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 Our Perfect Storm

We sold our house last week.

Somewhere along the road, as we shuffled between my 39 week check-up with the midwives and gathering my mother from the airport who has graciously committed an indeterminable amount of time to helping us keep our sanity in these last days of pregnancy (as well as accepting the added perk of being here to welcome her coming grand-daughter to the world), I clicked send on the text that said, "We will accept that offer."

And our house was sold.

And a baby was going to come any day.

And there were papers to sign, inspections to schedule, loans to get rolling, and boxes to pack.

And a baby is going to come any day.

It would seem to the outsider now would be the time my head would be spinning and the stress would be almost insurmountable. I mean, I'm pretty sure the moving process and welcoming a new baby into the family are generally considered high stressors in the counseling world, and God, in His perfect wisdom, has coordinated all of these to encircle us at once.

And His wisdom is perfect.

Because where I would normally be sitting around wallowing in my pregnancy, wondering when this baby will come, counting every contraction and maybe begging a few extra foot rubs to get things moving (we are in the full-term category these days, having already surpassed the due date allotted by the midwives from the very beginning), I am, instead, grateful she has opted to stay put, allowing us time to get things moving along in the home buying/selling process. She didn't enter the world before the inspectors, appraiser, realtor, buyer and anyone else who claims to be a part of all of this came parading in and out our front door. I didn't have to sign loan paperwork in bed or tell our realtor that list of priority repairs on the new house would just have to wait.

She has given us time and this house has given me a focus on something other than the inevitable waiting for baby.

Meanwhile, while the packing process has begun, I have been able to refrain from the impulse to put anything not moving or breathing into a box, folded shut and labeled semi-neatly with a Sharpie. I can hold back simply out of necessity - my body can't do all I would normally force it to do if I knew I was moving in a month. Which is just as well, because we do kind of still need to use the things in our house. And knowing this baby will come has given me pause - time to slow down and recognize the work can get done later.

And so God, in His perfect wisdom, has coordinated these high stressors to coincide perfectly, bringing about the perfect balance between hurried work and patient waiting.

And the nerves have stayed calm and the world has carried on.

And having an extra mom in the house hasn't hurt any of it one bit ;)

God is good.

Of Savoring the Days

Just because I don't revel in small talk about my belly doesn't mean I can't blog about it, right?

In just the past few days I have come to truly relish these last precious days and weeks with this rotund protrusion that limits my ability to see my pink-painted toes (in honor of that precious girl inside).

Though I have resorted to rolling off the couch, rather than attempting to stand from a position of laying on a throw pillow, and I have to visit the bathroom much more frequently than I'd prefer (making me question why I still have no stock in toilet paper), overall I enjoy pulling a sweater over this bulging belly holding my beautiful baby. I love feeling her movements inside me and rubbing my hands over the roundness that will be mere bulge in a few weeks.

As one who has left her "family planning" up to the God of the universe, I never know which child will be my last. Though it seems unlikely my womb will close after this one enters the world, one never knows what the uncertain future holds. Thus, I hold precious every moment of this pregnancy.

Yes, I eagerly await her transition into the world and fantasize about those moments when I will push my daughter from my body and carry her tiny, wrinkly body in my arms. I long to see her face and watch her grow. But it does not mean wishing away these amazing days when she is held safe inside, cuddled by my stretching skin, nestled in my womb, where she pushes and tugs in sometimes uncomfortable ways.

These are the moments I treasure.

Of Pregnancy Chatter

In case you missed it, I sit here at 36 weeks pregnant this morning. And clearly I've reached some sort of physical threshold with this burgeoning belly, because just this last weekend the instances of "When are you due, again?" have increased greatly - as in, everyone I see asks me this question, where it used to just be the few friends who actually cared when the baby was coming and honestly couldn't remember. Now the question means, "Wow, your belly is so big, clearly you're about to go into labor right here and I'm kind of hoping I'm not here when it happens - so just let me know if things start to feel weird and I'll bug out."

I'm 36 weeks pregnant.

