Ten years. (from Dad)

[A guest post written by D.]

To my daughter, Mila….

Today would have been your 10th birthday. 

I used to think about what you’d be like at 5. Or 10. Or 18. But with the passage of time, I no longer think about who you would have been. I think about who you were and what you mean to me today and forever.

You are our first child. As much as your sister likes to argue the merits of her being the “oldest”, you were our first. When Mama was pregnant with you, we were so excited. We waited for you for 9 whole months, building to a crescendo of new-parent anticipation, love, and yes, preparation. And then, in an instant, we lost you. 

And even though we held you for only a few hours before we had to say goodbye, you will forever be our first child. We love you always.

You are the foundation on which our family is built. Your death was like an earthquake. It was so disorienting. The life path we were on wasn’t altered…it didn’t come to an abrupt dead end…  It completely disappeared. 

Suddenly we were in the middle of a dense jungle with no path or purpose in sight. We had no choice but to start over and carve our way out. But which direction should we go? Any direction we could pick was as good (or as bad) as the next. What more did we have to lose?

So we took some risks. We moved abroad. The entire trajectory of our family was changed by you.

And even more importantly, you changed who we are as parents. How I am as a dad. How Mama is as a mom. When I see your brother and sister and how close they are, I’d like to think you had something to do with that too. Who would they be without you? Would they even be?

You are not just part of our family; we grew out of you.

You changed me fundamentally for the better. For me, there is a before you and an after you. You were born lifeless, but the ways you have affected my life are profound and permanent. My whole world changed on December 23, 2013. Losing you stripped me emotionally to the bone. 

Before you, I spent way too much time in my own head regretting the past or worrying about the future. So much so that I missed out on years of living in the present. Unfortunately, nothing could have brought me more violently into the “now” than losing you.

So I have spent the better part of a decade “after you” trying to rebuild myself into a better person. That would not have happened if it weren’t for you. You forced a self-reckoning. 

There are so many ways that I can continue to grow personally, but today feels like a good day to acknowledge how far I’ve come. I hate that losing you had to be the reason for who I’ve become, but I am so grateful for it.

To Mila’s mama….

You are the love of my life and the most amazing mother in the world. I’ll never forget how you were with Mila that day. In the deepest throes of emotional and physical agony a woman can endure, you were above all else, Mila’s mama. I don’t know how you did it. And 10 years later, I am still marveling at you. You are the strongest person I have ever met.

Losing Mila could have easily broken us in ways that were impossible to repair. Instead, it deepened our love for each other. For a while there, it was just the two of us, wandering in the world lost and alone. But we had each other. And somehow we managed to put one foot in front of the other until we found joy in life again. Now I wake up everyday knowing that no matter what life throws at us, we will persevere together.

I also want to thank you for this blog. You have left our family and the world such a beautiful tribute to Mila and a vivid testimony of grief, anger, fear, hope, and rebirth. It is truly a gift.

I feel so much warmth reading your posts now–even through the sadness. My favorites: Mila’s Life, Mila’s Birth Story, your travelogs of our escaping the world in Japan, finding hope and happiness again at the end of the world in Chile and Argentina (and parts 2, 3, 4), physically and emotionally moving on from the west coast; and more recently, your eulogy for my Dad. 

I hope that one day when they are older, our children will read this blog and learn from it.

To the World….

Having a stillborn baby is excruciatingly isolating. People don’t know what to say. Let’s face it, no one likes talking about dead babies. So they say nothing. Or they ignore you. Or even worse, they say something like “don’t worry, you’ll have another”.

Mila’s mom has documented that isolation in this blog. It’s a tough read. But as rare as it is to hear a mother talk so honestly about having a stillborn child, it’s even rarer to hear a father do the same. Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to talk about what that’s like in more detail.

Every 16 seconds, a baby is stillborn. Today I think about the many parents around the world who will have to endure that isolation with little or no support network. Or even worse, be actively stigmatized by their community.

Which is why I am so grateful for our family and friends and the doctors, nurses, and support groups who helped us through those early years. Many friends were there for us 10 years ago and continue to be by our side today. Some of you didn’t know us then but have become the closest of friends. 

