Anna Rogue's Birth Story

It took a long time for Darrell and I to decide we wanted to add a third child to our family. Our two sweet daughters filled our hearts completely; we didn't feel a void or a longing in any way. And then one day, when our girls were four and a half and two and a half, we asked the question, "What if...?"

Ten months later, Anna Rogue was born.

Samantha & Tessa, ages 4 & 2

First ultrasound

My pregnancy was rather uneventful, although uncomfortable. During the last trimester, I visited a chiropractor several times a week to try to alleviate some sciatic pain and to make sure I was in the best possible alignment for giving birth. Since Tessa spent quite a few of her last weeks in utero in a transverse position, and then was ultimately born posterior (sunny side up), my goal was to reduce the risk that this baby would follow suit. This was especially important because for the first time, I was going to deliver in a hospital.

24 weeks

Beginning of the last trimester!

My oldest was born in a lovely, small birth center in the middle of Amish country. My second was born at home in a city. Now we lived in the Adirondack mountains, an hour away from medical care. Despite my hopes to have another home birth, we decided to have this baby at the hospital since we lived so remotely. This was a very hard decision - after two incredibly amazing, supportive birth experiences I was nervous about going to the hospital for numerous reasons. I discussed these thoroughly with the midwives, and prayed a lot to calm my fears.

Anna's estimated due date was November 21st, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. The plan was that my mother-in-law would drive out that week to stay with Samantha and Tessa when it was time to go to the hospital. Since Samantha was born right on time, and Tessa was eight days late, I fully expected this baby to be born sometime after Thanksgiving. Which is why, when I started showing signs of labor nine days early, I was in denial.

It started as a strong ache in my hamstrings. It was a Sunday night, and we were hosting a game night with some of our friends who lived on campus. I couldn't sit down, my legs ached so badly. I had heard that sometimes contractions can manifest in your legs, but this was more of a constant ache than any sort of rhythmic pain, so I ignored it as best as I could.

The following morning, the 13th, I began having mild, very inconsistent contractions. Since I had had contractions for almost a week with Tessa, I didn't take these contractions very seriously. In the back of my mind I realized I hadn't finished packing my hospital bag, so I finished that up and then took the girls down to Glens Falls for my chiropractor visit. The contractions were much more noticeable on the hour long drive - anywhere from 5-10 minutes apart - but slowed slightly after my adjustment. I ran next door to Walmart to grab a pair of yoga pants to toss into the hospital bag to wear after the baby was born, and then we ran a few more errands and headed home.

I spent the afternoon resting, still with intermittent contractions. I texted my mother-in-law to let her know what was going on, but was hesitant to ask her to come out because I worried that these contractions would fade and she would be stuck out by us for a week or two. I didn't want to inconvenience her, especially with her wedding anniversary the next day. Still, she offered to drive out the next day, "just in case." At some point that afternoon, my sister (with whom I had been texting) told me to stop worrying about being an inconvenience and just ask my mother-in-law to come right away. Even though I was still in denial, I took my sister's advice and asked my mother-in-law to come out that night. She said she would leave around dinnertime and be there late that night. Unbeknownst to us, we would actually leave for the hospital before she arrived!

Of course, the contractions got stronger and more consistent as the evening progressed. In my other labors, I had moved around a lot to encourage labor, but this time around I felt no where near ready to give birth, so I spent the evening lying down and half hoping the contractions would stop and I would have more time. But babies will come when they want to come. Around 10:00, Darrell went down to work to take care of a few last minute things (again - "just in case"), and my water started to leak. My contractions were now 5-7 minutes apart, but because we lived so far from the hospital and this was my third baby, I called the midwives anyway. Fortunately, my favorite midwife, Carly, was on duty, and she told me to come in right away. My mother-in-law still hadn't arrived, but our friend Amanda, who also lived on campus, came up to stay with the sleeping girls while Darrell and I left for the hospital. We drove an hour over the mountain, with contractions now 3-5 minutes apart, and made it to the hospital without any middle-of-the-night roadside deliveries. (Admittedly, that would have made a pretty awesome birth story.... maybe much more interesting than this one... but I am very glad it didn't turn out that way!)

I was admitted to the hospital around 11:30 p.m. on the night of the 13th. I had originally planned to ask for the room with the birthing tub, but this time around, I just didn't really want to get wet. Honestly, I didn't want to do anything. While I was, somewhere in my brain, excited to meet my baby, I had a really hard time getting psyched up for this birth.

The first thing I had to do sit still for 20 minutes attached to the monitor so the nurses could see how my contractions were going and how the baby was faring. This, after sitting in the car for an hour, slowed my contractions way down. After an exam, Carly told me I was 80% effaced but only 2 cm dilated, which was extremely discouraging. She then joked that I had better actually be in labor, because she had told the nurses to admit me right away instead of just signing me in for monitoring as is the typical procedure, and she didn't want to do all the paperwork if I stalled out and had to go home. If my head wasn't in the game up until then, Carly sure knew how to motivate me. I hate to disappoint people! Someone was trusting me to be the expert on my body and how my labor would go, and I was not going to let her down!

About two hours before Anna was born

As soon as I was allowed to get up, I got moving. I walked around the room, did squats, lunges, and whatever else I could do to try to move that baby down. The contractions came back quickly, starting around every three minutes at midnight. Darrell and I played pirate farkle, our favorite hospital game (because yes, we have been in the hospital enough for other reasons to have a favorite hospital game), and then he napped while I binge watched episodes of the Great British Baking Show and did lunges, squats and hip circles until the contractions got too strong.

