The Birth Story of David Nathaniel

In the weeks and months that followed David’s birth, I noticed that I was not jumping at every opportunity to share the birth story–here on the blog, or with anyone. Naturally, birth is a deeply private matter, but there was something else that was holding me back as well: David’s birth was perfect. I am generally always ready to share stories of trial and tribulation. Not only do I want others to know that they are not alone in their suffering, but I also don’t feel guilty or uncomfortable with the fact that I experience human suffering. It’s what we humans do. We suffer. And yet, we can also experience bliss. For whatever reason, I find it more difficult to talk about my moments of bliss, especially in the context of something that our culture considers extremely agonizing. But with this little guy, I had the most blissful birth experience I could have ever imagined (and for which I could have ever hoped).

Like my last birth story, this one will be an honest account of a woman’s labor and delivery–this time, however, it’s a second birth rather than a first. And a second birth that came about three weeks later than my first birth. I think that made (almost) all the difference, as far as my enjoying active labor is concerned.

Let’s go back to December 22, 2013, when I believe my early labor actually began: I awoke around midnight with consistent contractions that were strong enough that I couldn’t lie in bed with them–I had to get up to pee every time one hit–so I went out in the living room and sat on my birth ball, getting excited because I thought baby was on his way. Around 6am, the contractions died off, so I crawled back in bed to try to get some sleep before the real contractions started. Meanwhile, Thomas canceled his jobs for the day and got up to make me a big breakfast in preparation for the long haul. But as you are probably already aware, “real” contractions didn’t pick up that day after all.

Again, on Christmas Eve, I got consistent contractions (during Christmas Eve Mass, no less, so I stood in the cry room swaying back and forth hoping no one would ask me if I wanted to sit) and was pretty convinced I’d be having a baby on Christmas.

Not so.

By December 28th I was seasoned enough to know that these returning “early labor” contractions might not be early labor, so I got used to ignoring them. In the words of my sister-in-law (to quote her as my memory serves and not necessarily verbatim), “It’s not labor until it’s labor, and when it’s labor, you’ll know.”  I decided to wait for those contractions that indicated, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was in labor and there was no chance the contractions would subside.

The days continued to crawl by until, at last, I had arrived at my estimated delivery date of January 5, 2014. By this time, I had experienced at least half a dozen “early labors” and my midwives and doula were expecting a call from me absolutely any moment.

The longest two weeks of my life began on January 6, 2014, and came to a happy (nay, blissful) conclusion on January 20. By January 19, the waiting became stressful enough (at 42 weeks pregnant) that my main midwife and I decided to try some natural labor-inducing/augmenting techniques to move things along. She and I were both convinced I had been in early labor on and off for a month. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she said that often when women go to 42 weeks she notices at the birth that there was something involving the baby that made labor “hesitate”–like an umbilical cord that was very short, or wrapped around the baby’s neck. Let me mention, here, that I had been complaining of a sore pubic bone for the last month. My midwife and doula weren’t alarmed and one or the other said that’s normal in second pregnancies (???). I noticed I would be most sore after a bout of those “early labor” contractions tho–like the kid was trying to get out, head-butting and failing, then giving up.

During my last week of pregnancy (week 42) I went to a couple of different chiropractors. One of them said my pubic bone was “locked” and he “unlocked” it (in other words, it’s supposed to be able to swivel slightly with the pelvis, and mine was remaining stationary). I could tell that it had physically moved outward after that adjustment. By the way, if you feel like this is too much information, stop reading now, because, well, this is a birth story, and birth involves the pelvic region, usually. Anyway, I was hoping we had created more space for my little guy to exit. Although, again, labor did not immediately ensue (as I had hopelessly hoped).

We didn’t know what this baby was hesitating about, but on the evening of January 19, not wanting to put him at a doubly-increased risk for things like meconium aspiration syndrome or decreased oxygen supply due to a deteriorating placenta by going past 42 weeks, we tried a combination of things: stripping the membranes, a black and blue cohosh regimen, breast-pumping, and cotton root bark. I got good, strong, consistent contractions for hours. But they still didn’t feel like the stuff of active labor! Unfortunately, I was feeling so much pressure to perform with my birth team and husband just sitting around, Emma sleeping, and my sister watching a movie downstairs with a flight out at 8 the next morning, that I didn’t feel like I was in the right frame of mind to settle into good active labor. In an effort to take the pressure off, I sent my midwife and doula home and told them I’d call them if things picked up.

By 10pm, I was ready to crawl into bed. I felt like the baby and I were both just ready to sleep, not go through labor. My doula had come back for about an hour that evening, and she had described pregnancy as a ripening. When the baby is ready to come out, he’s like a ripe apple falling from a tree. That night, I felt like I was plucking fruit from a tree too early, rather than allowing it to fall from the tree when it was good and ripe and ready. I went downstairs and told my sister it didn’t look as if she’d be meeting her nephew this visit after all; then I went to bed, discouraged yet hopeful–knowing we were closer than ever to this sweet baby’s birth.

The next morning brought an odd sense of relief: technically, I was now post-date so I had to have this baby soon. Preferably today. All of the patient waiting–let’s be honest: NOT AT ALL PATIENT WAITING–was over. That baby had to get out of there. I had nothing left to offer him, womb-side.

Around 8am, Thomas drove my sister, with Emma, to the airport, and I waddled off to a Starbucks about a mile from our house (in the hopes that labor would begin once I got moving!). I enjoyed a latte and a breakfast sandwich, then called Thomas for a pick-up (at 42-weeks pregnant, it’s hard to walk more than a mile, so I wasn’t about to waddle home). I called my midwife on my way to Starbucks, asking her what her thoughts were for the day. She said she thought we should “go the castor oil route” and she would come over at 3pm to check my cervix and to talk about castor oil depending on how far I had progressed. Over the phone, she sent me to Walgreens for castor oil, orange juice, and vanilla ice cream. At this point, I was resigned to the fact that I might not enter active labor without a little kick of some kind, and my midwife’s confidence in castor oil convinced me that was probably my best option.

