One of the best days of my life

The night before my kids' birthdays, I have a tradition (I'd say I keep it up maybe... 90% of the time?) where I go into their rooms before they fall asleep and tell them the story of their birth. I don't know if they all love it, but I do know that when I went in and started telling Lars his birth story last night, Theo sat up and said "This is my favorite thing!" He also loves watching the birthday videos I used to make for them (tagged in this blog under "birthday babies").

So anyway, Lars was due on June 14, which was a Tuesday. I was in charge of a large children's choir that performed in our stake conference (a stake is several wards or congregations, and we all meet together twice a year) on June 12. I wanted so badly for my baby to hang on until after the choir performance. We had a few Saturday practices, and the kids sounded SO good in our practices. They sang "If the Savior Stood Beside Me," "We'll Bring the World His Truth," and a medley of "Called to Serve" and "I Will Be Valiant." Anyway, so on Saturday, June 11, I came home from our morning rehearsal and flopped on the couch. I was SO tired. I don't remember what else I did that day, but I think I mostly stayed on the couch because I was so determined not to go into labor!

I woke up at 5:00 a.m. on Sunday, June 12, with some serious contractions. I knew, I KNEW today was going to be the day. I got up, showered, got dressed, walked around, swayed back and forth. I went to the stake center. Contractions kept coming. The kids sang their song. It was so good. I honestly can't remember if the contractions stopped during the performance or if I just breathed through them. But for the remainder of the conference, I walked the halls of the stake center, because it hurt to much to stay seated.

We went home, had lunch, I cut out bunting triangles for the kids' rooms while watching Charlotte's Web with the kids. Later, I watched Matchstick Men by myself while cutting out bunting. We called Hannah and Robbie, who were going to come for dinner, and let them know that I might be going to the hospital at some point and to pack a bag (to stay with Theo and Ida) just in case.

Matt made dinner. It was chicken in a creamy mustard sauce, a recipe that I loved (and still love)(Why do I remember what we ate for dinner that day?... funny) but could barely choke down. I excused myself and went to Ida's room to try to get through some contractions without everyone looking at me.

Eventually I told Matt, "Yep, this is it." At which point he and I went upstairs, leaving Hannah and Robbie to put the kids to bed.

My doula, Nicole, came over. She helped me into the shower. She convinced me to walk around and rock my hips in circles, while all I wanted to do was lie on my side and cry (which is what I did during most of Ida's labor). Finally around 9 p.m. we left for the hospital. We took Nicole's car, which I think Matt drove, while Nicole sat in the backseat with me. (I could be wrong about that.) It was a 30-minute drive. We got to the hospital, checked in, went to triage. My doctor was in Fredericksburg at a family reunion. I got put in a delivery room. Lars was born at 10:35 p.m., an hour after we had checked in and about 10 minutes after the doctor arrived. Matt caught him. He put Lars on my chest, and I can see this visual better than almost any visual memory in my memory bank: Lars opened his left eye (right eye squeezed shut) and screamed in my face.

Once we got all cleaned up and settled in a recovery room, I was starved. I had barely eaten all day. It was probably midnight by then, and every restaurant nearby (in Leesburg, which is kinda boonies-ish) was closed. The hospital cafeteria was closed too. A nurse found me an American cheese sandwich that was in a bag somewhere, honestly I don't know where it was from but it was so bad and so dry. I barely slept that night. We knew his name would be Lars, it was our top name, although Linus was a close second choice.

Oh, that was such a good day!

Thanks for ICAN

I go way back with ICAN. (International Cesarean Awareness Network) I went to my first meeting in 2008 and I’ve stayed connected ever since. I learned a lot after having my C-section, and I did have to forgive myself for not knowing it all already. I’m thankful for the birth community and the C-section community, for the online and in-person relationships and conversations over the years, associations that have blessed my life for sure.

Thanks for the birth pros

You probably know the saga of my births. My first birth was rough. Matt and I didn’t have enough help or knowledge to get through that experience without regrets. So with my second, third, and fourth pregnancies I went to the ends of the earth (basically) to find people to help me have the birth I wanted.

Every birth was different, and in the end they were out of my hands and into God’s, and I’m thankful for all of them. And I’m incredibly thankful for the many doctors, nurses, midwives, and doulas who helped us over the years. Polly’s is the most recent, so here (above) is a picture of me with the midwife, doula, and nurse who helped us through that crazy morning. They were all so great. What a wonderful day.

Polly's big day.

I don't want to wait too long to write Polly's birth story. I feel like the most accurate birth story I wrote was Lars's, which I wrote the day after his birth. Theo's and Ida's I wrote several weeks after the fact, and by then I'd forgotten a lot.

Word of warning: this is kinda detailed--though I've left the goriest details out--so if you're squeamish about childbirth and bodies and stuff, you'll probably want to skip this particular post.

A few weeks before my due date, I started being extra grumpy and demanding. I was having painful contractions, but they were not close enough together to mean anything. I felt exhausted all the time and could barely make it up stairs. I had no energy to do any of the things I wanted to do. I forced myself to go for long walks with Lars and to the rec center to swim laps, both of which helped. When the oak tree in front of our house started shedding its weird little furry things, allergies took over and I was 100% miserable. Finally on my midwife's advice I started taking Zyrtec and magically felt much better, if a little groggy. I slept all night and was also forced to nap every afternoon since the Zyrtec made me so sleepy.

By the time my mom arrived, I was not only feeling better, I was also feeling more energetic. I was still convinced that my baby would be so late that the birth would barely overlap with my mom's visit. So I decided I needed to take steps: I was going to force this baby out. The day she arrived, I had walked three miles, mostly uphill, pushing Lars in the stroller. 

The next day was Saturday. She and I went to Theo's baseball game, then Ida's swim lesson, then for a two-mile walk around the neighborhood. When we got back and I was still feeling discouraged about labor ever happening, my mom suggested I start a project. I decided a good project would be mounting some shelves and reading lamps on the boys' bedroom wall next to their beds. Soon enough it became apparent that this project was almost exclusively going to be Matt's, so since Matt wasn't the one who needed to go into labor, I got out some paint and began painting the basement stairway. When that project ended, I painted part of the boys' bedroom ceiling. When I got tired of painting I moved outside, where the kids were all playing with the neighbors, and I spent a couple of hours transplanting some old flowers and planting some new flowers. I raked and mowed the lawn. I watered all the outdoor plants. I cleaned up debris from the side yard. 

Finally I came in and got the little kids ready for bed. (Theo and Matt were at Theo's swim practice.) When Ida was almost asleep I remembered I had wanted to use the leftover stairway paint for touchups in her room, so I turned her light back on and did the touch-ups while she sleepily chatted to me about her day.

Matt and Theo got home, Theo went to bed, and Matt and my mom sat talking on the couch while I vacuumed and then made cookies. We all joked about how hard I was trying to induce labor. Finally we went to bed a little before midnight. At 1:45 I woke up to painful contractions. I wondered, "Is this it?? Could walking and painting and mowing the lawn and vacuuming and making cookies possibly have worked??" But the contractions were unevenly spaced and I wasn't sure they were doing anything. I tried to fall back asleep and couldn't. I went downstairs and sat on the yoga ball through a few contractions. I ate a cookie, which made me feel sick. Contractions seemed to be getting a little worse, but not any closer together, and I was lonely and tired downstairs, so I headed back up with the ball.

By 4 a.m. I decided to wake Matt up and tell him this was it. He got up and got dressed, talked me through my contractions, called the doula, and gave me a blessing. I finished packing my hospital bag. Nicole arrived by 6ish. I still wasn't sure what kind of labor this was going to be because the contractions still seemed so far apart to me, and they were really painful but I was totally lucid and aware and talking in between. She had me try a few things, standing up and doing hip circles instead of sitting on the ball by the bed with my head on a pillow (which I had been doing for all the contractions by that point). I started to cry. Matt went downstairs to wake up my mom. By the time he got back, Nicole suggested that we should leave. She called the midwife and let her know we were coming. I still thought I might have an entire day of labor in front of me because I felt so present and aware, unlike in my previous labors when I felt out of control and out of sync with reality.