Because I had tested positive for GBS, I was supposed to have IV antibiotics. I had asked my midwife if it would be possible to receive an injection of the antibiotics instead of an IV. I am not great with needles, and I didn't want to be attached to anything. Plus, when my IV backed up when I was in labor with Samantha, I was able to receive an injection instead, so I assumed this would be possible again. Unfortunately, it apparently isn't so simple. My midwife had to communicate back and forth with the pharmacy several times - initially it was okay, then it wasn't, then it might be, then it was definitely not, etc. By the time she came back in to check on me a few hours later and give the final answer from the pharmacy, I was 100% effaced and 6 cm dilated. Carly felt pretty confident at that point that I no longer had the four hour window needed for the antibiotics to take effect.

I kept moving around to keep things progressing, and for a long time the contractions were very manageable, even in close intervals. I felt strong and confident; I knew what I needed to do and I trusted my body to do it. Then things got real. The contractions became much more intense. I stopped timing them, and then stopped looking at the clock altogether. Around this time the nurse had a hard time finding the baby's heartbeat, so I had to lay on my back for monitoring for another 20 minutes. Those 20 minutes were excruciating. The contractions were so much worse while I was on my back, motionless. As soon as everything checked out on the monitor, I got up on my knees and rested my head against the upright back of the bed. Darrell applied some counter pressure to my lower back, and I labored like this for a while. My midwife and nurse were completely hands off at this point, while Darrell supported me through the contractions and made little jokes to help me relax in between.

As things moved along, I switched back and forth between being on my knees and leaning forward, and lying on my side to rest. Fear completely took over at this point. Even though I had done this twice before - once with a large, OP baby even - my head just wasn't in the right place. I wasn't prepared, I wasn't ready. Maybe we never are? But I just became fearful and kept telling myself I couldn't do it. Darrell was very encouraging, but I still felt afraid. I couldn't feel any pressure from the baby's head, and I was exhausted. I didn't want this to go on any longer, but I also didn't want to do what was needed to get it over with.

Finally, I started pushing, and my water leaked and leaked. My last ultrasound had revealed a high level of fluid, so the relief that came when it started leaking was instantaneous. When it finally broke, I joked that I had lost ten pounds.

Because I had so much fluid, the nurses asked if they could change my sheets. I knew immediately that if I got up I was going to deliver the baby standing up. Darrell says I thought it so hard he heard it, but I know I didn't say it out loud. He just knew as I got up that I was going to have the baby right away.  I got off the bed and squatted down. Carly and the nurses came over to the tiny corner where I had chosen to stand up, and five of us were crammed in this tiny space. If I had gotten up on the other side of the bed, we would have had ample room, but instead Carly was crouched down on the floor under me, Darrell was smashed into a corner while holding my hand, and a two nurses stood waiting to help. I pushed for another minute, and suddenly out Anna came, along with a lot more fluid. I will never get over the incredibly strange sensation of having a baby suddenly vacate my belly, and it was more intense this time around because of squatting. It was such relief! I remember looking down and seeing her back as Carly held her until I had the strength to take her on my own. It felt like eternity as I watched her little round back and listened to her soft cries before I realized I should take her.

Anna ~ 5 minutes old

That moment of holding Anna for the first time was literally everything. I had held on to so much fear, all throughout the pregnancy and the birth. But as I held on to that sweet baby in the first few moments, it was as though God whispered, "See, I have taken care of everything." All of my worries and fears were washed away. 

Unfortunately, the placenta didn't come out as quickly as it should have, so Carly gave me a shot of pitocin, and I nursed Anna, to try to encourage it along. That didn't work, so after a half an hour, Carly said she was going to have to "go in" and try to get it. This sounded horrendous, so I gladly accepted a shot of morphine first. I usually try to avoid medications and pain killers, but the idea of someone "going in" when my baby had just come out was too much. The shot of morphine in my thigh stung much more than I expected, and it was a sharp contrast to the pain I had just experienced in labor, which is a pain with a life-giving purpose. Fortunately, it didn't take much for the placenta to finally come out, and except for a few wobbly steps when I got up a few minutes later, the morphine didn't really have much effect.

Our beautiful Anna Rogue was born at 4:23 a.m. on Tuesday, November 14, weighing 8 lbs 7 oz. She was 20.5" long. She was my second heaviest baby, but my shortest. Her birth was probably my easiest physically, but my hardest mentally.

We did it!

Because I wasn't able to receive the antibiotics in labor, we had to wait in the hospital for two days. It was hard to rest with the nurses coming in and out. Darrell stayed with me both nights, and the night they took Anna for her newborn screen, he paced the floor as nervously as if he was a first-time father. There is something so incredibly special about watching the man you love fall in love with his child. All three times it has always inspired me and made me love him more deeply and intimately than before.

I was ecstatic when it was finally time to go home. The girls had been to visit each day, but I wanted to get back to being a family. I wanted to snuggle my baby without interruption, and start falling into our new family routine. So, when discharge time came, I dug out the cheap yoga pants I had bought at Walmart just a few days earlier, and discovered that I had bought a youth size instead of adult! I felt so foolish. Fortunately, with a few snipping of seams to loosen them up a bit, I got dressed, put Anna in our traditional "going home" tye-dye onesie, and off we went. Home, over the mountain, to our little house on the lake, with the beautiful baby that less than a year earlier had only been a question of "what if?..."

An Apology to Myself (Thoughts on a post-baby body)

My second daughter is 15 months old. While my pregnancy with her was relatively easy, waiting for her to arrive tested my patience. I felt huge and uncomfortable, which was not helped by her transverse positioning and being (supposedly) late. When she finally came, it was with a breath of fresh air. The waiting was over, and she was lying soundly next to me, nursing in her sleep as I curled my forearm around her tiny body with room to spare. It was beautiful and messy and challenging and wonderful, just as it was meant to be.