Two of the first people to rush to our side in San Francisco after we lost Mila are gone now too.

I miss them.

And so life goes on.

On Mila's 10th birthday.

Although I haven't written here regularly for a long time, this blog will always be special to me.

Today I don't find myself compelled to say much and that is because, for me, this blog serves its purpose. I have said what I had to say. I wrote this as a record of Mila's brief but beautiful life; and of all the experiences in the wake of her stillbirth that I couldn't allow to be forgotten, but that I also could not bear to carry myself. This was a place to set those things down for safekeeping. That brings me a lot of peace.

When I started this blog, I called it "After Mila" with the blind hope that someday, I would get to a place in my life that truly would feel like an "after." And I have. I'm here. I made it.

So today, all there is for me to say is:

Happy 10th birthday, my girl. Thank you for everything you have given me. I love you, endlessly. xo Mama

This body is not me; I am not caught in this body,

I am life without boundaries,
I have never been born and I have never died.
Over there the wide ocean and the sky with many galaxies
All manifests from the basis of consciousness.
Since beginningless time I have always been free.
Birth and death are only a door through which we go in and out.
Birth and death are only a game of hide-and-seek.
So smile to me and take my hand and wave good-bye.
Tomorrow we shall meet again or even before.
We shall always be meeting again at the true source,

Always meeting again on the myriad paths of life.

-- Thích Nhất Hạnh

Eight.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.

xo,
Mama

A letter to you on your 7th birthday.

Mila Nalin. Today you would have turned 7 years old.

Every day you remind me of what matters. You remind me to appreciate this moment, because the next is not promised; and so you remind me, don’t wait. You teach me empathy and you teach me strength. You show me what I am capable of, and also what I cannot control. You have always been and continue to be a blessing.

xo
Mama

Re: the photos. I don’t have any proper pictures of you. So these are some of the places where I have found you.

Dad.

Our family is grieving again, so here I am. Two Tuesdays ago, D’s dad passed in his sleep suddenly and unexpectedly. He’d been active, vibrant, and living his life up to the last. He would have been a young 74 next week.

In a strange coincidence, I had been thinking about Mila the night before. I think of her routinely, but am at a point now where it doesn’t usually upset me to think of her. But that night in the shower, I found myself remembering the emptiness of losing her. I remembered how after an initial period of shock and silence, how strong my urge had been to document everything I could about her. I remembered my horror at the realization that, since no one else had known her, it fell entirely to me to tell the stories of her life; and if I failed her in that duty, it would be as if she had never existed. This blog exists because I could not bear that she would leave no trace on the world. And at the memory of that feeling, I did break down, hard.

It had been an unremarkable day and I still wonder why that memory came to me that night, seemingly unbidden. I stood in the shower afterwards wondering, apropos of nothing, if it would be any easier to grieve someone who had lived a full life, full of family and friends who could help carry the weight of remembering all their stories. Then I went to bed and thought nothing more of it.

Now on the other side of that night, I can say, no, it’s not any easier. Different, but not easier. Everyone Dad touched in life has their own stories about him; those, I don’t have to carry. But I knew him as another dad to me and the grandfather of my kids; those are the stories I carry. Those are the stories that I have to put out into the universe. Here they are; let them be remembered, for ever and ever.

To the best Dad and Grampy our family could have been blessed with.

We still can’t believe you are not here. We keep waiting for you to walk through the door with your big smile, ready laugh, and a big hug for the kids.

You doted on Isla. She had a seat on your lap whenever she wanted it, and ready access to your iPad. She could always convince you to go swimming with her, no matter how much you protested. Like you, she loves planes, and her toy box is full of toy planes that you picked out for her. Every time one flew overhead, you could tell her what kind of plane it was and where it was going. She loves biking too, just like you, and you were so proud of her progress this year. I’m quite sure you spent hours researching the perfect new big-girl bike to get her for her 5th birthday next month.

