So...I'm having a bit of a crisis of faith lately. I'm finding it difficult to trust and to lean into the fact that God loves me and I am his daughter. My own imperfect earthly father left a lasting impression on me and I realize I've never truly been able to accept love. The idea of it, sure. The actuality of it, not so much. This has created a great anxiety within my soul, and a disconnectedness. Every thing that happens is filtered through that lens, serving to reinforce that core belief.
Last night I attended the first session of a local IF:Gathering (started by Jennie Allen) and came home with trepidation of how the night would go and whether I would be able to make it back for the second part today. For whatever reason, God saw fit that Ava would still be sick and stay up all night, which effectively broke my heart, but also made my spirit say "Of course, you have to miss out on everything good in life. If God really had this for YOU, you would have been able to go. He obviously does not."
I walk around with this deep, heavy sadness and baggage constantly, whether I am aware of it or not.
I compare my kids to other's kids, and marinate in the feeling of alone-ness and isolation that no one I know has been through a similar experience.
I've stopped telling the truth, not wanting to be pitied, but worse, knowing I will see the incredulousness on their faces and feel judged. And like a colossal failure.
I walk around carrying the heavy pack of guilt that tells me that every quirk or imperfection my children have, every weakness or bad night is my fault. The thousands of nights I have spent tending to my children rather than sleeping, my punishment.
For being unlovable.
For being unworthy.
For being less-than, an utter failure as a woman and mother.
For all of these emotions and experiences I gave my babies when they were still tiny in thr womb, that left a lasting effect in their makeup and ability to cope.
I'm afraid I'm going to feel anxious and unloved and take all of my children's shortcomings and failures to heart for ever.
I sure am right now as I listen to my two year old scream from the other room while her daddy tries to console her while she should be sleeping. (ETA: We just took her temp and it was 103, mom fail. At least now we know this current reason. Poor girl.)
But I don't want to.
One of the speakers last night was Ann Voskamp, on who's blog I've been perusing this evening and finding great comfort. I especially like her idea of 1000 gifts. So, I'm going to start leaning into that (some of it in list form, some in stories and pictures) starting right now, with five blessings.
Because I'm tired of feeling this way. Here goes.
1) My husband who loves me unconditionally, even when I don't feel it, even when I can't feel it.
2) My sweet, amazingly smart almost nine year old, who randomly thanks me for being a good mom.
3) My spunky, loveable two year old daughter, who likes to pop around the corner and say, "Hi, Mom!" in the most adorable way.
4) A sweet soul-sister of a friend who invited me out for coffee and listened to me vent without judgement.
6) A church where I actually feel like I might be loved, for the first time in a very long time.
Do you struggle with some of these things? If God is really our Father, than we come from a place of abundance, and not lack. I think leaning into this idea is imperative for overcoming false beliefs about ourselves and becoming the people God made us to be.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
A Birth Story in Two Parts: Part II
As I get into the bright orange Jeep (on loan from our wonderful friends since our brown bomb of a car has decided to gasp its last), I notice that Eric has already put a towel down on the seat. This both comforts me and fills me with anxious thoughts of giving birth in the car. I don't know how many times on our journey I will breathe silent prayers that my water will not break and ruin their vehicle.
As we head out of the neighborhood, I have the fleeting thought that maybe we should just go to the local county hospital which is 15 minutes away. I say nothing, and we turn the opposite direction, toward the hospital downtown, selected by default because the only midwives with any openings deliver there.
We turn on to 26, then 795, 695...eventually 83. Eric driving as fast as the cars around him allow, while also timing my contractions on a piece of paper he holds on the steering wheel.
1:42pm.
1:46pm.
1:49pm.
1:51pm.
We speed along to the Enya soundtrack we have playing in the background. It's supposed to be relaxing, but just ends up being ironic as we barrel along at 90 miles an hour, unintentionally soliciting middle fingers and a would-be racer who attempts to outpace us in his Ferrari.
"Please don't kill us," I breathe more than once.