Around noon, before I did my Walgreens run and as I was putting Emma down for her nap, I got a contraction strong enough that I had to stand abruptly in order to cope with it, removing Emma from my lap where she was listening to me reading a book. It wasn’t stronger than the other “early labor” contractions I’d been getting for the past few weeks, but it was slightly unique–there was more of a pinching, sudden pain and less of a friendliness about it. I wondered if it was my body just trying to avoid castor oil (and the intestinal cramping that would commence a couple of hours later). I am particularly averted to intestinal cramping (I literally prefer uterine cramping to intestinal cramping), so I wondered if my body was putting on a show to make me think  I was in labor and didn’t need the extra kick.  I was dreading intestinal cramping so much, in fact, that when I went to Walgreens and Ben and Jerry’s was on sale, I bought a pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch–and went home and stress-ate at least half of it. [An aside: at Walgreens, the cashier asked when I was due and when I said two weeks ago she told me I didn’t look like the baby had dropped yet. Word to the wise, never let a stranger tell you when you’re going to deliver. Because I had strangers betting this kid would be a Christmas baby…and then a New Year’s baby…and then, well, then at 42 weeks and a day I was told the baby hadn’t dropped yet. But for the last month my pelvis and tailbone were telling me otherwise.]

By the time my midwife arrived at 3pm, I was getting consistent (although still not painful) contractions. I told her I think they’d develop into active labor. And when she checked me, I was already 5 cm dilated (1 cm more than the day before). Still, to be on the safe side (i.e. ensure that labor would pick up), my midwife mixed up a tasty concoction of ice cream, orange juice, and castor oil. I’m telling you, if you ever have to take castor oil, that’s the way to do it. Orange creamsicle, with some extra viscosity. No, I wouldn’t recommend drinking it for pleasure’s sake, but if you’re experiencing a post-date pregnancy, it ain’t half bad. Still, I didn’t finish it. (You remember the Ben & Jerry’s I’d just eaten? So much ice cream in a two-hour period. Ugh.) I washed it down the drain without telling my midwife… until she asked if I finished it. Then I said, “No. I left some for the gods.” Because by then I knew I was in real labor and I was sure I didn’t need the full two-ounce dose of castor oil to keep it up.

Around 3:15pm Thomas called and asked if he should pick up a 4pm job about 30 minutes away. I said no, I think he should be home this afternoon, just in case labor picked up quickly. And my doula asked if she should keep her 4-6pm class that she was planning on teaching in someone else’s home. I said there was a good chance I’d be in active labor between those hours, and by 4pm I asked my midwife to call the doula and have her come over for support–this had to be it.

Thomas got home between 3 and 4, and I told him, with a huge smile, that we were having a baby. By that date (15 days past my EDD), every “weak” contraction I got was a disappointment to me, while every strong contraction was a joyous relief.

I had called my friend Beth in the early afternoon to tell her I’d be taking castor oil and I’d probably be in labor that evening (she was my “on call” babysitter for Emma that day). She said she was planning on going to her family’s for dinner, but she could come over after dinner or she could cancel with the family if active labor was during dinner time. By 3:30, it was clear I was heading into labor and would be needing her for Emma. She said she’d call her mom and get back to me.

Soon, she was on my doorstep. She had spoken with her mom and they thought it would be a good idea if she just took Emma to her family’s for dinner. I was hesitant. I really wanted Emma to have a “normal” night–dinner at home at 5:30, her usual wind-down routine with a bath, etc., and in bed by 6:30 or 7. But I was in labor. It was not going to be a normal night. So after some thinking on my end (and some serious urging on my midwife and Beth’s end) I accepted that having Emma gone for the next 2-3 hours would be really good for me. I had had a way of holding labor back a little in order to interact with her, nurture her, etc., and let’s face it, there was absolutely no need for me to be holding this labor back.

So Emma headed out with Beth between 3:30 and 4, and my doula canceled her class and headed over around the same time. I was starting to vocalize in order to cope with the most intense portion of each contraction by the time she arrived, and she said, “It sounds like labor!” when she walked in. ‘Heck yes. It does. Because it is,’ I thought.

She busted out her cool (literally, cool to the touch) rolling pin for my low back (heavenly!) and at my request, told me some favorite positions that some of her clients labor in. Here’s one I loved: hugging a birth ball set on top of our bed and leaning into it a bit with each contraction. Add a cool rolling pin to the low back and, well, I was actually enjoying myself. I should mention, as well, that as Emma walked out the door, I looked at the clock and thought, “OK, I have about 2 hours to have this baby, then Emma will come home and meet her brother and still get to bed on time!” (I am a very accommodating person. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so, but this time? Perfectly acceptable.)

At 3:55pm, I asked Thomas to email my mom (her phone was out of commission that day) to let her know this was it. FINALLY! Then I sent out a text to my siblings and then to some friends letting them know I was entering active labor. And that was that. I felt like there was absolutely nothing keeping me from delivering that baby. So much ecstatic relief came with every contraction–such a paradox when I think of our general, cultural view of labor (epidurals always at the ready, with intense contractions to be dreaded).

With my doula rolling the rolling pin (or snapping photos) and my hubby cheering me on, I labored joyously from 4pm until 5pm. Between contractions I was kissing Thomas and telling him how excited I was that we were having the baby.

Between 5pm and 6pm, the contractions intensified tremendously. Every once in a while, they would climax to a point that I felt I was ready to push (although my water still had not broken). And for all the eye-rolling I had done at the Ina May Gaskin birth stories after my first birth, I have to admit, I would describe this labor as ecstatic. Even orgasmic. (But if you’re not ready to hear that, just delete it from your memory.)

I stopped keeping my eye on the clock between 5 and 6, although I still felt as if time were passing at the rate at which I was accustomed to it passing (a little surprising for labor, from my limited experience). Somewhere around 5:30, I knew it was time to get in the bathtub so that my water would break (as it had, in the bath, during my last labor). We scrambled/waddled me quickly to the bathroom between big contractions (I had been laboring in the bedroom between 4pm until then), and a few contractions later, I thought my water broke. Thomas confirmed it by saying he heard the pop. Again, I was filled with tremendous relief. And relief is always a good feeling. I WAS HAVING MY BABY!! AT LAST!!!

Our bathtub doesn’t hold water well, and our hot water runs out at about half-bath, so once my water broke I really wanted to get out of that tepid (it’s January, remember?), rapidly-disappearing water. My midwife said we’d just have the baby right there on the bathroom floor, but I didn’t want that, so I insisted we go back to the bed. The team walked me back into the bedroom (between back-to-back intense contractions. Yay.) and I started pushing on hands and knees.