You had a soft heart for Jake, too. When he was a wakeful young baby and we were staying at your house before we moved into our own, you let Jake sleep in your office. You would always clear out of there at 5:30pm, carrying your computer and all your papers, so that he could go down and D and I could get some sleep too. You did this for months. And when Jake was older, your office was like heaven to him. You let him press as many buttons, rifle through as many drawers, play with as many gadgets, and steal as many golf balls as he wished. Jake’s toy box is full of trucks you picked out for him, the newest ones from just this past week. When Isla got to sleep over at your house without Jakey, you sent a set of trucks for him with a note explaining that you didn’t want him to feel bad about being left out of the fun. What a sweet Grampy you were, to worry about that even though he was still too little to understand that he was missing out. I am so glad that I saved the note for him.

When Mila was stillborn, you showed up in San Francisco the very next day. You read all my most difficult blog posts about her in the very dark year that followed, and during a time when most people did not know what to say, you did. You always offered such loving reassurance and support. I will never forget that.

And Schmorgy, well, we all know Schmorgy hates pretty much everyone but he always, always loved you.

No matter where in the world we were living, whether it was Boston or San Francisco or Spain, you were always ready to jump on a plane to come see us and the kids. And it was always a fun adventure. When you visited us in Madrid, you talked up everyone in the neighborhood and made friends with everyone from the local bakery employees to the guy at the mobile phone shop down the street, and somehow seemed to know all about the neighborhood goings-on, even though you barely spoke any Spanish. I am so glad that we came home in time to give the kids the last couple of years together with you. I just wish that there had been more.

You and Mom raised two wonderful men. I see you in D every time he thinks through a strategic or logistical puzzle, and also when he drops everything to help a friend or family member and makes sure everyone is taken care of. I see you in the kids every time they get excited to see a plane flying overhead or are able to give us turn-by-turn directions from point A to point B. The two of you created a loving and welcoming home that is always at its best, loudest, and most fun when it is filled with grandkids, cousins, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, and a crazy dog or two. We lost you too soon. There is a hole in our hearts and we miss you incredibly.

Six.

Happy almost-6th birthday, baby girl. Six years ago tonight I was curled up at home with you, looking forward to the holidays, and unbeknown to me, sharing some of my last moments with you. Where would we be now, if you had stayed?

When we lost you, suddenly everything that really mattered to me was so clear. All the daily annoyances and insecurities fell away, for a time, and there was just that quiet knowledge. That was one of your greatest gifts to me. Nowadays, with the noise of everyday life, it's harder for me to access. My innermost thoughts are not as clear. But I'll keep working at it.

Schmorgy sniffed at your box of mementoes when I took it down from my closet this evening. His expression was curious and sensitive, all soft ears and knitted brows, and I think he knew it was something special. I think you would have loved him. Isla knows a bit about you, and she'll know more as she gets older. She is an imaginative, nurturing, artistic, particular, reserved, and defiant four years old. Your baby brother Jake is still too young to know about you, but he will too. He is still a little guy, 20 months old, and full of giggles and affection. He likes anything that "go-go's" and pretty much every dog he's ever seen.

We miss you, but we are so lucky. We are so lucky, but we miss you.

Love you always,

Mama

Fourth birthday.

Happy 4th birthday, sweetie. You would be such a big girl now!

I'm a day late in posting to the blog this year, since life's getting more hectic with a two-year-old in tow. We've driven down from Madrid to Andalucía to spend the holidays in a house in the countryside surrounded by orange trees, lavender, and artichokes. This year Mila's candle, instead of being a quiet zone, is surrounded by toddler chatter and toy cars. Isla is growing into a girl who is sweet, funny, empathetic, and button-pushing all at once. She seems so grown-up to me at two, chatting and flirting and sassing me in both English and Spanish; but I wonder sometimes how different our dynamic would be if Mila were here to be the big girl of the family. Maybe Isla would still seem to me like a baby in comparison. Maybe I'd coddle her more, and maybe she'd lean on her more experienced big sister. Maybe Isla would not be Isla. Maybe we would not have undertaken our Spanish adventure. I'll never know for sure.

Down the path our lives have actually taken, Isla will be the big sister of the family, because we're expecting her baby brother in April. We're firmly in alternate-universe territory now, because this third pregnancy is the one I would not have planned to have if Mila had survived. I'm happy that he and the pregnancy look healthy and normal so far, but it does feel a bit strange to me. I'm definitely feeling the wear and tear more this time. I'm five years older and despite lugging around a 25-pound kid every day, I wasn't nearly as fit when I started this pregnancy as when I got pregnant with Mila. My body's getting creakier and more fatigued by the week. I've had more than my fill of pregnancy and I'm looking forward to hopefully being finished with it for good. 

