The Soapbox of Natural Vs. Not

There are some amazing hospital photos I cannot wait to share with you all, for those who haven't yet seen them. And there are probably dozens of posts trapped in my head that have nothing to do with babies, for those of you who are worried. But the past two weeks, I have thought a lot about the differences in labors with Millie and Walter. Specifically, their nearly opposite paths, and the reason they're both just fine.

With Millie: Water broke naturally, contractions were slow, not allowed to use jacuzzi tub, given Pitocin, begged for an epidural, spent 4 hours pushing, 22 hour labor.

With Walter: Contractions were very fast, no drugs at all, water broken by midwife right before he was born, used jacuzzi tub for a few minutes during transition, spent 1 hour pushing, 5 hour labor.

Maybe I wasn't qualified to say this before, but I feel I am now- if labor ends in the birth of a baby, then it was successful. Millie's birth did not go at all the way I had hoped it would. I wrote up a lovely birth plan, if I do say so myself, and might as well have asked for a paper shredder as soon as I reached the hospital. As you all know, I think it gave me even more fear about Walter's birth. But because I had such strong desire for a natural labor the first time around, I felt like a complete and utter failure that I had allowed the Pitocin and caved to an epidural so easily. I remember asking Sky, while we were still in the hospital with her, if he was disappointed in me for not being able to do it "on my own". Looking back, I think that's kind of sad. Why should it matter what anyone else thinks?

These days, it seems like women are scolded into thinking that anything other than a completely natural birth is terrible for the baby. Why is the achievement of birth taken away from women who didn't do it that way? Does a C-section make someone less of a mother than someone with an aromatherapy, hypnotic water birth? I think that is ridiculous. (And while we're on the subject- this reminds me of the people who plan for weddings and not marriage. Let's focus on the raising of our kids more than just the getting them into the world.)

I so tire of hearing women wearing natural birth as a badge of honor, because the truth? The truth is that both labors were incredibly painful. (Labor generally is, right?) In fact, I could probably be persuaded to say that the labor with Pitocin was much more difficult and painful. To make it through that pain and end up with a beautiful baby is a huge accomplishment. In fact, it's one of the biggest of my life. I don't think points should be deducted because of how it was done- the fact is, I did it. No one else. I own those hours, and I alone know how they felt.

I almost hesitated to admit that Walter's birth was drug-free, because it implies that it matters much more than I think it should. Having compared both births, I would obviously pick an experience like Walter's over Millie's; it was a very short (although very intense) labor, and I felt more in control of myself and the situation because of all the complications that went along with my first labor. But I'm tired of feeling like I wasn't enough the first time.

Here's to the mamas- however they were made. Whether planned or not, adoption or carried, fertility treatments or none, years waiting or the first try, and any kind of labor imaginable- the goal in the end is to be a mother to a sweet baby.

And, written with complete bias and lack of humility, I feel like I have accomplished that.

His Story, and Mine

It almost unfair, strangely enough, for a mother to write a birth story. I was so wrapped up in it physically that I may not be the best storyteller for Walter's beginnings. And yet, my heart was also the most invested. So if only for his sake, I'll try.

*

The day before was calm and normal. My mom had flown into town the night before, and we spent time at Target, had Steak n' Shake for lunch, and I was able to have a quick nap before the homemade spaghetti and homemade bread she whipped up for dinner. We had dessert at my aunt and uncle's custard shop, then stayed up watching a comedian late into the night. I also had my 40 week appointment that morning, where my midwife predicted I would go into labor within 48 hours. While I was hopeful for that, I didn't feel any different that day, and planned to go out for pancakes with my brother the next morning. I quickly blogged my maternity photos, turned off the light, and settled in for sleep, joking to my mom that I'd wake her up about 2 in the morning to go to the hospital.

That was 12:30am. At a little after 1, I realized I was feeling contractions. It took me a minute to decide that I wasn't dreaming, but they were definitely more painful than all the ones I had felt in the months before. After waiting a few minutes, I drank a half glass of water and began timing them on my phone. There was a reason they felt constant to me- they were coming every 2-3 minutes, sometimes even faster, and the pain wasn't going away. After about 30-45 minutes, I called Sky at work and told him to get home soon. I walked down the hall toward my mom, still unsure of waking her. But after having to stop at one point to wait out a contraction, I decided I should. I knocked on the door right about 2am like I promised!

