Of Being Done

A year ago today, I was waddling around this very neighborhood, willing this baby to come out. At that point, she was 11 days past the predicted due date per the midwife calculations, only five days later than the ultrasound had told us. And I wasn't really complaining.

Because precisely one week before she was "supposed" to come, we sold our house. And in the following two weeks, our house had been un-sold and then un-un-sold. And we'd had inspectors and a buyer, and realtors and another isnpector all in and out and around that house - the one where we were planning to have a homebirth. So, if she could just stay in long enough to make sure all those people were done and out of here, that would be swell.

She followed directions beautifully.

But then we were getting pushed from the other side, because if she didn't make it out soon, they were going to have to send us to the hospital for this delivery. There were multiple reasons I wanted to avoid that possibility, but I'm gonna be honest, the main reason I did not want that outcome was because I'm a frugal gal - and we'd already given these midwives all the money we had budgeted for this baby - so the idea of giving an amount equal to (or greater than) that sum to the hospital, well that just stressed me out. Particularly because, did I mention? We were buying a house.

So we went for a walk.

A long walk. In and around our soon-to-be new neighborhood. Admiring our soon-to-be new house from afar and deciding however far I could walk in this bulging state would be perfectly reasonable for our kids in the future. Which was great, because I made it a long distance. Much further than I'd anticipated.

But that baby wasn't budging from her bulge.

I went home. I stared down a bottle of castor oil - one a friend bought for me because it had worked wonders for prodding out her stubborn boy. But the midwives had not recommended that route. And I'm a rule-follower at heart. So I couldn't bring myself to break the seal.

We did what we could think of and time was running out.

It was Sunday night and we had an appointment with the midwives on Tuesday morning to have them try their methods. We were disappointed.

And then things started happening.

We got excited.

I had tested positive for Strep B - which is a bacteria that can be harmful to the baby if transmitted at birth, but can be held off by antibiotics - ones that can't be given too early, but need to be injected at least four hours before birth to be effective.

Her brother made a speedy entrance into the world at only 3 hours and 20 minutes, and that only because I delayed in calling the midwife. Everyone anticipated this little girl to practicallly shoot out of me - so I was given strict instructions: call the midwife at the first sign of action.

So we did.

And we called the grandparents who were in town waiting and we called the friend who happened to be in town and had so wonderfully assisted at the birth of our son and we called the sister who was going to be photographing everything.

And they all came.

And they all waited.

I have had much time (a year, to be exact) to consider how this birth went - the long hours of labor, the exhaustion, the desire to just be done. Overall, there were a lot of factors that led to my emotional state just not being the in the right place to simply allow my body to do what it needed to do. There are many who will admit that if a mother is not pyschologically ready to bring her baby in the world, her body will respond accordingly.

And I don't think I was psychologically ready. I had a lot on my mind, but very little of it had to do with a baby. It had to do with home loans and paperwork and house guests and all those people waiting. They were waiting for me. And I felt the need to perform (though not by fault of any theirs) and I was failing. And my body was holding on, keeping my baby safely protected inside until I was ready to let her go and focus on her needs.

But we didn't want her inside - we very much wanted her outside - ready or not. So my body and my mind quarreled and by the time she was finally pushed out 22 hours later, I was done - physically, emotionally, intellectually - even, in some ways, spiritually. Done.

It was the first out of four births, when I had that blessed moment of my baby sliding out and not feeling joy and exhileration. All I felt was relief. And not even just sweet relief, but exhausted, ready to shut out everything and everyone and be done, relief. Ready to close this womb - and be. done.

And this year has been quite the roller coaster as I continue to recover from the psychological strain of that month and even that day.

But, as we all know, in the end, she was worth every bit of all of it. And I'll never be done with her.

Of Our Real Homebirth

A week ago this evening, eleven days after her initial "due date," after a little prodding, I began feeling contractions (for the umpteenth time in the past couple of months). Twenty-two hours (and much, much prodding) later, another baby entered this world.

After my previous home-birth, I would often say I felt like I cheated, because it wouldn't have mattered where I had the baby - his 3.5 hour entrance into this world would not have varied too widely. Honestly, I didn't feel I'd earned any kind of special home-birther badge.