As a side note, I really loved my doula. She was the same one who helped me during Lars's labor. She told me exactly what to do the entire time, how to vocalize, how to move, and for someone who felt a little bit paralyzed with fear (as I did) this was so important. I can't emphasize enough how critical it was for me to have such a supportive doula in order to get through contractions. I wonder if that's why these contractions felt so much more manageable and why I was so lucid in between.

We arrived at the hospital by 7 a.m. and checked in. Walking in felt so weird because I could feel the baby moving down. I had already told both Nicole and Matt that I was nervous about letting the baby move down. I guess it's funny that I got so nervous about birth happening, since the previous day I had been doing everything I could possibly think of to make it happen. I had a big contraction in the elevator and the woman standing next to me smiled and congratulated me.

We made it into the room--after I signed several forms using what felt like all of my strength to form the letters of my name--and people started sticking needles and IV locks in me and putting monitors on me. The labor nurse was the cheeriest, happiest woman I think I've ever met. The midwife was one of my favorites (I went to a large group practice with I think 7 or 8 midwives) and I was glad she'd be the one helping me. I found out a few minutes later that she had to leave, but the one replacing her was my other favorite. Everyone was so encouraging the whole time. The nurses, the midwives, the OB-GYN resident (or was she a student? no idea) who had come in to observe and help. Everyone kept telling me that the baby's heartbeat sounded great (which I loved because during my past labors I hardly remember thinking about the baby, I could only focus on the contractions). The baby felt low and I wanted to push but it seemed way too soon. I told them that and they all encouraged me to do whatever I felt like and that when it was time to push I would know.

Someone asked if I wanted to get into the tub. I knew that waterbirth was an option but I hadn't really thought about whether I wanted to try it. I still had no idea how far along I was in labor so I thought I'd try out the tub for a bit. It felt pretty good. The midwife checked me (7 centimeters) and said it was probably still early to push but to go with whatever felt right. The midwife and nurse both asked me if I wanted to have the baby in the tub and I couldn't decide, but I guess I decided by default by just not getting out. I made it through several more contractions in the tub, and slowly I started partially pushing through them. After one ridiculously long (it felt about 3 times as long as the previous ones--maybe it was a few contractions in a row with no break, I don't know) I began pushing for real. Once my water broke, Nicole and Matt supported my arms and I began the last few pushes. 

On the second to last push, the baby's head came about halfway out before the contraction ended, and that, my friends, was the weirdest sensation I've ever had. I was still so lucid and it struck me how crazy it was that I was squatting there in a tub, surrounded by people, with my baby's head halfway out. One final push got her head and body out all at once. Matt grabbed her and handed her to me. (He told me later that her face was under water for about 3 seconds between her actual birth and when I held her in my arms.) They wanted her head out of the water for air, but her body in for warmth, and I was shaking with relief and disbelief, so I really didn't have the strength to hold her out in front of me and check whether she was a boy or a girl. So I just held her for a few moments until someone (Matt, I guess?) helped me hold her out so I could look. I saw that she was a girl and started crying. My first thought was how happy Ida would be to have a sister.

It wasn't quite 9 a.m., and only a few hours before, I had been baking cookies and vacuuming and painting and frantically worrying that the baby wouldn't arrive before my mom had to go back to California. Not only did she come, but she came on her due date, on Mothers Day, after the best (still painful but so much better than the others) labor I'd ever had. And she was a girl. And my third Sunday baby in a row. (All my VBACs were Sunday babies. awesome) 

I couldn't love Matt more and I couldn't love Polly more and I couldn't love any of my sweet babies more, than I did in that moment when I held Polly for the first time and knew for real that I wouldn't actually be pregnant forever (there went my Guinness Book of World Records plans); that labor wouldn't last forever; that sometimes life is hard and then all of a sudden for a few minutes it is easy; that sometimes I just get blessings without having done anything at all to deserve them; and that I would never forget this beautiful, perfect Mothers Day.

Happy Mother's Day

I'll write down Baby Girl's birth story soon, before I forget the details. For now I'll just say that today (her birth day) has been my favorite Mothers Day yet.

Close-up

Theo's birth day

Ida's birth day

Lars's birth day

Hanging out in bed for 2 days straight has given me ample time for thinking ("a dangerous pastime" "I know")(children of the '90s? anyone?). In particular last night I was thinking about letting go. I have 3 somewhat different childbirth experiences to reminisce about and they all had to do with letting go--of my expectations, worries, tension. In all 3 experiences but particularly the last 2, I was most successful when I was able to completely forget everything except for what was going on at the moment.

Not too many people aside from midwives, nurses, doctors, and husbands have the...shall we say, unique opportunity...of witnessing another person who has completely let go in that way. I was thinking on Sunday night that during labor and birth, unlike the rest of my life, I have zero inhibitions about how I act or look. None. I didn't glance in a mirror at all for most of Sunday and didn't discover (or care) until later that I had raccoon eyes and old-lady hair. I said exactly what I was thinking as soon as I thought it--or as soon as I could catch my breath to say it. Then there's the whole issue of involuntary movements. It's so funny how much a woman who is completely in labor can be like a tiny child. The thing I probably said the most throughout this labor was "Help me. I need you!"

My favorite book about childbirth is Birthing from Within by Pam England. I didn't discover this book until I was pregnant with Ida--my pregnancy with Theo was marked by books like HypnoBirthing by Marie Mongan, which is a lovely concept but just didn't work for me. Calling contractions "surges" and visualizing blue satin ribbons on a cloud of strawberry mist did absolutely nothing for me when it came to getting through pain and fear. But what did help was the line that I think sums up Pam England's book:

Labor is hard work--it hurts--and you can do it.

I think that's true of everything that's difficult in life. Facing the facts that (a) something is hard and (b) I can do it, works so much better for me than saying it's not as hard as it is, or saying that I can't do it. And I also think that letting go of how I think something is supposed to look or sound or feel, is the fastest way to "do it." During Ida's labor I was able to let go a lot more easily than during Lars's labor or Theo's, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it was an easier labor than the other two. Maybe I was better prepared or more relaxed. I don't know. It's a distinct possibility that because I wrote Lars's birth story the day after he was born, whereas I wrote Theo's and Ida's months later, I just can't compare them objectively.

I was thinking about these things anyway but in looking over the pictures from Lars's birth (which I stand by as unflattering, though certainly not horrifying :), I thought also about how we recount events. If you read "mommy blogs" very often you might remember reading posts in the past year or so either complaining about how mommy blogs try to make everything look perfect, or defending a mom's right to present the rosy side of life. I think it's important to do both. Who wants to see a blog full of bedhead and acne and poop, even though everyone deals with those things? I would personally love to be able to put up a gorgeous, sanitized picture of myself and Lars within seconds after birth. I remember one of the things I felt I had missed out on in Theo's C-section was:

Although all I "really" wanted was for both of us to be safe and healthy (standard disclaimer), I also really, really wanted to know that I could bear him myself—actually "give birth." I wanted a culminating experience to these nine months that I would feel and never forget. You know, the kind where you feel that last push and the heavens open and your husband documents forever on film your sweaty, tearful, exultant face when you first meet your sweet little child. I desperately wanted it, in fact.

I find it telling that much of what I felt I missed out on in Theo's birth, I somehow thought could be captured in a picture. If you talk to any mom who is sufficiently removed in years from childbirth they will tell you that those moments are trivial compared to the child's life and the mother-child relationship, and that the memories eventually fade and are replaced by more momentous things. I think that is true. At the same time I think those are important moments. What isn't necessarily important, though, is whether the moments looked or sounded a certain way. They just need to look or sound the best way to live on in your memory.

