There are too many hormones swishing around in this body of mine for me to be able to write anything comprehensible. I range from pleasure to paranoia in the space of five minutes. My thoughts are like bubbles that form and burst in rapid succession. What if Chup cheats on me? I love lemon pie! If the big earthquake hits do we have enough water to drink and bathe?Asparagus! It's a weird existence, this postpartum stuff.
For this reason, I'd like to thank my guest posters this week. They have been delightful--Catherine, Stephanie, Azucar I love those women in my life. Chup was supposed to post on Tuesday in response to the many questions we've received about our birth story. Would we do it at home again? Did we prefer the unmedicated? Is it worth talking to the husband about to convince him to give it a try? But Chup wasn't feeling poetry in that moment and hopes to write that post in the near future.
Of course, if you ask me (which many of you did) I would reply (all caps ) YES. OH YES. TO ALL OF IT. But you might not believe me because of the aforementioned hormones. Best leave that post up to the Chupa.
Speaking of giving birth. Remember Ever? I call her the Prize of the County Fair. I also call her my Warm Sugar Cube. And I really like how so many things rhyme with Ever (clever, never, weather/whether) so that all my made up tunes and silly poetry is easily improvised. She's just El Lovely, Captain.
The other day my friend Wendy of Blue Lily fame, showed up in town for a couple hours to take photos of my gal. I lounged on the couch while Wendy swaddled and posed my sleepy daughter. Perhaps it was the best afternoon I have spent since Ever dropped into our lives. I fell in love with her even more, swoon, swoon, swoon.
And oh how I adore that Wendy too. By the time she left, I felt more confident in motherhood. She taught me--among many things--the fine art of swaddling, and I do believe it is an art. My babies break the swaddle I was formerly taught seconds after the wrapping. Turns out, I need to be using stretchy blankets and adding more layers to the baby burrito. Wendy also helped infuse in me the power of making choices in motherhood based on intuition and not fear--this is invaluable.
And so is her photography.
What? Would you like to see my swaddled Ever?
Here you go (you might be tempted to kiss the screen, warning!)
Thanks Wendy, as always.
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*** On My Other Blogs Today:
dear c jane: since we are celebrating blue lily why not a giveaway too? win a spot in one of blue lily's enlighten photo/camera classes! click here:
This guest post comes to us via Azucar who recently stopped working and has since become a genuine SAHM. We met via blogging nearly five years ago and have since become the kind of friends where she makes food and I eat it--in other words--the best kind of friends. She blogs at The Jet Set.
What is the difference between a stay-at-home mom and a working mom? I'm glad you asked. I've been a working mom the entire time I've been a mom, and now, having stayed at home with my kids for six weeks, I feel I'm entirely qualified to talk about what it's like being a stay-at-home mom.
If I'd been working I never would have had the chance to teach my three year old excellent manners. Why, when he spilled water on my bedside table he offered, "Iwillsuckitupifyoulike." And then he did. That's just good parenting right there, and a mark of my newfound dedication to hearth and home.
I notice that I feel a whole lot more guilty than I used to about cleaning the house. Before I was laid off, I couldn't possibly do everything, so I addressed the most horrible slime-covered surfaces, and that was that. The first two weeks at home were like a vacation, or, like shell-shock (so maybe like a vacation with in-laws?) Either way, no one does laundry on vacation, or at least I don't do laundry on vacation (or at all.) We all have a personal Waterloo, and mine is the laundry. I am defeated. It has won the war. What have we learned? No matter if you work at home, or in an office, or in a factory, there is something you will suck at. Embrace it, before it sends you to Elba.
If you find yourself suddenly at home full time, your thoughts might drift to that long list of organizing and redecorating ideas you've wanted to finish for years. Hogwash! The first thing you should try to do is to potty train your toddler. Staying at home is far more fun and fulfilling if you include a riotous game of "Saints Alive! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?"
After about a month of being at home, the kids may start yelling at you because they realize that you're not going anywhere. You are the new fish. Don't let the lifers boss you around, even if it's tempting to encourage their manipulative tendencies to ensure their future Wall Street success.
You might even learn that you can only ask Junior to pick up his PJs from the floor three times before you lose your temper. This is normal! Don't let it get you down! But yes, your child will be sent out into the world as the kind of person who can't clean up after themselves. It'll probably your fault, too. I certainly blame my mother.
I don't like to make judgments about stay-at-home moms and working moms, but I will say this: When I was a working mom, I never, not even once, woke up to see my three year old walking around with a tramp stamp courtesy of his brother. So, you know, perhaps you think you'd not be the sort of stay-at-home mom who encourages that kind of thing, and it turns out that you'd be wrong.