I also (based on no logic whatsoever, but nevertheless) never expected to have a boy, always having felt like more of a girl mom, especially after having had both Mila and Isla. But here we are! We'll give away our old pink onesies, stock up on more boy-friendly ones, and figure it out.

Third birthday.

Cable: 42, Level: 66, Light: 3970

For our baby girl Mila on your 3rd birthday.

I still remember watching the Bay Lights light up for the first time from our first apartment in San Francisco. It was just months before you yourself twinkled into being.

They were (and are) gorgeous. We could stand out on our deck to see them. There was also a beautiful unobstructed view from our top floor windows. We could also lean out over the low wall at the end of our dead-end street to see them. Every night as I arrived back home, I’d stop to look at the Bay Bridge shining over the water before going inside. Sometimes the lights thrummed from one end of the bridge to the other like the strings on a harp; sometimes they rippled like fish just under the surface of the Pacific; sometimes they raced back and forth; sometimes they just twinkled; and sometimes, in their first error-prone weeks, they got stuck. But it was always beautiful to watch. It’s one of my fondest memories of San Francisco. Although we are no longer there, my memories of you always will be.

We’ve dedicated a light to you to celebrate your birthday, to support public arts in your city, and just as one more way that you will keep shining forever.

Love,
Mama & Dada

Moving on, and remembering.

Moving on.

It has been a while since my last post. Lots of changes are afoot. I will try to write more about it when I have the time, but the short version of the story is that we are leaving San Francisco -- at least for now -- and relocating to Madrid, Spain for a year. I have a lot of complicated feelings about saying goodbye to San Francisco. We've been here just about four years now. It has been a life-changing four years, many times over, in both good ways and bad. San Francisco made me grow up, beat me up, picked me up, made me strong, made me weak. For better or worse, we're now parting ways.

Remembering.

Since we knew we were leaving the west coast for at least a year, D and I decided to spend our summer vacation in Hawaii, while it's still only a few hours' flight away. Every year on Memorial Day, there is a floating lantern festival in Honolulu to honor lost loved ones. Anyone can participate. So we went, and spent the evening remembering. Here are some photos.

Mila, 

It feels right that we should remember you here in Hawaii. We have been here together before, and it will always remind us of you. You have seen dolphins here, visited green sand beaches here, and swum in the ocean here. 

We miss you and always wonder who you would be today, a big sister to Isla and Schmorgy. You will always be in our hearts, and will always be our little Nuggsy.   

Love and love and love for always, 

Mama and Dada

We'd summoned you.

We'd summoned you out of ourselves, and you were not given a vote. If only for that reason, you deserved all the protection we could muster. [...] I knew then that I must survive for something more than survival's sake. I must survive for you.

Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between The World And Me

Imbalance.

I still get lots of people asking me if Isla is my first child. It's part of the standard battery of very innocent questions: How old is she? What's her name? How's she sleeping? Is she your first? The experience of raising her is so different from anything I got to experience with Mila that it's not as hard anymore to say "Yes" just to get along with my day, but I still always add the mental qualification: Yes, my first living child. Which is what they mean after all, even if they don't know it, isn't it?

It makes me so sad that we have so little of Mila to remember, especially in light of the incredible new memories we are making with Isla every day. I want to love them equally, but it is impossible to love them in the same way. One I know better and better every day, and one I can never fully know. In one hand I have a mountain; in the other, a grain of sand -- and every day, the disparity grows larger. One doesn't subsume the other, does it? My brain says no, but still I am afraid. I guard the space around my little grain jealously.

Second birthday.

Happy birthday, my little Mila love.

Two years out from her death and birth, I'd like to say something beautiful, but real life is not a novel so not everything can be profound. The first year after her stillbirth took shape in a poetic way, beginning in an abyss of grief and ending with our Patagonian backpacking trip to commemorate Mila's first birthday, where Isla's little light first sparked. But life keeps on going. There is a second anniversary, and a third, and a fourth, on and on and on, and not every one can be a grand capstone. So I find myself wondering how to grieve her, celebrate her, and remember her on all the anniversaries to come, as December 23rd becomes (and how is this even possible?) gradually more mundane.