I have no videos of any of my kids emerging into the world, certainly nothing I could share with others or post on a blog, but I don't think I will ever forget how I felt when those moments happened--the gratitude, emotion, exhaustion. I guess all I have to share with others are my own written memories and pictures. They are flawed in that they aren't a perfect representation of what "actually" happened--they can't convey all the feelings and thoughts and sounds and images that swirl around in my memory and Matt's, and they can't tell you an outsider's perspective either.

Those memories, combined with memories of things like the way Theo's face looks when he asks for a hug or the way Ida lisps when she says certain words, I can still package up in my mind and sift through whenever I want. Even if I can't put them in a color-saturated montage for my blog. I'm definitely OK with that. Besides, in order to present a real memory of my babies I would also have to include the times I completely lost it or the times I said in complete seriousness, "OK guys you are REALLY bugging me, could you just give Mommy some space for a minute?" or the times I was utterly, brattily rude to Matt just because I knew it wouldn't chase him away. Piles of laundry and dirty dishes, raccoon eyes and old-lady hair, bedhead and acne and poop and "the ugly cry" would all have to be included too. Unbearably sad times, heartbreaking times of loss, times we were giddy with joy, times we said "Help me. I need you"--all included no matter how they looked.

Anyway. Thanks for listening in to my thoughts. Time to get back to my oh-so-glamorous recovery! Maybe I'll be walking normally by the next time you see me. I hope so.

Baby Lars

Here he is!

He's pretty much been asleep since he was born, so we don't have a good eyes-open picture yet. You can't really tell from this picture but he is blond and has more hair than Ida did, although less hair than Theo did.

I started typing out Lars's birth story and realized I wanted to include way more detail than I feel like writing at the moment. So here is the abbreviated version and I'll write more later. Maybe.

Officially, I started active labor at around 5:30 p.m. on Sunday. Unofficially I woke up at 6 a.m. that day with painful and random contractions that were anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes apart throughout the day. I made it through stake conference and directing the Primary choir and tried to rest afterward. Hannah and Robbie were coming over for dinner and I warned them noncommittally that I had been having irregular contractions but didn't especially expect anything to happen, at least I didn't dare to expect that out loud.

By the time they arrived, the contractions were harder to talk through and getting closer together. By 4:30 they were 10 minutes apart and by 5:30 they were 5 minutes apart. I sat down to dinner with everyone and every 5 minutes went into Ida's room to cope with the contractions. Once we realized this was turning into something, Matt called our doula, Nicole, and we headed upstairs to our room while Hannah and Robbie took care of Theo and Ida.

Over the next couple of hours my contractions became just about unbearable. I needed both Matt and Nicole next to me at all times or I freaked out. Contractions started doubling up and I would have 2, or even 3, minute-long contractions in a row. Nicole, who is also a home-birth midwife as well as a doula, checked my cervix just before we decided to go to the hospital (and I secretly decided to get an epidural) and I was only at a 5. This was very disappointing news to me. Even more disappointing was the fact that my doctor was at a family event in Fredericksburg and no one could get ahold of him. I called my old doctor (who had delivered Ida) just to see if he was on call--he was not. We left a little before 9.

The ride to the hospital was 30 minutes (felt much longer than that) and I could feel the baby moving down with each contraction. We checked into the hospital at 9:30 p.m. and I had progressed from 5 to 9 centimeters during the ride. I wanted to cry and kiss everyone. My doctor arrived right when I started pushing, which, unfortunately, was a much less pleasant experience than it had been with Ida. I remember with Ida's labor that pushing felt great and productive. This time I couldn't find a position that felt right (although--hooray for a doctor who didn't break down the bed, and said I could push however I wanted) and I still didn't get past 9 centimeters even when my water broke on the first real push. But my doctor promised that I could push past the cervical lip anyway, so I went for it. Lars was out in maybe, I don't know, 20 minutes.

You are probably laughing to yourself, "That's the abbreviated version?" Yeah, I have a much longer and more detailed version in my head that maybe I will get around to writing down someday. It includes the fact that the doctor asked Matt, "Do you want to deliver the baby yourself?" and once Lars's head was out, Matt grabbed him by the armpits, pulled him out, and handed him to me himself. That was very cool. I looked and announced, "It's a boy!" and the doctor let the cord stay attached until it stopped pulsing before Matt cut it. It also includes other impressions about the preceding week and my doctor and my doula and the nurses and what it felt like to have "only" 5 hours of hard labor versus "only" 12. I actually think I might take 12 over 5. At least I got more breaks that way.

This picture makes me laugh so hard because it is so, so unflattering. (love the running mascara) This is what childbirth looks like on me. That is the only picture I am remotely willing to post and that should tell you something.

This pregnancy and this labor were unfortunately marked by a lot of fear and anxiety on my part. Although I had had a natural birth before, I didn't feel very confident and I often wondered about what could go wrong. I spent hours and hours deciding on a doula and a doctor. I cried a few times during this labor and wondered whether I could do it. Even when I had 4 people standing next to me telling me the baby would be out in "one more push" I didn't believe any of them. But they were right.

I am so glad that Lars arrived safely and so glad that Theo and Ida love him already--they were so cute with him when they came to visit today. I'm so glad the timing worked out perfectly to have Hannah and Robbie stay with the kids. I'm so glad I have had 2 VBACs. I'm so glad I decided at 35 weeks to switch doctors and hospitals. I'm so glad we hired our wonderful doula. I'm so glad I married Matt. I'm so glad we have been blessed in ways we never could have even anticipated.

A parallel...if you will.

Five years ago I ran my first and only half marathon. 13.1 miles, that's the farthest I've run at one time. Actually I walked several times throughout and almost the entire 13th mile so I can't even say I ran the whole thing. After I staggered past the finish line I gratefully accepted some water, greeted my family who had all finished long before me, then dry-heaved for about 5 minutes in some bushes. I spent the rest of the day lying down whenever possible.

Running long distances: not really for me. At least, I haven't found the right combination of motivation, desire, and ability. (And I did train for that race...at least I think I did.) I have rarely experienced a runner's high and I definitely didn't in that race. Since then I have never run faster than a 9:00 mile. Usually more like 12:00. So I would rather not completely torture myself in a marathon basically just to say I had.

I have been at the finish line of lots of races, mostly my dad's marathons. That is an electric experience. My dad, who is 66, decided in his late 50s to start running marathons and hasn't stopped. I just can't identify with that kind of drive, but I get excited for my dad every time he completes one, especially when he beats his own PRs and feels great afterward. Anyone who crosses a marathon finish line has put in some serious work and is likely pretty proud of himself or herself.

I think many of my fellow spectators feel the same way I do: I think I'll just do my own thing and not lose my toenails or my lunch, but hey man, keep it up if that's what gets you out of bed in the morning. And I think that while runners are pretty excited about their own accomplishments, most of them don't look down on the spectators who are not interested in crossing that particular line. Although a few probably do.

I find a parallel here:

OK, so when I saw this I totally laughed out loud. Because, first of all the Onion is generally pretty funny and secondly there is a contingent of moms out there who are quite vocal--sometimes even superior--about their crunchiness and I know that can grate. I personally don't mind if granola types get vocal because it doesn't affect me, and I even admire them for their convictions because I have my own convictions too, some (not all) of which are lumped in with theirs.

Besides, I'm cool with my vaccinations and plastic toys and red dye #40. I don't think that natural birth, any more than shopping at Whole Foods versus Shoppers or co-sleeping versus using a crib, makes a person morally or otherwise superior to someone who uses an epidural or has a C-section. But, having tried the natural, the epidural, and the C-section, all of which involved pain, I preferred one experience to the others.

