Whole Foods with Kids

Getting out of the house with three kids under the age of three, two of whom are new to the whole "not pooping or peeing on myself" thing can be challening. The gear alone that you have to bring is overwhelming, especially since I've added to my list a portable potty (which I call my briefcase, because it folds up to be the shape of one and makes me feel business-y (because business people carry bright green plastic breifcase shaped potties around)) and 55 pairs of extra toddler pants and underwear in case of near-certain "accidents". Which usually aren't so much "accidents" as "on purpose...dents".  (You can read about what it takes to get out with my little ones here).

But I have a worst nightmare in life. Here it is, allow me to set the scene. I'm out with my three kids, and we have things to buy. A lot of things to buy. And guess where we have to buy them from? WHOLE FOODS. AT LUNCHTIME. ON THE WEEKEND.

There are grocery stores that are child-friendly, and then there is Whole Foods. First of all, do they purposely move into stores that don't have enough parking? Is that cool? Because I would still go there if they had a Wal-Mart sized parking lot. Just saying.

SURE, they have a little adorable red wagon full of snacks for my kids. SURE, the staff is usually covered in tattoos and have big beards and dreads and look really unique and your kids will stare and stare at them quietly and it will keep them entertained. But the aisles are two feet wide, there are little kiosks precariously piled high with locally made truffles everywhere, the check out lines back up into the store aisles because the stores are NEVER big enough, and that $15 glass bottle of organic apple cider vinegar? Child level. Oh, what about this container of Chilean saffron that costs a million dollars an ounce? They can get to it.

I know what you're thinking. "Put your kid in the cart, you idiot." Well I would if they had double carts. I don't even think they have enough room to store a double cart, much less make the aisles wide enough to accomodate one. So I put one kid up where they're supposed to go, the other kid in the back with all of the warning signs of stick-figure kids falling to their deaths out of the back of the cart, and the baby goes in my baby carrier. This is, of course, after I find a parking spot. And both toddlers take a turn sitting on the portable potty with the door wide open for all of the passers-by to see. "I go pee pee on the potty!" they yell to everyone. They get it, kid.

We finally get in the store and politely squeeze by people as my toddlers reach out for all of the all-natural goodness that lines the shelves, get what we need (which all has to go into the back of the cart with one of the wild animals toddlers), and proceed to checkout. Here is where it gets really tricky. Why, oh why, do they put cd's in their checkout aisles. Would you like a little Harry Connick Jr. with your organic-grass-fed-free-range beef? You would? Well lucky you, you can grab this overpriced cd that we conveniently put at the same level as the child's seat in our grocery carts. So that they can grab them all and throw them on the floor! And break them! So that their parents have to buy them! Win-win!

So, after considering asking for duct tape to make impromptu straight-jackets for my children to prevent cd breaking and candy-stealing (they will bite through that wrapper in .5 seconds, beware), I am handed my bag of groceries and sent back into the world. Now I have to put my groceries and children into my car, by myself, in a crazy busy parking lot where there are also NO PLACES TO PUT YOUR GROCERY CART. I'm sorry if it isn't classy, Whole Foods, but I need a cart-corral. I bet it's classier than runaway carts everywhere.

But wait, no. Here is where I am the luckiest person. I have a Whole Foods Angel.

Background: I met one of the best people in the world when I was 5. Her name is Maggie Delahoyde, and we basically grew up together. She and our other friend Katie Monroe got me through highschool basically unscathed. Maggie's house was the hangout place, and so her family became almost like an extended family to me and all of our close friends. Maggie's siblings were always in and out, so we got to know all of them (and make fun of them, just like we did our own siblings! lucky them). Her older brother is named Will, and Will has Downs Syndrome. He is an obviously great guy, and everybody loved him when we were in highschool. He was always around, liked to know where everybody was going, and was never treated differently by his family than any of the other kids. He was just Will. The fact that he has Downs Syndrome was never really talked about, mostly because they didn't let it define him. Will defined himself, and he defined himself as a really awesome person. Will works at Whole Foods. Will is my Angel.