Her first year went by way too fast, overshadowed by the demands of her older sister. But she is strong and loving, silly and sweet. The year was full of the laughter of little girls and late night cuddle sessions. I have been tested, and often, I have failed. Some days I struggle to put together coherent sentences, let alone string up words of grace and encouragement for my children. Other days, I gather up the two little girls who exploded into my heart and we have great adventures, conquering leafy monsters in the woods or dancing like butterflies with rags from the kitchen.

Unfortunately, in the middle of this messy turmoil called motherhood, I wasted significant emotional and mental energy on something which robbed me of the joy of my little one's first year, and I see many other new moms dwelling on it as well: the state of our post-partem bodies.

Tess's birth coincided with a sudden health and fitness surge that spread through my friends. So while I was up in the middle of the night nursing a newborn, she and I both still squishy and soft in all the right places, I was also scrolling through social media and seeing picture after picture of my friends sharing their workouts, healthy meals, and new-and-improved physiques.

**I am going to be very clear about this so there is no confusion: I am thrilled for my friends who have found new life and new hope through their fitness endeavors. This is in no way meant to criticize them or the work they are doing; this is simply a reflection of how my personal feelings about my post-partem body were impacted by exposure to these things on social media. I love these friends and their spirits. I know their intentions are to help motivate others who are also looking to make changes, and I appreciate their enthusiasm for doing so.**

As a brand new mom-times-two, these fit and healthy pictures made me feel miserable. I felt like I wasn't measuring up; that to be a *good* mom, I had to make sure that I was as trim and toned as possible. I have to set the example for my kids! I need to impress my friends with how quickly I can lose the baby weight! My husband should be wowed at how awesome I look! I should feel amazing! (And if I don't, it's because I'm not putting enough work into it and I am making excuses!)

And while obviously these weren't the messages that my well-meaning friends (as well as various media outlets, advertisements, etc.) were intending to put out there, this is how my hormonal, sleep-deprived brain interpreted them.

Of course, the obvious solution would have been to take a break from social media until my brain was sorted out enough to read the messages as they were meant to be (as encouragement, not condemnation), or at least until I could stop comparing myself to every other new mother out there and their suddenly-six-pack-abs and twelve mile runs logged on Runkeeper. But I had a new baby and was spending a lot of time sitting and nursing said baby, and I just didn't have the willpower. Social media was my only outlet to the rest of the world - you know, the planet spinning beyond diapers and naps, where people actually discussed important issues or shared big news or even just silly things that make me laugh when I was so tired tears were just dropping out of my eyes for no reason.

So I didn't take a break from Facebook. Instead, I started exercising. And it was good; it really was. I started running, and when my daughter was a few months old I ran my first 5k. I was in better shape than I had been in years, and it was awesome. Only... it wasn't.

While I certainly benefited from the 30 minutes of "me" time every other day, and the release of endorphins, my spirit still suffered. The truth is, I wasn't exercising because I loved the release, or even because I loved myself. I was exercising because I had started hating myself, and, more specifically, my post-partem body.

We are so quick to dismiss the miracle of a woman's body once her baby is born, aren't we? The focus tends to gravitate quickly from "look how cute you are pregnant!" towards "your baby is cute; you need to get your body back!" As if our bodies went somewhere while we were creating new life within them. As if we are detached from these bodies that still contain curves where our baby slept and grew and kicked for 40 weeks.

I see it everyday on social media. Posts like:

"Only four weeks post-partem and already back in my skinny jeans!"

"First workout post-baby and I killed it!"

"I can't wait until the doctor clears me to exercise! Time to lose this weight!"

I have been guilty of writing similar posts. Sometimes as a horrible "humble brag", but usually as a disclaimer, so the world knows that I am working on it. Yes, I have some extra baby weight, but I am working hard and I will soon be fit and acceptable in polite society again!

Just last month, a full 14 months after my daughter was born, I finally realized why I was so unhappy with myself. I needed to stop hating myself. I needed to stop feeling the need to justify my body's existence. I have stretch marks across my entire stomach and on my chest. My belly button is now a bit of a bottomless pit. And I have a "food baby" that makes me look four months pregnant the moment I even think about eating.

But this - my body - created two beautiful lives. It housed them, fed them, and carried them. It still works nonstop to provide milk for Tess, to cuddle Samantha after a bad dream, and to love these girls fiercely. I am not in the best shape for running a marathon, but I am in the best shape for soft snuggling. And I love everything this body has done for me and my girls. I love it even more when I stop thinking about how I should feel about my form and just embrace it for the beautiful, hard-working, living work of art that it is. These imperfections tell a story. My story. My daughters' stories. The story of the family that my husband and I have built. Our love story.

All bodies are different. Every mother is different. My body is different from my sister's body, which has birthed and nourished eight children. My body is different from my sister-in-law's body, which just birthed a second baby after a difficult pregnancy plagued with hyperemesis gavidarum. My body is different from that of my gym-fanatic friend, who bounced right back to her pre-pregnancy weight without stretch marks. The one thing that makes all of our bodies similar is that each one is a beautiful masterpiece, created by love and tears and laughter and pain.

It has been 15 months since Tess was born, but it has been far longer since I've truly loved and appreciated my body as it is. So today, I am going to embrace my soft, food-baby belly. I am going to stop trying to find clothes that make me look thinner than I am and that hide my imperfections. I am going to stop posturing about exercise. I am going to embrace who I am, embrace what it means for me to be post-partem. I am going to stop feeling guilty over food, or the skipped workout; I am going to stop apologizing to others for the shape of my being. The only apology I owe is to myself, to this vessel that contains my spirit and moves me around and carried my children.

My apology to my body looks something like this:

I am sorry for not loving you the way you deserve to be loved. Thank you for working tirelessly for me and my children. Thank you for movement, for flexibility, for bending and stretching and hugging and jumping and loving extravagantly. From this point forward, I will love you unconditionally, I will accept you without reservation, and I will embrace every imperfection as a work of art.

