When Lotus first announced her Birth-Story Carnival, my heart did a little jump. There are very few things that get me going like the subject of birth. Birth is, to me, the most amazing gift that God gave us. It is pure and emotional and amazing and spiritual.
But birth also makes me incredibly sad, because I see so many women who suffer. From total fear of childbirth, needless interventions, convenience surgeries and far too often, tragedy, birth in America has become something very different than God intended.
So I am going to post my latest birth story. And then I will rant. Be warned!
I've posted Asker's birth story before. It was an atypical hospital birth (hey, Satan was there!), but amazing nonetheless. But as my last three births have been home births, and many women never have seen or experienced a home birth, I wanted to offer a glimpse into this wonderful, safe option.
The Birth Story
Having done this a few times before, I was not too surprised when I went into labor three weeks early in August 2007. I was measuring large, my previous son had been three weeks early, and my body had been telling me that birth was imminent. So when early labor started that Thursday evening, I told the kids their new sibling would probably be born by morning and put them to bed.
I had never had a night labor before, and was looking forward to the solitude that darkness brings. I encouraged Dave to get some sleep and started my early labor routine.
I prefer to stay active during the beginning of labor. I wanted my labor to progress and intensify, not taper off, so I walked around, cleaned the house and relished in the excitement that early (read: not painful) contractions bring. I ate a large dinner to keep up my energy and then prepared my bedroom.
I placed a large plastic drop cloth over most of the bed and the bedroom floor and then put another set of sheets over it. I brought the crockpot upstairs, filled it and turned it on. I unpacked my birth kit (chucks, peri bottle, gloves, cord clamps, etc.) and got out my other necessary supplies (old towels, baby hat, receiving blankets). My midwife would bring the majority of needed supplies, but I liked to have the birth kit with me, just in case she didn't make it in time!
I called my midwife before I went to sleep, to let her know I was in labor. My first three births had all been ten to twelve hours, so I anticipated the same with number four. My midwife happened to be at her second house, two hours away, so she encouraged me to call her back as soon as I felt that labor was moving into second stage.
As my contractions were consistent, but not truly painful (more like intense), I decided to sleep for a bit. I've not had the occasion to sleep through labor before, and it was a truly unique experience. The contractions invaded my sleep, causing some extremely bizarre dreams! Around 3am, I awakened to a very painful contraction and realized that my labor had definitely gone to the next level. I called my midwife and she and her assistant hurriedly headed in my direction.
I love to get in the shower during labor. The hot water directed onto my back really takes the edge off contractions. Combined with a hands-and-knees position (which facilitates the baby moving down), labor can really progress quickly. I spent the next few hours in the shower, hoping my midwife would make it in time.
And then.....my......labor........slowed......down.
And the kids woke up.
Previously, my mom or my sister (or both) have come to my house to help during labor. But as Dave was home and we had a midwife assistant this time, we chose not to call anyone else. The TV was a real blessing that morning! The kids stayed occupied, only coming to "check on Mom" every hour or so. It was nice to hear their happy chattering downstairs while I waited, upstairs, for my labor to start again.
My contractions had gone from every two minutes to every ten. They were more intense, but I could tell that pushing was still a long way off.
At some point, I asked my midwife to check my dilation. It was my first internal exam during the entire pregnancy! I hate to be checked in the impending weeks before birth, because it creates such a feeling of impatience (at least in me). I was almost fully dilated, but as with my previous pregnancies, my bag of waters was full and very thick. I tend to have incredibly thick membranes and artificially breaking my waters is the only intervention I prefer. She broke my water, and I waited for the intense contractions I knew were to follow.
Ten hours had passed. Twelve hours had passed. But even though my contractions were strong and consistent, I was feeling no urge to push. Close to the seventeen hour mark, I began to feel a little exhausted. I had eaten and drunk at will, firmly believing that a starved, dehydrated woman is not in the best position to do the hard work of labor and delivery. But still, my body was tiring.
My midwife asked me if I wanted to try a tincture to push me over that edge. She applied a blue and black cohosh tincture under my tongue several times in the next half-hour. She told me that labor would probably move quickly, but I wanted to get back into the shower.