After highschool, fast forward through college and a few more years and I find myself back in Raleigh...with kids. From probably the very first time I brought my girls to Whole Foods, Will helped me to my car. He didn't even ask, he just took the cart from my hands and let me lead the way. Every time since, Will helps me to my car, helps me get the kids out (they totally don't mind when he picks them up, they reach out for him just like they do for me), and loads my groceries into the back. He solves my problem of no cart-corrals as he always pushes my cart(s) back to the store for me. The few times that I've gone shopping and he wasn't there, I really missed him. Not just because he helps me, but because his kindness is a little gleam of light in my day. His smile and his refusal to not help me make me feel...noticed. In a world where I somtimes feel like I'm bothering everyone just by having kids, Will gives me special treatment. I need that.

I didn't always have kids (shocking, right?). Even when I was a nanny, I would see moms out shopping with their broods and have absolutely NO idea how difficult that seemingly simple task was for them. I didn't always look for ways to help them like I do now, or for chances to smile or give a little word of encouragement. Now that I have little kids I know how hard it can be, and I have a lot more compassion. I know that those moms need help sometimes, just like I do. But you know what? It didn't take being a parent for Will to be helpful. Will doesn't have kids, and I'm guessing he's never been a nanny. He saw a need, and he met it. No questions asked. He wasn't "polite" and he likely didn't even think about how it may offend me or hurt my pride by offering to help. HE JUST DID IT. He boldly took my cart and did what needed to be done to get me on my way. Even though he hasn't experienced what my life is like, he jumped in to make it easier for me. He followed his instincts and his heart.

I really hope that I can be more like Will. I hope that I can get my head out of my own butt and look around and meet people's needs before they have to ask. I hope that I can just take their (figurative) grocery carts out of their hands and lessen their loads without thinking too much about how I might come off or if I may offend them. I hope that I can make people's lives a little easier, even in just a simple way, like Will does for me.

Going with the flow...

You know the moment. That sweet, quiet time when you are rocking your baby to sleep in your arms. His eyes slowly drift shut as sleep gently starts to wash over him. You did it, momma. Now all you have to do is stand up and transfer him to his bed in the least-awkward way possible. There you go, complete naptime success is so close you can almost taste it…

And so can your other children.

“MOMMA!” (knock knock) “MOMMA. MOMMA. MOMMA.” (bang, bang) “THERE. IS. A. BUG.”

Oh. Hello, unwelcome toddler.

You don’t even want to look at the baby’s face as you are pretty sure his eyes are wide, wide open thanks to this very loud miniature person at his door. You sneak a quick peek at him anyway… Yep. Wide as saucers. And the toddler is unrelenting.

“MOM! (bang) MA! (bang) MOM! (bang) MA! (bang) YOU GET THE BUG!!!”

And you come to a crossroads in your life. The toddler or the baby? I usually choose the toddler, considering that the volume they operate on is louder than those monkeys that you can hear from miles away in the forest. You didn’t know about those monkeys? They exist. And my kids are louder than they are. There is no person alive who can sleep through my children’s loudness, unless they’re in a coma. Even then, the jury’s still out- I’m bringing them to the hospital next week to hang out in coma patients rooms and bother them to wakefulness.

Getting two 2-year-olds to be quiet is like getting your dog to not bark at squirrels or getting your mom to not comment on your hair. It’s not happening. But you know what? Despite the terrible odds, I still have to try. My house is small, my baby is young, and I really need for my toddlers to sometimes be quiet. I’ve tried EVERYTHING to get them to remember to be quiet for longer than 12 seconds.

Candy.

Videos.

High-fives. (I know, lame. But I ran out of candy)

Talking to them. I even tried that Beginner’s Acting trick of putting emphasis on every word in the sentence to see if it would sink in. “I NEED… for you to be quiet. I need FOR YOU… to be quiet. I need for you TO BE… quiet. I need for you to be QUIET.” They just laughed at me.

So, like with everything else, I soldier on and hope that this too shall pass. In the meantime, I have compiled a list of things that one would hope to never hear their older children say to each other whilst one is engaged in that critical moment of rocking their baby to sleep. Hearing these things forces you to face the possible destruction of your home, the safety of your toddlers, the sanity of your conscious mind, the possibility that your baby will not ever be able to take a nap for his entire existence, and the meaning of life.

Here’s the list. Most unfortunately, this list came from my truthful personal experience.

“I’m all wet!”

“You all wet!”

“It’s all wet!”

“Momma’s makeup! I try it.”

“I’m gonna climb this.”

“You climb this too, Sissy?”

“Look at my poo poo!”

“I have yucky panties.”

“You touch my bottom?” (they’re only 2, remember that)

“Did you eat it?”

“I put it in my mouth!”