After that, I called my dad to watch Millie and my doula, Katie. They got here quickly with Sky a few minutes behind. By the time everyone was here, I was having to stop and breathe through contractions near the front door. I had originally wanted to labor at home for a few hours before going to the hospital, but when I brought it up to Katie, she looked at me calmly and said, "Your contractions are coming every couple minutes...I think we can go in now." We got in the car, and Sky sped off. I'm not sure if we had red lights because I don't think he paid a bit of attention to the traffic signals. It was the shortest trip through town we've ever had. He circled into the ER drive, and I was wheeled upstairs to labor and delivery.

*

Despite the contractions, I had an irrational fear of being sent home. After the nurses checked me, I asked them if I was staying and they laughed. (I threatened to camp out in the hallway if they said no.) Only a few minutes later, I was sitting in my hospital gown, grabbing Sky's and my mom's hands during contractions, listening as everyone told me how to breathe. I tried to use the jacuzzi tub but was there just a short while before I felt an enormous need to push (something I had never felt with Millie, because of the epidural I had with her). It was overwhelming and urgent, and I somehow got back to the room and into bed.


The midwife was paged, the carts full of instruments were wheeled in, and the light for the baby bed switched on. The excitement in the room was so real, I could have held onto it, even through the labor pain. After four hours of contractions and an hour of pushing, the midwife leaned closer to the bed. My mom, humoring my certainty that it was a girl, began whispering, "She's almost here!" I felt scared to push, but couldn't stop it either. And then, suddenly, I saw a crying baby held up and someone in the room saying, "It's a boy!" I had asked Sky to be the one to announce it, but afterwards, neither of us were sure if he said it loud enough for me to even hear. He was set on my chest, crying and looking so beautiful.

*

I glanced over at the window and saw the sky changing from the electric blue of night and into a hazy glow. How fitting, I thought, that he ushered in the sunshine. The room's activity faded into the sweetest calm, and we all sat in the filmy light just taking him in.

A boy. A little boy. I had been so sure I would be having a daughter that the shock of it lingered for a few whole days afterwards. No matter what girl names we had discussed during the pregnancy, nothing ever felt right to me. Nothing sounded like my daughter. We had decided months ago that if it was a boy, he would be Walter (my mother's maiden name) John (my dad's name). Girl names were loved briefly, then nixed, then loved again. But it was always Walter.

And little did I know, it really was.

*

I began feeling gushes of blood and remember asking someone if it was normal. The nurses decided it wasn't. The room quickly changed again from peace into a flurry of blood pressure checks, IV fluids, more contractions, and Sky held Walter while the nurses buzzed around. They told me I was hemorrhaging, and warned I would have to go to the OR if things didn't improve. The emotions of the past hour began to overwhelm me, and while Sky cried at the first sight of Walter, it was my turn to cry now. There was some very real fear for a while, but the nurses were amazing and quick, and the IVs did their job. 

Walter was taken to the nursery for his first check-up, and I was monitored in labor and delivery for a few extra hours, but after that, we were moved to a postpartum room and he was back in my arms. I had a daughter, and now, a son. Millie and Walter. This was my new family. All was well. 

*

His face is full of wonder. He looks at me with the widest, bluest eyes I've ever seen on a tiny newborn face, asking me questions he can't yet say out loud, waiting patiently for the answers. It's humbling and awe-inspiring to be so loved and so trusted. He is so calm and sweet, wanting only to be snuggled into us for hours on end (hence the reason this post has taken so long to publish). Millie hasn't always been a perfect angel during the transition, but she has been adoring towards him when she asks to hold "the baby". The first time they were introduced, she sat on the hospital bed with me and recited "This Little Piggy" while touching her fingertips to his toes.

*

It was hard for me to watch the evening news during this pregnancy. I don't like bringing him into a world like this, scary and cruel as it can be. But like all parents, I (maybe naively) hope he can make it a little better. I know my own world is better for having him in it.

This year has brought many moments of wondering how I could be so lucky. Walter's birth was the biggest of those moments. Holding a baby always has a bit of magic to it, but that magic is multiplied times a million when they place a baby in your arms and say, "He's yours." Never will I deserve Millie or Walter. Neither, though, could I be more grateful for these two little hearts, or the way their faces combine Sky's and my own and make something so amazing and so perfect.

This is the beginning of Walter's story. I cannot wait to see where it goes from here.

Announcing

He's here. 

I'll tell you his story soon.

But for tonight, an announcement made by a very thoughtful friend.

Maternity Snapshots

"When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. 