Before my beloved sister left for Arizona to blow up the balloon in her back, I asked her to write down ten tips for a mother with a new baby. I need all the help I can get--and she is a four-time--two boys, two girls--motherhood-certified professional.
Here is her response:
Ten things to/not do when a new babe comes into the mix:
I have had 4 children. With each pregnancy and delivery, I have learned a few tricks. I also get the goods on certain secrets from my mother who had 9 children and my mother-in-law who had 11.
So, as I blog for my sister Cjane, I share with you 10 tips to do (or not) with a new little one.
10. Babies are babies- they are not little adults. Please don’t dress them as one. One example comes to mind: Babies who are under 6 months (at the very least) shouldn’t wear jeans. They still sleep very often and there is nothing more that I hate than sleeping in Jeans. Soft, cotton and cuddly are my 3 guidelines.
9. I love my babies in soft, soothing colors. Nothing bright and distracting. You need all the peace you can get. Just like you want to paint your bedroom a color that calms and de-stresses you, babies should be dressed the same.
8. Breastfeed! (if possible, of course.) And, pretend you’re the baby. What would you like and enjoy? Chances are your baby will too (i.e.: sleeping, eating, held close, sung too and so on)
7. Wrap. Wrap babies tightly in a lightweight swaddling cloth. They seem happier and it helps the baby feel secure. But, be sure to know when babies need some time to be unwrapped to kick and coo.
6. Ask your husband and other children to help. I asked my older children to help wash binkies, help lather lotion on baby after the tub and pick out babies clothes. They seem to enjoy that task because it helps them feel like a part of the excitement.
5.Sing. I have the worst voice in the world. My baby doesn’t care, and loves to hear me sing. Heck, if Cjane can sing and her babies like it, then so can I! Sometimes, I make up songs and tunes as I go. After baby is asleep you can tell your husband the awesome song you just made up and laugh your head off.
4. Buy a couple of nice button down shirts. They are easy to nurse in, and functional. But, be sure to buy flattering ones make you feel and look beautiful.
3. Rocking chair. A mother MUST have a rocker. It is a age old classic and natural soother. It helps baby settle down and it creates a bond that mother (and Dad) can have with baby.
2. Stay home.My favorite time is after my babies are born when I can just stay home enjoying cuddling, and nursing baby. I was never in a hurry and planned to run my errands when Christian was home. That way baby can nap when he wants and you are low stress.Plus, putting baby in and out of that darn car seat, asleep no less, is the worst.
1. Thank God for your sweet heaven-sent baby everyday!
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On my other blogs today:
c jane's Guide to Provo: from heaven to hell
dear c jane today: blue dress, blue shoes, blue moon (without the blue moon)
I am c jane and I am a mother with a new baby. contact me: cjanemail@gmail.com
Did you know that April is Autism Awareness Month? Did you also know that 1 in every 166 children in the U.S. has Autism Spectrum Disorder? Today on all three of my blogs we are talking about Autism. This is a guest post written by my neighbor Catherine Parry and her son Will:
Catherine and her son, the imaginative Will Parry
I write this as I sit beside my son in his tenth grade Human Biology class. He’s taking an open-book, multiple choice and true/false test over the evolution chapters he studied the past week. Based on his frantic page-flipping and worksheet rattling, I can see that I’m using the term “studied” loosely. Apparently this is one of those weeks when little information made it past his tympanic membrane (a term I picked up this year in Human Biology) and into his brain. I’m never really sure whether he’s paying attention to his teachers or not, because in classes he always looks as though he’s mentally escaped to Uranus. “Will,” I often say in an attempt to bring him back, “you’re on Uranus again.” “Mom, that’s obscene!” Only sort of, and it’s so fun to shock him.
For eight grades now (we packed it in for fifth and sixth grades and homeschooled), I’ve acted as Will’s aide in the classroom. The reasons for this unusual arrangement are various: suffice it to say that over time we’ve learned that it works best for Will. He was four years old and enrolled in BYU’s preschool when we received a call from the head teacher requesting that we have him tested for developmental delay. We were a little puzzled why she would think that our exceptionally bright son would need such a test, but he had been born ten weeks early (three and a half pounds), so we reasoned that perhaps her teaching expertise let her see delays that we thought he had outgrown. You can imagine our surprise, then, when the testers told us that he scored extremely low on all the tests. His best was math, on which he earned a 25%. As we left, one of the testers handed us a paper with three names, addresses, and phone numbers--the middle one circled—and said, “I strongly urge you to have him tested for autism.”