I asked how it was going and whether my midwife could see the head yet. She said yes, he was crowning and she could see dark hair. I was so excited! Hair! I thought all my babies would be bald–it’s a pretty strong family trait on my side. I said loud enough for baby to hear, “I love you, baby!” and I told Thomas, “He has hair!” (Hence Thomas’ smile in the above picture.) This labor was such a joy. I still can’t get over it. And how I wish I weren’t embarrassed that I enjoyed it. How I wish our world celebrated labor–not as something without pain, because I certainly still experienced intense pain this time around, as with my first, but I wish we celebrated labor as an integral part of life’s dance. (Yes, I am such a hippie. But give me a break. This was the most empowering, beautiful, and profoundly “primal feminine” experience of my life. And that was before I knew the kid was over eleven pounds.)

Anyway, I kept pushing and pushing (and easing off when my midwife advised, in order to avoid tearing as much as possible) until she said the head was out. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking labor was basically over. After all, in my labor with Emma I just gave one more strong push for the shoulders and the rest of her body sailed right out. Oh but not with this babe. My midwife commanded me urgently to PUSH. I did, but my pushing felt as if it were accomplishing nothing. It seemed there was something blocking the efficacy of my pushes. I was pushing as hard as I could and my body didn’t seem to be giving me any more “freebies” (those strong urges to push that basically overcome you and make it happen, so to speak). After a few moments, my midwife commanded, “OK, Kathleen, flip over. Lie on your back.” There was such urgency in her voice that I got nervous. Come on, Kathleen. Push as hard as you can! (I told myself.) And my midwife: “OK, push, push, push!”

I replied, “I can’t. It feels like there’s something in the way. Can’t you just pull him out?” Of course her reply was, “No. You have to push.” So I kept pushing (while the words of Bill Cosby from his stand-up show Himself ran through my mind: “Push him out, shove him out. WAY out. Push him out, shove him out, WAY out.” So even at this point, I was smiling). My midwife tugged and twisted gently while my doula applied counter-pressure (or something. Obviously I couldn’t see what was going on at that end).

I felt an uncomfortable jerk and pushing became a little easier, until I felt the gush of afterbirth and our little guy was born! I was nervous because he had been stuck and I asked if he was alright, if he was breathing. My midwife assured me that he was still getting oxygen from my placenta (wow! God’s design is spectacular. Good call, God, on the design and birth-timing of the placenta.) They wrapped him in a towel and put him on my chest. Sigh. He grimaced and screamed valiantly.

After some good crying to clear his lungs, he was ready to nurse–and he latched perfectly! (Once again, this was a totally different experience from that of my first baby.)

I had completely forgotten about my needing to deliver the placenta until his nursing initiated more strong contractions. I don’t remember much from the delivery of the placenta except for the fact that my midwife said it was huge–like another baby (she also said it was very healthy–no deteriorating, so we knew the baby had been getting all the nutrients and oxygen he needed, even at 42 weeks). But compared to the baby, that delivery was way easy: no hulking shoulders getting hooked on my pubic bone. (So that was why my pubic bone had been sore the last month! His shoulders wouldn’t fit down in my pelvis so he was unable to engage for birth properly!)

After quite some time (I think even after I had delivered the placenta), Thomas cut the cord. I had asked my midwife to wait a good 20 minutes before clamping it because I wanted the baby to get every last little helpful hormone, immune-booster, nutrient, etc., pumping from the placenta into him through the cord.

Now that this guy was born, we talked about a name. We had originally considered Nathaniel Joseph with King David’s prophet Nathan/Nathaniel in mind. I pictured a tall, thin, spiritual man, living on locusts and wild honey. But this baby? Not the little prophet I was picturing. He was born a king–and ready to feast right from the start.

So we named him David Nathaniel. Beloved (David) Gift of God (Nathaniel). First a king, then a prophet–a king guided by the wisdom of his prophet.

Then my midwife weighed him.

11 pounds, 1 oz! As with Emma, I was completely astounded I had delivered such an enormous child.

Length? 23 inches!

99th percentile in height and weight. And his head circumference was 15 inches (so, 95th percentile, I guess?). His shoulders? Massive. Seriously, check out those biceps!

Thomas, David and I spent some quality time together as a family until it was time for me to try and pee. (Talk about frustrating! I can birth an 11-pound baby in 2 hours flat, but for the life of me I could not pee! At least not for 20 minutes or so. But I did. Finally. Ugh.) And then I got my six stitches. Meanwhile, Thomas went out to the living room and waited for Emma to come home and meet her new baby brother.

So I missed the adorableness of Emma’s first encounter with David, pointing at his precious little fingers and naming each one. (“Pointer, pinky, pinky, pinky. Pointer.” Because those were the finger names she knew at the time.)

So there you have it–my amazing second birth! And David continues to be as massive and hungry (and edible) as ever.

 

The First Week Postpartum

I write, at last! I am, of course, most grateful and delighted to announce that I DID (in fact) deliver the baby we’ve all been waiting for!

I was hoping to blog within days of this delivery, but due to a myriad of unforseen circumstances, that hope was not realized.

My mantra for the past 5 weeks has been: “Adopt the pace of Nature. Her secret is patience.” Keep that in mind as you read.

Here’s what’s been going down since the little guy arrived:

Monday, January 20, David Nathaniel was born at 6:09pm weighing 11 pounds 1 ounce and measuring 23 inches long. Birth story to be written and shared later…

DAY 1 POSTPARTUM:

Tuesday, January 21: My wonderful friend Martha arrived at STL at 9:45am, but due to some luggage issues, was unable to make it to our place til around noon. Anyway, it was so good to see a friend, and finally to meet her son who’s debut in Dallas I just missed by a week or two (last May). So baby David and I lied around the house while Martha and a mutual friend of ours attacked my home-birth laundry. I envy no one that job! And Martha was such a perfect angel all the while she was here! Cooking, cleaning, diapering (girl toddler diapers? Most difficult and disgusting changes ever), etc. But I digress… …back to why I haven’t been gushing about my newborn every day since he was born. After all, he’s a perfect baby and affords me plenty of time to write.

My midwife and her assistant came over for a home visit to check David’s vitals on this first day/evening postpartum and see how I was faring. The head midwife was in the middle of attending a labor elsewhere and needed to dash after dropping off the scale, stethoscope, etc., so my assistant midwife took D’s vitals. Borrowing a (crappy) thermometer from me and taking D’s temperature under the arm (a not-amazingly-reliable way to take a temp), the assistant was concerned that he had a fever because the thermometer read 98.something (and you add a degree to under the arm temp) so she texted her concern to my head midwife. Over 99 degrees! In a newborn! I told her that to me he didn’t feel warm to the touch and that the thermometer was a little unreliable anyway. She took the temp again, this time in centigrade and converting it to farenheit. 99.1! She texted the head midwife that David had a fever of 101.1 F. I corrected her, saying it was “only” 100.1 and I encouraged her to take the temp again. Meanwhile, my head midwife recommended, via text, that we take David to the hospital. Immediately. The assistant took the temperature again and the thermometer read 97.8 (so 98.8 temp–pretty darn normal). She told my head midwife so, but head midwife still recommended a hospital visit, to be on the safe side.