I never made it back out of the bathroom.
A few minutes later, I felt that distinctive, amazing, my-heart-is-racing-just-thinking-about-it urge to push. I called for Dave, the midwife and the kids and climbed out of the shower.
She brought in a birth stool and I started pushing. My first push was completely useless as I was laughing so hard from the "Eew, Mommy just pooped on the floor!" comments coming from my left. (The one negative that comes from eating during labor!)
After a few pushes Superboy was born. I grabbed him and brought him to my chest, and marveled, once again, at the beauty of birth. It was not until several minutes later that I realized he was having trouble breathing, and while I was commenting on his wrinkles and hair color, my midwife was calmly suctioning him and massaging his back. When I compare this to the yank-the-baby-cut-the-cord-rush-him-for-tests approach of a typical hospital birth, I am so grateful for a professional, competent yet conscientious midwife.
We let Asker announce the gender and his cry of, "Yes, the boys are still winning!" was adorable.
It was quite a tight squeeze, with me, the midwife, her assistant, Dave and three little people in a rather small bathroom, so we moved into the bedroom where I began nursing.
I held him for about 45 minutes, waiting until I had delivered the placenta before cutting the cord. Eventually, we weighed him, measured him and cleaned him up. Although I always feel more relief that love directly after childbirth, those first few minutes of pure bonding are priceless and irreplaceable!
All the while the kids were kissing, touching and oohing over their new baby brother. They were able to hold him before he was hours old, and having them with us created beautiful family bonding moments that we will never forget.
Thus ends the birth-story portion of this novel. If you have read this far, bravo. If you keep reading, God bless you!
The Rant
Although I have had some amazing, wonderful and safe home births (and anticipate the same for this one), I do not believe that home birth is for everyone. Nor do I believe that completely natural labors are the best choice for every woman.
But I do believe that every woman should be given the knowledge and power to make the right choice for herself. Unfortunately, as birth in America has turned from a natural process to a medical procedure, the vast majority of women are undereducated and even deceived when it comes to their rights, abilities and choices.
God created our bodies to give birth. Our bodies do an amazing, complex and unique job of pushing a large (relatively) body out of a small place. But it works!
Of course there are women who cannot deliver vaginally. I am so grateful for the educated and highly-trained surgeons available to women who need C-sections. But with an national 2006 C-section rate of 32% (some areas of the country average almost 50%!), and the rates continually rising, it begs the question, "What is going on with birth in America?"
Unfortunately, the third highest international C-section rate, does not create a low infant mortality rate. Indeed, just the opposite. As America's C-section rate has gone sky high, our infant mortality rate has climbed. America has the second worse infant mortality rate in the developed world! And as this thoughtful post by Amy shows, our maternal mortality rate is unacceptable as well!
There are many factors that have led to the sweeping changes in American childbirth. From the incredibly high rate of pitocin-induced labor, to ridiculous policies that are more concerned with avoiding liability litigation (no VBACS, induction immediately following membrane rupture), labor and delivery looks nothing like it did for centuries.
I could go on, but this post is far too long as it is. I would like to encourage any woman who is pregnant, who is planning on getting pregnant, who knows someone who is pregnant, or who just cares about maternal issues in general to watch the movie The Business of Being Born. Produced by Rikki Lake, it is an excellent look into the "business" of birthing babies, in America.
Please feel free to contact me with any questions you may have regarding natural childbirth or homebirth.
Also, please know that if you made it this far and are feeling burned for having a not-so-natural birth experience, that is not my intention. I know that there are good reasons for all interventions. I also know that knee-deep in labor is not the best time to think through decisions, and we trust our care providers to make those decisions for us. If you were encouraged to have an intervention, then you made the best choice you could at the time.
I just want to encourage women to take a step back and examine birth from outside of the labor room. Perhaps, next time, you will have the knowledge and understanding to make a different and/or better choice.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Birth Story and The Rant
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Welcome Home
You've come to talk with me again...
I've spent my entire life fighting the reputation of being a B. There was a time when that title was rightfully earned, but although I am a softer and gentler woman than before, I still tend to get labeled.