Autism? That was what the oldest child of my mother’s visiting teacher had had. He didn’t talk, spent most of his time sitting in a corner banging his head against a wall, and they put him in an institution when he climbed on top of the refrigerator and jumped down on somebody. That didn’t sound like Will. I’d learned in a college class in the 1970s that autism was caused by “refrigerator mothers,” who denied their children their nurturing warmth and affection, causing them to turn inward and shun human sociality. That didn’t sound like me, who was so excited finally to have a baby at age 39, that after his birth no other responsibility got its due time and attention. Nevertheless, as we walked from the building to the parking lot, carrying our short list of autism specialists, my husband and I knew that the tester’s informal “diagnosis” was correct. We learned later that she recognized the characteristics because she, too, had a son with high-functioning autism.
While we waited to see the specialist, we read about the disorder and began learning how to help our son. I won’t pretend that the bottom didn’t fall out of our little world. The exceptionally beautiful colors of that fall contrasted with our bleak inner landscapes as we read that a child with “mild” autism and no mental retardation would function in life as if he or she were mildly mentally retarded; that autistic people rarely marry or have children, and when they do, those marriages more often than not fail. We read about a young man with exceptional talent for enjoying and understanding beautiful music, who ended up sweeping the floors in a music library because his autism impeded his ability to finish school and cope with the pressures of a career. We grieved for the death of our son’s future as we had assumed it would be--scholastic achievement, a church mission, marriage, children, a career, church service--knowing now that such events would either not happen or would happen differently for him and us. There’s no use pretending, either, that our joy at the achievements of our friends’ universally brilliant children hasn’t been tinged with thoughts of what might have been for our own son. We began, though, to wonder fairly early whether we truly grieved for Will, or whether our parental egos grieved our inability to live and achieve through our child. The longer we have been parents, the more we have learned to distrust our motives for responding sharply if Will melted down in public, or for demanding obedience just because we said so. Will’s most challenging task may be training us to act in his best interest, without worrying about how our decisions affect our parental image.
None of these musings, though, give you a sense of Will’s eccentric charm and how interesting life with him can be. His often quirky interests have taken us through studies of bats, cacti, lemurs, volcanoes, and cephalopods (the family octopi belong to). At one time, thanks to Will, we knew more than any of our acquaintances about the mating habits of cuttle fish. When he was four, he was a firefighter. Assuming that was what he would be for Halloween, I asked about some costume detail, to which he replied that he wasn’t going to be a firefighter. Astonished, I asked why. “Because,” he replied, “for Halloween you dress up as something you’re not, and I am a firefighter.” One day during his pirate phase we became quite angry with each other, and he shouted at me, “You blackguard! You scurvy knave!” Often I learn unpleasant things about myself, like the time we visited the Louvre during a BYU Study Abroad. I unwisely decided he and I could manage lunch in their tearoom, but before I could catch him, Will darted away from me and ran smack into a French waiter carrying a large tray laden with dirty dishes which crashed to the floor. As he began swearing at us in French, I grabbed Will and fled in embarrassed panic from the restaurant, not stopping until we reached the anonymity of the gift shop several floors below. Not even the wrath of a wronged French waiter could keep Will and me out of a museum gift shop: for several years they were his favorite places.
As I finish this little essay, it is the late evening of an exceptionally full Sunday. Today, my fifteen-year-old son, who deals with the challenges of autism, bi-polar disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder, admirably fulfilled his duties as president of the teacher’s quorum in our ward. He arrived at church in time to help prepare the sacrament, attended a meeting in which they discussed how to help other kids in need, went with his dad to visit an elderly couple, and attended a fireside in the evening. Sure, he needed help shaving, putting on his tie, buttoning his cuffs, and as usual, he refused to comb his hair. In an attempt to be funny, he doubtless made inappropriate comments during his classes and the meeting, and he compulsively ate cookies after the fireside. So did I. None of Will’s mental challenges will ever go away, some aspects of them will even worsen with age, but in facing those challenges he has shown intelligence, courage, and determination. He is good natured, fun, and funny. He takes seriously his religious principles and duty to God, and is learning his duties to society, though those lessons come more slowly. I love him, and can ask no more.
Catherine Parry is a wife, mother and professor of the English arts. She also happens to be the woman I want to be when I grow up. Or the woman I want to be right now. She's intelligent, unique and completely enjoyable. She's also my Relief Society President. You can read more about Will and his upcoming novel Chroniclesof theScarred by going here.
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On my other blogs today:
c jane's Guide to Provo The Provo City Half Marathon & 5k benefits children with Autism find out how
dear c jane don't miss this Jammin' Jen video--music therapy for children with Autism click here (hint: you might cry like I did).
I am c jane and this is Autism Awareness Day. contact me: cjanemail@gmail.com
"I will need both cheeks," said Suzanne readying the shot of antibiotics.