Despite my almost nonexistent race record, I kind of feel a little bit of empathy for the runner who keeps on doing something that others think is crazy. The main difference being that there aren't many people heckling runners or accusing them of feeling morally superior for their choices.

But childbirth and motherhood are so charged with other emotions, I think that's why people can get up in arms about it, sometimes to the point of unveiled scorn for women who have--or want to have--their babies with midwives at home or otherwise without drugs. When I was pregnant with Theo and told my OB I wanted to try natural childbirth he responded, "There's no need to be a hero." I wish I had asked him, "Why do you care about my reasons or if I want to be a hero or not?" He also told me after my C-section that "vaginal births are overrated" and it didn't occur to me at the time that the veracity of that statement was biologically unverifiable coming from a man. (or even from a woman who hadn't tried both C-section and vaginal, if it's a matter of comparing the two.)

The partner OB's response to me was, "When you come begging for an epidural I'm going to say I told you so." And after I got my epidural...well...she made good on that. Ouch.

I sometimes sense a similarly contemptuous attitude from faceless moms online. I hope if they knew me in real life they wouldn't lump me into the Thinks She's Morally Superior category. Well I guess if they did there's nothing I could do about it and it doesn't especially affect me other than casting a general pall on public opinion of natural childbirth and homebirth, which I find unfortunate.

So to my point: the only thing that I and my 12:00 splits really do have in common with a runner is that although I am happy with my personal approaches both to birth and to running, I know that neither approach makes me better or worse than anyone else. The motivation for anyone to continue through a (needlessly? pointlessly?) painful journey may include a feeling of victory, of checking off items on a list, who knows, maybe even a hint of superiority. But I think that most keep going back for more mainly because in a weird way, despite the pain, it also somehow feels good, not so much to say to others, "I have done it" but, in fact, to do it. And that has nothing to do with anyone else.

If you try sometimes you just might find... you get what you need.

Photo chosen not for topical relevance but because a 2-year-old shoveling snow is funny.

I was thinking that I always feel like I have to wait until I am in a great mood in order to write a blog post. Or you know, maybe after some sort of trial has just ended, just in time for me to feel philosophical about it (because you know I always do) and tie it up in a nice bow--a cutesy one with double loops and wired edge ribbon. Plus if I am cranky, or tired, or going through something difficult, then maybe I won't love the end result of the post 24 hours later when I snap out of it. This is not exactly my diary, even though it feels like it is, and once I put something out there I can't take it back.

But oh well. I have been pretty moody lately. Let me rewind. In October I noticed that occasionally my heart would race. Not for long, really only for a few seconds at a time. Matt and I were surprised because I have always had amazingly low blood pressure, thanks to my "big old cow heart" in Matt's words. (Really my heart is normal sized but the low BP is genetic.) So for these "tachycardic episodes" I blamed the iron supplements I was taking for my anemia and stopped them. It got a little better, then worse, so I blamed the anemia and started taking the iron again.

In early December right as morning sickness was subsiding, I contracted a particularly awful brand of food poisoning, on the exact same day that our heater broke on the first day of a cold snap, and so over the course of 2 weeks I thought I might lose my mind, and at very brief moments that my heart might jump through my chest. It reached a grand climax a couple of weeks before Christmas that involved me sobbing to Matt on my basement futon late one night after a nurse told me over the phone that I needed to go to the emergency room. I sobbed so hard that I started laughing in cathartic relief once I heard myself.

Skeptical of the nurse, I talked with my doctor at length about it a few minutes later. I received a diagnosis that finally made perfect sense: anxiety. Pending thyroid tests but anxiety is likely. The antidote for which being: chill out. Of course, said anxiety being fueled in part by hormones turns chilling out into a major challenge.

Now it is early January and the tachycardia is almost completely gone. I seem to have succeeded in chilling out at some level. I feel like after 3 months I can finally say as an absolute fact--YES. I Am Feeling Much Better.

So on to one of many causes of my early pregnancy anxiety. People always seem surprised that VBAC is still an issue once you have had one. I guess maybe for some people it isn't, but for me it is. First of all as much as I love my doctor he is now in a group practice with 3 other doctors and is insanely busy besides. Secondly, my last pregnancy I really wanted a VBAC but also thought I just might not be physically able to do it in which case I would accept my fate. Now that I have proven to myself that I can, the thought of being on an operating table grips me with a cold fear that could send even my big old cow heart into a dither. Could and apparently does.

Every time I think about the unforeseen effects of C-section on subsequent pregnancies for so many women I know, I get upset. Then eventually the Rolling Stones come into my head. Because well, you know...you can't always get what you want. Also I'll never be your beast of burden but that is less relevant.

Sure I've been moody and teary and weak at times as different issues have cropped up. Maybe I am being a little bit cavalier about it at the moment in an attempt to save a few shreds of dignity...but through the various spoken and unspoken trials of the past few months there have been specific times when I have really felt lifted and carried through them. Sometimes by specific people and sometimes not. An amazing feeling I had not felt before. I don't think I would have felt that kind of love without the preceding despair. My life is so good and so full of love. So I can't complain. At all.

Also, as one final note, if you ever need cheering up please let me know and I will have Ida sing to you: "Harp the herald angels sing, glory to babboo-born King."

Oh, doctor! doctor! Is this love I'm feeeeeliiing?

April is Cesarean Awareness Month.


According to preliminary data from the CDC, the highest number of births ever registered in the United States occurred in 2007 (the year Theo was born); and the national C-section delivery rate rose 2 percent to 31.8%, marking the 11th consecutive year of C-section rate increase and another record high. Read the CDC's press release here.

Cesarean section poses a number of risks to moms and babies, while vaginal birth presents its own set of risks; the key, of course, is to weigh those risks before deciding which path to take in any given situation.

My very experienced doctor did a fabulous job of stitching me up with teeny-tiny stitches both on my uterus and on my skin. I actually got compliments on my incision from other doctors. After Theo's birth I followed the C-section rules: don't pick up anything for a week, including your baby; don't pick up anything heavier than your baby for 6 weeks. Being pretty young and fit, and plied with help from my mother and in-laws, I recovered and healed relatively quickly from the carefully executed procedure.

However, one quite unintended side effect of my surgery was a small cut below Theo's left eye. Yowza. At the time, Matt pointed out that the location of human eyes (inset and surrounded by bone) makes it practically impossible for an alert and skilled doctor to cut into a baby's actual eye. Hmm...well, it still looked pretty close to me!

Another potential and more serious side effect is that, according to an admittedly new and small study, children born by C-section are 79 percent more likely to develop asthma by age 8 than are children born vaginally, due in part to their lungs not being squeezed out properly in the birth canal. Doesn't that number seem high? Doesn't it seem insane?

Who knows what other findings and hypotheses will pop up in the next few decades as (I hope) the pendulum swings the other way and the number of C-sections in the United States goes back down. I think that if the number of primary (first-time) C-sections declines, the total number will dramatically decrease, since VBAC is so controversial among care providers. I would also love to see more doctors and midwives trained in and practicing the safe vaginal delivery of breech babies and twins. These three situations (breech, multiples, and previous C-section) are some of the biggest players in the rise of scheduled C-sections.

For now...consider yourself aware!

A baby story.

Don't say I didn't warn you: this post is really long and goes into gory detail. (Though not as gory as it could be...oh man.) So you may not be interested. But in case you are: here's Ida's birth story, recorded for posterity. It only took me 4 months to write it. It's only the longest blog post I've ever written. By the way, I have no recollection of times (as in times of day), but my doula wrote her version of Ida's birth story for us and so I took the times from that.