The contractions are coming harder and faster now, I feel the urge to bear down. Eric dials the midwife again to let her know. She tells me to breathe out and make noise instead of push. It's becoming harder to do. I grasp the handle above the door and hang on for dear life, closing my eyes, and my legs, a little tighter.
I tell him he should call our doula and let her know to come. She is with a program at one of the local universities and seemed so sincere and eager to offer her services and gain experience. A doula was indispensable with my first lengthy birth, but this time I know she won't make it in time. Still, I say we should try her, since I signed some paper saying we would call when I was in labor. I don't want to break all the rules at once.
On the middle of 83, I yell, "Pull over!" I really think this is it, Eric is going to have to deliver our baby. On the side of the road. I had a premonition he might have to, and kept sending him "How to Deliver Your Baby in an Emergency" type articles from the internet during the last weeks of pregnancy. He says we are ten minutes from the hospital and asks if I can wait that long. The contraction eases up and I yell, "Just go!"
Somehow he manages to navigate the city streets which we have always gotten lost in for every other appointment. I feel a burning sensation, and some blood. I check to make sure there is nothing on the seat. Whew. We pull up to the curved drive in front, where they have told us we can park initially.
We were told someone would be out front with a wheelchair to escort us in, but no one is there. Eric hops out of the car, and runs in to look for one. I gingerly get out, and lean on the seat, swaying with a contraction, and only slightly annoyed at the passersby staring. Eric runs out of the hospital and asks a lady in front of us if we can use her wheelchair once she is in the car.
I can't get in the wheelchair. It would be impossible to sit down. I'm trying to point this out, when out of nowhere a lady (I don't think she was with the hospital even) tells me to get on backwards, on my knees. I find this infinitely more possible, and I'm grateful for the suggestion.
We are quickly escorted through the lobby by a security guard (we'll call him Malcolm), who tells Eric he must stop at the desk to get a badge while he escorts me up the 9 more floors to labor and delivery. This sounds like an incredibly bad idea to both of us, but I am in no position to argue. Malcolm wheels me on to the elevator and we begin our climb.
I can scarcely register my surroundings, I am in so deep with physical sensations and silent prayers that I would not give birth in the elevator, and that Eric would not miss it. At some point I start pushing.
"Don't push!" I hear in unison, and realize that there is another person in the elevator with us. I don't know it at the time, but she will be our nurse on the recovery floor, and she will tell me the story from her perspective. I will laugh, not remembering her at all, until she asks if I heard two people that day.
But I cannot stop pushing, I am too far gone, it is like a freight train now, zooming down the tracks at full speed. I reach down and feel something; the head! I remember asking, "Should I take my underwear off?", to another chorus of "No!" from the nurse and an overwhelmed Malcolm (who I'm sure by now is considering another line of work).
The elevator opens at the 10th floor, and I am wheeled out, still on my knees. About 5 feet past the elevators I jump off. Malcolm tells me to get back on, to which I vehemently shake my head. He asks me to walk then. I would laugh if I could. Again, I say no.
Just then, my water breaks, and a combination of blood and amniotic fluid gush out all over the pristine and shiny, newly waxed floors.
"Oh, sh*t!" Malcolm yells. "We need a nurse!" It registers in my mind that just ahead and to the right is a frosted glass partition behind which is the waiting room. A head looks out, and then a little boy of about three or four starts to dart out to see the commotion before being pulled back by a parent.
I get down on my hands and knees. This baby is coming, with or without Eric here, and this security guard is scared out of his whits and is gonna be useless. So, I'm preparing to catch my own baby.
Just then, the elevator opens, and off rushes Eric. He quickly surveys the scene while I say, "You're gonna have to catch the baby." He looks under my dress (see, it was a good idea), and says, "Yep."
With one final push, Ava Mae is born into the world, in her daddy's arms, at 2:08pm, and 7lb 11oz, although we don't yet know it is Ava Mae, and I don't yet know she is a girl. A moment passes and I wonder why Eric hasn't announced the baby as a boy or girl. I look backwards and say, "Oh, a girl, cool!" And just like that, our defining moment seems a little eclipsed now. I later find out that he was trying to gently remove the (thankfully long) cord from around her neck, so he hadn't had a chance to look yet.
