The Birth Story, Part II: Donuts and Music and Scarfy Things, Oh My!

Note: You can find part I and its associated warnings here.

So now we’ll start to fast forward through some of this day, hitting just the “good parts.” (And yet still in excruciating, four-part detail!)

* Around 9 a.m., I realized I had never put together a playlist of music to listen to while in labor. So I tossed about seven songs into a group and put it on repeat. Because I had exactly enough brain power to come up with about seven songs. Actually, I had less brain power than that because I had actually come up with most of them in my head previously and had just never done anything about it. These songs were on repeat for many hours of the day, but I barely noticed them. I was probably the only one. At one point, Meghan (who I assume was going crazy from having to listen to “A Thousand Years” or “Little Wonders” for the seven thousandth time) casually asked, “So, do you just have this playlist on repeat?” Um, yes. Yes, I did. (I think I turned it off after that, thereby saving my birth team from the edge of madness.)

* I brought in the whole crew around 10 a.m. Susan, our wonderful midwife. Laurie, the birth assistant. Meghan, friend, photographer, and bring of donuts. There was the checking of the heartbeat (but the absolutely-not-on-your-life-no-checking of the dilation). There was some friendly chitchat, and everyone settled in to my living room to give me some space to sleep or whatever I wanted in my room.

* I was still laughing, still totally relaxed, still capable of carrying on conversations. If you’ve gone through the Bradley method of training for birth, you’re thinking, “Oh, Jeanna, you’re not even close to ready to give birth.” And you’re right. This was early labor, folks. Really early labor.

See? Still totally in early labor.

* I spent inordinate amounts of time worrying about the people in my household. They were all there, waiting on me. Waiting on me. Egad, the nerves. The performance anxiety. Laurie had a test to study for—I was keeping her from it. (I really wasn’t; she studied at my house.) Meghan had her very own newborn—I was keeping her from him. (I really was, but she was terribly gracious about it, and she left to take care of him a time or two.) In retrospect, the best plan would have been to send them all home. I could have called them back again when things picked up. But the paranoia, remember—this baby could pop, right? That’s what everyone was always saying about third babies. “They just pop out!” “Shorter and shorter labors!” (And since my second labor was really only active for about four hours, I felt justifiably concerned.)

We must be ready!

* Brice read to me for a while from some excessively cheesy romance novel I had on my kindle at the moment. That was embarrassing, largely because it involved cringing at the plotline. (I think there may have been time travel involved. Or past lives? Or both? I don’t remember; I think I blocked it.)

Apparently the scarf is called a rebozo.
Also, I think I spent about twenty minutes
total on that ball. But at least it was fun
for the girls to play with!

* At one point in the meltingly hot afternoon, I tossed a t-shirt over my tank top and headed outside to walk (waddle) up and down our street. While I did this . . . not a single contraction. Not one. I came back from the walk and stated casually, when asked, that I didn’t think the walk had helped much. I was lying, desperately trying to pretend that things were further along than they were.

* Laurie suggested some sort of homeopathic hoo-ha to try to nudge labor along (“See! I knew they were getting impatient,” I thought to myself), and I said, “Why not?” I have no idea if it worked, but let’s just say it did. Laurie also suggested, when the contractions finally started picking up, a neato scarfy-wrappy thingie around my belly. It helped for some contractions, and I wanted to rip it off and burn it to oblivion for others. Ah, labor.

Still, over the hours it slowly became obviously that labor was finally picking up.

Stay tuned for part III, in which things get hairy.

Update: A friend asked me about the purpose of a rebozo. Here's how I saw it: You know how when you're pregnant and you sneeze, you think your whole abdomen is about to explode into fiery shreds of what used to be muscles and ligaments and such? So when you feel a sneeze coming, you bend over and wrap your arms around your belly? To me, the rebozo was kind of like that. However, if you ask the internet, they don't talk about that. Instead it's about positioning and relaxing and whatnot. Sooo . . . I hope you feel enlightened now.

The Birth Story, Part I: In the Beginning...

Yes! I have finally started writing this down and posting it here. Please do not die of shock.

Be ye hereby warned: There are details in here, people. Potentially gross and/or awkward details. Because childbirth is awesome . . . and also filled with blood, goo, and lots of skin. So enter at your own risk.

Be ye hereby also warned: This is only part I of the exceptionally long, unedited version. If you want the shorter, less exciting, and significantly less snarky version, wait for the summary instead.

It began with a pop and a gush of hot fluid. It was a bit past midnight and I’d been sleeping when my amniotic sac decided it had had enough. I’d often wondered what water breaking felt like, since I hadn’t even noticed it happening with either of my other two children’s births. The answer: it feels like Weird.

My words to Brice: “I think my water just broke.” (Brilliant observation, yes?)