This time, I earned it. In fact, I earned a whole freakin' trophy. It should be large, the kind that gets its own pedestal.

In some ways, the tale is much less harrowing. Hour after hour of labor that started and stopped and a body that really didn't seem very interested in hurrying this baby into the world.

According to conventional wisdom, each child comes progressively quicker. Thus, after such a short delivery time for her older brother, I expected this baby to fly out. I was mentally prepared for that.

I was not mentally prepared for a marathon. Or my longest birth yet. To say I was discouraged would be an understatement. And the process of continually reminding my body it was in labor was exhausting and, to be honest, boring.

So much of me, after decrying the unnecessary tactics of the hospital's over-use of the drug pitocin to hurry along labor, wanted nothing more than to head on out, lay down in an uncomfortable bed and let them hook me up to the machine. Let the drugs tell my body what to do so I didn't have to.

Then, of course, hook me up to the drugs that make it so I can't feel the other drugs bossing my body around.

Yep, I wanted it all.

Not that I was in an intense amount of pain. I was, really, just bored. And just wanted to sleep.

No, the pain didn't come until later.

That would have been the final two hours.

Those final two hours when my labor took a turn for the immortalized births of film legend, the ones with the crazy pregnant lady (a role I've never before taken on), screaming at those around me about my inability to do this and just someone get this baby out of me - yelling talking back to my ever-patient midwife that I did not WANT to send the energy down to my baby. I did not WANT her to check me and I did not WANT whatever suggestions she had to offer.

All I WANTED was to push the baby out. Because that would make it all stop.

But then there was that cervix. The one that didn't want to get out of the way so the baby would come. The one that made the pushing that much more excruciating because it required outside intervention. The problems I've never had before. All I've ever had before was the urge to push, a few contractions of shoving and a baby in my arms.

This was NOT the birth I had imagined.

Not in the least.

And all I wanted, after decrying the unnecessary C-sections the hospital dishes out, was for someone to just cut me open and pull this baby out. Anything so I didn't have to do it anymore.

Meanwhile, throug it all, there was my husband. My wonderfully patient husband who stayed by my side for 22 hours. Sleeping while I slept, holding my hand while I contracted, rubbing my back as I moaned in discomfort, swaying with me as I contracted, reassuring me of the strength God had given me, crying while I cried out in pain. He was surprised and fearful, only for me, when I turned into evil, pregnant lady, screaming at all those around me, but never did he shy away or take it personally (and I never did claim to hate him or blame him for any of it, so there's that redeeming factor for my crazy stage).

And even though his rightful role, the one he'd been anticipating long before the process was even in full swing, was of being the one to catch our precious new baby in his arms as she entered the world, he gave it up without questioning when I would not allow him to leave my side or let go of my hand. He did what he needed, what I needed, whatever that was.

I am immensely proud of him.

And, thankfully, in the end, we got our trophy. Our preciously squishy bundle of snuggles that has been placed on her proverbial pedestal by all those around her.

And while the tale of her arrival may be much less exciting and much more filled with pain, impatience and unpleasant memories, the ending remains the same - worth every bit of it all.

Of 52 Weeks

52 weeks ago tonight, I was headed to bed, a little sad and a little anxious.

This baby inside me had been due nine days before and, what concerned me most was the idea that the closer I got to Thursday without a baby meant the closer I came to facing an induction - the one thing I had wanted so badly to avoid with this baby.  A Pitocin-free birth in the comfort of my home is what I had looked forward to since before this little being was even formed in my womb.

Going to bed that Saturday night without a baby in my arms meant waking up that Sunday morning to another crowd of friendly, sympathetic faces, with their looks of pity and surprise upon seeing my continually swelling belly.  Another round of, "No, still no baby, yet!" with a false smile to hide the growing frustration.

What I was not expecting was to be sending my two oldest children to church the following morning as I snuggled my fresh-from-the-womb son in those very arms I had so lamented for being empty the night before.

I had not expected the early morning pains, the ones that made my toes curl and my words stop.  The ones that were so sporadically spaced I could not determine if the call to the midwife should be made or if I needed to hold off.  I had not anticipated the hour of longing to push while forcing myself to wait, trusting I could do all things through the strength of my Savior, knowing my panicked, yet re-assuring, husband was not at all ready to welcome a tiny life to this world on his own.