I hear the double doors open, and see seven or eight nurses barreling towards us. They surround us, seeming very serious and concerned. I want to put their minds at ease, tell them I feel great now, everything is fine, maybe even make a joke about "cleanup on aisle 5"; it takes me a moment to realize they are concerned about the baby which they know nothing about, who was just born rather abruptly in the hallway and is plastered with blood.
Once they have assessed that there are no emergency situations, they let Eric cut the cord, and tell me to sit on the wheelchair while they hand her to me. I hold my baby, almost a full pound lighter than Wyatt, and take in her squished little face, cheeks for days, and arm rolls. She has lots of wispy dark hair which matches my dress.
My dress which is now splattered with blood and goo, I note, as they roll me into the room. Our midwife greets us; there are so many people in the room. They tell me to climb up on the bed, and take my baby to place in a corner bassinet where they can examine her under the lights. Had I not been in shock, I would have asked to hold her while they did this, but I still couldn't believe this had all just happened, and it did not occur to me to ask.
I nervously tell Eric to go be with her, so at least one of us is there. It is just the corner of the room, but it feels like a big room, and she is crying, and so far away. The midwife and some nurses attempt to clean up my legs, which have also been spattered. They seem annoyed that I decided to have a baby in the hallway, instead of in the conventional place, but I didn't decide that at all. In fact, had it been allowed in this state, I would have been quite happy to have my baby at home, and I think in hindsight that maybe I should have done so.
One of the nurses notices that the security guard has followed us into the room and is hovering nervously around the baby. "Who is he and how did he get in here?" she asks, to which someone tells the story, and she laughs before booting him out.
The midwife instructs me on pushing out the placenta, and when that is all done she inserts a numbing needle into my nether regions (say that five times fast, ha!). She says she needs to sew me up, and this surprises me, because I don't feel torn, and also because I pushed out a much bigger baby before. "It's because the birth was so fast, there was no time to accommodate her," she says.
I ask her how many stitches she is putting it; it seems to be taking forever, watching the clock and her long curved needle go up and back down. "I never count," she says, and I don't exactly find this comforting. Sometime during all this, the doula shows up, and holds my hand, because there is nothing else really for her to do. The midwife is meticulous and a perfectionist in her stitching, something I will be thankful for later, but for now I am eager for her to hurry it up.
At last I again get to hold my baby, who is hollering about something. Later I will laugh when I read her medical records and see the words, "Lusty cry". I try to put her to my breast, but she isn't having it, and I worry that we will have the same troubles I had with Wyatt. "Just let her be," the midwife says. "She has a lot to say. She just wants to tell you about it right now." She seems like a wise old woman, so I let her words comfort me as I cuddle and kiss my baby.
Eventually we are moved two floors down, to the maternity ward. Before the end of his shift, Malcolm knocks on our door, asks if he can come in, and rides in on his segway. "Sorry for scaring you half to death," I say with a smile. "That's ok, I've never had that happen before!" he says, and I wonder if that means he is new. "I just wanted to come say hello and make sure she was ok!" We exchange some laughs and he is on his way, convinced and relieved that everything is well. I can't help thinking that he must have felt responsible in some way, and I know that is a story he will tell over and over.
Later that evening, when we are both sufficiently cleaned up, my mom and Wyatt make their way to the hospital, mom complaining about traffic and getting lost. Wyatt holds his little sister for the first time, and I feel a strange mixture of anxiety and peace. Our lives will never be the same and there is no going back now. We are a family of four.
As we head out of the neighborhood, I have the fleeting thought that maybe we should just go to the local county hospital which is 15 minutes away. I say nothing, and we turn the opposite direction, toward the hospital downtown, selected by default because the only midwives with any openings deliver there.
We turn on to 26, then 795, 695...eventually 83. Eric driving as fast as the cars around him allow, while also timing my contractions on a piece of paper he holds on the steering wheel.
1:42pm.
1:46pm.