Sincerely,

Sarah

On Not Being Enough

"Why am I never enough?"

This is the question that was posed on a mothering forum recently. It's a question that I know I've struggled with many times myself.

The woman who posted it was just having "one of those days." I've been there. The baby won't nap. The toddler had an accident. Someone wants to read a story (but it must be sung to the tune of a "Frozen" song - but not that "Frozen" song), or she wants to unwind a roll of toilet paper and then run with it through the house while the baby is nursing. Or maybe dinner is burning, my husband had a bad day at work, I just realized I put my underwear on inside out, and suddenly it's 9 pm and I'm collapsing into bed to close my eyes as quickly as possible to put the day behind me (knowing that it will only be a few hours before I'm up again to feed the baby.)

So I read this question and felt the pangs of inadequacy that this other mom was experiencing. And quickly the comments filled up with encouragement - you are enough, tomorrow is a new day, etc. And let me first and foremost say this - I am so thankful for this online community that is supportive and encouraging. Everyone needs community like this, and I think it's wonderful to be a part of a group that seeks to actively lift others up in their troubled times. (So please, don't misread what I'm about to say as me thinking that all of this encouragement was wrong.)

However, when reflecting on my own feelings of "I'm not enough," I came to two realizations:

1) There are a lot of different roles to fulfill.  I am a mother of two littles, a wife, a daughter/daughter-in-law, a sister/sister-in-law, and friend. These relationships are all special to me and take different amounts of time and energy to balance. I am an entrepreneur, small business owner, baker. I am also a babysitter to two other little ones and a church volunteer. I am occasionally an athlete and a writer. And I am pretty much always a basketcase.

2) I will never be enough. Because in thinking about all of these roles (which I know don't seem like a lot compared to what some others do), I left out my most important one - the daughter of a King. And I am not meant to be enough, at least not on my own.

This realization wasn't discouraging; in fact, it was quite the opposite. In acknowledging that I will never be enough, all of the burden of expectation fell from my shoulders. Trying to be everything to everyone (or even just everything to two very little people) is seriously, seriously exhausting.

But I don't need to be perfect, because my Creator is perfect.

I don't need to be enough, because His grace is more than enough.

When I fight to do it all on my own, I fail.

When I submit to God's awesome power, I thrive. My family thrives. My relationships thrive.

When I admit my weakness and allow room for God to work in my life, my heart changes and my focus shifts.

Most importantly, I am reminded that I have a caring Father whose love is limitless and compassion is endless. And He is enough.

Even if my underwear is on inside out.

Tessa Ember's Birth Story

"Are you sure you're not pregnant?"

This is how it all started. S was 15 months old. My cycle had just returned the previous month, and we had decided to start trying for another baby - on the assumption that it would take a while since my body is pretty defective. I had really confusing and irregular signs, thought I had ovulated later than I should have, and then on the morning that D asked me this question, had realized (or so I thought) that I hadn't ovulated at all.

"Of course I'm not pregnant!" I told him.

And then I went home and took a pregnancy test. It was late September, and two little blue lines showed up. Clearly, a mistake. I had shown no classic signs of fertility - at least not in the order they're supposed to be.

So I took another pregnancy test. And, of course, there was no mistake.

By the time I got around to seeing a doctor, I thought I was about 11 weeks along. The ultrasound showed me to be at 13 weeks. Goodbye, first trimester! My EDD was set for May 19th.

We then began the search for a home birth midwife, since we no longer live near the awesome birth center where Samantha was born. We found a great midwife named Sarah who was about an hour away - she was really the closest one. So at 20 weeks, I began driving down the Millheim for my appointments. Samantha loved going to the midwife. Sarah would let her "help" take my blood pressure, and push the button for the doppler to hear the baby's heartbeat. (Samantha enjoyed these tasks so much that she started playing "midwife" at home, rubbing her hands together, rolling up her sleeves, and then palpating my belly to feel the baby's position.)

After a completely normal and healthy pregnancy, May finally arrived. The countdown began, with May 19th as the baby's estimated birthday. At 37 weeks, everything was perfect, and baby was head down. At 38 weeks, something changed. I went to my appointment knowing that the baby had shifted positions, and was most likely now lying transverse. Sarah confirmed my suspicions, but wanted to be positive. She knew that if she sent me to the hospital for an ultrasound, and they found out the baby was transverse so close to my due date, they would want to schedule a C-section. So she called another home birth midwife in the area who owns a small ultrasound machine, and sent me over there. Twenty minutes later, I was back in Sarah's office with the confirmation - my baby was suddenly sideways.

Here's the thing about transverse babies - they can't come out that way. There is a possibility that they will turn head down during labor, but there is also the possibility that they won't. So D and I began doing the research on planned C-sections, trying to mentally wrap our minds around the idea that we might have to have a surgical birth instead of the natural at-home birth we were hoping for. It was a stressful week leading up to my next appointment. I knew that if the baby wasn't head down by 39 weeks, Sarah would recommend transferring to her back-up doctor and scheduling a C-section. I did all sorts of exercises that are supposed to help turn the baby into the correct position. Samantha caught on and her new manrta became "head down, baby, head down!" D and I talked endlessly about how we could have a "gentle cesarean" to make the experience as stress-free as possible. (Side note: it is now possible to have a C-section and get to hold your baby immediately afterwards, as well as to delay cord-clamping, and some other neat improvements!) I won't go into all of the anxiety that swallowed our household during this week, but I was a nervous wreck by my next prenatal appointment. Even though I had finally let go of the need to control everything and turned the rest of my pregnancy and the birth over to God, I still wanted to be able to follow through on our planned birth experience.