I hadn't even considered I might be pushing this baby into the waiting arms of an assistant I had met only once or twice before, whose baby-delivering skills were the most valuable asset in that room.  Or that the midwife would be walking into a room newly calmed from the preceding chaos and a baby boy only five minutes old.

All before the other children even woke up.

I didn't know I wouldn't be the one dressing them up in their pre-Valentine's best or ushering them out the door.

More than anything else, I had no idea how my heart could swell to love another human being with the same intensity I felt for those other two who had previously passed from my womb.

Oh how pregnant with anticipation and surprise was that one Saturday night.

Fifty-two weeks ago.

1,000 Gifts:
1087. A not-even-one-year-old face smiling, "Cheese!"
1088. Birthday cake
1089. Siblings, bringing gifts to their brother, eager to help
1090. A birthday celebration covered with the love of family
1091. Precious conversations with my little ones.
1092. A precocious exclamation: "I feel like a woman hurting everywhere!" 

Of Noise, Noise, Noise

The transition back into life as a family of five may have been a little rough on our first full day together.

I may have had a headache during all the waking hours of our children.

And I don't get headaches.

Apparently my brain had detoxed from the regularity of constant noise that accompanies the life of a stay-at-home mother of three (it seems the noise-level multiplied exponentially when the second one learned how to work his vocal chords voluntarily).  And being thrown head-long back into the world of non-stop sound was too much for my poor ears.

Thus, we have begun to work on volume control.  Probably something that should have happened a long time ago, but I think when the rise in volume just happens gradually it becomes much less noticeable than when it's been gone for awhile and suddenly turns back on.  Like your car radio - when you keep turning up the knob, little by little, as you cruise around town and it sounds just fine, but then when you get back in the car the next day, turn the key and hear your favorite station blaring, it seems like an assault on your ear drums.

Yeah, kinda like that.

So, now my favorite phrase is, "Quieter, please."  Micaiah seems to understand, but Emmett has not yet learned the art of volume control on his own voice.  And it seems his favorite volume is yelling.  Probably to be heard over his sister.

It's a slow process.  But I believe there is hope.  In fact, I haven't had a headache since that first day.  Which means we're either making progress or my brain is de-sensitizing once more.

Either way, we're functioning.  And life is good.

1,000 Gifts:
567. Happy pills
568. Opportunities left and right
569. A glowing red orb of the setting sun
570. Her looking so cool in her shades
571. Smoothie popsicles waiting in the freezer
572. Her silly face in the picture
573. "Applesauce is nummy!"
574. Sharing


Photos of the Day: 
The doula who delivered Joey (as she was the first one qualified who walked in the door) stopped by today.  I had to be sure to get a photo of the two of them together.  Micaiah wanted to be in the picture, too.  So she could do this:

She certainly missed playing with this little guy.  Looks like he missed her, too.

He also discovered the Slinkie today.  I think he has a new favorite toy.  

And the excitement was just a bit much for him in the end.

Finally, we took Joseph's Jemima picture today, as he turned four months old yesterday.  I couldn't choose my favorite, but here are a few.  Note: He doesn't actually sit up on his own, yet - there was much flopping seconds after these two were snapped.

In reality, this is his favorite position of late.  Always on his belly, this guy.

Of Birthing Thoughts

I almost feel like I cheated.  I keep hearing the question, "Are you glad you had this baby at home?"  And the undeniable answer is, "Yes!"  But, honestly, it's a no-brainer because nothing about the actual birth would have been different had I been in the hospital over being at home.

With as quick as the process occurred, we would not have headed to the hospital any sooner than we called the midwives.  If anything, I might have waited longer (though with the intense pain, maybe not).  We would have had to get the kids in the car and drop them off somewhere and by the time we'd arrived at the hospital I would have been ready to push - no time for drugs, no need for Pitocin.  If anything, the pain would have been worse due to all the transporting required (the contractions were increasing with intensity and timing each time I moved).