Friday, October 10 was my 40-week OB appointment. Everything went as usual (including no cervical exam...never once did I have an exam at Dr. Tchabo's office. Weird? Maybe, but personally I detest those exams so I am fine with it), until Dr. Tchabo asked about the baby's movement. Throughout my pregnancy I had been feeling a ridiculous amount of movement, but it had started to slow down that week. Nothing alarming, really, but I mentioned it, and he immediately asked if I wanted a non-stress test. My immediate reaction was NO! since my last NST, a few days before Theo's birth, turned into a horrible marathon day at the hospital...plus I knew several women whose NSTs turned into inductions or C-sections at the slightest suggestion of low amniotic fluid. So, he suggested I do kick counts instead (count the baby's movements within an hour).

Still, the suggestion of an NST at only 40 weeks made me nervous. I was extra nervous because the baby had moved to my right side, facing left, which is bad news for labor since that position pre-labor often means an occiput posterior position for birth. Same position Theo was in...baby facing up means back labor and possibly a difficult delivery...bad news. More than one doctor had told me that my chances of VBAC were much greater with an anterior fetus than a posterior one. The average rate of vaginal births for moms with a previous C-section is 0.60% in Northern Virginia (that's three-fifths of one percent) and I knew my chances of VBAC would go down further with an NST or an induction. Dejected about the position and the suggestion of an NST, I e-mailed my doula, Brenda. She told me to do the kick counts but try to relax, do something for myself, do lots of pelvic rocks, which are supposed to move or keep the baby in the proper position, and enjoy this time with my family.

I spent the rest of the daylight hours in a frenzy of cleaning. To give you a peek into my afternoon, I cleaned every single miniblind on the two gigantic windows in our bedroom. Blind by blind.

Friday night we went to visit our friends Sterling and Jessica, who had just welcomed their new baby son the night before. We stopped by Wendy's on the way home. I'm pretty sure that we watched episodes from season 5 of Alias, since that's what we did all week before Ida's birth. Saturday morning we went to a nearby mini pumpkin patch/market and picked us up some gourds in order to remedy the appalling lack of seasonal decor in our home.


Note the helicopter shirt. Theo was obsessed with this shirt. For months he would only wear one of three shirts: the helicopter shirt, the "I See Dinner" shirt, and the "Large and In Charge" shirt. I got so sick of these shirts. Since when are 21-month-olds picking out their own clothes? He did (still does), and he threw a fit if I tried to put another shirt on him. I'm not one to stifle a toddler's freedom to choose his own clothes (except on Sundays), so I tried to bear with this phase until he outgrew the dreaded shirts. Ultimately I ended up hiding them.

We took nice long naps and then headed over to a ward picnic. I was sure we'd stay about 15 minutes, I was feeling so uncomfortable. It ended up being really fun and I was sad to have to leave by 6 so that Matt could watch the BYU game at a friend's house. I talked with several friends at the picnic, all of whom I assured I would be at church the next day. I helped myself to a multitude of cookies and cupcakes, despite not having brought anything to share. After Matt left for the game Theo and I went for a long stroll through our neighborhood while I made phone calls. Called Phoebe to say happy birthday, then talked on the phone to Bonny and Katie. I also assured both of them that I would be pregnant for a while.

We went home and I bathed Theo and put him to bed. I don't remember what I did next...probably something mindless like blogging and eating cereal. Finally Matt got home from the game and we started our final few episodes of Alias. After an hour or so, I developed an excruciating headache. A few minutes later I told Matt I couldn't take it anymore and was going to bed, even though there were only about 10 minutes left in the series finale. I think at that point Sloane was about to rise from the dead. (Seriously, didn't that series end perfectly? I loved it!) Matt clearly planned to stay up and finish it but I ordered him to come to bed with me. I don't remember ever having such a terrible headache in my life. Right before falling asleep around midnight, I said groggily to Matt, "Wow, that was a really big contraction."

I woke up with a start at 1:30 a.m. to an even bigger contraction. I lay there for a while, thinking, "Well, maybe this is it." Theo's labor started with contractions about 10 minutes apart, which didn't get closer together for almost a day, so I thought I should try to rest in case I had a similar labor in front of me. Imagine my surprise when a couple of minutes later another contraction came, and then another. The baby was still facing the wrong way, so I could feel them in my back too. I dragged myself out of bed and tried sitting on my exercise ball. I tried various positions. I couldn't get comfortable. Matt was snoring away. I decided to try a bath to relax myself so that I could sleep. So that Matt wouldn't be startled by the water running, I woke him up to let him know where I'd be. (I'm sure he appreciated that.)

I started falling asleep in the tub despite contractions and hoped that feeling would transition to my bed, but it was not to be. Matt woke up on his own...I was being kind of loud in my "coping"...and I instructed him to go sleep on the couch so I wouldn't keep waking him up. So he moved to the living room and I continued coping. After a half an hour, probably less, I couldn't take it anymore and went into the living room. I woke Matt up again and told him, "I can't do this by myself." So he turned on the light and started counter-pressure (the only way to handle back labor, if you ask me) and timing.

After a few hours, the contractions were closer together, some even on top of each other, about a minute long each, and the baby hadn't rotated, so I asked Matt to call Brenda at around 5:30 a.m. She instructed him to have me crouch with my head down for an hour...a last resort for rotating a baby during labor. This was possibly one of the worst hours. I stayed in that position with Matt's encouragement until just before Brenda arrived. ("I just want to lie down, Matt...I just want to lie down, Matt...That's it...I'm lying down.") Matt also called Hester and asked her to come watch Theo.

Hester arrived just as Theo woke up--perfect timing. She gave him breakfast and entertained him for the next several hours while I hung out in my bedroom with Matt and Brenda. This is where it really starts to become a blur. I lay on my bed on my left side with my eyes closed throughout most of my labor at home, despite Brenda's suggestions to get up on all fours. I remember Brenda kept telling me, "This is what you want," which was one of the affirmations I told myself during pregnancy ("This is what I want"--meaning a natural birth to increase my chances for a VBAC). It got so annoying that finally I told her, "No, this is not what I want." After an hour or two of thinking to myself, "This is a crock. I want an epidural," I gathered up the courage to inform Matt and Brenda of this decision. They didn't refuse, of course, but instead suggested I try getting through a few more contractions. This exchange would repeat itself several times over the next few hours.

I started a funny little routine of calling out, "Help!" as soon as I could feel a contraction coming. Then Matt would push against my back and Brenda would kneel by the side of the bed and talk to me. In between contractions I was tired enough that I dozed off for a few seconds each time. At around 8:30 I got into the tub at Brenda's suggestion. I hoped this might help and it did not. Being in the tub felt awful and I was super cold. So I got back out and lay back on my side. Soon I began feeling the urge to push when my contractions peaked. I remember asking Brenda, "I can do this, right?" What I meant was, "I can still have a VBAC with an epidural, right?" (She had her first VBAC with an epidural.) But re-reading the birth story Brenda wrote for us, I see that she thought I needed her to tell me I could do it without drugs. At any rate she started telling me "You can do this," and regardless of what she meant, it was helpful.

By 9:30 or so I was convinced that I was going to deliver this baby right there on my bed so Matt called Dr. Tchabo. I told Brenda I felt pushy and she said, "We need to go to the hospital now." We got up to walk to the car, a feat I was entirely unsure I could accomplish. I begged Brenda to ride in the backseat with me and she said she would--but then when we were about halfway there I realized she was in her own car. Trickster! Matt sped the whole way there and I lay on my side on the back seat, pushing my feet hard against the side door and twisting Matt's arm with every contraction. He even ran a few red lights (so did Brenda) and it was pretty much your stereotypical rush to the hospital. I remember thinking the sun was pretty bright and the freeway seemed empty. At least if I pushed the baby out in the car, it wouldn't be too hard to pull over.