Fortunately, my baby turned into the right position just in time for my 39 week appointment. I remember asking Sarah, "So, what can I do to prevent the baby from turning again?" Her response was a not-very reassuring, "She shouldn't have turned this late in the first place!" I tried to feel peace by reminding myself that the baby was in God's hands, and that any changes in positioning were for a reason (for example, if the cord was getting wrapped and being sideways was preventing some type of problem). And now it was time to wait. And wait... And wait...

The 19th was a Tuesday. I had planned out activities for the entire week, hoping to have to cancel them. But alas, even though I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for several weeks, there was no sign of impending labor until that Friday, the 23rd. I started having contractions in the morning, but they were all in my back. D went into work for a few hours to finalize things, and we thought we'd have baby sometime in the next day or two. My contractions were irregularly spaced and on-and-off all day, so we went out to the mall and walked around for a while. After we ate dinner, the contractions stopped altogether. 

Saturday morning I went to a prayer brunch with a bunch of wonderful ladies. That morning, I had a bit of bloody show. I told everyone that I was pretty sure the baby would be here by the end of the weekend, even though my contractions were still so intermittent. They continued to be on and off all day, but never got any stronger. My sister suggested that perhaps the reason they were all in my back, and were starting and stopping, was because the baby was posterior ("sunny side up" - basically facing towards my belly instead of my back.) I started doing exercises to try to get the baby to turn around, since babies don't fit quite as well through the pelvis when they face this way.

Sunday morning, D had to go to the ER for chest pain. My contractions completely stopped. D ended up being fine, but I no longer had any signs of labor.

Monday was Memorial Day. We decided to test Murphy's Law and go hiking with friends. We went an hour away from home, out in the middle of the woods. We forgot to charge our cell phones. And our car started having problems. I hiked part of the Falls Trail - with lots and lots of steps. And yet, no contractions, no baby.

Hiking at Rickett's Glen State Park

Tuesday I went to yet another prenatal appointment, where Sarah confirmed that my baby was posterior.

My contractions didn't start up again until Wednesday morning around 7:30 - eight days past my estimated due date. They were stronger this time, but still in my lower back. They came intermittently. D went to work in the morning, and my good friend Becky and her son Ben came over to hang out. The kids played, and my contractions came more frequently. I kept waiting for them to stop again, but when Becky finally asked me, "Do you want me to be timing these?" I realized that they probably weren't going away. We went for a very slow walk around the block, and then Becky & Ben went home for lunch. I got Samantha down for a nap and called Sarah to give her a head's up that I might actually be in labor. I then tried to relax & lay down, but my contractions suddenly became very intense. During one, I felt a small "pop" and leaked a small amount of water. D came home from work, and our friend Beth came over to get Samantha. 

Sarah arrived at 3:30 and checked me - I was already at 8 cm and 90% effaced! I was sure the baby was coming soon, but the contractions weren't as intense anymore. Lisa, the back-up midwife, showed up a little while later. Now it was just a waiting game. The contractions were more consistent, but still very manageable. D and I played Uno while I sat on the exercise ball. Sarah & Lisa sat and chatted in my kitchen and gave us plenty of space. I snacked a lot and we just generally passed the time hanging out. It was very relaxing, but it felt like everything was taking a very long time (especially since I was already so dilated, and because my water had already leaked a bit).

At 5:30 I got into the birth pool. It felt so incredible to be in the water. I could easily change positions, and I tried to be on my knees & leaning forward as much as possible during contractions to help the baby get positioned properly. For the most part, my labor was relatively easy, and for the next two hours D and I talked and joked between contractions. It was a really special time for us, and we were both generally relaxed about the whole process.

Then 7:30 hit, and everything changed. The contractions really started to pick up, and I started bracing a bit to get the baby to move down. I stopped being able to talk easily and just focused on breathing and trying to relax. I did a lot of "horse lips" to loosen up, and found they really helped (even though I sounded ridiculous). D spoke words of encouragement the entire time, and this made all the difference. His reassuring voice in my ear, as I leaned my head on his shoulder, gave me strength. I tried to speak words of affirmation as well ("I can do this, I can do this!"), and spoke to the baby. I got to the point where I felt like I couldn't do it anymore, and that's when I remembered what my sister had once told me - when you reach the point where you feel like you can't do it, you're almost done. 

I started pushing at 8:06. Because the baby was sunny-side up, it was extremely difficult and so much more intense than my first birth experience. When S was born, her body came out without much effort, but this baby was very different! Her head emerged at 8:07, but because of positioning and her larger-than-average size, her shoulders took a while to squeeze through. She wasn't necessarily stuck, but it was a very tight fit. Sarah told me to reach down and feel the baby's head, and as soon as I did I felt a surge of power run through my arm and give me the strength to push her body out. Our beautiful girl was born in the water at 8:08 p.m., after two minutes of pushing (definitely the most intense two minutes of my life). She emerged with the bag of waters draped over her head like a veil.

Because her head was out for a full minute before I was able to push her body out, she was a little bit blue. Sarah and Lisa were completely calm, however, so I never sensed anything was really wrong. My sweet baby opened her eyes and looked at me, and I held her to my chest, relieved to be done and overjoyed at her presence. It wasn't until D asked about her coloring that I even noticed. (It wasn't until over a month later, when Sarah shared her notes with me, that I found out that her Apgar at one minute was only a four - low heart rate, no respiratory effort, pale blue... but because my midwives remained calm, her first few minutes of life weren't disrupted by panic.)

After two minutes of sitting against my chest draped in towels, with Sarah and Lisa massaging her limbs, my baby girl began breathing much better and pinked right up. By five minutes, her Apgar was a nine and everyone relaxed. We spent a few minutes cuddled up, with D learning over my shoulder and our baby against my chest, and for that moment, everything was perfect.