Then the assistant checked David’s recently-soiled diaper and thought his poo looked and smelled weird. (Watery-looking meconium; smelled a bit like baking pretzels–again, pretty normal if you ask me.) And she weighed him. He seemed to have lost almost a pound overnight! She texted this info to my midwife. She also listened to his breathing–and he had a coughing fit in the middle of her listening session–which was “alarmingly” fast. (I asked her to listen to it again because of the coughing and his need to catch his breath. That was literally the first time in his life that he’d ever coughed like that, so it didn’t seem like a good sampling of his norm. Anyway, even after a second listen, his breathing was a bit fast for a newborn.)

With all of this information, the head midwife (who was in the middle of a high-stress situation involving a hospital transfer birth) again texted the assistant midwife that she STRONGLY recommends we take him to the hospital right away.

So there I was, with a one-day-old in the middle of January (15 degrees out) and with a sore enough bottom and set of hips/lumbar that sitting in a car and walking around a hospital was rather out of the question, being advised to send my husband (without boobs) and my newborn (an on-demand nurser) out to the hospital because my midwife was afraid my baby had an infection. And I, his mother, was not at all convinced there was anything wrong (except, perhaps, some meconium in his lungs. More on that later.) I just wanted David to have a fighting chance. First and foremost, I wanted to give him a fighting chance at home–even with a slightly elevated temp, I knew that breastmilk and lots of skin contact with me could be all he needed. Of course, if that wasn’t enough, we cound take him to the hospital, but I wanted at least to give rest, nursing, and snuggling a chance. All this was happening at 9pm, by the way, and I was in my PJs and ready for a long rest with by new baby.

There was some awkward tension as I questioned all of the iffy signs that seemed to point to an infection. Plus, the assistant said David’s heart rate was normal, and if he had an infection it would be elevated. I asked what good a hospital visit would be–exposing a newborn to cold, germs, night-shift doctors, long waits, no breastfeeding… with no GUARANTEE that my son had a dangerously high fever? And my husband (oh wonderful, rational man that he is) said if we take David to the hospital and he does in fact have a fever/infection, they are just going to offer broad-spectrum antibiotics and we’re going to decline them, so it’s not really worth our time, money, and energy to go to the hospital, nor does it make sense to us to bring a NEW newborn out in 15 degrees without a CLEAR AND PRESENT danger about which he and I are both very concerned. The assistant midwife urged and re-urged. I thanked her for her concern (while the mother bear inside of me silently roared, “BACK OFF! I CARE MORE ABOUT MY SON THAN YOU DO! I’LL THINK ABOUT ALL OF THIS, WEIGH OPTIONS, AND MAKE MY OWN PARENTING DECISION!”) and she eventually left (awkwardly and tensely, as I’ve mentioned).

Later that night I received an email from my head midwife (thank you! It was weird being advised to go to the hospital by someone who wasn’t even there looking at my “ailing” child!) basically saying a fever in a newborn is nothing to mess with. I asked her if she could recommend a good thermometer. (By the way, how tacky that my midwife didn’t bring her own reliable equipment, eh?) She didn’t get back to me on that, but I told her I was sending my husband to the pharmacy for a rectal thermometer so we could at least get an accurate reading on the baby’s temperature (before we pulled a stressful all-nighter with a day-old baby in 15 degree weather at a germy, expensive, flourescently-lit hospital).

Thomas brought home a good thermometer, but David and I were so shaken up from all the prodding, weighing, un-diapering and re-diapering etc., and he did not feel alarmingly warm to the touch (I pride myself in being able to detect even a slightly elevated temperature, by the way), so I snuggled him up against me all night, listening to his breathing and remaining hyper-aware of his temperature lest it should rise at all, and saved the anal prodding for the morning.

I should, of course, also mentioned that I prayed like hell. St. Gerard is the patron of mothers, and I had recently read a pamphlet about miracles which have been attributed to him, so I prayed to him for a miracle: “IF David does in fact have an infection, won’t you make it all just go away, St. Gerard??” And: “God, You care more about our son than we do. Won’t you give us a pass this time?” And then we all got a good night’s sleep.

DAY 2 POSTPARTUM

Wednesday, January 22: I am delighted and relieved to announce that David’s temperature (yup, taken rectally, which was actually way easier and less stressful than I had anticipated) was 98.8 in the morning and 98.4 later that day (with .2 degrees of “error room” given by the thermometer manufacturer–so he may very well have been 98.6 both times!). That morning I got a text from the head midwife saying the assistant mis-read the scale, mistaking each dash as one ounce where it actually stood for three ounces, so David had only lost a few ounces rather than almost a pound. And I received a text from the assistant midwife saying that, after further inspection/reflection, she didn’t think there was anything weird about that poo after all.

So there we were, no fever, no weird poo, no significant weight change, no increased heart rate. All we faced now was the faster-than-usual breathing. Miracle? Maybe not, but I’ll take it! I monitored his breathing throughout the day, texting my midwife with the info. It was still on the upper end of normal, but not fast enough to alarm her.

DAY 3 POSTPARTUM

Thursday, January 23: My head midwife came over for a 9am appointment. David looked great, other than some serious jaundice that had developed.

Once again, my midwife recommended that we consider bringing David to the hospital (to get some UV treatment and bring home a bili-blanket (to help process bilirubin out of his blood). I thanked her for her recommendation, and once again, mulled it over (making no promises that we’d take our 3-day old to the hospital. Also, it was zero degrees out that day). I asked how babies usually clear jaundice, and I researched how long it takes most babies. The verdict? Small doses of direct sunlight and lots of breastfeeding. Most babies clear it in 5 days to 2 weeks, with days 2-4 postpartum being the worst due to lack of breast milk (i.e. only colostrum).

Emma was pretty badly jaundiced as a newborn, and she cleared it in 5 days, so I wanted to give David at least week before taking more than Mother Nature’s sunshine and breast milk measures.