We arrived at the hospital and Matt helped me walk to the elevator. I think he may have carried me at some point but I was so out of it that I don't really remember. We went to the check-in desk and the nurse was like "Blah blah blah, something something, insurance card" until I yelled, "I have to push!" Then they wheeled me to a room right away. They offered me a hospital gown and I said no thanks. Honestly how is a person supposed to change clothes while in that condition anyway? A resident checked me. For some reason I thought she had broken my water and I started yelling at her, "Why did you break my water??" "Ummm, I didn't break your water" but I didn't believe her. Anyway, I was at a seven.

A seven! Three more centimeters to go, what the heck! I had been convinced the baby was about to take its first breath as I sat in a wheelchair.

Anyway, so the circus continued for about 2 more hours. At some point Hester and Theo arrived with my insurance card, which I had left at home, and apparently couldn't give birth without. (Don't worry, Theo didn't see me acting all crazy...I don't think) The nurse put various consent forms in my face and kept putting them there until I signed them..."signed" them, I kinda just hit the paper with the end of a pen a few times after making sure I wasn't letting the hospital keep my baby or something. Did you know that legally you don't have to sign any of those things? However, if you decide to refuse, they will keep putting them in your face anyway.

The nurses, the resident, Matt, and Brenda all encouraged me not to push, although I really, really needed to. I yelled a few times and again, a nurse told me not to--so that I could conserve energy. I think I was a little bit sassy with her. Despite my insistence not to be monitored continuously, they stuck one on me "until Dr. Tchabo comes." Fortunately I barely noticed it. I also had to have a heparin lock IV (not connected to the pole), because I was beta strep positive and needed antibiotics, although I didn't receive any fluids. I was glad we went to the hospital so late, because I was still pretty sure I was going to get an epidural. Convinced, really. Then Dr. Tchabo came in around noon, checked me, and just when I took a breath to suggest yet again that we call the anesthesiologist, I heard him say, "You're complete. Push when you want."

My pushing phase with Theo was awful. It was absolutely the worst part of labor. I pushed for 2 hours with absolutely no progress, my epidural having worn off after 24 hours of labor. This time, I hopped up on the bed like a woman with a mission. It felt amazing. Contractions stopped hurting, I had no concept of time, I was euphoric because I could feel the baby moving down and I knew I was doing what I was supposed to do.

On my first or second push, my water broke with a rush and I thought frantically, "This is it, this baby is coming out!" Not so much, but it still felt good to push and I didn't mind. I think by this point I was kneeling or squatting on the bed, eventually leaning over the back of the bed. At some point a nurse put an oxygen mask to my mouth because there was meconium in my water. People stuck Popsicles in my face. I pushed when I felt like it. I yelled a lot. This went on for about 20 minutes. Then Dr. Tchabo broke down the bed and asked me to sit at the edge and a nurse told me to hold my breath as I pushed. "Nope, no, I'm not doing that," I answered. "I am not holding my breath. Last time I did that it ended in a C-section." By this point there were 7 or 8 people in there (it seemed like about 50 at the time but afterwards I noticed: doctor, nurse, resident, med student, a few pediatricians, Matt and Brenda) and they all laughed. "This is definitely not ending in a C-section," someone said, and that was the first time I believed it would actually happen. I had spent hours dreaming, thinking, praying, talking about it, but never knew until then. Matt kissed me and said, "You're doing it. You're doing it."

Occiput posterior fetal position, "narrow pelvis," scar on my uterus, I was doing it.

I pushed and yelled and it was over. They put the baby on my lap. For the first time since before labor started I thought, "Boy? Girl?" I looked for the evidence. I can still remember how I sounded and felt when I saw her and said to Matt, "It's a girl!" They took her away pretty quickly because of the meconium, but she was back within moments, all weighed and wrapped and ready to be hugged and kissed. She was normal. She was healthy and perfect.

I proceeded to instruct the student and resident that they should encourage VBAC for healthy moms in their future practices. I nursed Ida and barely noticed delivering the placenta. After 12 hours of feeling so, so bad, I had never felt so good. I was a chatterbox. I was probably kind of annoying actually. It was amazing how the worst pain I could imagine went away as soon as she came out.

Speaking of the placenta, funny story about this one...I asked Matt to take a picture of Dr. Tchabo. He insisted he would but never did. Instead he did take a disgusting picture of this bucket of placenta. And over there on the left, that's Dr. Tchabo from the neck down. Tucked-in scrubs, that was Matt's favorite thing.

So, it hurt a lot. It wasn't magical or dimly lit with candles and incense. It was pretty crazy and I hated much of it. Brenda and Matt were the only reasons I didn't get an epidural. I am not anti-epidural by any means because, believe me, I know the sweet peace that comes when the drugs kick in. Oh, how I know! When I hear women say they checked into the hospital fully rested, got the needle, maybe started the drip, and held a baby in their arms that same day, I am envious. I didn't want to risk an epidural this time because of my first experience. And I will never be induced because of the increased risk of uterine rupture. But I'm not ruling out epidurals should I be blessed enough to have another VBAC. It will depend on the circumstances and honestly it will also depend on how tired I am.

But in the end when Ida was almost here and I felt her moving down, turning inch by inch into the proper position, all those feelings of exhaustion and helplessness vanished. I could never have prepared for that abrupt change.

With Brenda. How I love Brenda. I am never giving birth without a doula again.

With Matt. How I love Matt. I am never giving birth without a Matt, ever.

Certainly the most exciting, probably the craziest, possibly the best day of my life.

It's just a little crush.

(Not like I faint every time we touch)
So you might think I have a little crush on my OB. Well, maybe I do.

I never got a picture of him in the hospital, so here he is with some random baby, courtesy of Google Images. I think I'll have to take my camera with me to my 6-weeker. Because I love him that much.

Yet another bonus post: Happy Birthday, Baby

You're so lucky to get 2 bonus birthday posts in one weekend!

Theo's baby sister was born today at 12:35 p.m.--on her due date! 7 lbs 5 oz (actually we are still trying to decide whether it was 3 oz or 5 oz...got mixed messages) and 20 inches long. She has brown hair and her eyes are a lovely shade of newborn gray. I labored for 12 hours, mostly at home, and ended at the hospital with a drug-free VBAC. BIG thanks to Matt, my doula Brenda, my awesome OB Dr. Tchabo...oh and Baby Girl for being tiny.

I have to say I do not feel amazing at the moment but it was pretty amazing to push her out.

No name yet. We were unprepared.

Seriously, we were not expecting her to come on time. Matt was trying to pack my bag at 5 a.m. with very minimal instructions from me--it wasn't like I cared at the time. Hester (who was a doll and watched Theo all day and is watching him tomorrow too) had to bring us my purse since we forgot my ID and insurance card.

We'll update on her name once we pick one!

39 weeks

Here's me, or my torso, at 39 weeks. Finally it's documented for those of you who don't see me lumbering around the town every day: I am in fact pregnant!

At my 39-week appointment my doctor told me, "Momma, if anyone can do a VBAC, you can." Granted I haven't passed the "dreaded" 40- or 41-week marks yet, but it still felt good to hear that from The Man. I need a dose of confidence right about now!

Oh baby refrain from breaking my heart.

This is how I am feeling right now:


Groovy, that is.

If you are a cynic you can chalk it up to mood swings and super-charged hormones, but today I came home from my OB appointment practically floating; the last time I visited the same practice, I came home in tears. In my first trimester I met 2 doctors in the practice who were very positive about my pelvis size and my chances for a VBAC. At my 16-week appointment, this particular doctor said, among other things, that I am "just too small" to push a baby out by myself, and that if I "would rather die than have another C-section," then "maybe" she would "let" me go past 40 weeks. Lovely!

I am honestly less concerned with the type of birth I have than I am with my own preparations and the treatment I pay for. All I had wanted was some of this--


A little respect, that is.