When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence." 
— Ansel Adams

For those of you who haven't seen them yet, here are the maternity pictures I had taken two weeks ago. (Apologies to all of you who already saw them all on your Facebook feed!) While I'm a little sad I didn't have them done with Millie too, I am glad that she was able to be a part of this photo shoot. It was a very blustery day, and Millie wasn't exactly in the mood to smile and pose, but it's a piece of life I won't get back again. I'm thankful we'll have these to remember the moments of three and one half of us.

And now, I'm ready to start snapping photos of the baby! (HINT HINT, BABY.)

The Hours We Have Now

"People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn't believe in that." 

— Cormac McCarthy

Tomorrow is the due date.

Tomorrow, my mother will board a plane and fly halfway across the country. For ten days, she won't be the voice on a long distance call or the sender of an email full of recipes. She'll be the excited smile moving past the windows, passengers, and security guards. She'll be the hugs I remember growing up with and the smell of something baking in the kitchen. She'll be the traces of family I see in Millie's small face already.

Tomorrow will be another day of waiting. Of planning and checking the suitcase. Of feeling these kicks against my round belly and wondering who they belong to and when we'll meet.

Tomorrow will likely come and go without another new life just yet. But there is still tonight.

Tonight is life ongoing. Tonight is the cracked door that sends light spilling onto the carpet in Millie's room. Tonight is a moment of putting my head next to hers on the pillow, resting my hand on her curled up form that rises and falls with little sighs, and remembering the nights three years ago when I waited for her. Tonight is a few deep inhaled breaths of life now and life before.

And the hours we have now are still ones of expectation. But they are also ones of the sweetest, fleeting stillness and the fullest hope.

A Season of Warmth and Wait

{from a last minute maternity photo session}

"And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, 

just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction 

that life was beginning over again with the summer." 

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

The days are somehow passing slowly as of late, as feverish, sticky summer days tend to do. Millie pretends to 'cook ice cream cones' in her play kitchen, I've been drinking gallons of mint sweet tea, and Sky washed and waxed the car in the afternoon heat. We've found ourselves knee-deep in the middle of an Illinois June, always looking at the due date scrawled on scratch paper and knowing it's a mere handful of hours or days until there will be another one here with bare feet and a dewy brow.

It's strange to be in this season of lazily spinning ceiling fans at night, sudden thunderstorms breaking afternoon skies, and the smell of hamburgers sizzling on a neighbor's charcoal grill. Everything seems calm and swelteringly still, as if the rest of the world is unaware of the baby's cry about to break the silence. Inside this house, though, every pain that ripples through my stomach to my back makes me wonder if that one is the beginning. Every sharp breath has Sky asking me if I'm all right. In the evenings, I curl up on one side and wonder if the house will be still another night or if the silence will be broken. In the mornings, I wonder if the day will pass like all the others, or if something new will come.

Meanwhile, the small parts of life go on. Sky and I prop pillows up behind us and watch re-runs of old shows (Arrested Development, no less). Millie and I sit on the balcony, eating popsicles that turn our mouths funny colors and blowing bubbles that disappear on the breeze. We cook simple meals that don't require a blazing oven, swat at flies that sneak past the screens, and live the bits of life that don't always make it onto a blog post, like when Millie made her first 'real' picture, waving her watercolor brush and declaring she had painted a tree.

The days begin slowly and end slowly, too. But when my belly jolts against my palm, or tightens up into another contraction, it speeds them up just a little. Everything is being done "the last time before". The last church service as a family of three. The last few meals to cook and pop into the freezer. The last time the back of the car won't be cramped with car seats. The last shopping trip that consists of waddling through the aisles at a turtle's pace.

I lived this life for 25 years before meeting the boy I would marry. I lived it for nearly 26 before meeting my daughter. And I'll have lived it for 28 years before meeting the baby I'll see very soon. It's been such a unexpected journey that has taken me to this place, but I know these humid days of June are the most blessed June days I've ever had in all these years. I'm trying to savor every moment of them now, knowing there will be even more beautiful ones to come.

The Before and the After

"Don't be afraid of your fears. They're not there to scare you. 

They're there to let you know that something is worth it." 

— C. JoyBell C.

Sky asked me again if I'd written a new blog post lately. I should want to write. I should want to tell the story of these last couple weeks before a newborn moves in. I'm in such a strange place, though, that I don't even know if I want a record of it. And this isn't really the post I want to write tonight. There are so many other things I would rather say to you (and probably so many you would rather read). But this is my heart's resting place right now, so I would be almost dishonest to say anything else.

Going into this pregnancy, I assumed it would be much easier than the first time around. After all, my body's done all of this before, so it should use some muscle memory or something, right? Other than gaining weight again, it'd be business as usual. I even wrote a post several months ago about how the only differences between this time and last time were small. Well...about that...

