Serenity in a heartbeat

I spent hours naked in front of the mirror. Every morning, every night. I needed to.

That’s what Gretchen Sewall, counselor at the University of Washington’s Fertility and Endocrine Center, had instructed me to do.

She told me that this naked examination of my changing body would help reassure my crazy self that I was indeed pregnant. To call me insecure, well, that would be an understatement. I was waiting for bad news, dreading it, hoping it would never happen.

Such insecurity is common among women like me, we, the previously infertile.

What was that tiny heart doing right now? Was it still beating? Did something happen to make it stop? How could I be sure?

I bought one of those things from Babies R Us that lets you hear the baby’s heartbeat. It sounds like a tiny galloping horse. Sometimes we didn’t hear the gallop. Then I’d hear my own heart galloping. Then through my emotional noise we’d hear the baby again.

I was driving Peter crazy. The gizmo went in the closet.

So I started having dreams.

My belly is big. I’m just waking up. I feel it and it squishes like a water balloon. I’m extremely relieved and content.

Then I’d wake up. My belly felt the same. And I’d wait for morning sickness to hit. It didn’t. I just felt hungry. Everything seemed normal. Did the heart stop? Why would the heart stop?

I’d be tied into a knot before breakfast. Dear, patient Peter would reassure me that the baby was still there.

Ultrasounds always helped. I remember every image: there was the peanut, the owlet and Mr. Potato Head. And Mr. Potato Head was swimming or playing the bongos or something, the heart beating 170 beats a minute like a strobe light. It looked like Mr. Potato Head was having fun — who wouldn’t be?

I finally felt more confident. But never for long.

At week 18, we went to the clinic to view the baby’s organs. They looked like blobs to me, but I was told those were two kidneys, a liver and a strong, beating heart.

I floated on the same cloud of confidence I always landed on after the exams. Until it would vanish into thin air.

Mr. Potato Head would grow. And sometimes he moved. I was reassured. When the movement stopped, I panicked. About the sixth month, the baby developed chronic hiccups. It’s almost as if the baby knew to help by sending me signals.

Month seven. Worry. Hiccup. Relax.

Month eight. Worry. Hiccup. Relax.

Month nine. Worry. Why? Hiccup.

Nov. 6. Delivery day. (I would have scheduled it earlier, but I wanted to work on Nov. 4, election night.)

A nurse was prepping me for a Caesarian section by inserting an IV tube, then shaving my belly. She also clipped what I believed was a fetal heart monitor to my finger. Pete and I could hear the galloping.

Suddenly, an alarm shrieked behind me. Was someone going into Code Red? When the noise stopped, I couldn’t hear the baby’s heartbeat. I looked at Peter.

Before I got out the words, “What’s wrong?!” the nurse explained that the heart monitor had run out of paper. And it was monitoring my heartbeat, not the baby’s. So, while it felt like my heart had stopped for a second, the baby’s never did.

I got my epidural and waited.

At 8 a.m., Dr. Julie Gilmour lifted out a beautiful baby boy — 9 pounds 11.6 ounces, 20 3/4inches long. Big and pink with a face that looked a bit like Winston Churchill’s and the appetite of a Royal City peach farmer — just like his grandpa Dan.

We named him James Dashiell — Dashiell after the author Dashiell Hammett, who wrote “The Maltese Falcon.”

Feeding Dash was one of our first challenges. It turned out I couldn’t provide enough breast milk, probably because of my age. Grandpa Dan has similar stories about his old cows and their calves.

I went to a lactation specialist. She had just returned from a seminar about the challenge of lactating women who have faced infertility and how their milk production tends to be low. That figured.

Pete and I decided to supplement Dash’s diet with formula.

I know the challenges will continue. All parents face potty training, making sure their child is practicing piano lessons, arguing over whether he can pierce one of his earlobes.

And then there will be the challenge of telling Dashiell where he came from.

Oh yeah, the donated egg — not Mommy’s genetic material.

I’m not really sure of everything I will tell Dash when we finally have that heart-to-heart.

I’d like to explain to him that I didn’t see accepting a donated egg as a sacrifice. I saw it as the price of doing business. In exchange for giving up my own DNA, I got the profound privilege of saying these two little words: my son.

Still, it’s funny.

Some people who don’t know where Dash came from comment that he looks like me. I consider that our private little joke. I hope Dash doesn’t get angry about it later. At this point, I’m not really sure if he even looks like Peter. He could grow up and be all Madame X.

Frankly, it doesn’t make any difference.

He’ll ask, “Why not?”

We tricked nature, we’ll explain. We gambled and wound up with a full house. We ran down a long, rocky road to become Mommy and Daddy. Now we’ll hold your hand the rest of the way.

Epilogue

Dash is 6 months old now. At his last checkup, he weighed 19 pounds 12 ounces and was 28 inches long. His head is 44 centimeters in circumference, but he’s still pretty much a bald Mr. Potato Head.

He babbles a lot and has his favorite books: “Elmo and the Monsters,” “Everyday Town” and “The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” Dash giggles whenever he sees Angus, our corgi.

Peter is the dad I always imagined he would be, serious, doting and protective. Peter’s the one who gives the baths. Peter’s the one who holds Dash when has to get his shots. And I’m the mom who gushes over Dash’s piano playing, tells him jokes to make him giggle (though he’s a tough audience) and walks him to the park every day.

I’ve stopped nursing, but I still sing to him when he’s being fed. One of our favorite songs is “Happy Together,” and I just have to say the words “me and you and you and me, no matter how they toss the dice, it has to be,” and Dash recognizes the song and smiles. He’s also fond of my rendition of “Margaritaville” and likes it when I sing Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler,” though I only know the chorus and repeat it over and over again. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Speaking of songs, there’s that one by Leann Womack that we listen to that’s really sappy, but doesn’t stop me from wanting Dash to use it as a road map for life. It’s called “I Hope You Dance.” I’m sure you’ve heard it.

One part goes like this: “I hope you never lose your sense of wonder. You get your fill to eat, but always keep that hunger. May you never take one single breath for granted. God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed.

“I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean. Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.

“Promise me that you’ll give fate a fighting chance. And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance, I hope you dance.”