After talking things over, Chup and I decided to take the night to sleep. I was so exhausted from the roller coaster ride of the previous days, I thought it was best for my body to go into labor well-rested. I'd get a shot of antibiotics, take another dose of the homeopathics and go to bed. In the morning we'd head to the hospital and Suzanne would meet us there. It was Thursday night, I'd have this baby on Friday by noon.
I reclined on the bed as Suzanne packed up to go home. Chup went downstairs to finish his last post on dear c jane. The more I thought about sleeping through the night the more I was sure it was the right thing to do. I relished the thought of going to bed and resting my soul.
I was also glad Suzanne could go home and sleep too. I was one of six births she had assisted that week alone.
And in a way, I was also relieved that I wasn't going to have to feel the pain of childbirth. I had spent months preparing mentally and spiritually to understand natural pain and felt somewhat enlightened on the subject. I wasn't intimidated by the potential pain, but at the moment it seemed so daunting.
"Suzanne, tell me about the pain-free childbirths you've seen," I asked her as she finished up some paperwork.
"My clients who do hypnobirthing do really well," she answered. Then she told me about a woman who was joking and laughing up until she informed everyone the baby was coming. "Oh here is the baby." Suzanne said that until she actually saw the baby's head, she wasn't even convinced the woman was in true labor. There were more stories like that one and I was entertained by all of them.
"What about a typical birth?" I asked.
Suzanne sat down on the bed and got comfortable.
"Typical birth, contractions get longer and harder until the woman transitions. At that point she is feeling a lot of intensity. As soon as she says she can't do it anymore I know the baby is ready to come."
"They all say that?"
"Pretty much."
At that point I made a mental note. If I ever give unmedicated birth I won't say "I can't do it anymore." I wasn't going to be typical.
"There is an element of surrender in birth. If you can surrender to the pain, you will do well." Suzanne speaks with an accent I can't quite place, but it is laced with wisdom and soothes me.
"Here is a contraction," I said. This one came sweeping in with a grip on my body I hadn't expected. It rolled through my belly and spread down into my legs. I was breathing deep, eyes closed and trying to smile. (I really think smiling helps contractions. Isn't that fun?)
When it was over I opened my eyes. Suzanne was looking at her watch.
"That one was almost a minute long."
"It was?"
Not long after that another one came marching in. I twisted by body to try and make it more comfortable to take the pressure. Still smiling.
"Over a minute," Suzanne noted on her clipboard. "I am going to hang out for a bit and see where this takes us."
Then another contraction. And another. All over one minute, all sending me deeper into myself seeking strength.
After a time Suzanne announced. "You are in labor."
Finally.
My contractions were like fireworks. Bang! They'd light up with spectacular power and overcome my entire being, then simmer into nothing. Then bang! Again and again.
It was happening so fast, I couldn't grasp reality. Before I could really appreciate what was transpiring I was overcome with shaking. My body shook from my teeth to my knees.
"You are transitioning already!" said Suzanne surprised. "I've got to go get things ready. Do you want me to set up the tub?" she asked rushed.
"Yes," I said breathing through my chattering teeth. No longer smiling, though I was more excited than Christmas morning seven years old.
I yelled for Chup who came up the stairs startled.
"We are having this baby, " my voice was more goat than human.
I hugged him tight through my next contraction. Then he left to help Suzanne set up the birthing tub in the den and run a hose from our shower into the tub.
When the tub was filled with hot water I got in with the help of Suzanne and Chup. The water was a perfect temperature and I felt a completely relaxed--until the next contraction hit. The water helped support me and was much more comfortable than on the bed. If it didn't sound so lame, I'd say something about being hugged by water, because that is how it felt.
But it was the transition into the water that segued hard labor. I was moaning and groaning. I asked Suzanne if I were getting close.
"I haven't checked you, but judging by how you are acting I'd say you are very close."
I was trying to surrender, but I felt more like I was being tortured. I was overcome without choice.
Suzanne's assistant Mary arrived. I said, "Hi Mary nice to meet you," and then I grunted my way through a contraction. I thought it was funny at the time. How many people do you meet for the first time while in a birthing tub, in your final stages of labor and totally naked?
Chup sat next to me on a cushion. We continually looked at each other trying to make sense of the situation. To say it was surreal cheapens the way we were feeling. The speed of time at that moment wasn't allowing for us to catch up.
Then there was intensity. As if I was being controlled by another entity other than my own spirit. It took over my body as if it were squeezing the life out of me. I screamed so loud I couldn't believe the noise in my ears.
This is the sound that made the universe was the thought that came to my mind.
I was on my knees, Chup supporting my back and my arms gripped the sides of the tub. Another contraction hit and I screamed louder. I had this great urge to cry out "Santa Maria!" even though I am clearly not Catholic or Hispanic.