Later that day I got a text from my midwife saying she thinks I might have had gestational diabetes and that prolonged low blood sugar and hyperbilirubin can cause brain damage. Ugh. So she encouraged me to take David to a doctor ASAP. She closed the text with “I don’t mean to add stress or worry.” Sigh. Well, you sure are making me worried–or, at least, you’re making me feel like I should be worried when in fact my motherly intuition says, “Just take it easy and give it time. Don’t leave the house for at least a week, dear.”

I did some more research and learned that the chances of brain damage were slim-to-none until after 2 weeks of jaundice, and then the chances were still slim although not out of the question. Whew. So, waiting til 1 week postpartum…

DAY 4 POSTPARTUM

Friday, January 24: David’s jaundice was clearing, slowly but surely. We gave him lots of little sun-baths and my milk came in full-force. Martha spent all day washing my laundry and tending to my toddler (what a dear!) and of course bring me food, water, etc. Then she went to spend the night at our mutual friend’s and (hopefully!) enjoy some time being waited on, rather than waiting on her host!

That evening, some friends brought dinner over for us, and about an hour before they arrived I began to feel positively ill. By the time they got to our house I had texted the wife apologizing that I was unable to get out of bed and please make themselves at home. And while everyone was sitting at dinner, I sat up to change David’s diaper then had to leave him screaming on the bed as I dashed to the bathroom to… yup, lose my lunch, as it were. I mumbled, “Thomascanyougetthebaby” as I slammed the bathroom door.

Later that evening, I threw up again. By then, I was so exhausted I literally felt like I would die (or at least pass out indefinitely) if I closed my eyes to go to sleep. Birthing an 11-pound baby and getting a stomach bug the same week will leave one rather motionless. I drank some EmergenC, and that left me feeling well enough to fall asleep without dying. So that was nice. Sadly, Thomas started to feel queasy not long after my second vomiting session, and he followed suit throughout the night.

Thank God Thomas’ mom arrived in town that evening!

DAY 5 POSTPARTUM

Saturday, January 25: At 2am, I was too hungry to sleep (a good sign, since I hoped that would mean the end of the vomiting!). I (stupidly) hobbled to the kitchen for an apple and brought it back to bed with me, nibbling it gingerly. I was glad I didn’t pass out during that trip, and I realize in hindsight that I should have just called Thomas’ mom, who said she’d keep her phone on through the night if we needed anything. After the apple, I was (of course) still hungry, so I called her. She warmed up some wonderful chicken broth that Thomas’ sister had made and sent along with her from Milwaukee. I sipped a couple of mugs of it, and felt (relatively) amazing after that.

Thomas and I spent the next day trying to find foods that sounded good (toast with honey was the winner for me, after that soup broth). And by evening, I was feeling well enough to eat a simple dinner (chicken and rice). In fact, by 8pm, I was dipping into some Ben and Jerry’s, so I’d say I had made quite a full recovery. It took Thomas a bit longer (I was a few hours ahead of him in this illness anyway), but we were feeling fine (enough) by the next morning, and were so grateful that Emma, David, and Thomas’ mom remained unscathed.

DAY 6 POSTPARTUM

Sunday, January 26: I was up at the crack of dawn making Thomas and Emma some oatmeal with a couple of apples cooked in. When Thomas has gotten sick in the past, he doesn’t really eat, then he complains about feeling really light-headed/sick when all he needs is food. But he doesn’t feed himself and doesn’t know WHAT to feed himself in these instances, so I have to make it happen–even if it means getting out of bed and cooking for him within the same week that I’ve birthed a massive baby and gotten a stomach bug.

Thomas and his mom, with Emma, trotted off to 9am Mass while I settled in to some R & R with my little bundle.

They brought me Communion–so precious after such a week!–and life was, finally, feeling beautiful. The temp was even in the 50’s that afternoon, and I was so SO tired of lying in bed with achy hips, that I took David out on a TINY walk for some fresh air and sunshine.

DAY 7 POSTPARTUM

Monday, January 27: My midwife came for a second home-visit and was SO impressed with David’s lack of jaundice. She said it was the fasted she had ever seen a baby clear jaundice and it was obvious to her that I had been working really hard to make it happen. (In fairness to my boobs, they did most of the work. I think I produce enough milk for quintuplets during the first week postpartum and enough for triplets–or at least hefty twins–from there on out.) David’s breathing was also totally normal by this day. YAY! A clean bill of health, all the way around. And just for kicks, I scheduled an appointment with a (so, so wonderful) pediatrician for Wednesday, so he would get a thorough once-over and we’d be one, big, happy, healthy family.

So that was our first week, postpartum. And now it’s Thursday (right?), and I’ve been flying solo for a couple of days (i.e. I’m the only adult in the house with two children while Thomas is at work during the day) and I’ve been really loving it. David is a perfect baby. Nurses well, has already gained 13 oz beyond his birth weight (as of yesterday. So today he’s probably 12 pounds!) and he sleeps deeply (and often, but not so often that I worry he’s lethargic/jaundiced).

And now for a few photos from the week:

Here’s Emma making sure I still love her (i.e. making sure she is the center of my attention) while simultaneously doting on her little brother (and admiring herself in the selfie image I’m snapping) —

And here’s David sporting the same left-cheek dimple that his sister has, although his version is less-pronounced and only shows up occasionally–

And last but not least, here’s Nana (Thomas’ mom) with her St. Louis grandbabies–

Now, Emma’s nap is over and David is hungry. Ciao!

On the 10th day past my due date, my true love said to me…

…JUST BIRTH THAT FLIPPING BABY!

Turns out that directive wasn’t very helpful because going into labor is not a willed act. So, not surprisingly, yesterday ended in tears for me. When Thomas found me crying in bed last evening when he came in, he re-shared this delightful video. In our case, however, it is about the baby (not the nail), and I would feel a whole lot better if this child were no longer inhabiting my apparently far too hospitable womb.

If you’ve ever heard the song “Waiting on a Woman” by Brad Paisley, then re-sing it to yourself with the words “Waiting on a Twetten”. Apparently Twetten males are notorious for remaining quite comfortable with the status quo. As Thomas puts it: “If all my needs are being met right here, right now, then why would I want to change anything?” I’ve considered stopping eating to see if I can starve my son out–Twetten males are also notorious for their relentless appetites. But that would be cruel and unusual, for both of us, so I’m playing the waiting game. And getting really bad at it.

Last night I even reached the point of telling God I was ready to willingly accept a second birth experience like my first: not something I take lightly, I assure you! For the last few weeks I’ve been hoping to go into labor after a good night’s sleep (like this girl did!), but I’ve actually reached the point that I would accept labor whenever it begins, night or day, rain or shine, at home or in church or at the grocery store.