I'm not an emotional woman. I'm level-headed, analytical and slightly cold. Some days, not so slightly. I don't have many deep friendships. I don't like forced bonding (read: playgroups, women's retreats, get-togethers in general). I don't share deep personal secrets with anyone (the internets does not count, of course). I do NOT like to be touched by anyone who has not been inside my body one way or another. And I usually hide if I see someone I know unexpectedly.
Wanna' be my friend?
Mostly, though, I don't cry. I don't cry when I give birth (I sigh, in relief). I don't cry when I'm angry (I clean). I don't cry when I'm hurt (I plot). I don't cry when I feel like I'm going to burst (I do handstands- very head clearing).
But, oh, when I am pregnant, holy crap, the floodgates open! Actually, that's usually how I know I'm pregnant.
"Mommy, can I have a drink of milk?"
"Just a minute."
"Please, mommy, I'm thirsty."
"Why can't you be patient?" sniffs "I'm trying to change a diaper." sobs "Sometimes I just feel like a maid." snorts
"Mommy, are you having a new baby?"
For so long, I viewed emotion as weakness. I used to value my father over my mother because he is level-headed and logical. My mother is deeply sensitive and tender, and cries at the slightest hint of emotion (be it pain, joy, fear or surprise). For years I tended to think of him as strong and her as weak. It is only in recent years that my eyes have been opened, and I have come to realize that her mercy and grace and empathy make her incredibly strong.
During my first pregnancy, the rush of hormones was not welcomed. I felt alien, betrayed and helpless. I would cry about ridiculous things and rage over minor details. But, for the first time in my life, I began to relate to people; in particular to women. I could empathize with a friend's frustrations on a different level than before. I could relish my mom's small victories without thinking her shallow. I could listen without feeling the need to offer advice. Okay, perhaps not fully, but at least I didn't always voice the advice.
During the subsequent pregnancies, I would throw my hands up in surrender at the first sign of hormones. I knew the next nine months would be full of angry outbursts, pity-parties and meltdowns (No clothes that fit? Life is over). I accepted the hormones, perhaps even relished in using them as an excuse, but never embraced them.
This time, I welcome them. I welcome the insight they bring to my slightly narrow-minded life. I welcome the input they offer to my know-it-all self. I welcome the alternatives to logic and sanity. I welcome the maddening outbursts of stream-of-consciousness blather. Well-formed sentences are overrated, anyway.
Mostly, I welcome the softening.
So come, hormones, wash over me. Flood me with your clarity and your confusion. Take away the B that still lingers and replace her with a gentle, slightly soggy girl.
But if you touch my belly, she WILL be back!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Haiku Stuff My Face
It's all I think about now.
While eating for three*
Pizza, spaghetti,
Beef stew, homemade rolls, pancakes,
All made since Wednesday.
Steak, salad, taters;
On the menu for today.
Who knew food is joy?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
And I Still Want More
I finally potty-trained Clam a few weeks before Superboy was born. It was nice to have a few weeks of no butt-changing. Then I started doing some calcalatin'. I had Asker in Nov. 2001. Before he was potty-trained, I had Toots. Before she was potty-trained, I had Clam. He was fully trained in July of 2007. That means I was changing butts for 68 straight months! And I thought being pregnant or nursing for 56 straight months was bad.
I have issues.
Monday, October 29, 2007
I'M BACK!!!
I've had so many emails and comments wondering when I am going to start blogging again. Well, I figured with having a new baby, homeschooling a first-grader, parenting two additional toddlers, keeping my house in showing condition, washing mountains of laundry and keeping in touch with an ever-traveling husband, I'd share the hours of leftover time with you.
So, I had the baby. August 24th. Yep, that was almost 4 weeks early. Thank God. And castor oil. Just kidding. I did the castor oil with Toots and it was a little scary because even though I was officially overdue, she was a little undercooked. But Superboy knew Mommy was descending quickly into end-of-pregnancy hell and decided to come out. I'm thinking the involuntary groans were annoying him. So here are the obligatory stats: Baby Boy, 6lbs even (my 2nd smallest), 18.5" ( I just wrote 21" and had to go look it up. I'm so bad).