I've reached 38 weeks, which should mean I'm getting tired of it all. And physically? Sure. I've been done with it for at least half the pregnancy. This time has been harder than the first time, and not because I have a toddler. I didn't have any Braxton Hicks with Millie; in fact, they seemed like some pregnancy fable to me. Turns out, they're not only real, but some of the articles I've read that say they're just a tight-feeling stomach are wrong. They have hurt, and they've mostly felt like the earlier stages of labor. I've had them since 20 weeks or so, and they've only gotten more frequent and more painful by the week.

I think that's just another reason for where I'm at mentally. I still feel like this. I'm not even a millimeter closer to being more comfortable with everything that's about to happen. For something that is supposed to be so natural, it doesn't feel very natural to brace myself for a hospital visit, labor, unknown complications, or whatever else may come. And with every single Braxton Hicks contraction I have, I'm jolted from denial into remembrance of pain. Every day, it's like a miniature preview of what to expect. It scares me every time, too. Late into the night, I've tried looking up techniques and tips to prepare myself for it. But when I read the suggestions, I roll my eyes at most and end up in frustrated tears by the end, because I think about how useless they all would be in real life. Instead of trying to start labor like I did the first time around, I'm doing all I can to prevent it.

The good bit, of course, is what comes after the fear. I'm grateful that I'm able to separate the two parts. All the babies in Target or at church make me pause and smile lately. Millie loses more and more of her babyhood every day- sometimes it only shows up at night, when she is crumbled into a small, wild shape in her big bed, snoring faintly and looking so peaceful. Sky and I sometimes give her another kiss goodnight before we go to bed, passing the dark and empty nursery on the walk back to our room. It's sinking in that it won't be empty much longer.

Some people say that the pain is forgotten as soon as that newborn is placed in their arms. That just isn't true for me. I'm glad, though, that the part about it all being worth it is actually true.

In fact, that's the biggest understatement of all.

June

"Green was the silence, wet was the light,

the month of June trembled like a butterfly." 

— Pablo Neruda

This is the month they tell me you will come. It's going to be a month full of new things and old recollections. Of bright, fluttering beginnings. Of you and I being formally introduced to each other, and you to the world.

I should feel prepared for it all, but I don't- not even close. Even so, I am ready for you. I'm ready to finally know if we'll be dressing you in pink or in blue, if you'll look more like your father or me, and even what your peach fuzz hair will smell like at 4 in the morning. I am so excited to discover who you are.

The days on the calendar are falling to the floor one by one, faster than what I imagined. Daddy and I have a bag packed and sitting next to the door for the moment you're ready. And oh, sweetheart- you have hundreds of people who cannot wait to see your face.

And I most of all.

Summer's Endings and Beginnings

{Cell phone pictures- but no apology for them}

 "I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - 

three such days with you I could fill with more delight 

than fifty common years could ever contain." 

— John Keats

It may be May, but today was a summer day in Chambana. Not just that, but one of the last summer days I'll have with only one baby's chatter. Each and every second, I'm becoming more aware that the seconds of just-Millie-and-Mama are getting thin. Even though she probably has only the smallest inkling of the whole baby concept, it's been just a bit bittersweet for me the past few days. Maybe it's the hormones that seem to be rolling in late at 8 months, or maybe it's just my heart being typically and overly sentimental. Either way, this lazy, sunny afternoon was made for the two of us.

We painted with her watercolors, pink paint smearing all over the kitchen floor. She would dip the brush into her cup, and hand it to me at times, directing me which color to pick. Her latest phrase is to ask permission for anything, followed by, "Don't say no." And I didn't.

We had corn on the cob with dinner. I declared that it was my favorite, and she declared that it was her favorite too. Both of us look forward to many sweet corn meals over the next few months. (By the way, try it the way I had it in Chicago from a street vendor: a tiny bit of butter, salt, and pepper, but then slathered in mayo and covered in Parmesan cheese. It doesn't sound great, but you'll thank me later.)

And then, while the sun still shone through the trees and the wind tickled the blades of grass creeping onto the sidewalks, Millie and I took an evening stroll. We checked for ducks in the creek, balanced ourselves on the creaky, wooden bridge, and circled back for home in time to blow bubbles on the deck and whisper things to each other.

Part of my heart is a little sad that our times like this won't be quite the same anymore. I just remind myself that they will be even better, and that neither of us will know of a better life than one with her baby sister or brother. Those thoughts keep my heart in the right place.