That said, I am in no rush to induce. I am a firm believer in a baby’s need to get good and ripe and ready in the womb, and I know that inducing birth before the baby (or my body) is ready may prove a miserable decision. For all you folks out there concerned about my inner child’s medical well-being, please know that I am monitoring him closely (with my rockin’ midwife) and as of yet he is showing no signs of distress. (Then again, he’s a Twetten male. Life is always good for these particularly phlegmatic folk.)

Fun fact: when amniotic fluid levels are low, the baby has an easier time pushing himself out (with the help of his mom’s ridiculously strong uterus)–hence the “breaking of the waters” being a point at which labor generally moves along quite quickly–while high fluid levels are good for a still-gestating baby. The good news/bad news is: I have plenty of amniotic fluid at this point, hence my “hospitable womb” comment. In other words, there is no medical need to induce for now. I just have to sit around waiting for my guy to a) get bored (won’t happen, because he’s a Twetten male and digs the status quo) or b) runs out of food and water, or c) runs out of growing room (which still hasn’t happened yet!).

As a “way to hang in there, pregnant lady” treat, I bought myself a lovely bouquet at Trader Joe’s (on my 5th “last chance to go grocery shopping before baby comes” grocery run).

And now for some more show-and-tell photos: When my mom came out last week, she brought a chest of my childhood possessions, one of which was a baby doll (named Rose) that she got me when I was two. Needless to say, Emma loves her and keeps her close throughout the day. Here’s Emma (with Rose cheering wildly beside her) putting “pom-poms” (little, fluffy colored balls–note the 3 on the corner of the table in this picture) down her shirt.

And then she saw me taking pictures and had to come down off the chair (with Rose) to look at them.

Thankfully, Emma is at least as obsessed with the baby in my belly as she is with her own precious baby (Rose). Here’s some evidence of that–41 weeks and 3 days belly shots:

  

So that’s how we’re doing today.

Aunt Miranda gets in this evening. (Hurray!) Besides her help with Emma, I am also bearing in mind that she just finished massage school and will probably want to continue honing her massage therapy skills. I am going to offer myself as a practice patient for her, as many times a day as she might want to practice. (Oh, the sacrifices we make for our siblings.)

Before I close, here are a few comments from strangers regarding my past-40-weeks pregnancy:

Stranger: When are you due?

Me: January 5th

Stranger: [Nod. … Double-take.] Wait, isn’t today the ___? The 5th was, like, 2 weeks ago.

(You’re telling me!)

~~~

Employee at The Container Store who knows we’ve been expecting: Kathleen! You’re still pregnant. When were you due?

Me: The 5th.

TCS Employee: I’m starting to wonder if it’s an elephant gestation! …And I don’t mean any offense by that.

~~~

Black lady at Steak n Shake: How far along are you?

Me: Just over 41 weeks.

Lady: Pshh! You gotta start charging rent, girl!

“Due Date”

I don’t like the term “due date” as it is used to refer to the estimated date that a woman might deliver a baby. It’s a fine term for, say, a homework deadline, but in pregnancy, I think it leaves women feeling as if they are to have delivered their babies by that particular date, when in fact the growth of a person (inside or outside the womb) occurs in rather unpredictable spurts and is different for each individual.

I am currently 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant according to my LMP (and no picture to show for it… Maybe tomorrow!). That puts me at an estimated delivery date of tomorrow, which means my inner child could have been finished growing three weeks ago (obviously he wasn’t, since he’s still inside of me) or he might need another day, or week, or two, to finish his development in utero.

I had thought I might be in labor by now, since I went into labor on my EDD with Emma (and subsequent babies often come a little earlier than first babies). But I’m not. And that’s OK. As sick as I am of being pregnant, I would much rather that this guy master the arts of eating, breathing, and sleeping inside my womb than that he struggle to learn those things out in this below-zero Midwest business they call winter. Also, I’ve had so many BH contractions in the last 4 weeks that I imagine (and hope and pray) early labor will progress rather more quickly this time around.

Sure, I’m a little disappointed that I don’t yet have a newborn in arms, but on the bright side, walking is becoming really difficult on account of a little head in my pelvis, my joints are loosening quite a bit, and I think labor will be coming within the week. Still, size-wise this baby feels at least a pound smaller than Emma did at this time in my pregnancy with her. Maybe he’ll be smaller; maybe he’ll gain more; or maybe mom’s just off with her estimate.

And that’ll be all for today because I have a few more things to which I must attend before Sleeping Beauty awakes.

Sorry no pictures this time around–left my photographing device (telly) upstairs and don’t feel like lumbering up there to get it. Also, Emma’s sleeping up there and I don’t want to risk waking her prematurely. Makes for a very grumpy afternoon for the two of us. I will try very hard to remember to ask Thomas to take a picture of me today (and maybe tomorrow if I’m still pregnant tomorrow) so we have a 40-weeks-pregnant picture of me.

Cheers!

Looking forward to labor

That’s right. I’m looking forward to an opportunity to right some of the mistakes I made during my labor with Emma. Yes, I know labor will be really strenuous, but it needn’t be nearly as painful and exhausting as my labor with Emma was. This time around, I have experience on my side, rather than merely the fairy tale birth stories by Ina May Gaskin juxtaposed with the agonizing wails of 30-second Hollywood birth scenes. (Because, wow, birth is so much longer than the 30 seconds of it that we’re shown on television!)

Here’s my game plan; I’ll let you know how it goes:

1. Tune into/trust my intuition/”primal brain”. I got way too caught up in timing my contractions in my first labor that I thought I was much further along than I was, whereas if I had just stopped and asked myself how far into labor I felt, I would have known it was just the beginning.

2. I will assume any signs of labor are false labor, since that’s the quickest way to get labor going. 🙂

3. I’ve been working out about 5 times as much as I was during my pregnancy with Emma. (Yeah stay-at-home-momhood instead of working-full-time-preggohood!) I walk 12 to 20 miles a week (20 was more in the second trimester; since my authoritative belly-leading walk has begun and my joints have become loosey goosey, I’ve cut back a bit) and I do this phenomenal Mom’s Into Fitness workout DVD every other day–the one “exclusively sold at Target”, in case you’re interested. There’s a disc for each trimester and a postpartum boot camp one. Huzzah! I feel like I’ve done enough squats in the last four months to endure a labor at least half as long as my labor with Emma ;). So, 15 hours? But I’m hoping for shorter than that!