The cord was cut at 8:17 after it stopped pulsing. She weighed in at a whopping 8 lbs 14 ounces and  was 22" long. She began nursing without a problem at 8:37, and we settled in for a little while to rest (and eat peanut butter crackers - I was hungry!) At 9:20, Sarah examined her and discovered that her gestational age was exactly 40 weeks, instead of the 41 or 42 weeks that my due date would have suggested. Looking at Sarah's notes, it is pretty cool the way that the gestational age is determined. They examine neuromuscular maturity and physical maturity, and use a scale which shows various possibilities - for example, on posture, wrist flexibility, arm recoil, what their ears/feet/skin/breasts/etc. look like. Then they total up all of the answers to figure out the baby's gestational age, and our baby scored exactly 40 weeks. Incidentally, this is what I had initially expected to be my due date, until the ultrasound told us different. So it appears that she was just big from the very beginning, and that threw off the dates on the ultrasound.

Tessa's first few minutes of life.

The midwives left at 10:00. We all slept well that night, and D went and got Samantha first thing the next morning. We still hadn't decided on a name for the baby, even though we had known for 22 weeks that she would be a girl. We had it narrowed down to three names, and finally we decided to both pick two and see which ones overlapped or if we could at least eliminate one. Tessa/Tess was the name that we both picked. It was originally a nickname for Theresa, but is now a common name by itself. It means "harvester." We had already picked the middle name Ember, so Tessa's name literally means "harvester of fire." Hopefully this won't invoke thoughts of pyromania, but instead of someone who cultivates passion and enthusiasm for life.

All in all, our first home birth experience was amazing. It was incredible to be in my own home, to have the freedom to move around, eat snacks, and spend quiet time with my husband as we waited for Tess to arrive. My midwives were supportive and present as needed, but virtually invisible when they weren't needed. Being in the water made a world of difference, too. Between Tess's size and her stubborn posterior positioning, I am honestly not sure how I would have been able to birth her naturally without the weightlessness that the water provided. I was able to move easily and get into the optimal position (and it also prevented tearing, which is a plus - especially, again, with her size & positioning being a bit unusual!) And it was absolutely heavenly to climb into my own bed to snuggle with my baby minutes after she was born.

Tess at two days old - when we finally figured out her name:-)

I am so thankful to have had this birth experience. My experience with S was also amazing, but in a very different way. Both births are full of special, unique memories - just as both girls are special and unique.

Evolution of a First-time Mom

So, I meant to write a big long post about S turning one (way back in June) and all of the exciting changes that have been happening since then (and by "exciting" I mostly mean "exhausting," because she is pretty much always on the go.) Obviously, I didn't get around to it. Sorry.

But last week, I started thinking about how my feelings about motherhood have changed in the last 15 1/2 months. You see, during my pregnancy, I was really focused on the birth. I learned as much as I could about the whole process, about possible complications, about relaxation techniques, about all that kind of stuff. I felt really well educated. It wasn't until S was born - after a (thankfully) completely wonderful birth experience - that I realized that I had not spent any time learning about what to do with a baby. I owned about half a dozen books about pregnancy and birth, but none on caring for an infant. 

Fortunately, babies tend to have relatively few needs. The main goal with a baby is survival. So a little one needs food, shelter, and lots of love/touching. Of course, this might be oversimplifying a bit, but it's basically the truth. As a new mom, though, I started to obsess about every single decision. I obsessed about breastfeeding. I obsessed about cloth diapers. I obsessed about co-sleeping. And, let me be clear, I do not mean "obsessed" in that productive, Type-A way where everything has to be perfect, where I can make enlightened observations about the effectiveness of my decisions and adjust accordingly, and where the obsession really just manifests as devotion to my child. No, I obsessed in the sense that it's all I could think about and talk about. (My poor, poor husband.) I rationalize this by saying it is completely normal. I think most first time moms go through something like this. Somewhere in my brain, I tried really, really hard to remember that the entire universe was not spiraling around me and my little newborn babe. But ultimately, my universe did revolve around this little one, especially as a stay-at-home mom, and especially those first few months where I constantly felt like it was a miracle I was able to keep this sweet tiny being alive. So every little change became monumental, and every decision of vital importance.

Now, I am the mother of a very curious, very active toddler. I look back at those days with a newborn and, while they were definitely not "easy," the needs were much simpler. I didn't have to worry about things like discipline, or teaching concepts like "patience" or "sharing" or "no you cannot eat the entire block of cheese just because you saw it in the refrigerator." Every day has become full of "teachable moments." In the five hours that S and I have been awake today, I have already tried to teach her things like:

* When pointing to my eyes and saying "eyes," you don't actually need to POKE me in the eye. Likewise, smacking in the belly and saying "belly" is not cute. Even if you then rub and say "gentle" afterwards.

* When you pull all of the cooling racks out of the tupperware cabinet, and then get stuck in the cabinet and can't climb out because of said cooling racks littering the floor, a simple "help" will do. Screaming like a velociraptor is not necessary.

* When we are in the shower, no matter how much fun it might seem to play with the bath/shower switch and the nozzles that adjust water temperature, it is not appropriate to do so when I am trying to wash my hair.

* If you don't like my homemade applesauce (okay, okay, it was really gross), you don't need to hide it under your legs. Or discreetly drop it on the floor so I step in it barefoot. Just say, "All done!" and stop eating it.

* When it is time to change your diaper, that is not code for "run in the opposite direction and hide behind the pantry." Also, please note: diaper changing time is not the opportunity you have been looking for to practice going "kick kick kick" like we do in swim lessons.

* When I say it is time to come out of the bathroom, that does not mean throw a whole bag of dental flossers into the trashcan (where I also found a headband and a stegosaurus.)

* When a friend comes over to play, and you borrow/steal all of his toys, it would be helpful to go around and gather all of them up when they are getting ready to leave. Not hide them in parts unknown, only to pull them out to play with innocently the next morning. (Sorry, Becky and Ben!)