Although the place where I was two years ago is harder to access now, I still remember. That little empty place in my heart is still there, covered over with layers of scar tissue, the original edges of the wound obscured. I remember how big that emptiness once yawned, how loud the silence was, how blindingly bright the world and how jagged and unbearable its edges. What it was like to look at the motionless ultrasound image. What the ceiling looked like as I lay on the table, feeling dead myself. What it was like to watch Mila emerge without a sound. What she smelled like, and what it was like to kiss her little face as it grew cold. What it was like to see D cry, which I had not seen before and have not seen since. What it was like to visit the funeral home the day after Christmas, three days postpartum, and sit in that echoless room discussing urns while my milk came in with no one to drink it. Horror. The darkest horror I'd never imagined. I can't believe I survived it.

So I am grateful for the mundanity. It means we've come to some kind of peace. I know the pain and anger will never be gone, but it's become easier to bear. I live in a world now where on the same day that I buy Mila's yahrzeit candle, I can continue on to browse the bookshop; enjoy my lunch; play with the dog; and celebrate, with real happiness, Isla's gorgeous, miraculous first laugh.

Recently Isla and I went on a playdate with what D likes to call the Increasingly Less Sad Moms Club (formerly just the straight-up Sad Moms Club). We are four moms who all lost our first children within three months of each other, either in utero at term or shortly after birth; and who all had healthy second babies this year. M observed that we must look like a normal playgroup from the outside; who would suspect the dark place we all share? But in a sense, we are a normal playgroup too. In addition to sharing the experience of losing a child, we are also now all moms who have made it through the subsequent pregnancy and are learning the ropes for the first time, enjoying the first milestones, struggling with the challenges that most first-time moms have. We have both of those experiences now. I'll never be the same person that I was before, but that's okay. Children are supposed to change you, and both Mila and Isla continue to make their marks indelibly on me (and not just figuratively). For that I am grateful.

So how to remember Mila on her second birthday? Well, D and I lit her candle, and we will have some family time with Isla and Schmorgy. And I would like to repost the story of Mila's Life, to celebrate the short time that she was with us. And, there's no getting around it, we will miss her so, so much, and wonder what she would have been like, and wish we could have both our girls with us. And tomorrow morning when we get up and the candle has burned out, we will look at it and feel sad and still a little empty. And then we'll continue on with our day, because both Isla and Schmorgy will demand breakfast and play. And I guess it's fine that not every one of Mila's birthdays will have some kind of grand poetry, because in the course of writing this blog post, I've realized I remember her every day, just by being alive.

Anyway. Since I don't have something profound to say today, I'd like to borrow some thoughts from Aaron Freeman, which are very much in line with how I have come to think about Mila and the way in which she is now a part of the everything that there is. Here they are, emphasis mine.

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. 

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever. 

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. 

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen.

December.

I'm having so much fun watching Isla grow, but it's December now so I inevitably think of Mila. I dress Isla in "her" pjs, swaddle her in "her" blankies, ask her if she likes looking in "her" play mirror, but it's hard to use many of her things -- brand new though they are -- without remembering with some pain that they used to belong to someone else. There are some really cute pennant banner-print pjs that I particularly treasure because I used to imagine Mila in them, and I love to see them on Isla, but in some ways it might be easier on me as Isla continues to grow out of Mila's old things.

Mila will have been two years old on the 23rd. Babies born around the time she died are having their second birthday parties, and I see their pictures -- all cheeks, long curly hair, baby teeth, and cake frosting. Big girls and boys.

Mila will always be a baby now, but it strikes me that the idea of who she would have been will keep growing every year until one day I will be thinking to myself, She would be 12... She would be 17... She would be 25... on and on, a grown woman that I won't get to know. The thought makes me ache.

I have some other scattered thoughts, but they'll have to wait because I can hear Isla waking up from her nap.

Photobomb!

Photobomb!