For tonight, though, it's just us two. And two is pretty wonderful.

P.S. Don't forget- you only have a handful of hours left to enter the InfinityMOM Nursing Scarf giveaway!

Labor Day

"Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain." 

— Bob Dylan

I'm not usually afraid. I can get shots, blood draws, or IVs all day long and not wince. I've gotten a tattoo and it only made me want more. (Okay, okay, it's a really small tattoo. But it still involved a needle!) But this? This is my Mount Everest.

I was terrified of labor the first time around. Everyone tried to ease my fears by reminding me that many mothers purposefully choose to have more than one child, so it must not be that bad. The problem is, I have an unusually crystal clear memory when it comes to that time between my water breaking and holding Millie for our first meeting...and for me? It was that bad.

My labor was 22 hours long, which feels long to say but really isn't when I compare it with what many other moms I know have gone through. When I met with my doula last month, she asked me if I had had the kind of labor I wanted (which, by the way, sounds like a silly question had I not gone through it, but makes perfect sense now). And I said no. I was doing fine and going slow, and it wasn't fast enough for the hospital. So I was pumped with Pitocin, something I absolutely did not want, and the pain became unbearable. After hours of that pain, I couldn't handle it and begged for an epidural, also something I didn't plan to have. They used a vacuum and forceps at the end. Their idea of cheering me on was to tell me that if the vacuum didn't work by the third try, I would be having a C-section.

That experience was just about the opposite of everything I had written on my birth plan. I wanted things to be as gentle as possible and as natural as possible. Of course, the point of labor is to have a healthy baby, and Millie was 100% perfect. And yes, as soon as I heard her first cry, the pain was irrelevant because I had had my baby and nothing else mattered.

But it matters now. It matters so much that it's honestly hard for me to write this post, because I avoid thinking about the fact that I will have to go through the labor process again. I am scared to death, you guys. Second time moms always seem so confident and assured, but I think I am more afraid this time than I was with Millie because I actually know what to expect. People have tried to calm me by saying after the first baby, labor time can be cut in half, but 11 hours of that kind of pain hardly seems easy. Then there are those people who tell me how their labors really weren't so bad, and all I can think is, "Then you have this baby for me!" I know that pain is so subjective, and there isn't a fair way to compare it, so all I can do is go by my experience- and it was less than pleasant, to put it mildly.

I'm so glad I'll have a doula. I'm glad Sky will be there, and I'm glad my mom could possibly be there as well. All the support in the world can't take the pain away, unfortunately. I can tell myself that it is temporary, and, of course, that the reward is greater than anything, but I'm finding it so hard to brace myself for it. As much as I felt like a superhero in those moments after it was all over, I felt the opposite of that for 22 hours. I don't know how to plan for that again.

Name of the Game

"And when I lifted my eyes to your name, 

suddenly your heart showed me my way" 

— Pablo Neruda

There is something about giving someone a name. Many of us never get the privilege, and those who do only get it a few times. How humbling is it to be handed a living, breathing soul, knowing what they will be called is solely up the two people in the room who love that soul the most?

I want this baby to have a name right away- not the next day or next week. I want to see that face and know immediately, "Yes. This is you." The thought of a nameless little love looking up at me, just waiting, doesn't feel right. It's okay for a puppy to wander around without a name, but I need to know who I'm holding in my arms as soon as the doctor places them there. Besides, an old high school classmate just waited a few days to name their son- just announcing him as "the baby"- and when they did pick a name, I was let down. After all, when it takes that long, I sort of expected something dramatic like "Supercalifragilistic". (It was James.)

This journey of naming our baby has officially reached ridiculous. It was easy with Millie; we flipped through the baby name book, came up with a short list, and picked Amelia by the time we found out she was a girl at 18 weeks along. Her middle name is Sky's mother's middle name. Easy. And I can't picture her as anything other than a Millie. She just is.

It would be easier to tell you what I haven't done to find a name this time around. I have texted Sky with ideas on a weekly basis since he's been gone. I've asked 500 questions on Twitter, as all of you who follow me know. I researched every name on our list in every combination, pouring over old genealogy records from England in 1790. I have stayed up late, putting names onto birth announcement templates, contemplating how they look. I've verified that every name we're considering is at least 200 years old. I posted countless questions and polls on baby name boards. I even wrote a "baby name expert"- yes, really. I didn't know they existed until a few weeks ago.

We do have a name picked if it's a boy. It was easy, too. But if it's a girl, I'm starting to wonder what will happen.

Everyone keeps reassuring me that this baby will have a name. And I believe them.

Most of the time.