I realize this sounds completely daft, but I need to be honest about something. It was only a few weeks ago that this occurred to me: after all those months of planning/reading/preparing for pregnancy, birth, and infancy, that is the simple part. (Please don't misunderstand - I am not saying it was easy, and I think all of those experiences are absolutely vital and valuable in a mother's journey, and yes, they can be very, very challenging in many ways. But the needs themselves are much more basic.) It finally occurred to me that I am not simply helping sustain the life of a sweet little girl and getting lots of cuddles and laughs along the way. Instead. my task - my JOB - is to work with D and teach this little girl how to one day become a responsible adult.

ADULT. The idea of my babbling daughter being an adult is weird, and terrifying, and awesome. I get so caught up in the "why isn't she sharing?" phase that it becomes difficult to remember that this is not a job with immediate results. I am helping to form a person. Not a cute little baby that I can put in dresses and people will go "aww how sweet," but a person who will be expected to be able to make responsible decisions, contribute to the world, and have some semblance of morals and ethics. Considering that I still don't feel like an adult most of the time, I feel completely unqualified for this task. It is totally overwhelming. I find myself exhibiting selfish behavior or a negative attitude, and then I see it mirrored right back at me in her chocolate brown eyes and chubby little cheeks. Every single day I struggle with making good decisions that will teach her and influence her as she grows. How on earth will I continue to do this for the rest of my life?

I think: 

This is exhausting.

And:

I am not good enough/strong enough/selfless enough.

Here is the beauty of motherhood. It is exhausting, and at times discouraging, and there are days when I go to bed just feeling broken. These are the days when I know I am NOT strong enough. Not on my own. 

But with God, I can do anything. He makes beautiful things out of the ashes of sleep deprivation, tantrums (mine or hers), frustration, selfishness. He is taking all of these things stored in my heart, which I thought I had tucked away secretly but have lately been brought out into the open in motherhood, and he is transforming me, bit by bit. And that is truly and completely beautiful.

A friend posted this awesome video on Facebook today, and it is a really awesome version of one of my favorite hymns. It sums up perfectly what I've been trying to say. (So you can just skip the entire reading part of this post, and watch/listen to this video!)

Going on a Bear Hunt...

I am just going to put this out there: when someone is attempting to take their 11-month old camping for the first time, it is not helpful to flood her with stories about how many bears are running around the state park. Because I love nature, but the idea of trying to keep a curious little one from crawling into the fire or off a cliff, rolling in poison ivy, and eating rocks can be daunting enough. Trying to remember the proper procedures for dealing with a black bear (play dead? act big and scary?) and how to get a baby to cooperate with those procedures was enough to make me almost cancel the trip.

Fortunately, I didn't let my silly fears convince me to cancel. And on the first Saturday night in June, the three of us were able to  get out for a night of fresh air and family time - both of which were very much needed!

We decided to go somewhere very close to home (Happy Acres Campground, right next to Little Pine State Park, which is about 30 minutes away) and to only go for one night. This way, if things didn't work out well with Samantha, or if the predicted thunderstorms did end up coming our way, we could just pack up and leave. We went with very low expectations. No pressure to hike five miles and then sit down to a gourmet campfire meal. No belief that Samantha would sleep... at all. No plans other than to just be together as a family, and to be outside.

I'm going to let the pictures tell the story, but there are a few things I learned. First, now that I no longer spend all of my days playing outside in the woods, I have lost my "bug tolerance" (seriously, those critters were everywhere and it was driving me nuts!). Second, I'm getting old, and no matter how many sleeping bags and blankets I pile onto the ground, I still wake up achy. And third, D and I still are most content, and most complete as a couple, when we are able to spend time together in the outdoors, without any distractions, schedules, or agendas.

Without further babbling, here is how Samantha fared on her first camping adventure:

We had a busy day before we left, so she passed out on the way there. She slept long enough for us to set up the tent without her trying to "help."

Sleeping arrangements for the night. we made a little nest of blankets on one side for S, and brought a few comforts from home (her puppy and blanket).

D was excited to show her the tent as soon as she woke up.

"I in a tent!" (words her father woke up and shouted in the middle of the night on his very first camping trip)

 

The hot day cooled down perfectly as a light rain fell and the sun shone through.

"Now what do we do?"

It took a while for the excitement of having such a large 'playground' to kick in.

D tried very hard to get her to stop eating rocks.

But she's a persistent little girl.

I got this camping chair at a yard sale for $3 that morning. She loved it! It was also the perfect distraction to keep her from trying to play with the campfire.

Snack time.

Trying to climb a hill full of pine needles... and slipping again and again.

She's a persistent little girl.

Practicing our walking skills.

Fast asleep by the fire. Once I put her down on her "nest" in the tent, she didn't stir. Well, until someone's car alarm went off at 2 AM.

We enjoyed mountain pies for dinner, and warmed up some apple bread for breakfast.

Mmm... apple bread. Delicious when smothered with crunchy peanut butter or Nutella.

S asks for more bread. It was the first time she'd ever had any, and she loved it.

Breakfast!

I was trying to take down the tent to leave, and she refused to climb out.

No bears, and we will definitely be camping again! :-)

How Does Your Garden Grow?

It has long been a dream of mine to have an awesome vegetable garden. Unfortunately, it has also long been a reality that I don’t actually have a yard. So, instead of vegetables I’ve kept house plants, and compromised by going to the local farmer’s market often during the summer months to stock up on fresh produce.

This winter, I approached my landlord and asked if I could dig up a part of the yard for a small garden. He was hesitant to say yes (for good reason, I know), but instead provided me with several containers I could use for growing plants. So I went to the library to look for books on how to grow vegetables in pots. Unfortunately, all I found were books about how to make your plants look good in various containers, and very little about having your indoor/porch garden be functional. Honestly, I don’t care how it looks, I just want to be able to eat it.