If Mila had lived, I don't think either of these two would be a part of our family right now. Something terrible happened and our family is now somehow simultaneously lesser and fuller than it might otherwise have been. The thought makes me sad, confused, scared, and grateful all at once.

Waves.

I really thought, up until three weeks ago, that the grief had been permanently softened. I hadn't cried about it in a long time. But now that Isla's here and we're truly in the next chapter of our lives, it comes back in ways I didn't expect. Is this what people mean when they say grief is like a series of waves?

I dismantled my Nuggsy's diaper cake today, the one our friends made for her shower, so Isla can use the diapers and we can pop the champagne hidden inside at some point that feels right. It had been sitting on the dresser untouched for almost two years. Taking it apart feels like acknowledging, again, that she's really gone.

Two years ago, and today.

Their roads diverged.

It's a strange new world; the lights are bright and, like Isla, I'm still adjusting my eyes.

It was so surreal to leave the hospital in the opposite direction, outgoing, with the Nut in my arms. I'd gotten so accustomed to being incoming, arriving at triage full of fear, the hospital a place of anxiety, mystery, and ultimately reassurance, but never of joy. A nurse wheeled me out, retracing the same path we had taken in three days earlier, but everything looked different and unrecognizable to me. We emerged into the bright sunlight and drove home through SF streets that looked distantly familiar. I felt like I had been gone on a long, long trip.

I marvel at Isla's perfect face and find it unbelievable that something so sweet was inside me just days ago. I think of my pregnancy with her, until now the only part of motherhood that I knew, and it now feels unreal. The daily walks with Schmorgy to the park, the countless doctor's appointments, the weekly and then daily antenatal testing, the panicked trips to triage, the twice-daily kick counts, the big belly that I protected but was too afraid to think much about even as it grew and grew and became a casual topic of conversation for the outside world. That whole time, I was walking around with this little girl growing inside me. Now she is out and shared with the rest of the world, no longer just mine. I felt her hiccup on the inside, and now all can see her hiccup on the outside. People buy her soothing baby toys that play simulated heartbeat sounds and I think, that's my heartbeat they're trying to replicate for her. The practice breaths I watched her draw via ultrasound on the inside, her diaphragm moving up and down, I now hear as sweet, tiny heaves as she lies on my chest. The regular, liquidy thuds of her heartbeat that I listened to on countless fetal monitors now happen outside of my body, beyond my hearing.

I wish I could have enjoyed that time more, the time when she belonged wholly to me.

The first night in the hospital after she was born, I held her to my chest as she slept, her head nestled just under the right side of my chin. The room was dark and quiet, and D was asleep on the couch. I realized I was holding Isla much the same way I'd held Mila on her first and only night, and I cried.

Mila and Isla don't look entirely alike, but they share many features. Their hair, eyelashes, and little lips. Even their birth weights were the same. For the first couple of days, Isla's every gesture and grimace reminded me anew and in vivid detail what was lost for Mila. I'm so happy for what we have, but it still hurts to think of what my first sweet girl was denied. It's not fair.

On my left forearm there is a scab from my IV from Isla's delivery and, just inches from that, a faint white dot, the scar from my IV from Mila's.

In our living room, the remainder of Mila's one-year yahrzeit candle sits on the same shelf as a photo of Isla at one day old. They're both flanked by plush llamas from our Chile/Argentina trip for Mila's first birthday, during which Isla was most likely conceived.

It's still confusing to me, how things were so much alike and yet so different. Their roads diverged.

Isla's birth story.

Isla's birth story is straightforward, and blessedly without surprises -- just as I wanted it.

As if we were heading to SFO, on the morning of September 7th D and I packed methodically, cleaned out the fridge, and called an Uber. We assured the driver that it was not an emergency. He was a cheerful guy and cracked the "labor on Labor Day" joke, and when he apologized for the cliche, I told him I still thought it was funny. It was a quiet morning with minimal traffic, the city sleeping in after their Labor Day beers and BBQs the day before. We rode, unimpeded, along the route we'd driven ourselves countless times in various states of mind -- anticipation, anxiety, panic -- since February of this year. It was a surreal ride.