For this reason, it is quite clear - with the timing of this birth, staying at home was simply more convenient - I'm glad we'd already planned on it!  God's timing is perfect!

I am glad we did not have to worry about the kids, because they slept through the whole thing.  I'm glad I did not have the time to beg for a way out.  I'm glad my lack of planning, as far as birth positions or techniques, was not even a factor, because I was right, things unfolded how they needed to without a "birth plan" or vision of the perfect labor.  As far as I'm concerned, it was perfect.

So, yes, I feel like I cheated.  I don't feel like I did any more than any woman who has endured such a short birth.  If anything, being at home was the "easy" way out in this situation - getting to the hospital would have made everything so much more complicated (and painful).

Either way, the point is this: I would do it again, happily (and probably will), but I still don't feel qualified to advocate one method over another - I just didn't have the time to make an educated decision.  I will simply always have to say, "It was the right way for us - hands down."

Photos of the Day: Emmett has definitely been won over to the role of big brother.  He has been begging to touch or hold Joey every moment he is home (which has not been much yet).  When I attempted to pull baby brother back to me, Emmett cried, "No, mine!"  Tugging on the blanket, he did not want to let the baby go.  Yeah, I think he'll fill the role quite nicely.

Of Our Homebirth: An Epic Tale

WARNING: The post you are about to read is extremely long and kind of detail-laden, proceed only if truly interested.


There was a baby born in this house today.

The short length of the whole affair (being that I first awoke with contractions at 4:40am and there was another baby boy in our family by 8) makes it still seem surreal that I am here, blogging, while Philip plays his video game, much like any other night, except that there is a cooing bundle of baby in his arms as he clicks the controllers.  The mere fact that the entirety of my son's birth occurred before I would normally even be out of bed makes this day feel a dream.

I went to bed last night slightly saddened by the fact that I would be another day in church, facing the loving and pitying friends who were all weathering this wait alongside me.  Another day of explaining, "Any day now."

Yet, when I awoke in the pre-dawn hours with contractions I did not hold much hope - after all, I'd had quite the amount of false ones in the preceding weeks.  I didn't hold much hope, that is, until I realized they were quite frequent.  Less than ten minutes later, I was walking around the darkness of the living room, cell phone in hand, contraction timer open, testing to see if these were something more interesting than what we'd been experiencing previously.  False labor disappears with a change of position.  This did not.

I woke Philip at 5am to tell him I'd been having contractions but the timing wasn't exactly consistent.  Here we were in a quandary: we had been told to call when they were eight minutes apart (being that the midwives all live an hour, or more, away), but while the vast majority of the "surges" I'd been feeling were definitely less than seven minutes from each other, some were as close as three minutes while others were as far as nearly nine minutes.  So, we delayed further while I ate a protein bar and drank a full mug of water to further test the reality of the situation.  But with the extreme intensity I was feeling (clinching my toes and not being able to talk during a contraction are sure signs) I knew this baby was coming today.

It was 6:20 when Philip notified the midwife on-call of our situation.  By this time, I was nauseated and shaking - signs, I remembered from my previous two births, of sure labor - something was going to happen and I was in denial of how soon.  For our other two, these symptoms occurred very closely to "push time," but I had only been having contractions for an hour and a half - and they were still 3-4 minutes apart!  This was definitely not going how I had imagined this process going.

After making the necessary phone calls - to the midwife (who was sending her assistant ahead to get things going and be sure this was the real thing), his sister (the photographer and transportation for our kids to a sitter whenever they woke up) and our good friend, Holly (who plans to train to be a doula someday and whom we had asked to be on-call as added assistance and support) - Philip got a quick shower while I started a bath to ease the extreme discomfort these contractions were causing - EXTREME.

It was only after about two contractions in the bath that I announced to Philip, "I want to push!" - and when I say "announced", I kind of mean "screamed like a crazy woman while enduring yet another 'surge.'"  I really did not want to have this baby with just Philip and I, but I also knew I was in a lot of pain and my body was certain that shoving this thing out would go a long way to ending that pain.