Probably the cleanest this room has ever been.

Excitement pulsed through me as I hobbled quickly to the bathroom, trying not to leave a river in my wake. Here’s what Brice had done by the time I came back: Sat up. Stared at his phone.

Clearly the rush of adrenaline I felt had not extended to him.

So we called Susan, our midwife, just to let her know. I was trying not to squeal in happiness that finally pregnancy would be over! But there was definitely a little bit of internal celebration going on. Susan said to try to rest and let her know if I started having contractions. Just the thought of not having contractions for a while was daunting, but I realized it was a possibility. So I took a deep breath and tried to sleep.

Ho hum, nothing to see here. Just a woman pretending
she's farther along in labor than she really is.

Let me state for the record that trying to sleep while you’re also trying to record your contractions—this is not a good formula for getting much rest.

Five hours later, it was clear that I was in labor but not by much. (If you want to be all boring and technical about it, I will tell you that contractions were about a minute long and ten minutes apart.) I was happy and antsy, crazily nervous that this labor would be so speedy that no one would show up on time (midwife, birth assistant, or birth photographer). While I was pretty sure I could do this without any helpers if I had to, I didn’t really want to. When Addra was born, I had no idea I was as far progressed through labor as I was—right up until the very contraction that was obviously a push. (At which point I observed, “That was a push!” I am apparently brilliant and witty while in labor.) Susan was only at our house for about half an hour before Addra was born. The birth assistant didn’t arrive until after the fact.* So this time around I was understandably paranoid that people weren’t going to make it on time. Far too paranoid, it turns out.

I'm so glad I have this picture. The painting hanging on
the wall is one given to us by Brice's mom. The one on the shelf
was a card my mom wrote to us for our wedding. She died
about four months before we got married, so receiving it and
the afghan she'd crocheted for us was a beautiful gift from her.
Anyway, it was nice to have that reminder there. (Also, you can't
see it, but the painting is of a woman holding up her child
to the sky. Mom and I saw it together many moons ago, and
she saved it for years to give it to me on the right occasion,
which just ended up being my wedding. I kind of love it a lot.)

We kept in touch with both Susan and my friend and birth photographer, Meghan. Time passed. Boredom interlaced with nerves interlaced with intermittent ouchiness. There should have been a point in here when I realized that labor was going to be slow. Every time I got up to move around, contractions slowed. When I sat, they sped up. This is not the usual way of things. It’s funny that the thing that served me so well in labor with Addra—religiously timing contractions—became a bit of a problem here. It made me hyperaware when I should have just taken a deep breath and quit freaking out. Hind sight is brilliant, yes?

Stay tuned for part II, in which donuts are eaten.

* Please note: This is not an argument against birthing at home. Had I been planning to go to the hospital, I still would have stayed home most of the time, since I misjudged how far along I was. The difference is that I would probably have been on the road to the hospital when suddenly I realized my body was ready to push!**

** Please also note: This is not an argument against birthing at the hospital. This post is completely argument-less. Even though I do think homebirth is awesome. 

These kids of ours were excellent at entertaining themselves.

Meat, a Reprise (OR: Histrionics Will Get You What You Want)

A while ago, someone in this household had a mild fit ofhistrionics. Now, I’m not naming names or anything, but I will say that she’s the only female in the household of voting age. Anyway, magically within days of this episode, a major gift card to Fogo de Chao appeared in our mailbox. The note with it said just, “Merry Christmas!” Wow, I felt so loved. Plus, meat!

So that was several months ago. And finally this past week, we went! (The reason it took so long was both slackerliness and the effort to coordinate schedules and have me not freaking out about leaving a baby at home with someone else.) It was so lovely to go out to lunch with my delightful hubby and leave all the kids behind. We dressed up a little, we talked about whatever we felt like, and we could focus on just a single conversation instead of three or four (which always feels like such a luxury).

There was guarana (a Brazilian soda), Antartica brand (the best). There were cheesebreads (essential at a churrasceria). There were sticks and sticks full of meat. Meat. MEAT! (I promise, by the way, that I am not always this obsessed with meat.) There was filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Did you know that filet mignon does, in fact, have a different, softer, more fabulous texture than regular chunks of meat? I did not.

So the food was lovely, and the only real drawback was that they did not have sticks of caramelized pineapple that they carried around (sigh, Braza Grill, sigh). Fortunately, they did have caramelized pineapple on the dessert menu, so even though we were both stuffed and bursting at the seams, we still ordered dessert. After we ate, we pretty much had to waddle back to the car (at least a block’s walk--sheer gastric agony).

We really enjoyed our Fogo de Chao meal. Truthfully, we probably won’t go back except maybe for a rare occasion. It’s just not in our usual price range. But that’s the fun of trying something new and extravagant--it’s an experience to savor for its novelty and fun.