4. I have a rockin’ awesome midwife as well as a swell (potential) doula and I plan to utilize them to the max (warm lavender rice “bean bags”, massage, etc.) — also my husband will play the inescapable roll of birth partner.

5. This kid is being born at home, Lord Willing. And you’re probably judging me and no, please don’t comment telling me I should reconsider. I’ve thought long and hard. And frankly, I’m stoked not to be anticipating a car trip during transition. In rush hour. Or something. I’ll just labor and deliver all in one glorious place, and hopefully quite swiftly and uneventfully.

After Emma was born, my assistant midwife commented, “You only have your first baby once.” At the time, it was such a relief to hear–and recalling those words continue to bring relief and encouragement. I learned so much through my labor with Emma and I am really looking forward to “being better at labor” this go-round.

I’ve started reading the book Childbirth Without Fear, and I’ve found it to be quite inspiring. I hope and plan to do everything I can to remain fearless during labor. I’m a super-wimp when it comes to most pain… so… here’s hoping and praying that I can stay optimistic and peaceful through the “pressure” and strain (let’s not call it pain, eh?) of labor.

But then there’s the postpartum healing. And the breastfeeding. And the long nights during which one sees any and every hour. And one’s days blur one into the next into the next until… you have a one-year-old toddling around and he has a best friend big sister to entertain him and you’re once again free to…sleep? Do dishes? But you’re also a year older. And that’s why I’m having babies in my 20’s.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to labor. Of course it helps that I’ll be meeting my son at the end of the whole ordeal :).

The birth story of Emma Grace

While it’s been over a year since the birth of our sweet baby girl, I have yet to record her birth story. And the longer I wait, the harder it will be to recall. So without further ado, here’s what I remember. (Bear in mind, of course, that memory can be a fickle thing–and time-awareness during labor an even more fickle thing–so I might not get all the facts exactly right. But I’ll do my best.) Also, I’m going to be honest, so if you don’t want to read an honest account of a woman’s first labor and childbirth, stop reading now.

Here’s a sneak peak at the happy ending before we get started:

On May 9, 2012 (the day after my last day of full-time employment, and my EDD according to my LMP) I went in for my weekly check-up with my midwife, which indicated that I was 3cm dilated and 90% effaced. For the past several days preceding that appointment, I had been leaking what I assumed was amniotic fluid. The appointment confirmed that that’s what it was, but the midwife could not find a tear anywhere and said it might be a high tear or a leaky forebag.

A few hours after that appointment, I started to get regularly-occurring contractions. They were not particularly painful, though by 6:00 that evening they started to pick up in intensity. We had a lot of friends over for a rather impromptu dinner shindig, so I wasted a lot of my energy on excitement and dinner-hosting. We called my doula around that time (6 or so) and she insisted that I get as much rest as I could.

We went to bed around 10, falling asleep around 11. I slept lightly for 2 hours, always aware of the continued contractions. At 1am I was once again wide awake (I’ve always been a light sleeper–no surprise that I couldn’t sleep through the annoying feeling), so I timed the contractions. They came regularly and intensely (I don’t remember exactly tho I think it was 2 minutes on, one minute off, or thereabouts). I timed them for an hour, then woke Thomas around 2am and we called the midwife and prepared to head in to the birth center. Our doula’s phone was off, which was really frustrating for us as first-time laborers. Her voicemail said, “If you are a mommy in labor, hang up, wait three minutes, and call back again.” Well, we did that a few times, but it was going straight to voicemail, so I’m sure she didn’t even see that we were calling. Argh.

We got to the birth center around 3am and the midwife checked me when I arrived. Still 3cm. Five hours later, around 8am, I had progressed one centimeter (to 4cm). I could tell that my contractions had subsided significantly. The first midwife was getting off of her on-call shift around 8am and our second midwife arrived. I was hungry and tired from my nearly sleepless night; adrenaline was wearing off and I was ready for a break. Thomas went out to pick up some breakfast (Taco Cabana black bean tacos, which turned out to be really unsatisfying–it was hard to eat with the contractions and so little sleep under my belt.) The birth center daily grind started to pick up (appointments, tours of the birth center, etc) and Dinah, the second midwife, told us we would likely be more comfortable if we headed home to try to rest a bit, then labor at home if/when my labor got more intense. Around 9am, still at the birth center, we finally heard back from our doula, who felt awful for missing our calls (but who didn’t offer us a financial discount of any kind, which would have been nice/courteous/professional). Anyway, she came to the birth center, all flustered and feeling awful about her earlier absence. When she saw that labor/childbirth was not immanent, she agreed with Dinah that we should head home, rest, and labor when I felt like it.

We headed home at 10am. I took a bath to relax and slow my contractions and I tried to sleep. I dozed for at least 40 minutes, which was really helpful. Thomas had stocked up on chunked pineapple from Whole Foods, so for the rest of the day, I munched on that. (And it took 10 months postpartum for me to finally disassociate the taste of pineapple with labor.)

At 1pm I was up and ready to work at getting this baby out! We called the doula, who showed up at 2. Between 2 and 5pm I worked harder than I’ve ever worked in my life. Around 3pm (which we Catholics believe to be the time of Christ’s crucifixion) I begged Christ for a break: “Lord, let this cup pass! Can’t I just press ‘pause’, sleep for 10 hours, and finish this tomorrow?…but not my will, THINE be done.”

I stood at the foot of our picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe: “Mary, I am so grateful to know that you, too, went through labor, for the love of God.” (Only to learn a few weeks postpartum that Mary was free from labor pain on account of it being one of the effects of Original Sin, from which she did not suffer. Oh well. It still helped to be close to Mary during those hours of active labor, though in hindsight I felt a little duped.)

Around 5pm, my doula asked me a bunch of questions to try to figure out where I was in my labor. (She was testing my cerebral cortex. Dumb questions like, “What is the last food you ate? When did you last go pee?” etc.) I answered them really well (which she thought was an indication that I wasn’t progressing, since my cerebral cortex was functioning so apparently excellently). If you ask me, however, I knew I was progressing and her questions really miffed me because they were taking me away from my labor, but I did my best to answer them out of politeness. Damn politeness. I can be too much of a people-pleaser.