Let me assure you, I was doing the best I could to remember all I read - I was relaxing muscles as I noticed them tighten (like those clenched toes), I was breathing slowly when it occurred to me, and we had my CD of instrumental music/nature sounds playing in the background (this CD actually played for seven hours solid this morning - totally worth the $1 I paid for it back in college) -  but there was significant pain - not anything different or more intense than what I'd felt before in giving birth, but I'd always told myself that was because of the Pitocin - turns out, no, that's just what contractions feel like.  Good to know.

I didn't see Philip's face when I made my aforementioned "announcement" of needing to push, but I'm sure if I had it would have been a reflection of sheer terror; he immediately offered to call the midwife once more.  And, though I could not see her, either, I definitely heard the controlled, yet panicked, tone of the midwife's voice as she instructed him to have me kneel on the floor, leaning forward, so as to discourage the urge until help could arrive - and she was, most assuredly, now on her way.

I was sad to leave the comfort of the warm water, but, as an over-achiever, I like to do as I'm told, so Philip helped me from the tub and I headed to kneel on the carpet outside our bathroom door.  At this point, staring right at the white-ish color beneath me, I declared in a panic, "Not on the carpet!"  I realized, then, that we had no idea how to prepare this room for the reality of giving birth.  Sure, we had all the supplies on-hand, neatly packed in their boxes along the wall, but what we needed to do with them?  Not a clue.  I had always assumed the midwives would arrive, in a calm, assured manner, as labor was just beginning and I was still in a smiley, though possibly weary, state, prepared for hours of laboring.  They would then go about their business preparing the space, laying out the waterproof pads where necessary, and all would be in order.

This vision was clearly not going to be happening, but that knowledge made me no more interested in overcoming my own discomfort to do anything about it.  I simply crawled back to the tile of the bathroom and instructed Philip to lay out on the carpet of our bedroom, in the small space between the bathroom and our bed, the waterproof mattress cover we'd purchased.  Anything else could be dealt with later.

It was at this point we received the phone call to notify us the birth assistant would be arriving within 15 minutes - unfortunately, the call came during yet another contraction, during which I was leaning forward and screeching in frustration, while pounding the tile floor, "FIFTEEN MINUTES?!"  I did not want to endure one more second of resisting the urge to get this baby out, let alone a quarter of an hour.

Fortunately, it was only about five minutes or so before Holly arrived.  Though I still could not push, she immediately walked in and asked, "Where's the birth kit?  I'll start setting it up."  Oh sweet relief - someone who knew what we were doing!  I probably would have expressed more graciousness about her arrival and willingness to be put straight to work, but I was so far in the process by this point, I could do little more than stare at the floor and offer short grunts in responses to questions.

During contractions, as Philip calmly stroked my back, assuring me I could do this, it's what my body was made to do, I was leaning forward, my face buried in a towel, whispering in my own head, "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me" [Philippians 4:13].  The reality is, focusing on the truth of this Scripture truly did ease the pain - it was not eliminated by any means, but knowing I had the strength of Christ in me would cause my toes to unfurl and my breathing to slow.  Blessed assurance!  At some point in this process, Philip also whispered a sweet prayer of relief in my ear.  What a wonderful man I have.

It was 7:45 when the birth assistant arrived, rushed into the room and announced I could let my body dictate what needed to be done, even if that meant pushing.  Glory, Hallelujah!

Only one or two contractions into the pushing process, she called Philip over to be prepared to "catch" the baby and he watched, encouraging me all the while, as first my water broke and then out poked our little baby's head.  And, then, the entire body.  I'm not going to lie, it was excruciating, but it was a couple of minutes of excruciating to end a couple of hours of nearly-unbearable, I could take that.  Also, I'm pretty sure the intensity of it was probably heard down the street, as I was urged to "grunt" during this process and I took the suggestion seriously - which somehow turned into primeval she-woman screams during those last moments - my throat is still kind of sore.  Sorry to all those in the room.

And then they were handing me my baby.  I still had not been told what we had - in the excitement of catching his off-spring, Philip had not even thought to look.  So, as the baby was passed to me, I did a quick check and it took a moment in the dim light for me to finally focus and announce, "It's a boy!"  A sweet boy. With whom I fell in love immediately.

He was born at 8am - 3 hours and 20 minutes after I had first woken up.  And the midwife wasn't even there yet.  She arrived within five minutes or so, just in time to see me holding my baby boy for the first time.