1:49pm.
1:51pm.
We speed along to the Enya soundtrack we have playing in the background. It's supposed to be relaxing, but just ends up being ironic as we barrel along at 90 miles an hour, unintentionally soliciting middle fingers and a would-be racer who attempts to outpace us in his Ferrari.
"Please don't kill us," I breathe more than once.
The contractions are coming harder and faster now, I feel the urge to bear down. Eric dials the midwife again to let her know. She tells me to breathe out and make noise instead of push. It's becoming harder to do. I grasp the handle above the door and hang on for dear life, closing my eyes, and my legs, a little tighter.
I tell him he should call our doula and let her know to come. She is with a program at one of the local universities and seemed so sincere and eager to offer her services and gain experience. A doula was indispensable with my first lengthy birth, but this time I know she won't make it in time. Still, I say we should try her, since I signed some paper saying we would call when I was in labor. I don't want to break all the rules at once.
On the middle of 83, I yell, "Pull over!" I really think this is it, Eric is going to have to deliver our baby. On the side of the road. I had a premonition he might have to, and kept sending him "How to Deliver Your Baby in an Emergency" type articles from the internet during the last weeks of pregnancy. He says we are ten minutes from the hospital and asks if I can wait that long. The contraction eases up and I yell, "Just go!"
Somehow he manages to navigate the city streets which we have always gotten lost in for every other appointment. I feel a burning sensation, and some blood. I check to make sure there is nothing on the seat. Whew. We pull up to the curved drive in front, where they have told us we can park initially.
We were told someone would be out front with a wheelchair to escort us in, but no one is there. Eric hops out of the car, and runs in to look for one. I gingerly get out, and lean on the seat, swaying with a contraction, and only slightly annoyed at the passersby staring. Eric runs out of the hospital and asks a lady in front of us if we can use her wheelchair once she is in the car.
I can't get in the wheelchair. It would be impossible to sit down. I'm trying to point this out, when out of nowhere a lady (I don't think she was with the hospital even) tells me to get on backwards, on my knees. I find this infinitely more possible, and I'm grateful for the suggestion.
We are quickly escorted through the lobby by a security guard (we'll call him Malcolm), who tells Eric he must stop at the desk to get a badge while he escorts me up the 9 more floors to labor and delivery. This sounds like an incredibly bad idea to both of us, but I am in no position to argue. Malcolm wheels me on to the elevator and we begin our climb.
I can scarcely register my surroundings, I am in so deep with physical sensations and silent prayers that I would not give birth in the elevator, and that Eric would not miss it. At some point I start pushing.
"Don't push!" I hear in unison, and realize that there is another person in the elevator with us. I don't know it at the time, but she will be our nurse on the recovery floor, and she will tell me the story from her perspective. I will laugh, not remembering her at all, until she asks if I heard two people that day.
But I cannot stop pushing, I am too far gone, it is like a freight train now, zooming down the tracks at full speed. I reach down and feel something; the head! I remember asking, "Should I take my underwear off?", to another chorus of "No!" from the nurse and an overwhelmed Malcolm (who I'm sure by now is considering another line of work).
The elevator opens at the 10th floor, and I am wheeled out, still on my knees. About 5 feet past the elevators I jump off. Malcolm tells me to get back on, to which I vehemently shake my head. He asks me to walk then. I would laugh if I could. Again, I say no.
Just then, my water breaks, and a combination of blood and amniotic fluid gush out all over the pristine and shiny, newly waxed floors.
"Oh, sh*t!" Malcolm yells. "We need a nurse!" It registers in my mind that just ahead and to the right is a frosted glass partition behind which is the waiting room. A head looks out, and then a little boy of about three or four starts to dart out to see the commotion before being pulled back by a parent.
I get down on my hands and knees. This baby is coming, with or without Eric here, and this security guard is scared out of his whits and is gonna be useless. So, I'm preparing to catch my own baby.
Just then, the elevator opens, and off rushes Eric. He quickly surveys the scene while I say, "You're gonna have to catch the baby." He looks under my dress (see, it was a good idea), and says, "Yep."