Then at my appointment today I had a heartening conversation with another doctor (same practice) who, in retrospect, said similar things in terms of my "chances"--given my own physiology and the circumstances of Theo's position (posterior, asynclitic, and totally not descended enough, as evidenced by the cut on his face from the doctor's scalpel) and the health of my uterus, etc.--but couched them with so much more concern and interest that I actually felt like he cared about me and about this tiny little baby he will never personally know.

He changed my due date based on estimated ovulation rather than ultrasound (now it's almost a full week later--this is good), and he kind of reminded me of a very earnest detective as he asked questions and pieced things together. I went away thinking, "That is what OBs should be like!" (and if you wondered, I have met a whole lot of OBs.) He asked detailed questions about Theo's birth and my health, and gave me new insights I hadn't thought of before. I felt that he took me seriously, and I was reminded of the feeling I first had several weeks ago: that whatever happens will be for the best if I am prepared and can trust my doctors.

That said, I am meeting doctors from two other practices in the coming month to get their takes on the situation. They both come highly recommended so I can't resist trying them out. Hey, I've got plenty of time to decide, right? Maybe it sounds like overkill, but I told you, I am preparing.

I met a woman recently who had a hospital birth at the last minute after planning for a home birth. She just felt better about going to the hospital in her situation (her second VBAC). She said, "I realized I was more of a political homebirther." I realize that I may have more C-sections. But I will always remain a political VBACer, homebirther, etc. Not that I think homebirth is some kind of panacea for what I consider to be a problem in OB care--choices for mothers, and communication about motivation. I definitely don't. Homebirth, VBAC, these "causes" are really just symbols of what really matters: that women are informed of their choices, and that their motivations line up with their caregivers'. C-sections are still necessary, and so are hospital births. Pitocin, Cervadil, epidurals, fetal monitors, I am not against any of these things. I just think the whole setup could be improved.

Turn and face the strange

I feel like I know a lot of people who exercise regularly throughout pregnancy. Pumping iron, downward dog, a brisk run in the morning, that kind of thing. I don't want to scoff at these people. I just want to know--how do you do it? Intellectually I understand that the more you exercise, the more you want to do it. But how do you even get started, let alone keep it up?

Before I got pregnant with Theo I was a machine. I was busy with work and school and church, but I jogged three times a week, cross-trained on the alternating days, and went for long runs on Saturdays. That perpetuated healthy eating and sleeping habits, which in turn propelled my desire to exercise.

And then, I got pregnant, and then I was sick, and then I was tired, and then I was huge, and in those nine months, although I did make dozens of half-hearted attempts, I never once broke a sweat intentionally and I ate a million percent of my daily allowance of sodium and sugar. I like to blame at least some of this on Pregnancy Insanity. Do you want to know what I was eating when I went into labor? Top Ramen. Gross! And do you know what I did with the half-eaten bowl of Top Ramen? I put it in the fridge so I could finish it when I got back. Sick.

Then for an entire year after that, I maybe, MAYBE went jogging once or twice a week and I never set foot in a gym. (Gyms are expensive here.) Granted, nursing burned a zillion calories a day, so there went that motivation. Plus I was doing all kinds of exercising just in my daily life taking care of a baby and then toddler.

My point is that even when I was a dedicated superwoman in the exercise department, the pregnancy that followed was almost completely exercise-free. So now that I am pregnant again and I haven't really exercised seriously since before Theo was a twinkle in my eye, I feel like it is a lost cause. But I have lofty goals: to exercise every day. Not to mention the fact that ever since 15 weeks I have prohibited myself from eating high-sodium packaged foods, and informed myself that I would be eating fruit or yogurt instead of candy or ice cream; vegetables with every meal; upping iron intake; remembering my vitamins. (These are guidelines...don't think I've given up ice cream or anything.) Not only do I feel better when I do all this stuff, I know that it is really the only path to take for a healthy pregnancy.

And yet, each day comes, and all I want to do is lie around, and all I want to eat is macaroni and cheese and pudding. Mainly because I still hate cooking. If I had a personal chef this would totally be a piece of cake. Oh and I never cared about this before but now all of a sudden when I'm not supposed to allow my body temperature above, what is it, 102, all I want to do besides lie around is take hot baths. Figure that one out.

The added pressure of wanting a VBAC and fully expecting another marathon labor is not helping. You would think it would help, but no, it doesn't. I know I need to be in good shape for that but it feels like a million years away.

Complaining about the "rules" for a healthy pregnancy is like complaining about the expectations for members of my church. My answer to those complaints is, "You're here because you want to be, not because you have to be. If you'll just do this stuff and focus on the big picture, you'll be happy." So, I am saying that to myself. I am pregnant because I want to be. If I just do this stuff and focus on the big picture, I'll feel better. It's not like macaroni and cheese is going to get me there.

Operation: VBAC

If birth stories make you gag and plead to the heavens, "Why must everyone blabber on about this??", this is not a post for you.

Currently, aside from trying to live my real life, I am focusing on what I need to do to achieve a VBAC. Because I pushed too early, and never got past a 9, and Theo's head was cocked and facing up--all things that don't necessarily need to happen again--plus am young, healthy, educated, determined, somewhat experienced, etc., my chances are somewhat decent.

Never mind the fact that the national C-section average of all live births is now up to 31%. 31%! And if you wondered, Virginia's average is 32%. 32%! And if you wondered, the C-section average at the hospital where Theo was born is 41%! And the average at the hospital where I am planning to have #2 is 38%! With a VBAC rate of 0.25%. The VBAC rate where Theo was born is 1.5%. Interesting that VBAC rates are higher in a place where C-section rates are higher. Maybe because so many more people have C-sections, there's more opportunity for VBACs in the first place.

Then again, I recently found out that Matt's grandma Verla had four VBACs after giving birth to Matt's mom via a classical abdominal incision. (She had been induced, being a month overdue.) Boo yah! (Grandma.) Anytime I find out someone has had a VBAC, I basically pounce on them and release an endless torrent of questions. So, lucky for Verla that she is somewhat senile and lives in Utah.

ANYWAY. I have been attending ICAN meetings (International Cesarean Awareness Network--April is Cesarean Awareness Month, IN CASE you weren't aware--Matt will laugh at that because he makes fun of the concept of "awareness") and getting all sorts of ideas from people about providers, preparation, methods, facts, statistics, patient rights, etc. It has been a good resource and a great way to meet people. I just returned from a meeting, which is why I am all stirred up about this right now, I suppose. Plus I have my 16-week appointment in a few days and am still trying to decide whether I want to stay with the OB practice I have chosen. (There are VERY few options for midwives where I live, and still fewer who practice at hospitals. Birth centers do not do VBACs.)

Luckily Matt has become convinced of the necessity of a doula. Maybe partly because a few months ago I presented my arguments to him for home birth (or HBAC as it is called for VBACers) and I think I scared him a little. So a doula-attended hospital birth will be an OK compromise. I went through a phase where I actually resented Matt's interest and involvement in this decision. It's not his body! But finally I remembered that our marriage is a partnership and this is his child too. (duh.) I am grateful for the many discussions we have had about this, and will continue to have.

Here's hoping that all will go well. Also that I don't become too obsessed with having a VBAC. Another C-section wouldn't be the end of the world. Though I have to admit . . . I'm slightly obsessed already.

I laugh and joke about it but anyone who has had a birth not go nearly as planned, despite coming out alive, despite having a healthy baby, despite enjoying these wonderful advantages of childbirth in the 21st century, knows that a traumatic birth experience is not something you laugh off at first. Or ever, maybe. It's a big, big deal and requires real healing. The joy of a new baby who is healthy and who loves you and needs you, which is really such a joy, is completely separate from these negative feelings. For me, Theo was a lifesaver, and I do feel like I have "recovered" from my unwanted C-section in almost every way. But most of all I feel like I have learned from it. Until recently, I didn't realize how much it has shaped me and my attitude towards, well, everything. I mean this in a good way. Cue Rolling Stones chorus.