And then I surrendered. I gave up. I closed my eyes and saw nothing but white noise like on an old tv. At that moment I was certain I wasn't in my body. I was walking the line of life and death and I was in the deepest part of me, the part that has always existed. I heard nothing, but felt everything. Then I was suddenly back feeling pain I cannot begin to describe. I doubt anyone has ever been able to word it.
"I CAN'T DO IT ANYMORE!" I blurted out. I was there. I was typical, but I was there.
I wanted Chup to take it all from me. I wanted him to equally say, "You don't have to do it anymore/ You can do it!"
He said: You can do it!
"Are you ready to push?" asked Suzanne.
"Yes," I screamed.
"Push with your next contraction."
And so I did.
"Crowning!" announced Suzanne. "Reach down there. Can you feel that? It is your baby's head. You are there."
On the next push I felt my body split open. This above all the sensations I felt that night was beyond the most amazing. I could feel everything move like a gate opening up to pressure. It was a fiery feeling and with it came the head of my baby.
I looked down and saw it in the water. Chup was looking too.
"We have a head!" Suzanne announced.
Then, the next contraction came and I pushed the rest of the baby out of my body. In one full movement Suzanne caught the baby in the water and immediately placed it in on my chest.
My joy was full. The pain was over. I felt totally sanctified.
It was a beautiful little being that screamed in my arms. They put a warm towel around the both of us and we sat there equally shocked.
I looked down to check the gender, I saw something dangling down and I announced to Chup we had another son.
"It's a boy!" I wailed. "I am so happy!" A brother for The Chief! Hooray!
We breathed for a little while until Chup asked again, "What is it?"
"It's a . . ." I moved the baby to get a better view. What I thought was a penis was really the umbilical cord. When it moved out of the way there was something entirely different there. " . . . girl! It's a girl! This is like Christmas!"
The thing is, throughout the entire labor I said some pretty strange things, but 'This is like Christmas!' is one Chup and I continue to laugh about even now.
After the placenta was delivered we got out of the tub (to add to the weird things I said that night: when I got out of the tub I asked Mary if I looked like I had lost weight) and got into our nice warm bed. Chup had set up a space heater in the room so that everything was the perfect temperature. I held the baby next to my body the entire time. She nursed right away. It was bliss.
Eventually she was studied, weighed and measured. I ate a bowl of cereal in bed with Chup lying next to me. I was pretty proud of myself for delivering a baby over 8 pounds. The women worked fast and efficiently to check the entire body of my baby. She was pronounced "pretty close to perfect" with the pinkest skin you ever saw.
"Two hour labor. That is something to brag about." Suzanne said to me as I pounded a bowl of Oh's. And just as fast as my labor had rolled in, the midwives had cleaned up the entire place and shut the front door quietly behind them. It was early Friday morning.
Chup, Ever and I fell asleep snuggling in our big bed together. But I couldn't stay asleep for long. I couldn't stop thinking about the whole experience and looking at this gorgeous being in my arms. There was too much love in my heart to sleep.
I waited for the sun to come over the tops of the mountains outside my window. And when it did it brought with it cries from The Chief upstairs. Chup brought him to me and after a brief introduction of Brother to Sister, my son joined us in bed cuddling the rest of the morning.
I felt like I was given two gifts. The first being my healthy, beautiful baby. The second, experiencing the power of delivery. And I've thanked my Heavenly Father for both every day since.
Thanks everyone for your well wishes! We are grateful to have you around in our lives.
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I am c jane and this concludes the birth story of my new daughter, Ever. contact me: cjanemail@gmail.com
Are you going to the Utah Valley Women's Expo this weekend? Make sure and look for Jim who will be there--in a very MANLY way of course--representing c jane's Guide to Provo!
I slept through the night with an occasional tugging contraction. In the morning I decided it was best to keep moving in the hopes I'd become a full-fledged member of the In Labor club. We loaded up and drove all over the valley buying food, drink, celebratory cheesecake and last minute needs.
By mid-afternoon I was going crazy. Contractions were coming at me in decent strength but terribly irregular. Knowing I was running out of time, I decided I'd take a nap and decide what to do from there.
Best nap of my life. I dreamed relaxation.
When I woke up I called Suzanne my midwife.
"My water broke yesterday but I've haven't had any solid contracting."
"Hmmmm," she said through a fuzzy connection. "I am coming over."
When she arrived she planted herself on my couch downstairs and set to charting our discussion. Suzanne is a no-nonsense woman with capabilities that span the genders. She is strong and sweet, tough and tender and the kind of woman you'd want supporting you through life's largest moments. My favorite aspect to my midwife is her hair, which is always curled around itself on the back of her head. When let down, her tresses reach down to her waist.