Then came the wonderful part of a homebirth - I was helped into bed, my own bed, and allowed to settle in with my son for a good two hours as every indication that a birth had just take place outside my bathroom door was whisked away by people other than myself and I was left with our room in pretty much the same condition it was when we started.

Not long after moving to the bed, we heard a small knock from inside the bedroom across the hall.  The kids had finally woken up and they heard voices - the guttural screams of their birthing mama?  No.  Just voices.  As they entered the room to meet their baby brother, Micaiah was asking if "Baby Sister Penguin" was coming, too, and Emmett was just not sure what was going on - he had just woken up after all, and was now in Mommy and Daddy's bedroom, filled with people, some strangers, some not, while Mom held a strange little baby.  He was not having it.  After breakfast, though, he was at least willing to sit on the bed and look at the "be-be."  By the time the two arrived home from church (thank you, Holly, for taking them!), he was actually pretty excited to see his new baby brother and show him his new McDonald's toy.  Such a great big brother already.

Before the midwife and her assistant headed home, they finally examined baby boy, pronouncing him 9lb 8oz (Philip actually got to hold him up as they weighed him in their sling-like scale), and 20 1/4 inches long - all his vitals were perfect.  I was stitched up (from my very small tear) and then the two headed on their way, leaving Philip and I to snuggle in bed - our own bed! - with our new baby boy (who would later be dubbed Joseph Peter - Joey).

And it wasn't even noon, yet.

And that was our epic morning.  Kudos to you if you made it through the whole thing.  I'll be back tomorrow with maybe a few more thoughts on the experience (you didn't think there could be more, did you?).  As for now, good night!

Of Trusting

God has been using this Little One, from the day he/she was first discovered to be taking up residence in my belly, to teach me what it means to truly trust in Him.

Lately, the trusting has come in the form of waiting.

As every day goes by, I less bemoan the fact that there is still a baby inside and more dread the approaching 42 week mark - the point at which I will be sent for medical intervention, ie, an induction.

Now, I know that induction is not the worst possible scenario - I've been through the Pitocin process twice before.  But it has been the exact situation we planned a homebirth to avoid.  I've endured birth via Pitocin and it has been my greatest excitement for the past 7.5 months to envision a drug-free birth.  To experience non-drug-induced contractions and allow myself the freedom to find my body's best way to birth - to experience it the way God intended.  This has been our goal, my dream.

And, yet, the clock is now ticking.  With each passing day we are that much closer to being back in the hospital, hooked up to the machines, birthing this baby the hospital's way, rather than our own.  Sigh.

On top of simply not wanting to deal with the effects of Pitocin, I also severely dread what a hospital birth will mean for our budget.  It's not cheap and we've already paid our midwives - so to pay for both, well, I'd rather not talk about it.

So I have lived in fear and anxiety for the past couple of days knowing what's coming and praying, ever praying for my will to be done.

Yet, that's not the right response.  I know that.

Yesterday God broke me, emptied me, and filled me with peace.  He reminded me of this tough lesson of trust He has already been working in me.  To say I am trusting God in this situation does not (or should not) mean I am "trusting" Him to accomplish my desired outcome it should mean I am trusting Him to work all things together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28), even if they're not how I planned them.  It's trusting Him to know what is best - even if it means Pitocin, even if it means the hospital, even it means more bills.  It's trusting Him to provide, as He always has, when undesired outcomes mean undesired fees.

So I am trusting.  I am finding peace.  This baby may well come in the next week, all on its own.  This baby may well need to be coerced (and could I blame it?  I did the same to my mother when the hospital had to tell me to come out 25 days after I was supposed to).  Only God knows.

I have no power of my own to determine when or how this baby enters the world.  And even if I did, I would continue to trust.



Photo of the Day: As we headed out the door for my midwife appointment today, Micaiah repeatedly asked Emmett, "Emmett, do you want to give me a hug?"   To which he continually replied, "Ya!" and toddled to her waiting arms.  These two are simply the cutest.

Of Preparations

While I understand this newest Little One may not make it's arrival earlier than initially expected, I also have to live in reality and realize it's not completely unreasonable that this baby could arrive literally any day over the next month.