D and I spent several months reading gardening books (me), searching for advice on the internet (him), and discussing our dream garden. We made several lists of what grows well in pots. For my birthday, he gave me several new containers to use to start our garden. And then, the entire month of April came and went, and I still hadn’t started anything. So last weekend, armed with my lists, I headed out to Lowe’s to see about getting started.

Now, here is where all of my best intentions fly out the window. I will spend days/weeks/months researching something and coming up with a game plan, but when it’s time to act on it, I tend to just wing it. This is exactly what happened when I got to Lowe’s. After a leisurely stroll down the lighting aisle (Samantha’s favorite), and the countertop aisle (daydreaming about having my own cupcake kitchen), we headed out to see what seedlings were available. My list, incidentally, was tucked into my back pocket. It might be no surprise to you that it stayed there the entire time.

The selection was absolutely amazing… if you wanted tomatoes. I had no idea there were so many varieties of tomatoes! Over one third of the vegetable selection was tomatoes (okay, I know, tomatoes are a fruit, thanks for pointing that out.) The other third was varieties of cabbage. This narrowed down the selection rather quickly. So, without consulting anyone, or asking for advice, I randomly picked a tomato seedling that looked healthy, and also grabbed two bell pepper plants. I debated for a while about various herbs – especially the “chocolate mint” – but decided pot space was too limited.

I wandered around for a while looking for the seed packets. And, again, without consulting my list, I bought things that I am rather positive will not grow well in containers (carrots, spinach, onions). I even splurged and spent the extra sixty cents on “organic” seeds, only to realize once I got home that I am not using organic potting soil and the effort was therefore wasted.

Oh yes, the potting soil. Usually, when I repot my houseplants, I run out of soil and have to keep running back to the store to get more. I didn’t want to bother with that, so I decided to buy two of the largest bags I could find. The problem? I couldn’t lift them. So I wandered around for about twenty minutes trying to find someone burly to help me, to no avail. The only employee in sight was a 16 year old the size of a pencil, and she was swamped with the long line at check out. I tried to muscle it out. With Samantha sitting in the cart watching with great amusement, I attempted to wrestle the first bag onto the bottom of the cart. The soil inside was all broken up, so it was like trying to manhandle an ornery marshmallow. I got it halfway on the cart before it became stuck. I then went in search of one of the low, flat trolleys to put the soil on. After several more embarrassing attempts, I finally managed to get the first bag of potting soil loaded up onto the trolley. I went to reach for the second, and found it oddly much lighter than the first. At this point, I was really frustrated and didn’t stop to think about why two bags of the same size might have such a drastic weight variance. Samantha started to get antsy, so I finally managed to push her and my seedlings in the cart with one hand, while pulling the soil-laden trolley with the other, to the long check out line. We passed the time with Samantha trying to eat the seed packets, and then trying to climb out of the cart to play with the handle of the trolley, and then finally made it to the cashier. We doled out enough money to have just bought fresh veggies at the market all summer long, and headed to the car. I opened up the back only to discover that it still contained the large jogging stroller, the pack n play, and the pack n play mattress, and therefore had no room for the soil. So I wrestled the soil marshmallows into the passenger seat and went home angry and frustrated.

The next day was beautiful and sunny and perfect for gardening.  All of my previous frustrations were gone, and I took Samantha down to the yard to sit happily on a blanket while I worked. She was quite amused with the watering can for a few minutes.

I started by breaking every gardening rule about gently transferring plants, and immediately took all of my houseplants out of their containers and laid them on the ground. This helped me see what space I had available.

Various spider plants

My pathetic aloe plant

I then ordered the houseplant potting arrangement and opened the first bag of soil to begin repotting. The first bag – the incredible heavy one – turned out to be soaking wet. This, of course, explains the extra burden of lifting it (it originally only weighed 30 lbs or so).

While I worked on the houseplants, Samantha decided that she didn’t like wearing a hat or staying on the blanket. Instead, she wanted to play with a dandelion.

 And then, she wanted to eat it. But apparently it didn’t taste very good.

The neighborhood cat Twilite came around, despite my best attempts to get it to go away. Twilite wanted to lounge on the blanket and play with Samantha’s toys. Samantha got so excited she whacked the cat in the face with the dandelion a couple dozen times. Twilite left shortly thereafter.

I finished potting my houseplants in their new containers and we took a short break. When we came back outside, I started tackling the vegetables that may or may not ever grow. Samantha decided to explore the yard.

Then she sat for a while, conducting the music of nature while singing to herself.

After a few songs, she went back to doing what she does best – eating nature.

Do you like my lilac leaf goatee?

I distracted her from eating all the lilacs in the yard long enough to get her interested in what I was doing. She then wanted to help. First, she had to inspect the containers.

They look sturdy...

Next, she wanted to help with the annoyingly wet potting soil.

Carefully reading the directions...

Approved

I quickly tossed my seedlings and seeds into pots, filled them with soil, and tried to avoid any further baby interruptions. Unfortunately, I was not fast enough:

What's this?

Can I eat it?

Mmmm… potting soil…

Anyway, I finished all of the plants and set them out on the front and back porches, (hopefully) ready to grow!

Tomato plant, carrots, peppers

Onions & more carrots (spinach not pictured)

I am thinking of this year as a big experiment. If things don’t grow, I’ll be disappointed but not too dismayed (afterall, I completely ignored almost every rule about proper gardening). If they do, it will be a pleasant surprise. I have marked on my summer calendar in big, bold letters the expected harvesting time for each plant (SPINACH! CARROTS! etc.) so I’ll know for sure if this adventure was all for naught.

As for Samantha, she took the longest bath of her life, and so far seems to have no lasting effects from ingesting the various flowers, bugs, and potting soil. All in all, the day was a success.