"Your water broke at six yesterday?" she asked, pen scribbling.
"Yes," I replied remembering my heroic journey.
"I would guess you have another posterior baby," she said breathing deeply. "Let's check to make sure."
An examination made it clear, just like The Chief before, my baby wasn't in a position to rock my uterus into labor.
"Some women have a pelvis that encourages posterior babies," explained Suzanne.
Ultimately, The Chief rotated right before labor, making it possible for him to come out after a few pushes. But it took two days effort to get my body to contract after my water breaking. This was deja vu--the Chief's birth all over again.
"So this is what I think we should do," Suzanne said combing through a clear container she had brought with her. "I am going to give you some homeopathics. I want you to take them right now and call me at 8 o'clock tonight. Hopefully you will be having regular contractions. If not, I might have you take another dose. But don't take another dose until you call me. We do need to be sensitive to time here."
"Right," I said putting the tiny little pills underneath my tongue to dissolve.
When we were pregnant with The Chief I wanted to have a home birth. Because of his posterior self, we ended up at the hospital which was a good experience for us. I had a more-than-sufficient epidural and we loved our nurses and the staff there. They even let us stay in our massive birthing room because they knew of the inevitable family reunion we'd be hosting with my never-ending family visits.
And Lucy brought me purple dinner plate dahlias from her prize-winning flowerbeds. I will never forget that part of my stay there.
With this pregnancy we decided to opt for another home birth. This time Chup was more supportive and confident in the process. We were lucky enough to get Utah's best licensed midwife who had delivered two of my sister's children as well. Suzanne is like the Ferrari of midwifery. Fast, efficient and highly desirable.
Before she left, Suzanne readied my room for birth. I suddenly became excited thinking about the possibility of having my baby at home where I felt the most safe. Our religion regards home as the second most sacred place on earth after temples and this is where I wanted to be when welcoming another member of our family.
(My religion neither discourages or encourages home births, it needs to be said. Those choices are left up to wife and husband.)
I had two hours until call time. We had dinner and tried to stay active. I resorted to our open Green Room where I turned on Edith Piaf's Greatest Hits and sang Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien with all the glory of a woman in her last few moments of pregnancy. The Chief was riding in furious circles around me on his push motorcycle as I belted,
"No! Je ne regrette rien!"
No regrets. Nothing.
I felt triumphant in that moment, even though my contractions were nothing to celebrate.
By 8 o'clock nothing had transpired other than a meal and musical dramatics. I called Suzanne.
"I got nothing."
"Take another dose, call me at 10."
After two more hours of weak contractions, I called her back at 10.
"Still nothing."
"I am coming over."
At that point I was exhausted. I curled up next to Chup and cried. This wasn't working. And although he had given me a beautiful priesthood blessing earlier in the day--promising me a healthy, happy birth, one that would be successful and empowering--I had lost hope.
"Lets go to the hospital, get on pitocin and get an epidural," I said, my face wet with tears.
"Whatever you need. I think that might be our best choice at this point," encouraged Chup who had become quite serious. It was good to see him fully in the game this time. With The Chief he played a different role, not as involved, ready to let the process do what it had to do. This time he saw himself as an active participant one who had opinions that mattered. He helped carry the weight of the situation--it felt a lot less lonely.
I called my mom. At this point I was sobbing.
"Mom. It looks like we are going to the hospital. Will you come and be here with The Chief?" I wasn't sad I was headed to the hospital. I wasn't disappointed in myself or let down for not achieving a home birth. I never believed that having a baby at home was more important than anything else, I wasn't doing it for any reason other than a well-thought out personal belief. But at this point, I was sad to the bones for not being here when my son woke up in the morning. For some reason--at that point--my heart was breaking over that aspect of or decision.
"Of course honey," said my mother, "he will be fine. I will take care of him."
"I will call you after Suzanne gets here," I said in an uncontrolled shaky voice.
When Suzanne arrived she was calm but direct.
"Here is one of our choices. I give you a shot of antibiotics for the potential of infection. At that point you have six hours until you will need another shot. You go to bed, get rest and call me in six hours. It buys us some time and maybe at that point you will be ready."
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head down, I was too tired to make any judgment calls.
"Suzanne, what if we decide to call it off and we head to the hospital?" asked Chup.
"We can do that too. If you want I will come with you and stay there until after the birth."