With one final push, Ava Mae is born into the world, in her daddy's arms, at 2:08pm, and 7lb 11oz, although we don't yet know it is Ava Mae, and I don't yet know she is a girl. A moment passes and I wonder why Eric hasn't announced the baby as a boy or girl. I look backwards and say, "Oh, a girl, cool!" And just like that, our defining moment seems a little eclipsed now. I later find out that he was trying to gently remove the (thankfully long) cord from around her neck, so he hadn't had a chance to look yet.
I hear the double doors open, and see seven or eight nurses barreling towards us. They surround us, seeming very serious and concerned. I want to put their minds at ease, tell them I feel great now, everything is fine, maybe even make a joke about "cleanup on aisle 5"; it takes me a moment to realize they are concerned about the baby which they know nothing about, who was just born rather abruptly in the hallway and is plastered with blood.
Once they have assessed that there are no emergency situations, they let Eric cut the cord, and tell me to sit on the wheelchair while they hand her to me. I hold my baby, almost a full pound lighter than Wyatt, and take in her squished little face, cheeks for days, and arm rolls. She has lots of wispy dark hair which matches my dress.
My dress which is now splattered with blood and goo, I note, as they roll me into the room. Our midwife greets us; there are so many people in the room. They tell me to climb up on the bed, and take my baby to place in a corner bassinet where they can examine her under the lights. Had I not been in shock, I would have asked to hold her while they did this, but I still couldn't believe this had all just happened, and it did not occur to me to ask.
I nervously tell Eric to go be with her, so at least one of us is there. It is just the corner of the room, but it feels like a big room, and she is crying, and so far away. The midwife and some nurses attempt to clean up my legs, which have also been spattered. They seem annoyed that I decided to have a baby in the hallway, instead of in the conventional place, but I didn't decide that at all. In fact, had it been allowed in this state, I would have been quite happy to have my baby at home, and I think in hindsight that maybe I should have done so.
One of the nurses notices that the security guard has followed us into the room and is hovering nervously around the baby. "Who is he and how did he get in here?" she asks, to which someone tells the story, and she laughs before booting him out.
The midwife instructs me on pushing out the placenta, and when that is all done she inserts a numbing needle into my nether regions (say that five times fast, ha!). She says she needs to sew me up, and this surprises me, because I don't feel torn, and also because I pushed out a much bigger baby before. "It's because the birth was so fast, there was no time to accommodate her," she says.
I ask her how many stitches she is putting it; it seems to be taking forever, watching the clock and her long curved needle go up and back down. "I never count," she says, and I don't exactly find this comforting. Sometime during all this, the doula shows up, and holds my hand, because there is nothing else really for her to do. The midwife is meticulous and a perfectionist in her stitching, something I will be thankful for later, but for now I am eager for her to hurry it up.
At last I again get to hold my baby, who is hollering about something. Later I will laugh when I read her medical records and see the words, "Lusty cry". I try to put her to my breast, but she isn't having it, and I worry that we will have the same troubles I had with Wyatt. "Just let her be," the midwife says. "She has a lot to say. She just wants to tell you about it right now." She seems like a wise old woman, so I let her words comfort me as I cuddle and kiss my baby.
Eventually we are moved two floors down, to the maternity ward. Before the end of his shift, Malcolm knocks on our door, asks if he can come in, and rides in on his segway. "Sorry for scaring you half to death," I say with a smile. "That's ok, I've never had that happen before!" he says, and I wonder if that means he is new. "I just wanted to come say hello and make sure she was ok!" We exchange some laughs and he is on his way, convinced and relieved that everything is well. I can't help thinking that he must have felt responsible in some way, and I know that is a story he will tell over and over.
Later that evening, when we are both sufficiently cleaned up, my mom and Wyatt make their way to the hospital, mom complaining about traffic and getting lost. Wyatt holds his little sister for the first time, and I feel a strange mixture of anxiety and peace. Our lives will never be the same and there is no going back now. We are a family of four.
(Grandma and big brother with Ava)
(If only I would have known how much I would treasure pics like this.)