I birthed at home, again. I had 17 hours of labor (the longest yet for me), but not too painful. I really started to get annoyed and asked my midwife for a cohosh tincture. I went into the shower and the contractions really picked up. I didn't make it back to my bedroom, and Superboy was born in the bathroom with all of us (Dave and I, two midwives, three siblings) crowded in. It was pretty amazing.
He is really a Super baby. He is the easiest little man and we couldn't be more blessed. He looks just like Asker and Clam and has the middle-aged man hair going on just like they did. I'll edit with pictures when I get around to uploading them.
Well, it was a busy summer and have I got some stories to tell!!!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
I've Created An Insatiable Monster
Asker has always had a fascination with the way our bodies work. When he was 2 and saw me using a tampon, it was not enough to tell him "Mommy is having her period." No, he needed to know why I was bleeding and what it meant. He understands the ovulation/menstration process better than most grown men. He uses all anatomically correct names (except for the occasional "package" for "penis"), and constantly asks me how different animal types reproduce.
When someone asks him if I have a baby in my belly, his typical response is..
"No, she didn't eat it. It's in her uterus."
I've always loved his enthusiasm and interest in all aspects of learning. Today was no exception. I borrowed a book from the library called A Child is Born. It's a very detailed book full of pictures and descriptions of how babies develop in utero. The kids and I sat and read through the whole book this morning.
We read each chapter that showed how the baby develops, comparing the pictures to how far I am. We spent a good deal of time looking at the highly enlarged egg and sperm pictures. They were quite fascinating and sparked some interesting conversations.
Now I had skipped the pages that showed the baby-making process. There were pictures showing body heat changes during sex and several pictures of men and women embracing and kissing. They weren't that graphic, but the people were obviously naked, and he is a smart kid, and I have just not been ready to explain the actual sex act to a 5 year old. I'm guessing he must have looked through the book later in the day and done some thinkin'.
Around bedtime, Toots was dressed in her princess dress, Asker was playing the prince and they were "waltzing" in his bedroom. I was reading a book to Clam, when all of a sudden Asker pulled away from his sister and said..
"Mom, I think I put some sperm in her."
Thank God for the book. I probably would have traumatized him with the look on my face. Instead I calmly held the book in front of my face, steadied my voice and asked why he thought so.
He hesitated a little and told me he thought maybe that was how sperm got into the lady.
For a split second I considered it. I relish opening little minds to new wonders. But I just couldn't do it. He's only 5!!! But I knew the old, "Jesus puts it there" explanation wasn't going to cut it. So I offered him the most mature and truthful explanation I had.
"Actually, Asker, that's almost how the sperm and the egg come together. But when you're married, your bodies will work differently."
He then proceeded to ask me if pirates drank blood, so I guess that answer was good enough for now.
God help me.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Lady Lazarus
I set out tonight to write my birth story. Well, not my birth story. My memories of that are dark and clouded, and knowing my mother's memory issues, I'm guessing I remember more than she.
Anyway, I planned on sharing the lovely experiences that were my last two births. Surrounded by family, in my own home, with a caring midwife; those births were wonderful. I laughed through labor, silently transitioned and effortlessly pushed out new life. Something like that, anyway. My second and third births were wonderful and I'm hoping number four will be the same. If I reach into the blocked memory vault, however, I'm forced to bring out birth number one.....
In 2001, when I found out I was expecting my first child, I was completely unprepared. We had just moved to another state, were living with my mother-in-law and we both had new jobs. Although we had been previously, we had actually stopped trying to conceive the month I got pregnant. Typical. Although I was excited, I was pretty apprehensive.
Since I never do anything halfway (except housework), I threw myself into pregnancy. I read the entire "What to Expect/Fear/Envy When You are Expecting" in the first week. I decided immediately that I would be having an all-natural, no intervention pregnancy. My child would not be coming into the world full of drugs. And I told everyone I knew exactly that. I cannot imagine the eye-rolling that went on behind my back. (Epi-moms, keep reading, that obnoxious woman is dead).