Cjane of Enjoy It fame, who is about to have her first baby after years of infertility, recently posted on Segullah about taking birth options seriously--more specifically, approaching them prayerfully. It sparked a debate among commenters about home birth vs. hospital birth, epidural vs. natural, blah blah vs. blee blee, although ultimately the conversation pointed to Cjane's original thought: that everyone is different and every experience can be special and an opportunity for learning and growth, depending on how we approach it.

I loved the post, but more than that I loved this comment from some girl named Robyn. Don't know her, probably never will, but I wish I could write her and thank her for it. Here is an excerpt from Robyn's comment:

I have had 2 c-sections. I had a hard time coming to terms with the first one. I felt real loss not having the experience I had always wanted. . . .

And yet, I had been prayerful. I had been hopeful. . . . I don’t feel that Heavenly Father was punishing me for my well intentioned decisions. He knew what I needed. He knew what would make me grow, even though it would be so hard.

My second child’s birth was such a blessing. I prayed and prayed that the doubts would go away. That I could feel peace about it this birth. . . . Yet, when I got to 9 centimeters (the same point I got to with my first child) there were the same problems that required an emergency c-section. The amazing thing is that while they were prepping me for surgery all I could feel was gratitude.

He was aware of my situation. . . . The doubt was gone. . . . These experiences have taught me about empathy and about not judging others. About working to eradicate the ugliness of pride (looking up and looking down).

Your child’s birth is important and spiritual because it is the beginning of the time you get to nurture, love and teach this child. Your opportunity to mother your children is what is the greatest treasure.

. . . Childbirth is not about strength or guts or weakness. I truly believe that Heavenly Father will make it what we need and want. Be prayerful and know that He is there.

Admittedly I am slightly obsessed with VBAC. But I think that more than anything, these steps I am taking are a cover for a fear of failure, or of disappointment, or of health or fertility issues in the future. I think more than VBAC, I am yearning for an experience that I do not regret and that I know is the right thing for our baby and our family. I think that can happen no matter what, C-section or VBAC, if Matt and I are prepared and prayerful and our health care provider is skilled and competent. At least, I hope so.

It's a Long Story

Had the big Six-Weeker last Thursday, and by Six-Weeker I mean not only Theo’s six-week birthday but also my OB visit wherein, among other things, Dr. Elliott said to me these two little statements:

“You’re completely back to normal.”

“Vaginal births are overrated.”

Before you go thinking “Just another jerk OB,” I should emphasize that in context he was really just telling me:

“You can do stuff now that you couldn’t before, because you’re healing fine.”

“It’s okay that you had a C-section.”

The nurse who took my blood pressure also said something that made me think. She asked if I had ended up with a natural birth (which she knew I had been planning for) and I said, “Nope, C-section.” “Was it an emergency?” she asked. I hedged for a second and she said:

“It was just time for him to come out, huh.”

A quick rewind to just over six weeks ago, when I “gave birth” to Theo, another phrase I have mulled over lately, tell you why in a minute. Bla bla bla sob story about how I was in labor for 2 days and finally got a lopsided epidural 12 hours before he was born. As a side note, I should say that when I recounted The Birth Story to people in the days after Theo’s birth, when it was all fresh in my mind and everyone wanted to hear it (as I like to tell myself), I was very careful to emphasize, especially to a couple of pregnant friends, that contractions were Not That Bad. They Hurt, but they were Not That Bad and actually I’ve never felt closer to Matt in my life than when he helped me through them on the second and longest day. Pushing, that’s maybe another story but everyone’s different, right!

Yeah, pushing = hard, for me. I pushed so hard I got a fever, and also it turns out I’m really, really bad at holding my breath.

Dr. Elliott and the nurses were great. Even when I asked the nurse not very politely, “Could you stop saying ‘push, push, push’ when it’s time to push?” (It was annoying me and it’s not like I couldn’t feel the contraction coming), she politely obliged. Even when I looked at Dr. E with crossed eyes as he held my feet and got me to push and I said to him honestly, “Please, please, just pull it out, or CUT it out,” he refused and instead got me to calm down.

After 2 hours, Dr. Elliott let me get the epi pumped up to see if more contractions would bring the baby’s head down further—since I was clearly exhausted and a little delirious. One reason I will continue to advocate natural birth is that while increasing contractions are hard, losing the epidural feeling during transition, or the time when your body is almost ready to push and contractions are coming like crazy, is harder—and I immediately fell asleep for almost an hour.

When I woke back up, the baby’s heartbeat wasn’t going back up after contractions, the last pesky centimeter (I was at a 9) hadn’t dilated, there was a little meconium in the most recent fluid, my fever was still high, and my water had been broken for 12 hours. These are circumstances that depending on your philosophy (and malpractice insurance), might lead you as a health care professional in two directions: C-section + sigh of relief or a calculated risk + lots of patience.

Dr. Elliott said I could go another hour, let the epidural die down and try to push again with a big risk of an emergency C, or I could get a C then.

I cried.

Although all I "really" wanted was for both of us to be safe and healthy (standard disclaimer), I also really, really wanted to know that I could bear him myself—actually "give birth." I wanted a culminating experience to these nine months that I would feel and never forget. You know, the kind where you feel that last push and the heavens open and your husband documents forever on film your sweaty, tearful, exultant face when you first meet your sweet little child. I desperately wanted it, in fact.

I don’t know where that urge comes from, but I think many women can identify. It’s like the reason I can hear Theo stir in his sleep from 3 rooms away, or the reason I’ll sing Primary songs to him until my face is blue. Or the reason that we decided to have him in the first place. The thought that I could not do this one tiny little thing—give birth myself—was very, very disappointing at 2 p.m. on January 11.

Matt knew how much I wanted it, and my doctor did too, and they fell over themselves urging me that it was fine and I had been brave. I didn’t feel brave though, in fact I really felt very scared. That feeling of giving up was more frightening than contractions, which honestly were not that scary—just painful.

So, Matt and I decided to have the surgery, although now doped back up with the epidural I had my heart set on pushing again. I thought about how tired I was and how long it had been. It was like the nurse said last week—it was time for him to come out.

“I’m sorry you had to have a C-section,” you might hear after having one you didn’t plan for. That’s because it’s hard to know you couldn’t do it "on your own." But at 2:53 p.m. on January 11, I felt fine about it, especially when Theo emerged with his cord around his neck (hence the slow heartbeats), but otherwise perfect. I was not tearful or sweaty or exultant yet. His crying sounded exactly like every other brand-new baby’s cry I had ever heard on TV and in the movies. I didn’t have my contacts in or glasses on so I couldn’t see him very well but I could see his dark eyes and dark hair and angry-looking face. I had IVs in both arms and a completely numb body so I couldn’t hold him or feed him, but I watched Matt hold him and I fed him myself a few hours later. People say bonding may be slower after a surgical birth. I have to agree that in my case I didn't especially feel "bonded" to him yet. But I was so bleary and groggy and relieved that I didn't really notice.

So back to the “back to normal” thing. If anyone should know, an OB should know that there is no “back to” normal, just a new normal, which keeps evolving anyway. My incision isn’t bad, stretch marks are not very pretty, but I do fit into my old jeans. Breastfeeding hasn’t always gone as smoothly as I would like, but we’re doing it and Theo’s fat and happy. (I don’t fit into my old shirts.) Everything I own has been graced with assorted bodily fluids, but everything I own is from Target or D.I. We're late to everything, but—wait, I was always late to everything.

He wakes up once, twice, or three times in a night, but he doesn’t usually cry, just eats and goes right back to sleep, and I wish you could see how big and bright his eyes are in our dark room.