Thursday, January 7, 2016
The end of an era...
Growing up is bittersweet.
When my first baby was still a baby, I couldn't wait for him to grow up.
"Things will be better once he grows out of this colic."
"Things will be easier once he is walking."
"...once he is communicating more."
"...once he isn't napping so we can travel more."
"...once he sleeps better."
"...when he isn't having all these meltdowns."
"If only..."
"If only..."
"I can't wait till..."
I have to admit, I am doing this right now with kid two. Rushing the stages. Wanting more freedom than I am allowed to have for the time. Desperately wanting things to just be...EASIER.
Flash forward to today.
I am taking kid one home from school, when he says, "Mom, I don't want those notes in my lunch anymore."
The little love notes I had written him every day without fail (ok, some days I forgot and used the previous day's note again) since his first day of kindergarten. Since the first day I dropped him off someplace new for seven whole hours, anxious, but trusting that he would be cared for and loved and have a great time. He was and he did.
All through that year and the ones that followed (2.5 more so far), those notes have been the one constant, the thing that has connected us during his day, while he learned and played and grew in his independence.
Until, "Mom? I kept meaning to tell you that, but I forgot, so I'm telling you now."
"Did someone see your notes?"
"No, Mom, it's just in case they do. I don't need them anymore."
"Ok, buddy, no more notes."
And just like that, the invisible ties that bind loosen, just a little.
When my first baby was still a baby, I couldn't wait for him to grow up.
"Things will be better once he grows out of this colic."
"Things will be easier once he is walking."
"...once he is communicating more."
"...once he isn't napping so we can travel more."
"...once he sleeps better."
"...when he isn't having all these meltdowns."
"If only..."
"If only..."
"I can't wait till..."
I have to admit, I am doing this right now with kid two. Rushing the stages. Wanting more freedom than I am allowed to have for the time. Desperately wanting things to just be...EASIER.
Flash forward to today.
I am taking kid one home from school, when he says, "Mom, I don't want those notes in my lunch anymore."
The little love notes I had written him every day without fail (ok, some days I forgot and used the previous day's note again) since his first day of kindergarten. Since the first day I dropped him off someplace new for seven whole hours, anxious, but trusting that he would be cared for and loved and have a great time. He was and he did.
All through that year and the ones that followed (2.5 more so far), those notes have been the one constant, the thing that has connected us during his day, while he learned and played and grew in his independence.
Until, "Mom? I kept meaning to tell you that, but I forgot, so I'm telling you now."
"Did someone see your notes?"
"No, Mom, it's just in case they do. I don't need them anymore."
"Ok, buddy, no more notes."
And just like that, the invisible ties that bind loosen, just a little.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
This is not how it is supposed to feel.
Is it?
I mean, bleary-eyed, bone tired, can hardly move and everything aches. I get it, if you have a newborn (they can be kind of inconsiderate).
But a two year old? One that is almost two and a half? Is she supposed to wake up a ton and then spend a couple hours climbing all over you, laughing and singing, gleefully declaring "Dere's mommy!", alternating with piteous moans and wails when she is in her crib and not right beside me?
I get it, those molars STINK. And its the LAST one. And now you seem to have a cold, which is making it hard to breathe. And you are apparently another one of those high need babies/spirited kids, which has never really been a great sleeper from the get go.
But. BUT. Mommy needs more than an hour here and there. As you know, you also share a room with your brother currently due to space constraints. So when you are raising hell/partying like a rock star for a significant amount of time...we have to move him. Into our bed. And then one of us (likely me), has to sleep on his bed in your room. Sleep should be in airquotes of the most sarcastic variety. Because this kind of behavior is causing insomnia for all of us (especially me. and you. YOU AND ME, BABY).
These are supposed to be the times I will miss. Well, guess what? You're not making that easy. When you sleep decently (not fabulous, but I will take decent any old day), I start to get cocky and think our days of this kind of nonsense are coming to a close. (And I also like you 1000% better the next day too!) Well, looks like the joke is on me!