For the record, that leaves me at a month away from my due date (or week, because a date is just unnecessary false hope) and, for further record, if this baby is anything like my last, I'm really about five or six weeks away from delivering (which puts me at four weeks away from, "Still in there?!" - no, I just like carrying basketballs under my shirt, it's so much more efficient). Which means six weeks of telling anyone and everyone I meet when this baby is supposed to come, it's a girl, no we don't have a name (at least not one we're sharing yet) and I'm still feeling ok and how excited we are or how ready I am for this even to transpire.

And can I be honest?

Half of what I say is a load of poo. I don't really mean it - I'm trying to gauge how you want me to respond so this umpteenth conversation about my pregnancy can end as quickly as possible. I'll tell you I feel ok because you don't want to hear about my woes, my sleepless nights or the bladder that's killing me. Conversely, if I can tell you think it's time this pregnancy were over, I'll totally agree and say I'm miserable, which I'm not, really, just a little uncomfortable sometimes. I'll say we're excited if you seem excited or say I'm nervous if you seem apprehensive about the fact that we're bringing home a fourth baby a mere few weeks after our youngest turns two (and I won't dare admit how excited I am that that's our largest gap between babies). Honestly, I just want you to go away and stop focusing on the protruding belly between us.

It's not that I don't love you. I do. I'm just done. This ain't my first rodeo and this fourth round of pregnant small talk is killing the introvert inside (ok, let's be honest, I hated it the first time) who yearns for deep conversation of any kind and does not thrive on the platitudes of well-meaning strangers and acquaintances. I understand this globe of a stomach is an obvious conversation starter but if you have nowhere to go from there, maybe just keep walking. I'd be ok with that, really.

And if you must address the elephant in the room, I'd recommend a simple, "We're looking forward to meeting her!", maybe a friendly belly rub (if you're daring - I know some moms hate it and, yes, it's awkward, but I'm totally used to it by now and at least makes me feel as though the my belly isn't an unwelcome addition to the room) and be done. No questions, no anecdotes about your sister's boyfriend's cousin who went two months past her due date (it's not helpful), just some loving encouragement.

Thank you and have a nice day.

This message brought to you by your friendly neighborhood pregnant lady.

Of Our Non-Expendable Brood

As we await the long-coming arrival of Baby #4 to our growing flock, I recognize we have crossed a threshold - in fact, we crossed it back in 2011, when our youngest had just turned one, our oldest was still yet two and we learned our third was on the way, the point at which the question on everyone's lips subtly changes to, "So, are you planning to have more?" to "So, do you think you're done?"

And whether real or imagined, there is a definitive sense of judgment in our culture toward those populating the earth with more than the allotted 2.5 children. Sometimes I feel the weight of those questioning eyes, with my burgeoning belly and three little ones scurrying underfoot as we head to the library or the grocery store.

Yet, I watch my children playing, all seated together on the floor engrossed in a book or huddled into the plastic Fisher Price tree house out back, and as I melt in their large brown eyes I ask myself this question, "Which of these would I give up so as to have a socially acceptable amount of off-spring?"

Would it be the fiery strawberry blonde? Maybe it would have been nice to have waited just a little longer before starting our family - more time for my husband and I to have to ourselves as 'just us' before taking the deeper plunge from marriage into family. We could have traveled. We could have indulged in couple time and spare change. But then, where would our boys be without their big sister to lead the way? And who would impress me with the compassion she shows for others or her aptness for learning?

Or maybe it would be that middle one. Perhaps it would have been nice to have that longer gap - breathing room between Micaiah and Joey? But then, what would I do without my sweetly sensitive, yet rough and tumble little boy with that insatiable curiosity? And with whom would Micaiah have "camp-overs" in the living room or play hide-and-seek throughout the house? Joey isn't quite old enough for that, yet.

Well, then there's that, maybe we'd just give up that youngest one. He doesn't do much to contribute to the family, yet. Perhaps we could have enjoyed those first two a little longer if we'd spaced it out a tad. But, then, whose mischievous grin would break my stressful days? Or who would climb in my lap every time I sat on the floor to be with the other two?  Who would stand next to me in the kitchen, waiting to help, as I prepare meals? Who would offer Emmett the joy of having a brother and future games of cowboys and Indians or catch in the yard?