Nine months quickly progressed and my birth plan was written and re-written. I had a great group of midwives and planned the birth at a local hospital. I was due the day before Thanksgiving, 2001, but Thanksgiving Day came and went. I stuffed myself as normal and went to bed praying that God would take the octopus inside out. Soon. Before I used a coat hanger and broke my own water. (Only 19 months later would I discover the joys of castor oil.)
I awoke that Friday around 3:30 am with my first contraction. Now I had been through the Bradley classes. I had seen the three stages of labor nicely charted with accompanying pictures. The first stage of labor had the smiley faced/walking woman. She was happy to be in labor. She was experiencing tightening, but not pain. Apparently, I slept through that stage. My first contraction felt like my uterus was ripping itself from the rest of my body. I had no question as to whether or not I was in labor. I knew.
Now part of my perfectly typed, three-paged birth plan was the intent to stay at home as long as possible. I am 1) controlling and 2) not very social. The idea of being stuck in a bed hooked to machines having people who didn't know my middle name touching me was absolutely appalling. I am on the verge of a panic attack as I type this just thinking of that possibility. So, determined not to rush to the hospital only to be sent back home, I settled in. I took a bath, rocked in the rocking chair and timed contractions. Timing contractions is the most pointless activity ever. I have notebooks filled with the exact timing of my first eight hours of labor. It meant absolutely nothing, but it gave me something to do.
When my husband awoke a few hours later, we re-read the birth plan, checked the bags and waited some more. Now, this whole time, I was having incredibly intense contractions. In my subsequent two pregnancies, I did not experience contractions as painful as those until the very end. Somehow, during the course of pregnancy, I had decided that moaning was to be my outlet. I would start with a low humming sort of moan at the beginning of the contraction. As the pain grew in intensity, my humming turned to gutteral moaning. It sounded really horrendous, but it worked. It gave me something to focus on and I was able to tune out everything else. Poor Dave was so helpful and eager, but I wanted nothing to do with him. When I knew a contraction was starting, I wanted his hands off of me and his mouth closed.
Finally around noon, after asking me for several hours to call my midwife, I gave in. I had two major contractions while I was on the phone and she told me I might want to think about coming in or I would be calling the pothead upstairs to help. Walking to the truck was hell. I had spent the last nine hours mostly on my hands and knees rocking. Now, much farther progressed, trying to walk during contractions was no good. And once we were in the truck, I truly became possessed. I remember screaming at Dave to hurry and then yelling at him for driving so fast over the speed bumps. No wonder he's not shown up at any of the other births.
When we got to the hospital, somehow Jenni kicked in and I got down to business. I insisted on having a natural-childbirth friendly nurse to assist me. Thankfully, a nurse who was training to be a midwife was on duty. She listened to my directives (ahem, orders) and patiently read the birth plan. She was wonderfully patient even though I'm sure I was rather obtuse.
When my midwife checked me, I was 7 cm!! I was so relieved. I thought our little boy (we had found out) would be out within an hour. I was so wrong. I didn't want to be constantly monitored, so my nurse would intermittently check me. I was able to wear my own nightgown and drink when I needed. But I just wasn't progressing. After several more hours and no more dilation, my midwife asked if I wanted to have my water broken. Defenses down and not really caring, I agreed. Had I realized the level of hell to which I was about to descend, I would have begged for the needle. The really big one that goes in your back.
As soon as she broke my water, I went into transition, and the contractions intensified to a level that I have never, thank God, experienced since. They were right on top of one another and literally brought me out of the rocking chair I was in. My moaning turned to screaming and I felt like I was going to die. If I had even a tiny break in between them, I could mentally prepare and get ahead of them. But when they were back to back, I lost all focus.
During the previous few hours of no progress, Dave had been back and forth between me and our waiting families. At some point as I was transitioning, he came back into the birthing room. But he didn't enter quietly and respectfully. Oh no, he came in laughing and talking like nothing in the world was happening that required anything less than pure mirth. It was at that moment that Satan himself entered my body. I rose out of that chair and screamed, "HOW DARE YOU COME IN HERE LAUGHING? SHUT UP. I'M IN PAIN!!!!!!" My eyes were bulging, my arms were flailing and I was, apparently, two feet off the ground.