The other thing I like about Suzanne is that she isn't an angry midwife. She is not in the profession because she's anti-medicine. In fact, she had c-sections with both of her sons and is resoundingly grateful for what we can do these days to save babies. She's practical about it all, and isn't overly romantic in her views of childbirth. In my opinion, Suzanne is a midwife because she believes in choice--a woman's right to have birth wherever she wants. And I am grateful women like her chose to put their lives on the line--in a somewhat controversial, unorthodox and misunderstood profession--so that women like me can make those choices.
"If I go to the hospital I want an epidural," I said quietly.
"Yes. Of course you do," she said back. "I would if I were you."
I looked at Chup. He looked at me.
We had a choice to make.
I've had a lot of inquiries about my midwife in my email inbox, so I am putting this on here as a public service for anyone who is interested:Suzanne Smith's practice is called Better Birth and you can read more about it here.
***
Awesome:
***
I am c jane and this week I am writing down the birth story of my new daughter, Ever. contact me: cjanemail@gmail.com
Fluid was leaking down my legs and worse, collecting into a puddle in my shoes. At that point in my life I had never felt more physically uncomfortable.
I take that back. One time when I was a missionary I went door-to-door talking to people and had a really unfortunate, almost painful situation with a pair of panty hose. As personal as a birth story may be, I could never, never share this particular panty hose story with the world. Yikes what a doozy.
Here were my internal thoughts at that moment:
I am pretty sure that was my water breaking.
Ugh. Squishy shoes.
I need to turn around and get home.
How am I going to walk home?
How am I going to convince The Chief we need to turn around?
At this point, what is going to require more energy--getting the The Chief to turn around or finishing the walk though it will take twice the distance?
"Honey," I said in a voice like a calm mother whose water didn't just break. "We need to head back home."
"No. Way." Said my son back to me, lifting his head from sniffing the flowers. Pointing to the sharp incline ahead of us.
Somebody taught my son how to say "way". This word has liberated him from a limited vocabulary dependence. "Way" means MY WAY OR THE FRAKING HIGHWAY. Daily I try not to hate the person who taught my son how to say "way." Hate, repent, hate, repent--all day long.
Fluid was still trickling down my ankles.
And so I made the brave decision to continue the walk. No matter how gory this story gets, please know I consider continuing the walk the most brave thing I did all labor long. I turned the corner and, while pushing the empty stroller, walked up a very steep hill until we rounded out the block and were headed home.
The pain, the anguish, the waddling it took to accomplish this feat was instilled inside of me in the pre-existence because nothing in my mortal past could've prepared me for that long walk home. Every fiber of my corpse ached and protested.
Plus squishy shoes.
Around seven o'clock Chup walked in the door.
He hugged and kissed me. He took me to eat Mexican food. I just wanted something immersed in guacamole. And a Vanilla Coke too please.
It was at the end of our meal, when Chup was signing the check, I got my first real contraction. We came home and put The Chief to bed. Contractions were coming every ten minutes. They felt like my uterus was turning to concrete--churning and hardening--and melting. Repeat.
For the two weeks previous I had decided what I'd do when I went into labor. One, was to fill my house with tons of food. Fruits, chips, dips, candy, quality chocolate, baked goods, vegetables, drinks in a large variety, and a large tub of spring mix salad. Two, was to call Ashlee, my hair therapist to give me Labor Hair.
I didn't have time to go grocery shopping at that point, but one text to Ashlee--and while counting contractions--she gave me the most incredible display of braids and twists and hair sprayed it to withstand even life's biggest moments. All of this from the comfort of my own kitchen. Inspired by Jessica Simpson on The Price of Beauty.
I texted all my sisters and told them to come by and throw their last bits of advice. Page showed up an hour later and we went through the game plan.
"I know technically I should have this baby within 24 hours." A bit of trivia I remembered when I had The Chief. My water broke, but because of his posterior self, we didn't have good contractions until we went to the hospital for a healthy shot of pitocin. It was 48 hours after the water breakage and Everyone And Their Scrubs were worried about infection.
"Right. You want to keep these contractions going stronger and stronger. Call the midwife when they start lasting around a minute." Directed Page who then offered to rub my feet.
Labor Hair, Labor Earrings and a Labor Foot Rub?
AND Labor Guacamole.
By the time she was done my feet felt fantastic, we solved a few of the world's problems (i.e. let it all go) but my contractions had vanished into the spring night.
I had less than 18 hours to go.
***
Awesome:
***
I am c jane and this week I am writing down the birth story of my new daughter, Ever. contact me: cjanemail@gmail.com
Filled with a sense of sentimentality for the boy, I got up to snuggle him back to sleep. But as I did I noticed I was feeling--well--wet. Not wet as in a broken Bag of Waters, but definitely something. After a quick inventory of my body I realized I had lost my mucus plug.