Then again, maybe we should have just been done after three. That's a perfectly acceptable number. But then, what would I do, on those long days, without the refreshing kicks, tiny reminders of life inside and the purpose I hold? Where would be that hope of a baby sister for our eldest - something of which she has long dreamed?

Where would we be, as a family, if any one of us were missing - had never even existed? Perhaps we'd be just fine. But seeing where we are now, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know God has formed our family perfectly, and I have a strong sense he's not finished with us yet. Which is just fine - because he seems to have done a wonderful job of putting just the right tiny souls into our wonderful little mix at just the right times.  Perhaps not every family is meant for this kind of blossoming - their perfect number may be smaller than ours - but I am so grateful for all we have been given, and all that is yet to come.

Of Naming the Baby

Conversations out of nowhere:

M: "I think we should name the baby Anna."
E: "I think it should be Emily."
M: "Anna!"
E: "Emily!"
M: "Anna!"
[after multiple rounds of this . . .]
E: "Maybe it could be Anna Emily."
M: "No! . . . . Maybe it could be Emily when she's bad. Like, 'Anna Emily Rowland.'"

First of all, I have no idea how they decided on these names. We have not really discussed naming the baby, especially not with the kids, nor have either of those been mentioned by anyone in our house in such a context (Micaiah's go-to toy name is Sally). Second, the spontaneous middle-name compromise of Emmett was an overall surprise - I would have never expected him to think of combining the two names. Third, I love how Micaiah presents her solution as though she had not just heard that two seconds before.

These children surprise us always.  We kind of like them.

Of More Milestones

Our home has reached a few milestones in just 24 hours.

The first occurred yesterday evening when we flushed Micaiah's first pet (well the first that belonged to just her). However, lest you be concerned for her overall emotional state, she still hasn't even realized poor Embien's demise. I thought, certainly, our little observant one would be sure to notice a gaping hole on her art table where once her colorful fish sat. But, no. She colored quite happily this morning with no mention of a missing fish. I'm thinking she'll handle the grieving process just fine when his death has finally been uncovered.

It's a sign of maturity (I'm sure). Besides, we ordered her Kindergarten curriculum this morning (she sure is growing up fast!), so, clearly, this big girl can handle saying good-bye to a floating creature to whom she rarely gave more than a passing glance (right?).

And we reached yet another milestone last night in the development of our newest member of the family. We reached the point in the pregnancy when Fred had to make his appearance. Fred is my candy-cane shaped body pillow which eases the transition for this belly-sleeper into the side-sleeping position when the belly starts getting in the way. I really thought I'd be able to last longer without Fred in my bed, but it turns out, just as I'm transitioning out of the first trimester, his time has come.

Philip is really a good sport about this giant interloper in our sleeping/cuddling space (though, let's be honest, I'm not much of a cuddler so Fred isn't much to blame in the lack of pre-sleep snuggle in our home), though as I hugged my sleeping buddy for the first time in over two years, my living/breathing partner had to grumpily declare, "Wipe that silly grin off your face!" Yeah, Fred definitely gets a lot more snuggles than my patient husband. But we all know who I really love, so it's alright.

After all, Fred doesn't change diapers or cook me dinner when the morning sickness settles in.

Of Getting Used to Things (Again)

I got in the shower yesterday and, as usual, was careful to turn the water temperature down so as to not overheat the little one in my belly.  And then I remembered - there is no little one in my belly.  It's just me now.

After so many months of accommodating for an extra person, it gets hard to remember there is no longer a little one taking up residence inside of me.

I no longer have an awkward gap between my husband and I when we hug.  I no longer have to counterbalance when standing up.  I can bend over without squashing a little one and I can sit on the floor without needing assistance to stand (or, I will be able to, shortly, when my body has fully recovered from the recent delivery of said little person).

On the one hand, having my body back in my full possession is nice.  On the other hand, it suddenly feels so empty.  There are no longer sporadic kicks from within.  When my little guy has the hiccups, I can now only hear them, whereas I used to feel every one.  And this little one is no longer under my constant protection.