Anyway, she said she might head home, and be in touch with us later in the evening. That scared me. We had already had difficulty reaching her earlier that day when she was away, plus her presence was what was keeping me from just going to bed. You might be thinking, “what’s wrong with going to bed?” Well, in this instance, I was progressing just fine and, though exhausted, I wanted to continue doing so. If I were to lie down, I would be slowing my labor and not doing much in the ways of resting since by now the contractions were so intense there wouldn’t be any resting through them. My doula drill-sergeanted me around the house, making me step up on our step-stool, sit on our exercise ball, squat, etc. Without her, I was afraid I would just give up. (That’s where I count my blessings for being a people-pleaser. I was doing whatever she said because I wanted her to think/see that I was trying and that I was strong.) I told her I didn’t want her to go, at least not yet. She said, “Ok, I’ll stay for another hour and we’ll see where we are at that point.” Thank God!

I labored like hell between 5 and 6, and I knew this was it. My doula asked me some more of her stupid questions. This time I ignored her. I knew the game she was playing and I wanted none of it. I was ready to have this baby! She said, “I think we better head to the birth center now.” MUSIC TO MY EARS.

We loaded up and headed 13 miles up the freeway in rush hour traffic, which took about an hour. DAMN. Every time Thomas changed speed at all, I whimpered. It was the longest, most painful car ride I have ever experienced. I was in the back seat (thanks to the recommendation of my doula) facing backwards, hugging the back headrest so that my pelvis was floating. There was no way in hell I would have been able to sit at this point. I remember looking out the window at commuters passing by, or stopping beside us in the stop-and-go traffic, and thinking: “What are YOU lookin’ at? Haven’t you ever seen a woman in labor before? (Probably not, actually.) You got a problem that I’m not wearing my seat belt? Well, mind your own business, ’cause I can’t wear a seat belt right now. I’d love to see you call the cops to report a woman not wearing her seat belt. Ha! I’d love to see the look on MY face if a cop pulled us over… Next thing you know he’d be escorting us to the birth center, lights flaring and sirens blaring. Actually, that’d be great. Anyone want to call the police about a woman sitting backwards in her car?”

At some point during the drive to the birth center, I think I transitioned. My contractions doubled in intensity, so that by the time we arrived, my cerebral cortex was almost at 0% functioning capacity. I waddled through the doorway, took off the tube top dress I was wearing (I didn’t want my water to break on my clothes. Dirty laundry–the last thing I wanted to worry about once I had that baby. Isn’t it funny the things we choose to fixate on in labor?) and immediately knelt at the bedside as another excruciating contraction overtook me. My doula was so helpful and attentive. She warmed rice-with-lavender bags and rolled them on my neck and back and she massaged my hips (which meant I didn’t have to work quite as hard during the contractions).

Dinah, the second midwife, was the one on call that evening and met us there when we arrived. She checked me–lying down at this point was so uncomfortable!–and I was 8cm dilated! I was so glad! I decided that baby was coming before midnight, if I had anything to do about it. Not only do I prefer even numbers (May 10), but I just didn’t want the psychological burden of knowing I had been “in labor” (or at least experiencing consistent contractions) over the course of 3 calendar days (May 9-11).

At 8pm, I was given the option of having Dinah break my amniotic sac to speed up the labor. My doula advised me against this, because once you do it, you can’t undo it, and it doesn’t always ensure a faster labor (while it does always ensure that the baby is more susceptible to bacteria from outside, etc).

“Or,” Dinah said, “you could take a break–sit in the bathtub and think about it.”

A break? Yes, please! I got in the Jacuzzi bathtub for some warm-water relaxation. The contractions were still painful, but far less so than they were out of the water. I was open to the idea of a water birth (I think it’s so cool that babies can be born underwater and they kind-of swim up to the surface at birth!), but a water birth wasn’t in the cards: I started to feel queasy sitting in the warm water. Before I knew it, I threw up one big gush of pineapple-water-stomach-acid and simultaneously, my water broke. Yay! I was ecstatic. This was it!

I told my midwives (a second midwife had arrived to assist at the birth) that my water had broken, and they said, “Get out, we need to drain the tub.” I guess, on account of whatever bacteria might have been in my vomit, I couldn’t sit in the dirty water now that my water had broken.

By now, my legs were so extremely exhausted from laboring all afternoon in a squat-like position, after only 2 hours of sleep the night before, so I was grateful when (after I rolled around the bed for a while trying to comfortably work with my contractions while not using my leg muscles) my midwife offered the “pushing chair”. I labored on it for a while, but when I was finally ready to push I wanted to lie down. (SO TIRED!)

After I don’t know how many little pushes, I could finally see (in a mirror that the assistant midwife was holding) an amount of Emma’s head the size of a Meyer lemon. I guess seeing baby goats born had given me an unrealistic expectation of how big (small) a baby’s head was, because I remember thinking, “That’s about the size of a baby’s head, right?” But it wasn’t. Not even half the size of this baby’s head. I felt really discouraged. How in the world was anything bigger than a lemon supposed to come out of me?! But I kept pushing, harder and harder. And more and more head became visible. It was truly unbelievable. I remember thinking, “I’ve been completely duped. There’s no physical way that something that big can pass through my pelvis and cervix. Nope. It’s impossible. Why did I ever believe it was possible!?!! I don’t want to do this! It’s not fair!!”

But by then it was too late. I had already committed. The only way that baby was coming out was through me. At that point I didn’t really care whether I tore or how badly I tore, I just wanted this to be over! I pushed as hard as I could and I felt the searing pain of a big tear (accompanied by a warm trickle/flow of blood coming from the tear), but Emma’s head came all the way through! I pushed once more and out came her body. I had done it. Thank God it was over. I was shaking and exhausted.

The midwives placed Emma on my belly and Emma just stared and stared into her daddy’s eyes. I felt invisible to her. I kept trying to catch her eye, but the umbilical cord was so short that I couldn’t move her nearer my face. It wasn’t the magical moment I expected, but it was incredible for Thomas. He sobbed as Emma gazed at him. And that was enough for me. I knew I had the next weeks and months of breastfeeding and cuddling to gaze at my sweet baby girl. For now, I was simply exhausted. Dinah asked what her name was. Thomas and I looked at each other for a moment and I thought, “I really don’t care. I just want to go home to bed. Let’s just name her whatever we most recently talked about.” Emma Grace it was.

Emma Grace was born at 10:13pm on May 10, 2012. She weighed 8lbs 8oz and was, I think, 20 inches long. She had a huge head. I don’t remember it’s circumference, but I know it was in the 90-something percentile for head circumference and my midwife told me that at a hospital I probably would have had a c-section. Call me crazy, but I’m glad I didn’t. That labor and delivery showed me that what we know to be absolutely impossible is, in fact, sometimes, possible.

So there you have it. Emma’s entrance into this wide world.