We checked in at 10AM, leisurely. Our nurse got us settled into a large, clean room and went over a bunch of paperwork with us. Then it was just waiting. I skimmed a book and texted pictures of the L&D suite to M to pass the time. The doctors started me on misoprostol and told me they'd give me up to four doses, four hours apart. The first dose came at 1PM. I waited expectantly, remembering how quickly things had started moving with Mila, but the few contractions I felt were sparse and fizzled out. At 5:30PM I took the second dose. I stared at the clock; I'd thought I'd be in labor by that time, but I felt only the gentlest, most tentative of tightenings. By the time I took my third dose at 10PM, I was losing patience and worrying about what would happen if the induction didn't take.

I needn't have worried. At 10:30PM I finally felt something. An upset stomach, I thought at first, but the pains were too regular and rhythmic. Eventually the contractions were unmistakable on the monitor screen. I was 3cm dilated, and the doctors left me to progress on my own.

Things really started to hurt. I hunched over the bed to relieve the growing pressure on my back. The sound of the fetal heartbeat monitor through the gathering haze was distant but reassuring. I inquired about pain relief but everyone seemed to think it was too soon for an epidural, and the nurse offered me a couple of doses of pain relief via IV. They took the edge off for a little while, but remembering how quickly things went with Mila, I insisted it was time to pull out the big guns. And not a minute too soon -- I found out later that the anesthesiologist was called into a c-section right after she saw me, and even as she prepped me, the pain began to snowball in a way that felt familiar.

Once the epidural was in, I slept for a couple of hours, until it began to wear off on my left side. Not long after that, I felt what seemed like a head bearing down. I remembered the sensation from Mila's birth. I called the nurse and things started happening quickly after that. Pushing took about twenty minutes, and as Isla advanced, the docs started setting up the table for the baby, spreading plastic under me, and calling in the attending doctor. He arrived a few pushes from the end, in time to say Congrats, you did it! and rush out to his next birth just as Isla's head was emerging.

The doctors maneuvered her body through, and Isla emerged, as grey and slimy as Mila had been. But unlike Mila, as she tumbled out onto the plastic sheet, she squalled -- and then, just like that, we were in wholly new territory. I cried and cried as they plopped her on my chest and turned their attention to the afterbirth, but as far as I could see, D was all smiles.

Isla.

D and I are so happy to welcome Isla Frances, also known to us as the Nut. She was born on Tuesday, September 8, 2015 at 6:06AM at UCSF Mission Bay, weighing in at 6 pounds 14 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.

She has D's eyebrows, long eyelashes, and nose; and my hair color, eyes, hands, and weird big toe. Her full lips, one of her most noteworthy features, are still of indeterminate origin.

She is a daughter, granddaughter, niece, cousin, and precious little sister to a beloved big sister. But most of all, she is her own sweet self.

Welcome, Isla. We love you.

Labor Day.

Happy Labor Day! And appropriately enough, happy induction day to me. D and I will be heading off to the hospital for a 10AM appointment. I'm scared and anxious but cautiously excited, and I keep checking on the Nut to make sure she's still there. It's a surreal feeling, having something as momentous and normally unpredictable as a birth scheduled like this. Amidst all the packing, fridge cleanout, dogsitter planning, and well wishes, it almost feels like we're preparing to get on a flight. We're even going to take an Uber to the "airport."

Everybody gird your loins. You too, Schmorgy.

Where is u going? Wut is a baby? Is like hooman puppie?

Minor observations.

Obviously, this pregnancy is different from my first one in a lot of important ways, but in some minor ways too.

Skin.  My skin is fine but not particularly glowy and perfect.  At thirty-five and a half weeks last time, it was so great that I'd regularly leave the house ecstatically without a lick of makeup.  This time, not so much; but happily, I've again made it this far without stretch marks.

Swelling.  I have only minor swelling, and as a result no carpal tunnel, in my hands at this point.  My rings still slide on and off without unusual effort.  Towards the end of my first pregnancy, I had trouble making a fist and I'd stopped wearing my rings.

Aches.  I have a lot more achiness this time, leading to full-on pregnancy waddle.  I don't remember if I waddled last time, but if I did, I certainly wasn't conscious of it.

So weird how different even the little things can be.  Reminder to self: this is a different pregnancy.