The one has become two - and it's definitely a strange feeling.

Photos of the Day: I spent the morning in bed with this little cutie.

Then, his brother and sister came in to say hello.

Totally in love with this guy (and the other wonderful members of my family).

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 Relishing the Moments

It was another day of savoring these final moments/days/weeks (who knows?) with our older kids before Mommy's attention gets unfairly directed toward the wee one who will require time for feeding and the constant protection of, "Please don't poke the baby!"

Thus, after a relaxing morning wherein Daddy took kid duty and allowed me as much time as I needed for rest, breakfast in bed (again!) and even time to do my hair (while the kids were awake - this is quite the treat!), I was refreshed enough to instigate a painting session - as we often hear Micaiah announce, "I want to paint!" and generally respond with, "Not today, sweetheart."  In fact, I'm not sure why she keeps trying because, before today, I honestly do not recall the number of months since she last had the opportunity - especially with a brush, which, apparently, was really important to her.

And so she spent her morning plastering the pages with red, pink, white and purple paint (in honor of Valentine's Day, of course).  Emmett had a little less canvas time as he insisted on sticking the brush in his mouth, despite our pleas not to, and had to be pacified by his friend Diego (as in Dora's cousin) while his sister continued on in the endeavor from which he was so traumatized to be pulled away.

Before dinner I had the opportunity to play catch with both of our kids.  Loved getting to hear Emmett exclaim, "Ca, Momma!" before chucking his ball in my direction and also loved seeing both of our children actually catching the ones tossed to them.  Granted their rate of actually grasping the thrown ball vs. chasing it down after it bounced off their chests was rather low, but I'm still impressed.

Finally, before bed-time we all gathered around the ottoman (Mommy refused the request to play on the floor, thank you very much) for Candy Land, Memory and Hi Ho Cherry-O - and it was the first time since we bought the games a couple of years ago that Micaiah actually understood not only the premise of each game, but what it meant to win and how to actually accomplish the goal.  She downright spanked us in Memory and Candy Land and loved putting her cardboard cherries in the basket for our final game.  Emmett, meanwhile, reveled in playing the role of game assistant, whether that meant drawing and dispersing the cards for everyone in Candy Land, being the keeper of Micaiah's pairs in Memory, or pushing the spinner for Hi Ho Cherry-O, he was quite the little helper.

Overall, a great day - time well-spent with our precious toddlers.

Of Belonging

Over the years, here and there, Satan has hit me in my lowest points of insecurity to convince me I am an outcast.  No one cares and in my social circles I am merely tolerated.  These are the lies with which I have been attacked and to which, in helpless moments, I have succumbed.

If anything, God has used this "overdue" Little One to show Philip and I just how much we are loved, by Him and His Family.  We have felt, in just the past week - the week of waiting, watching and hoping - the love of Our Father through the words of encouragement and affirmation, the acts of service and the most unnecessary tangible gifts of those surrounding us.  Our family, our friends, the hands and feet of God Himself.

His perfect timing has allowed us to be showered upon with an acceptance and love we have been told by the enemy didn't exist.  This a blessing greater than any due date or early arrival could have ever produced.

We appreciate every one of you and are so humbled to know you are there to lift us up as we stumble through this period of waiting, simply waiting.

And the ice cream hasn't hurt, either.

Photos of the Day:  This is how I spent my morning and post-lunch/pre-nap hour - snuggling with my two Big Kids who dragged their blankets and pillows to the couch all on their own and settled in with me uninvited (but so welcome):

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 Repetition

It seems to me every day, of late, is the same.

I wake up with the realization, though not the expectation, that Baby could arrive today.  For some reason it always feels, though, if it hasn't started by then, it won't happen until evening, at which point the baby will, realistically, most likely, arrive the next day.  Perhaps this is why the expectation is not real.