"Out of the ash, I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air."
Actually, I don't remember much of that part, but because Dave loves to tell the story so often, I'm including his version.
A few minutes later, I declared to my midwife that I was pushing. I didn't plan to push. I didn't even particularly want to push. But I was pushing none the less. Now, at this point, most women would be on the hospital bed offering a good view and easy access. But I looked at that bed and thought, "there is no way." Have you ever noticed how a hospital bed is, like, seven feet off the ground? There was no way I could climb up there. I declared that I planned on delivering on the floor, my midwife grabbed some underpads and we were off.
I started pushing, but at some point, she noticed the baby's heart rate had decreased. It was enough of a concern that they called a doctor into the room. I will never forget the look on his face when he walked in and saw me on the floor. It was priceless.
After a few pushes, little Asker was born, perfect heart rate and a head full of black hair. Dave had planned on catching him, so he was already gloved up. After the baby was born, Dave pulled off the bloody gloves and presumptuously leaned over to the Doctor.
"Doc, can you hand me another pair of Large gloves? Thanks."
He handed Dave the gloves, gave us both a shake of the head and took off. I'm sure he was wishing those natural childbirth freaks who lay on the floor and scream so loudly they scare everyone else would just go birth at home.
Overall, it was a wonderful experience in that I was able to do what I had wanted to do. It was so incredibly painful, I admit. I have never since, and never again will, judge a woman by her childbirth options. Drugs are wonderful, I'm sure.
I have been blessed with two very easy labors and deliveries since Asker's birth. I have loved the comfort (and control!) of birthing at home. But I have learned that every birth is different, every mom is different and although God is present at every birth, Satan attends a few too!
Monday, February 05, 2007
Open Mouth, Insert Really Stinky Foot
I ran into an old friend at a really nice restaurant on Saturday night (date number 2 this year, whoo-hoo). I had never before met his wife and after our introductions I said, "So, you guys are expecting. Is this your first?" She just looked at me and said, "No. I had a baby in July and she is our fourth." Thankfully, the hostess came to seat them right at that moment, so I was saved the awkward you-don't-really-look-fat moment.
Unfortunately, when the hostess came to seat us a few minutes later, she cheerfully announced, "Oh, your table is right next to the other couple you were talking to." Yippee. Besides the fact that I had just insulted the wife, Dave was convinced from the look on my face that I had, ahem, had relations with the husband. Needless to say we spent the first half hour of our meals trying to ignore them, and they did not attempt to make eye contact with us.
After a much-too-large meal, when I was looking about 5 months pregnant instead of 8 weeks, I gracefully (read bloated waddle) made my way to the bathroom. On return, I realized that my old friend had also left his table, so I leaned over and apologized to the wife.
I explained that in my pregnancy fervor, I was seeing expanded bellies everywhere and as soon as I saw her empire waist shirt, I just assumed there was something underneath. She admitted to being offended, but we started chatting and all was well.
She got me back though. After talking for a few minutes and sharing kids' pictures (they have 4 girls!) she nodded towards my belly and asked when I was due. When I said September, she looked at me quizzically and asked, "how many weeks?" When I sheepishly admitted 8 (not even at that point), she said "Oh, wow."
Guess I deserved it.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Pregnancy Paranoia
It's happened again. The pregnancy paranoia has set in. Every little cramp and I'm checking for blood. A twinge and I'm on the couch with my feet up. Four more weeks until the "safe zone", and I can't wait!
Friday was a prime example of first trimester instability. I had been working at the computer for a few minutes and when I stood up, I felt something wet. When I looked down at my pants, they had a bright red spot about the size of a quarter. I instantly ran to the bathroom and quickly pulled down my pants for a closer look, praying and shaking as I did. I was devastated to find two smaller red spots as well. As I was examining the spots, I caught a whiff of something familiar. And sweet. Strawberry. Relief washed over me as I realized I sat on a strawberry cap that baby C had left on my chair. Had I been in my normal, logical non-pregnant state, I would have clued in to the fact that there was no red on my panties. But being a hormonal, emotional freak, I didn't even notice.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Out of the Mouths of Babes
My MIL will be mortified, but I have to post this. I no longer keep baby books, I'm recording their lives on this blog instead.
