was on a stretch of swing shifts and walked around the hospital in the evenings with expectant happiness.  We had just sold our first home and building a new one in my favorite part of town.  At the time, we rented a small apartment barely big enough for the three of us.  I had all kinds of plans to use the apt gym and get in shape.  But alas, I peed on a stick and two lines popped up.  I spent the next 10 months laying on the couch.

Olivia was two and the sweetest little toddler, deep into bubble guppies, nursery rhymes, and potty training.  I remember many hours of napping by her on the couch as nausea and fatigue hit.  I also binged all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls, dreaming of the little girl growing in my belly. 

We moved two more times between May 2017 and Feb 2018.  The little apt was in no way able to accommodate another human being (not to mention my mom would need to stay and help).  Right before Thanksgiving 2017, we moved into a condo in the same complex.  Then two weeks after Isla arrived, we moved into our newly built house.  

The only thing I wanted from my second (and last) delivery is that I wanted the baby to come on her own time.  No induction.  No rush.  A few days before my due date, around 3AM Feb 5, 2018, I woke up with odd twinge in my lower abd.  It wasn't pain, it wasn't contraction, but it came around every 10 min and kept me from going back to sleep.  Olivia and S are both sleeping soundly.  I remember waking S up and telling him to go back to sleep, I'll just drive myself to the hospital and see what's going on. Surely this cannot be contractions.  I was scheduled to work that day anyways.  If it turns out to be nothing, I'll just get an early start to my work day.  S groggily agreed.  I emphasized that we do not want to wake up O and drag her to a hospital at 3AM. 

I remember driving myself in the dark.  Our rental was very close to the hospital and an easy 15 min drive.  The weird sensation kept coming back, getting stronger and stronger.  By the time I parked in the Women's Center, I had to wait for one to pass before getting out of the car with my bag.  I checked myself in, got hooked up to the monitor, and was told that indeed, I was in labor!

I will always remember that morning as a mixture of happiness, expectance, and peacefulness.  I remember S dropping O off at daycare at 6:30 AM before coming to the hospital.  By then I had already gotten my epidural.  There was an brief episode of bp issues but mostly it was just waiting.  At close to noon, my water broke, my epidural ran out, I was fully dilated, and my OB came to check on me all at the same time.  He asked me to try giving it a little push and out came Isla!  She was ready!  She was soft and warm, small but mighty, and she had a loud baby cry that I can still hear.  I vowed to note every moment of this last delivery, my last baby, and I did. 

Isla was not a good sleeper in the beginning, I remember waking up with her every hour that first night.  But if anything parenthood has taught me, it is to just go with the flow.  We brought her home the next day as well, with much less anxiety.  I was determined to not stress about breast feeding, didn't even open my pump those first few months.  Isla was a good eater and soon became a good sleeper.  She wore all of jie jie's hand me downs and spend many nights in little sleeper (that has since been recalled) by my bed. 

O meeting Isla for the first time in the hospital.  I had hoped they would get along, but had no idea they would be best friends (literally what Isla calls O).

Baby Isla, wearing the same sweater going home as O.

Isla, age 3, little beauty.

 

OMD

Have I ever written down the story of O's birth?  Maybe I have.  I'm in a reflective mood these days, so why not.  Someday little O may appreciate knowing all the details of her birth that only a mom could tell.

I still have a teeny weeny bit of regret that we rushed O into this world.  Sometimes I wonder if that's why she didn't nurse well, was such a bad sleeper for so long (two long years of tumultuous nights), and still so very small.

Olivia was induced at 39 weeks and 4 days (plus or minus a few).  We induced her for many reasons, one of which was her little belly showed slowed growth on the US.  But also, I got tired of waiting and my OB was on call on the night we selected.  

I was scheduled to check into the hospital at 7pm.  S and I ate dinner at a little Canton restaurant.  We knew vaguely this would be the last dinner we would have as a family of two (I had a spinach salad), but didn't dwell too much on the fact our life was about to change forever.  

We arrived at my little hospital and settled in.  From the first moment until my epidural twelve hours later, induction was PAINFUL.  I had agonizing contractions but was not dilated enough for an epidural.  When I finally did get an epidural around 7AM the next day, I promptly fell asleep.  Epidural is magical, period the end.  My water broke shortly after and Olivia was born at noon.  If I could sum it all up, it would be induction, do not recommend.  Epidural, highly recommend. 

First impression of this baby - so dainty.  Little ladylike features, little face, little lips, and translucent skin.  She slept very soundly those first 48 hours.  So much so that I somehow thought - we got this.  We took her home after only one day in the hospital (a decision I would come to regret for years).  By 2pm next day, we packaged her up and headed home.  Her going home outfit consisted of a strawberry onesie and a purple cardigan.  I remember S driving very slowly home.  

Once we got home... how do I put this... all hell broke loose.  Six years later, I still remember these first few hours, days, weeks, with a lot of PTSD.  Olivia would not sleep unless held.  This means I somehow cannot tend to the tedious OCD order of my life that I need in place in order to function.  Simple things like laundry (between spit up and poop, we went through ALL of her clothes in the first 24 hours), figure out how to use a breast pump (I was obsessed with bf from the get go), and unpack the hospital bag (I have always been someone who needed to do the unpacking as soon as I get home.  It's almost like a ritual) loomed over me, slowly driving my post partum mind crazy.  

Breast feeding was a hurdle that I could not get over (actually I never did with this first baby).  When would my milk come in, would I make enough, is Olivia hungry and therefore not sleeping?  We had brought home little bottles of infant formula from the hospital that I was convinced we wouldn't need.  Around 7pm on our first day home, S popped one open, and O downed the 2oz bottle like she was starving.  This sounded off a loud panic button in my brain.  MY BABY IS STARVING.  I have been "nursing" her with my empty boobs every three hours all day.  I immediately tore open my breast pump set (I needed to see what was coming out) and found, to my horror, that one of the funnels was broke.  I cry not for the first time that day.  I call the hospital in panic.  I tell them I am Dr. so and so (used in this context o persuade influence and attention) and I was sent home from the hospital with my new baby and a broken pump.  How did they expect me to keep her alive?!  I spoke to the charge nurse who calmly told me that she would get a new set ready for me.  I then sent Steve to the hospital (by this time it was around 10pm) to get this new set. 

A working pump did not end my anguish.  At some point S held O in football position and said "look at her, she is fine.  You need to calm down".  O's eyes open and stared at me the whole time.  Steve's mom was there that night too, I can't even begin to guess (or care at the time) what she thought of me. 

O would not sleep well for the first two years.  S and I decided early that he would sleep in the bedroom down the hall.  It was the only way he could get some rest and I see no point in having two zombies around the house.  One of us had to carry on.  Now, two babies in and six years later, he is still int he bedroom down the hall.  No regrets in that decision.  We make it work. 

O turned six years old a month ago.  She could win a contest in sleeping through the night and loves her room (she was four and half when she slept on her own).  I will never look back onto those early days with anything other than desperation and anxiety.  I did the best I could, that I know for sure. 

Ready to head home!  The purple sweater is one of my favorites. 

This is 6!  Thriving in Kindergarten.