I piddle through the day, delaying activities until "after the baby comes," trying to keep the kids busy and the house clean, "just in case."  I realize I don't know what we're having for dinner.  I'm out of grocery money because, frankly, I thought by now we'd be living off the food I've been hoarding in the freezer for the past month and a half.  Thus, it's a rummage in the pantry for anything we have not yet devoured and then a creative search through the recipe box in my head, and then allrecipes.com if nothing has yet come to mind.  All the while, I eye, with lust, the frozen bags of soups and chilis, casseroles and meatloaves, wishing we could just break into them because I'm so tired of cooking right now.

Sometime in the late evening, I begin to have odd feelings in my abdomen.  Not usually contractions, though those are typically sprinkled in, but just feelings that something may be happening.  Baby starts pulling it's ninja moves it must have inherited from Daddy, as though it's trying to find some alternate exit besides the one it is so clearly avoiding.

I go to bed thinking, surely these pains, this increased movement, these different feelings must mean something - something will surely be happening tonight.  But for now, I must rest - I need to save up my strength.

And then, the next morning, like a pregnant version of "Groundhog Day," I awake - realizing, I've still "got you, Babe" and my body back to feeling normal - or, at least, it's new normal, since the day the baby dropped and I feel like I'm the penguin - the awkwardly uncomfortable penguin.

So, here we are.

Another day, another contraction, and a whole lot of nothin'.

PS I shall return later with my Photo of the Day, stay posted.


PPS As promised . . . Our evening activities included this:

Stressing over baby names is also a part of the daily routine - it's more of a background theme.  Don't worry, Philip vetoed all those listed above.

Of Nothing

Yeah, so I may be drowning myself in a bowl of Kettle Corn while watching Babies on Netflix.

And this may be how we spent the day (again) - minus the dirty face, that was Daddy's job:

What of it?

Of the Unbirthday

This is officially the furthest I have ever made it into a pregnancy.  Our son was co-erced into the world a week early (thanks to extenuating circumstances) and our beloved daughter was born promptly on the morning of her due date. So, the evening of this one's precise due date is as long as I've ever gone with a baby inside me.  And I'm doing alright.

My wonderful sister-in-law blessed me with chocolate ice cream in honor of the day.  And I was sprinkled with "labor dust" via Facebook (I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds like fun).  It's almost like my birthday - which is ironic, considering it's most likely my baby's unbirthday.

I woke up this morning loving how gorgeous our house was and kind of sad our baby didn't come through the night so the house could be enjoyed by someone else.  Thus, dreading the destruction of our cleanliness by our hyperactive children (not that they're little terrorists - because they're really pretty awesome), I was shameless this morning in pulling out the iPad to distract our little ones from the lure of toys which are currently stowed in their snug little homes.  Between the iPad and Toy Story 3, it totally worked.  I now sit in a spotless living room that has not been touched by a single toy today.  I know, it's sad.  But I'm choosing, for now, to not feel guilty.

I may feel guilty if I choose the same course of action every day until Arrival Day - we'll see.

Emmett loves to climb up onto the love seat these days.  And when he noticed I was taking his picture, he turned on the "Cheese!"

Captivated by Buzz and Woody.

When "Dia" came over, she was asked to play the role of the puppy by our wonderful daughter.  Emmett decided to take advantage and, after shoving her into the living room, chose to use her as his personal dog sled.

Micaiah wearing Daddy's sweater.

And then I had to include this photo, because Emmett couldn't let someone have their picture taken without "Cheese"-ing in.  And then he looked kind of evil - in the cutest way.

Of Getting Ready (Still)

Tomorrow is officially my "due date."  I'm not hinging any hopes on it, but the house is finally spic and span once again, leaving me without that dreaded feeling of, "If the baby comes tonight, we're going to have to do a quick cleaning before the midwives get here!"  Not that they'd care, but I would.  So now we're good.  For tonight anyway.

Just another item on that list of things to do before Baby comes - a list I think is complete every day, until I do one more thing "I'd been meaning to do."  On tomorrow's list: bake another loaf of homemade bread.

Anyway, here I am, the night before my due date, loving the roundness of this belly.  Seriously, my baby bellies aren't usually that cute, so this one, with it's basketball-like features, is making me kind of happy.

And since I missed yesterday's photos of the day, here is the picnic Micaiah prepared for she, Emmett and Daddy.  Notice the minuscule blanket they all get to share.  I love it!