Any day.

That seemed to finally hit me last night, as we went "homebirth shopping" (ie we took the giant list of suggested supplies from the midwives and hit up Wal-Mart for all they had).  On the list was snacks for both ourselves and for the midwives (because let's be honest, they could be there awhile).  I kept thinking we didn't really need to worry about that too much now, because we'd get things like fruit or cheese as we got closer.

That's the moment it hit me.  We are closer.  At this point, the only "closer" we'll get is when it's actually happening, and, frankly, I'm not sending my man to the grocery store for a fruit tray while this baby is working itself out.  So that was it, we have to be prepared.  We need this stuff on hand now.

Yikes.

Thus, in continued preparation, I packed up the kids this morning for a little field trip to the local fire department to have Little Bit's car seat properly installed - something I've always wanted to have done for our kids but never actually did.  So, today was the day.

I thought it would be more exciting for the kids than it was - mainly because our little girl was more interested in watching cartoons in the firehouse than actually oohing and aahing over the big trucks.  Other than the cartoons, a random stream of water pooled on the firehouse floor, which gave her a place to get her shoes wet and make footprints, was about the highlight of the morning for her.

Only a half hour later, all three car seats were snugly positioned in the middle row of our SUV - those suckers aren't budging.  Thus, as soon as I get the cover for the infant seat washed, we will be officially prepared to haul three children around town and beyond.

So here we are, not holding our breaths, but realizing we really are prepared for this baby.

Well, except for that darn crib.  It's still not assembled.  But we do own a mattress now, does that count?

Photos of the two days of preparation:

All our supplies ready and waiting in the corner of our bedroom.  The giant brown box is my "birth kit" we had to order, which contains all the little things (right down to the knit cap for baby) they typically have for a hospital birth which we'll also need here at home.  And, yes, those are adult diapers in the picture.  Don't ask how awkward those are to buy - but they were recommended.

Philip, being a good husband and inflating my birth ball.  We might not have done this task so early if I didn't need to be leaning on it to encourage this baby to face the right way (it's head down, but facing forward, whereas it will be easier on everyone if it faces my back).

This is exhausting work.  He takes good care of me!

 At the fire station, Emmett got to sit up in the big seat.  Micaiah was offered the position, as well, but she played the shy card and said she was scared.  Then proceeded to change her mind about twelve times.  The end result was no sitting in the fire truck for her.

 I'm pretty sure this was about the time she was telling me, "I want to go inside and watch cartoons."  Surrounded by cool fire trucks and that's all she can think of - nothing impresses this girl.

 Emmett had fun playing with the stream of water, too (which you can't see in this picture, but was close to where he was standing).  Again, cool uniforms to see and it's all about the puddle.  Sigh.  My kids.

 Well, at least they were excited about the "badges" and coloring books the firemen gave them.  Maybe there is hope for them yet.

Of Waiting Patiently

As of Sunday I am 37 weeks along.  That means this baby is considered full term.  This is the moment I was waiting for when I was pregnant with Micaiah.  Though at the time it had more to do with the fact that I had a wedding to attend at the end of an 8-hour road trip only 10 days after my due date.  So, having her arrive sooner rather than later was a major goal for me.

Unfortunately, being the stubborn OCD girl she is, Micaiah had that date set on her calendar and saw no need to come any earlier than was already determined.  I, however, did not yet know that aspect of my daughter's personality, so at 37 weeks, I figured I had the green light.

Every morning I awoke in anticipation - this could be the day!  And every night I went to bed with sadness - as if admitting defeat - the baby wasn't coming, I might as well go to sleep.

Things were different with Emmett - I had no scheduling conflicts to hurry him along, but he had been riding uncomfortably low for a number of months.  So by 37 weeks I was more than ready to encourage this Little Man out into the world.  And it felt as though any day could be the day.

This time, while still looking forward to our homebirth (seriously excited to see how this goes!) and, of course, holding this tiny penguin in my arms, this isn't my first rodeo.  I have a pretty good idea of how my body works and, as far it's concerned, slow and steady wins the race.  So I'm not holding my breath.  In fact, we haven't even finished shopping for the homebirth necessities as recommended by our midwives.