I hope not for long. We have company coming tomorrow night and I will be in your room for three nights whether we all like or not. I've been stressing about that all week, what with this still going on.
So, newsflash, Ava Mae, you are fantastic and I love you to pieces. But I'm gonna need a little (lot) more sleep to be able to adequately express that. Help me help you.
Love,
Mommy
I mean, bleary-eyed, bone tired, can hardly move and everything aches. I get it, if you have a newborn (they can be kind of inconsiderate).
But a two year old? One that is almost two and a half? Is she supposed to wake up a ton and then spend a couple hours climbing all over you, laughing and singing, gleefully declaring "Dere's mommy!", alternating with piteous moans and wails when she is in her crib and not right beside me?
I get it, those molars STINK. And its the LAST one. And now you seem to have a cold, which is making it hard to breathe. And you are apparently another one of those high need babies/spirited kids, which has never really been a great sleeper from the get go.
But. BUT. Mommy needs more than an hour here and there. As you know, you also share a room with your brother currently due to space constraints. So when you are raising hell/partying like a rock star for a significant amount of time...we have to move him. Into our bed. And then one of us (likely me), has to sleep on his bed in your room. Sleep should be in airquotes of the most sarcastic variety. Because this kind of behavior is causing insomnia for all of us (especially me. and you. YOU AND ME, BABY).
These are supposed to be the times I will miss. Well, guess what? You're not making that easy. When you sleep decently (not fabulous, but I will take decent any old day), I start to get cocky and think our days of this kind of nonsense are coming to a close. (And I also like you 1000% better the next day too!) Well, looks like the joke is on me!
I hope not for long. We have company coming tomorrow night and I will be in your room for three nights whether we all like or not. I've been stressing about that all week, what with this still going on.
So, newsflash, Ava Mae, you are fantastic and I love you to pieces. But I'm gonna need a little (lot) more sleep to be able to adequately express that. Help me help you.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
A Birth Story in Two Parts: Part I
August 4, 2013
I didn't sleep much last
night. My stomach was churning and uncomfortable, the baby unusually
still. I can still feel that extra dinner I suddenly had the urge to
eat last night at 11pm. I tell Eric to take Wyatt to church, I will
stay behind. My back hurts a bit, but this is nothing new at this
stage.
About 10:30am I start to
look at the clock and realize my abdomen has been tightening in a
regular pattern. Even though I am almost 41 weeks pregnant, this is
nothing knew, I have been having patterned contractions that come and
go since about 35 weeks. Frustrated, I tell them to leave me alone
unless they really mean business.
I decide I should probably
text Eric, just to give him a heads up. “No rush, but I am having
contractions. AGAIN.”
“Should I come home?” he
replies.
“Not yet,” I say, “Just
stand by.” We don't yet know whether we are having a boy or girl.
It all seems so unreal.
Eric tells a friend at
church who texts me excitedly to ask if I am in labor. “Probably
not,” I reply. “I doubt that,” she says, “You're going to
have that baby sooner or later!”
An hour and a half goes by
with me timing contractions and laying on my side to see if they will
dissipate. They don't, and are starting to get stronger, four
minutes apart. I'm still in denial because my last labor was long
and very strenuous, so this still seems like it should be the
beginning.
I finally text Eric to come
home home, but I make sure to add, “No rush”, as if I am
inconveniencing him by asking him to leave early. My mom gets home
before they do and starts talking to me. She notices I am not paying
attention, and I tell her I am in labor. Just then, I get another
contraction and have to lean over on the wood stove. When it is over
we continue talking, as she stands at the sink washing dishes. She
asks me a question and when I don't answer she realizes that I am in
the hallway on my hands and knees and cannot speak.
By the time Eric and Wyatt
get home I am laying in bed, trying to slow things down. I am afraid
to walk around and get things really going. I ask what took him so
long; he had to put gas in the car, he thought it wasn't urgent.
It seems urgent now. I put on a cute and comfortable black dress. This seems important. He
calls the midwife who wants to talk to me and asks if I think I need
to come to the hospital, which is an hour away. This slightly annoys
me, I just want her to tell me to come in or stay home. I say I'm
not sure, and she says to come on in then.