Of Cuteness in Chaos

It's the one thing every parent knows they shouldn't do - encouraging their kids in their misbehavior.  But sometimes you just have to be glad that you're in the kitchen, facing away when your daughter responds to your husband's insistence that she eat her dinner with the response, "Ugh [with the disdain of a teenager, truly], why you keep telling me that?!"  In this way, when you begin to burst out in silent laughter, she can't see the permanent grin on your face.

Other times, it's a little harder to hide.  Like when your son, who was just seen streaking through the living room with an uncapped marker in hand, gets called back in the room by, once again, your husband, and the little guy sheepishly waddles back in, shoulders hunched, face with devilish grin and marker gripped by fists held close to his face, elbows clinched to his sides, in a definite, "I'm so naughty, but I'm too darn cute to ignore" stance.  Moments like these you try to hide the giggles with a hand over your mouth and poker eyes, but I'm pretty sure the distinct bouncing of laughter is still determinable by a nineteen-month-old.

Like I've told Philip before: Cute kids - that's going to be our downfall as parents.

Photo of the Day: Aunt Dayla came to spend a little time in the evening (a rare treat from that busy lady!).  Emmett turned to her to read the Elmo book when Mommy got tired of it - because it's not so much a story-book as a book of Christmas carols - that he insists be sung over and over again.

 "What are you doing, Mommy?"

PS We received GREAT news today - while this Little Penguin is still hanging out on the side of my belly thanks to that pesky placenta, it is no longer considered posterior!  Glory Hallelujah!

Of Taking it Easy

I feel I may have, unintentionally, misled a few folks.  By talking of this baby arriving "any day now" for over a week now, I meant to be more understanding of the fact that a "due date" is really a guesstimate and the baby could, realistically, arrive at any point two weeks before or after (well, clearly, earlier or later is possible, as well, but as far as the general world of birthing babies is concerned, a two week buffer is pretty typical).

However, I have apparently given others the impression that this baby should have come out at least a week ago and by now I'm clearly just running late and need to be doing marathon power-walking sessions, booking pedicures and employing every known labor-inducing trick in the book (and most of those not in the books).

So let me clear a few things up.

Today was the date our ultrasound showed, at Week 20, as a projected "ready" date for this little one.  However, our "official" date remains (since day one) February 6th.  So, as of right now, I'm not even considered overdue - I am 39 and a half weeks along.  Our midwives will allow me to gestate until my 42nd week, at which point I will be sent to the hospital for some "encouragement" of medical means.

This means, I have, in theory, until February 20th for Penguin to enter the world at his or her own pace.  Thus, while, in theory, he/she could arrive "any day now" - it would not be pushing it if this little one stayed tucked inside for another nineteen days.

And, quite frankly, the fact that they draw the line so close to my due date actually makes me a little sad because it would make me downright giddy inside to have a Leap Day baby.  Yes, I recognize that would be four more weeks of waddling - but for a Leap Day baby, I would so do it.  Though, knowing my stubborn and independent children, I would endure the physical discomfort those extra weeks only to have this Penguin pop out on February 27th.  But none of that conjecturing even matters, because the midwives won't let it happen.  Sadly.

All this to say, yes Baby is still inside.  Yes, I am contracting at a ridiculous (though very unsteady) rate.  No, there are no further signs anything is going to happen soon.  And until there are, I'm going to keep going about my life.  After two days of "waiting" - as though I were good for nothing other than sitting on the couch and willing this baby to come out - I'm done.  This baby can come when he or she is ready, but I'm not going to stop life in its tracks until it happens.

And that's that.

Photo of the Day: When I entered their room after nap-time, Micaiah and Emmett were settled next to each other on her bed, where she was reading them The Berenstain Bears.  When I attempted to address them, I was told, "I'm reading the bears, Mommy."  Neither of them were at all interested in me and neither gave any indication of moving.  So, I let them be and continued with dinner prep.  It was pretty adorable.

Also, Emmett was alternating between, "Teese!" and watching Sissy intently.  And every time I put the camera down he would do the sign for "More" and beg, "More teese!"  I love it!