(Now let's agree that the phrase "mucus plug" is the worst phrase in English diction. I should call it what French call it, the bouchon muqueux (don't ask me how I knew that) (ok, Google). I thought all day, should I use the term "mucus plug" on my blog today? But what? I didn't invent it. It is a natural sign of impending labor, so sorry if makes you squirmy--and if it does make you squirmy please take note, you probably won't want to read the rest of my birth story.)
I decided to wake up Chup with the news.
"I just lost my mucus plug. We are having the baby soon!" I whispered in a voice animated by adrenalin.
And Chup, who famously fell instantaneously back to sleep after I informed him of my water breaking when pregnant with The Chief, did the same thing twice.
"Really? Cool." Honk snooze.
But I couldn't go back to sleep. Instead I was overcome by the spirit of nesting. I set to cleaning the entire house--top to bottom--folding laundry and sprucing up the bathrooms. I kept thinking to myself, I am going to start contracting any minute now.
A couple hours later Chup and The Chief woke up. I was surprised to see Chup packing his bags for a business meeting he had in LA later that day.
"Oh no you don't," I said to Chup.
"What?" he looked at me .
"You aren't going on a business trip when I know--I KNOW--we are going to have this baby soon."
"Really?"
"Remember this morning when I told you I lost my . . ."
"Yes, but are you having contractions?"
"No, but I am almost a week overdue, and now I am starting to have signs of labor and it would be ridiculous if you left for two days at this point."
"I have to present. I am the keynote speaker."
"I know but WE ARE HAVING A BABY."
I looked at him. He looked at me.
"Go pray about it," I commanded him in my matriarchal voice.
Chup turned around and headed for our bedroom.
In the meantime I carried on.
Lucy and Page miraculously showed up around the same time. Lucy had a premonition I was in labor and Page brought down some vegetable soup.
"I am not in labor yet," I told them, "but I will be soon."
"24 hours," predicted Page she who has endured eight labors of her own.
We decided to make it a sister lunch. We called Stephanie but she was busy taking care of the men in her life. We ate bowls of soup and sour dough bread with butter. In the middle of our feast, Chup came down the stairs with his suitcase.
"It is going to be fine," he said kissing my forehead.
"Where is he going?" asked Lucy.
"To California. He will be back tomorrow night," I explained bracing for the impact of protective sisters on guard.
"No way would I let him go," said Page in her Oldest Sister Voice, shaking her head.
"No way would I let him go either," repeated Lucy.
For a second, I thought about polling more women in my life via a short phone call. "Yes, could you tell me how you'd answer this question: You feel you are about to start labor and you are a week late on your due date. Your husband has to leave for a business trip two states over, do you a.) let him go? or b.) make him stay?"
"If he misses the birth he misses the birth." I sighed, knowing he was probably right--darn that answer to prayers bit--but still wishing he'd stay put.
He kissed me good bye and reassured me twice.
By late afternoon I hadn't felt any contractions.
My mom and Lucy slept over that night to keep an expectant vigil.
We entertained ourselves into the early hours of morning by introducing my mother to Facebook. We looked up all of her old friends from Seattle and showed her accounts of family and friends. When we had exhausted all of our Facebook possibilities, Lucy and Mom slept in my bed and I chose to sleep with The Chief.
One last night, just the two of us.
What a loaded feeling.
By the next morning I was losing all sorts of inner bodily paraphernalia, but no fluid and no contractions. I was relieved I had made it through the night.
The Chief and I spent the whole Wednesday together alone. We played "guys and vroms" which is a magical little game where I use rubberbands to attach action figures to the seats of The Chief's model motorcycles which he uses to "vrom" all over the front room. Where some children say "vroom" for the sound of engines, our little mechanic chooses "vrom" instead.
It was a sunny afternoon and Dad was set to arrive home sometime that evening. The Chief insisted on a walk with his push motorcycle. He also insisted that I push the stroller--even empty--because nothing says "We are going for a walk!" like a pushed stroller.
After one block my body hurt so badly I wanted to slump down and roll myself into the curb to be picked up on Garbage Day. My legs felt like they were going to detach from my hips. My lower back nearly gave way to the mass of maternity in my belly. My breathing was begging to come out in desperate gasps.
The Chief was having the time of his life stopping to show me every bug, piece of dirt and rock that met us on our way. His push motorcycle was making crackling noises on the sidewalk as he pushed with energetic legs.
So we kept going and somehow I got myself farther down the street then I had anticipated. Our house was now out of sight. I thought about turning around and having to walk all the way back and I groaned. I wished for my phone so I could call my mother to pick us up.
The Chief was stopping to smell some purple hyacinths.
"Mom! Mom! Mom!" He wanted me to smell them too. So I gingerly turned around, like a 747 changing directions on the runway. Slow and heavy.