Dave called his mom today to tell her about the pregnancy. A asked if he could tell her instead. I said ok, but told him to be sure she knew it was growing in me and not being adopted (something we've been planning). A, being the gracious son, let T tell her instead when she asked (demanded).
"Mom-mom. Mommy's having a baby. A new one"
"T, tell her where it's coming from." (says A)
"Um, it's going to come out of mommy's gina." (Dave and I are rolling)
A takes the phone, "Mom-mom. T said 'vagina' but she meant to say 'mommy's uterus.'"
Dave gives me that must-you-teach-our-toddlers-every-single-possible-anatomically-correct-body-part? look that has become so familiar.
New Year's Resolutions Re-Visited
I have......
Taken my vitamins every day.
Let my children play unsupervised (come to think of it, they've been in the bathtub for a really long time now. No noises......uh-oh)
Since they insist on sleeping on top of me, I don't need to check their breathing
Daddy is helping with the Halloween candy
I've taken to punching the dog. Feels much better.
I said "freakin'" about 6 minutes into 2007.
I've answered my cell phone 2 times so far this year.
"Grumpy butt" is my new phrase of endearment.
I'm smiling more often!
Not sure if I've said "yes" very much
I've definitely been praying for my kids. Perhaps not the right things, but praying nonetheless.
5 year olds can be really grown up.
Not even thinking about changing the hair.
I've discovered if I correct strangers' grammar under my breath, it is still just as satisfying.
I have not read any Britney Spears' articles. I have no idea whether or not she found her panties.
We already went on our first quarter date.
Sneakers? What are those?
I'm letting my children be exactly who God made them to be......putty in my hands.
My checkbook was last balanced 4 days ago. Doing ok. Not going to hyperventilate. Can survive without knowing my exact...correct....to-the-penny balance.
And lastly.......dum, dum, da, dum......I am prego!!!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Modest New-Mom, Oxymoron?
Childbirth changes us. Now, I know, you're thinking- whoa, big insight there. But childbirth changes us in one way we don't usually anticipate. We know our bodies will change. We know our motherly instincts will kick in. We know our capacity to love (and fear) will increase. But most pregnant women don't think to themselves, "hmm.. in just 9 short months my every modicum of modesty will be gone." But it's true, childbirth changes our modesty.
I've known women who, pre-childbirth, were incredibly modest. They would blush whenever "Aunt Flo" was the topic of conversation, they would never, ever discuss sex with their girlfriends. They probably did the turn-off-the-lights, mad-dash, flying-leap-into-bed before even starting the baby-making process. A few hours of labor and childbirth, however, and they're ready to talk. "Well, my mucus plug broke on Tuesday morning, and I had some bloody show the following 2 days......" Whoa, Mike - too much information! And the woman who wouldn't change her shirt in front of her best friend, is now breastfeeding in front of said best friend's husband. Now, I'll admit, I'm the worst at sharing war stories. But, I was never modest to begin with, so I don't think my friends are much surprised when I whip out my boob to feed the baby in public. But when you have a chick who calls farts "rosebuds," it just seems a little weird to be discussing how she had a bowel movement while pushing.
And the vocabulary that comes along with pregnancy is something else. It's like this secret club complete with passwords. The first level is sweet and innocent; just enough to make you think, "aawww, I want a baby." Words like, "nursing", and "womb." The next level is for paying members only, "amniocentisis", "placenta", "postpartum." And then there are the words that make you sound like a gourmand. "Yes, I'll have the leukorrhea with colostrum sauce, no lanugo, and a glass of Perineal please." And once you're in the club, you're a lifetime member. Start talking about childbirth with any group of women, and every one has a story to tell, even if it's 45 years old and much embellished.
The relaxed modesty immediately following childbirth doesn't always stick. I know many women who've gone back to their discreet ways. In later years, our childbirth stories will leave out the mucus plug, vaginal tears, and inflamed milk duct details. But for that short window, we all share the same bawdiness....and the secret handshake!