When the server came to show us the dessert menu, he asked if we were there celebrating anything special. Brice said something about an early Valentine’s Day, and I kind of mumbled something about not having our kids with us. But after he left, we realized this is how the conversation really should have gone:

Server: Are you celebrating anything special?

Me: Meat.

Brice: And also . . . meat.

So, to the anonymous benefactor who sent the gift card: We thank you! We celebrate your thoughtfulness. And also . . . meat.

This used to be fun.

It’s been almost four years since I started writing on our blog. I don’t remember exactly the process of deciding to share my now-infamous Mother’s Day thoughts here, but I do remember how wonderful it felt to write it all down and hit that “Publish” button. It didn’t matter that maybe only one or two siblings would read it. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t pretty. All that mattered was that I’d thought of something and wanted to put it here, as a record, almost a public journal.

It continued to be that way for a long time. I would write sporadically, whenever I came up with something that I thought was funny or silly or thought provoking or interesting. Confessional: That time I admitted that I’ve used my babies as napkins. Frustrated: That conversation with my hair stylist about motherhood. Assorted: The animal antics, the sartorial experiments, the food! And, honestly, who could forget the six geese-a-laying?*

But somewhere along the way, I started thinking about numbers. And pictures and readability. And making sure every post mattered somehow and was totally representative of the important things in our lives. And was complete. Was worth posting on Facebook. Deep, meaningful, worth advertising to friends and family. Blah blah blah.

I got so concerned with curating the blog perfectly, making it just so. So now every time I think about blogging, I think about all of this stuff.

And it’s just not fun anymore.

And because it’s not fun, I’ve missed out on sharing things I really wanted to share—big things like Coriel’s epic Muddy Buddy obstacle course race that we held in our yard last year, little things like the time I broke out into uncontrollable laughter when Koa peed on his own face.

So ptui! on all of that. I want this to be fun again. So, from here on out:

~ I may or may not notify the world of Facebook that I’ve written something here. Sometimes yes, sometimes no, depending wholly on my own whims. If you actually want to read my posts, you’ll just have to figure out how to follow me from the blog. Or figure out how to get carrier pigeons to bring you notifications.

~ There may or may not be pictures.

~ I will make little-to-no attempt to present a complete picture of my life here. For my foo who live far away, sorry. I’d love to say that I’ll try harder to keep you up to date on our lives, but that would be a bald-faced lie.**

~ I will continue to write sporadically—I mean, really sporadically—but I will no longer feel guilty about it. If you want to hear from me more, I write equally sporadically at Callooh Callay Callay and fortnightly-ish at MMW (and here’s a handy link to just my posts).

~ I will not apologize for occasionally being badly edited or long-winded or whatever. Because it just takes too much time sometimes, and I get all perfectionist-y, upon which I spit!***

And I think that covers it. If I sound cranky, it might be because I slightly am. I don’t like that I have let blogging turn into drudgery. I want it to be fun again!

On that note, I will leave you with this: (It is most amusing if you flip quickly back and forth between the two pictures.)

* The answer to that question, I am well-aware, is everyone on the planet except for me.

** Is that the right expression? Bald-faced? Because that seems ridiculous to me.

*** Okay, if we’re being honest, I will undoubtedly continue to apologize for ridiculous things like missing smart quotes and badly used semicolons, but that’s just how I roll.

Meat

Scene: The airport, where I am dropping off the hubby for a short business trip. I am attempting to not act like a total basket case because I am, of course, a mature, responsible woman capable of watching her own three children by herself for four days.

ME: [smiling] Have lots of fun in Utah!

HUBBY: Okay.

ME: [still smiling] Have fun playing with your sister and your parents.

HUBBY: [nods]

ME: [still smiling] And get some dinner from Epic!*

HUBBY: [enthusiastically] Or maybe some churrasceria!**

ME: [bursts into somewhat hysterical tears]***

HUBBY: [a little stunned by my reaction] Oh, I’m sorry. Order some Outback while I’m gone, okay?

ME: [nodding pathetically] Yeah, okay.

Scene: Twenty minutes later, at the drive-thru at Wendy’s, I am ordering a burger. It’s not churrasco, but at least it’s meat.****

* One of our favorite restaurants in Salt Lake.

** Brazilian barbecue, where they come around to the tables with giant skewers of meat, meat, and more meat.

*** There is no logical reason why the idea of Brice eating churrasco caused such hysteria. But it did make me realize how much I miss semi-inexpensive churrasco. The only churrasceria in the area that we know of is a snooty, high-falutin,’ $50-per-plate one in Baltimore. That is not happening.

**** Theoretically.