Of a Lazy Day

Today was a lazy day in our house.  I was telling myself it would be convenient if the baby came tomorrow because today just felt like a Friday and I'm ready to stay home with my family for a little while.  Alas, it most likely isn't so.

Either way, my waking way earlier than my body really wanted to and feeling rather uncomfortable when doing anything other than sitting or reclining (I'm pretty sure if this baby dropped any lower, that would be what they in the medical profession like to call "birth" - it seriously can't have anywhere else to go), led to a morning of whatever would keep the kids distracted so I could lay on the couch reading a magazine and, all-around, not moving.

Thus, Micaiah spent the hours before lunch doing one of her ultimate favorite activities: playing on the iPad; and when Emmett got bored of looking over her shoulder, he begged for Dora - and I happily obliged.

The evening has been filled with game playing and contraction counting - which is quite a fruitless activity as they are anything but regular (or intense) - which actually renders them annoying at this stage.  If you're not bringing a baby into the world, I don't want to deal with you - go away (that's what I say to those lame Braxton-Hicks).

So, we keep waiting - not really anxiously - we're not to the point of pulling out every old wives' tale in the book to encourage labor.  Just waiting.  Knowing it will come.  Someday.  But not today.

Also on the agenda today, apparently, Emmett added knocking himself silly.  I truly think he was trying to get a concussion (a plan which, fortunately, failed).  This is the photo after his first goose egg of the morning (it looks like a shadow on his forehead in this picture, but it's not, it's a ginormous bruise), when he tripped while toting in a stool for sitting to watch his beloved Dora.  The second (not pictured), landed in a direct line above the first when he tried to bend over near the entertainment center and banged his head on the edge.  This kid needs a helmet, clearly.

This picture encompasses the most work I did all day, de-seeding three pomegranates - my first experience with the fruit - ever.  It made me feel exotic, encouraging the blood-red seeds from their rind and, later, adding a few to my yogurt.  Quite a pleasure, indeed.

Of Another Day

Today was just another day in this house - another day of waiting and of living life as we know it.  The TV was off and the kids just played.  And this is how it went.

- Micaiah and Emmett spent the morning alternating between drawing and arguing over toys - sometimes, when they wanted the same markers or same paper, they combined the two activities.  And, yet, I still heard Micaiah announce, "I draw Emmett.  And it has two eyes and a mouth and two hands, just like Emmett."  As she was showing it to me, she added hair.  

- During a coloring break, Micaiah decided to rest on the hearth.  She pulled her blanket from her room and settled in.  As Emmett waddled in, trailing his own blanket and pillow, she announced, "We're camping out!"

- Nap time, as has been known to happen lately, began with 45 minutes of Mommy continually re-entering the room for another round of spankings and, "Lay down; stay in bed; go to sleep!"  The stress brought on unnecessary uterine contractions, which threw me into a whole different kind of tizzy.  An afternoon bath, though, calmed both my muscles and my mind.  And baby is settled in for just a little longer.

- Every member of this household had his/her first encounter with Brussels Sprouts this evening - and, surprisingly, it was not even traumatic for three out of the four.  The fourth had a difficult time grasping the concept that as a result of his not eating he would be denied a cookie - that actually doesn't happen often for him (and, no, it wasn't Philip).

- After dinner, Micaiah requested to play her "Somic Game" - and my quick, "Just a minute," to hush her away while I read something was mis-interpreted as consent.  But she was so excited, I just couldn't inform her of her error.  So, she played.  And by "played" I mean, she held the remote as Sonic the Hedgehog sped across the screen in the demo version which plays as it waits for someone to push "Start" - she never pushes "start" - she just watches him run.  And when he completes his goal, she cries, "I won!  I won!"  Meanwhile, Emmett stands by to offer pointers.

- And when she tired of this, Daddy got to play his "Boy Game", while the children watched in amazement and enacted, with much vigor, their own fighting off of the giant monsters.  They're good helpers.

And that was our day.  Nothing amazing, just an ordinary day - filled with wonder, joy, tears, anger, hugs and laughter.  Just another day.