As with my previous two, I am probably already dilated 3-4 cm (I had been at that point for three-four weeks before either of them came - when I left the hospital after my labor stalled with Emmett, I was at a five - and stayed that way for three days before we induced him).  But I know it means nothing, so I'm not arguing with the fact that the midwives aren't checking (they, like me, know it leads to false hopes or unnecessary disappointment).

Many well-wishers keep insisting that, this being my third child, this will go so quickly and my baby will come out almost instantaneously.

I know otherwise.

Aside from my aforementioned slowness in birthing babies, I know I was a third baby.  My mom's due date was their anniversary - June 3rd.  My birthday is June 28th.  I'll let you  do the math.  And the only reason I came then is because I was induced.

So, again, I am not holding my breath.

I don't anticipate a baby in my arms any day now and I don't anticipate a one-hour labor.  If either happens, I will welcome it.  But, still, not holding my breath.

Picture of the Day:
While I understand this baby probably won't be here any minute, I am at the point where maintaining a spic-and-span home, so it's one less thing to worry about when the time comes, has become a priority.  Thus, after a day of Winter Cleaning yesterday (with windows open to allow in the 72 degrees of warmth which showered the event with an air of Spring Cleaning), it has made me happy all day to see these sights.

 Here's what you may not understand - that table and those counters have been unnecessarily cluttered since Christmas.  Not unbearable, just filled with those little things you don't know where to put so you just ignore.  And now it's a straight-shot of cleanliness.  (Not spotlessness, mind you, but it's much-improved, trust me.)

 Another bane of my existence lately.  This kitchen is typically filled with toys - as in, if I tell Micaiah to put something in her kitchen, it gets dumped in that tiny sink.  Philip spent a solid 45 minutes yesterday straightening it up.  I love that man.

Of Options

One of the selling points for taking advantage of the world of midwifery is the ability to birth the way one wants.  Truthfully, this tagline has done little to pique my interest as I never particularly felt there was a way I "wanted" to birth, other than painlessly and successfully with no complications on either end.  It wasn't until I noticed a comment regarding hypnobirthing on yesterday's post that I remembered . . . there IS a way I've always wanted to do this process.

Ever since watching a John Stossel segment on 20/20 a decade or two ago depicting women wandering the halls of the their maternity ward calmly breathing as the body prepares to push out a human being, I have been fascinated with the concept of mentally "escaping" the pain of childbirth by little more than the use of visualization and the concept of mind over matter. 

Granted, it all sounds a bit hippie-ish, but as previously established, apparently that's where I live these days.  The only thought in recent years that has put me off of the idea of hypnobirthing is the concept of looking inwardly for the power to overcome the pain, whereas I feel it is healthier for my spiritual well-being to look to Christ as my source of strength.  Now, if I can find a way to combine the two, life would be great.

Enter the midwives.  Our midwives are the only "supporting physicians" of the practice of hypnobirthing in the state of Oklahoma - a fact I discovered only this morning after a little research.  On top of which, they appear to be wonderful, God-following women.  So if these guides in the childbirth world can aid me in bringing my child into the world while also helping me to focus my mind in a manner that will allow me to rise above the pain, I'll be a happy birther.

And on an entirely un-related note, I have always been interested in public cord blood banking - donating my child's cord blood in the hopes that another child, in dire health, can make use of what would otherwise be thrown out.  I had never known how to go about doing so and it never even occurred to me to ask my OB.  I suppose when I enter the doctor's office, I expect to be told what to do and how and don't question it (stupid, I realize, but it's how the process has always felt).

With home-birthing and the use of midwives, however, the concept is always that the mother is in control of her own birth experience.  And according to some of the paperwork, cord blood banking is an option. 

In fact, there are a ton of options in the world of childbirth.  And I just never knew it.

Honestly, I'm getting a little giddy (and maybe power hungry) at the idea that I really can make my "dream birth" a reality.  Of course, my dream birth never happened on my living room floor and, at the same time, I know we can never completely control how this new little person will come into the world - but that doesn't mean I have to completely surrender my will to that of a hospital or the nurses on duty.

And that knowledge is a little freeing.