Hurriedly, we throw the rest
of my hospital things into an overnight bag and I slowly walk out the
door and eventually manage to make it into the car, stopping every
little bit on the walk there.
My contractions are 4 minutes apart. It is 1:28pm.
To be continued...
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Hodge Podge
Still trying to gain access to my old blog...apparently I had used two different emails to post to it, and they were both emails I have long since abandoned. I finally gained access to one, but the main one is still in limbo and I'm waiting to hear back as to whether I provided enough correct info about it to gain access to the blog. Fingers crossed! I will be SO sad if its lost to me forever!
Meanwhile, my first wakeful "baby" who is almost nine (!!) is having a friend stay overnight for the first time. He's been to this friend's house overnight a couple times, but his friend hasn't stayed here until tonight. They've had so much fun and are finally snoozing away. The second wakeful baby has already woken up a couple times due to teething, while I've been sitting here troubleshooting for the last few hours. Hoping for a better night from here on out so I can be semi-functional tomorrow!
That's all for now, because I am EXHAUSTED, hence the brevity of this post.
G'night!
Meanwhile, my first wakeful "baby" who is almost nine (!!) is having a friend stay overnight for the first time. He's been to this friend's house overnight a couple times, but his friend hasn't stayed here until tonight. They've had so much fun and are finally snoozing away. The second wakeful baby has already woken up a couple times due to teething, while I've been sitting here troubleshooting for the last few hours. Hoping for a better night from here on out so I can be semi-functional tomorrow!
That's all for now, because I am EXHAUSTED, hence the brevity of this post.
G'night!
Friday, January 1, 2016
Happy New Year!
It's been a while since I left the blogging life, for many reasons, none good enough...and now seems like a perfect time to return. New Year, new start right? I plan on using this space as a continuation of my previous blog, The Wakeful Baby, and once I am able to regain access to all of that I will move it over. I had to start a new one since it has been so long I have forgotten the access info!
I'd been planning (for the last two years! I knooooooow.) to change it's name to "The Wakeful Babies", and continue on from there, since in my looooooong hiatus, I had another (wakeful!) baby...cause that's how I do! She is now almost two years and five months, and currently STILL wakeful due to cutting her last (hoorah!!!) two year molar. I can't WAIT to be done with the teething stage! I keep joking about throwing a party after that! With lots of champagne. ALL the champagne. With the tiny bubbles.
Anyhow, I'll probably talk a lot about my kids, but also about a lot of other random things too, so I didn't want the title to be too reductionistic. And also because our life is crazy beautiful and I need to remember that. LIFE is crazy and beautiful, and sometimes, as a good friend says, brutiful, even. It just IS. Everything. All of it. SO MUCH.
I know it's cliche to make New Year's resolutions which will be likely broken by February, so I'm just going to say Happy New Year, and call this a return to my love of writing, no resolutions whatsoever, except to do the things that bring me joy. So, here I go.
Stay tuned!
I'd been planning (for the last two years! I knooooooow.) to change it's name to "The Wakeful Babies", and continue on from there, since in my looooooong hiatus, I had another (wakeful!) baby...cause that's how I do! She is now almost two years and five months, and currently STILL wakeful due to cutting her last (hoorah!!!) two year molar. I can't WAIT to be done with the teething stage! I keep joking about throwing a party after that! With lots of champagne. ALL the champagne. With the tiny bubbles.
Anyhow, I'll probably talk a lot about my kids, but also about a lot of other random things too, so I didn't want the title to be too reductionistic. And also because our life is crazy beautiful and I need to remember that. LIFE is crazy and beautiful, and sometimes, as a good friend says, brutiful, even. It just IS. Everything. All of it. SO MUCH.
I know it's cliche to make New Year's resolutions which will be likely broken by February, so I'm just going to say Happy New Year, and call this a return to my love of writing, no resolutions whatsoever, except to do the things that bring me joy. So, here I go.
Stay tuned!
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