“I open the door! C’mon Sissy!” (yep. The front door)

“I climb the window.”

“Take it off? My diaper?”

“I found candy!”

 “Eggs! I’m gonna crack them.” (They can open the fridge now, hurray)

So this is the background noise of my every attempt to rock the baby to sleep. I am constantly thinking, “Should I intervene? Will they be ok if I’m in here for a few more minutes? Are they going to poop on my bed?” You see, having twins first can be tricky. There is no older sibling to go, “Girls, you probably shouldn’t climb up on the counter and try to get the butcher’s knife. Bad idea.” One unsupervised two year old can be mischievous enough, but two…that’s like two recovering alcoholics living together in a house stocked with booze. No matter how much trouble they’re liable to get into if someone finds out, they’re going to fall off the wagon. We all learned in Psychology 101 that humans are more likely to disobey when someone is willing to go down with them. Well, my kids have a built-in someone. For them it is life’s greatest blessing, I’m sure. For me, well, it’s a panic attack waiting to happen.

Today’s addition to the list:

Lucky me, they both came to tell me some good news just as the baby’s eyelids were beginning to close.

“MOMMA! I go poo poo!!”(knock knock)

“Hazel go poo poo Momma! She did it!” (knock knock knock)

“You wipe my bottom?”

“Wipe Hazel’s bottom, Momma!”

 “POO POO MOMMA. POO. POO.”

So, as I imagined Hazel smearing her butt all over our tan couch, I got up from the rocking chair and attended to my toddler with the baby in my arms.

Luckily, he’s much better at going with the flow than I am.

'Twas Two Nights Before Christmas

'Twas two nights before Christmas
And all through the house
Every creature was stirring.
We even woke up the mouse.

The children were tucked in their beds
With great care,
And with my foolish hope
That they just might stay there.

When the midnight bell tolled
I heard a voice, small and sweet
That was slightly distressed.
Time for baby to eat.

So he nursed and he nursed
And I kissed his warm head
As he drifted to sleep,
Then I headed for bed.

I pray I don't jinx it,
But could I be quite done
With my tired nightly duties?
I might sleep 'till the sun!

But fate was not kind.
I was dealt a poor hand
For in less than two hours
I was summoned again.

"MommaDadda!" I heard
Then a small pitter-patter
So I got out of bed
To see what was the matter

"I want juice!" The girl cried,
Her voice tiny and bright.
"I'm awake!" Then she smiled
"I'm all done night-night!"

No you're not! My voice Grinch-ish
Or perhaps rather Scrooge-y
My frequent awakenings
Now making me moody

I got her some juice
And tucked her in tight
Then I looked in her eyes
And I pleaded "Good night"

But not even thirty minutes
Had yet dared to pass
When I heard more loud cries
From that two year old lass.

"I sleep in YOUR bed!"
As she opened the door
I looked at my bedmate and asked,
"What's one more?"

He nodded agreement
So she snuggled inside
Our modest-sized bed,
Now three people wide.

So cramped up and cozy
And drifting to sleep
For a full thirty seconds
No one made a peep!

I looked at the monitor
When I heard his first cry.
And what did I see there
But two wide, glowing eyes

I knew in that moment
This was not just a feed
He was wide, wide awake
Hi Mom! Play with me!!

So, To all of the mamas
Up feeding their young
And to all of the dads
Rising long 'fore the sun

Take heart, for one day
You will sleep till sun's light.
Merry Christmas to all!
And to us a good night.

I can do hard things.

Here's what I used to do to go shopping.

-Put shoes on. Grab bag (wallet, keys, chapstick, phone). Go.

Here's what I do now. I wish I was exaggerating.

First, I make sure the bag is packed:
- two juice cups
- one bottle of milk
- two bags of snacks
- one bottle of water
- two extra snacks
- four size 4 diapers
- four size 2 diapers
- extra pair of pants for the girls
- extra outfit for the baby
- hand wipes
- butt wipes
- baby's pacifier
- extra pacifiers
- ergo baby carrier
- wallet, keys, chapstick, phone

"Ok! We can go!"
 Oh wait, now I need to:
- put socks and shoes on Toddler One
- put socks and shoes on Toddler Two
- start warming up the bottle
- reapply socks and shoes to Toddler One
- close all of the doors so Trapper can't sneak onto our beds
- reapply shoes to Toddler Two
- locate and refill the previously packed juice cups that were stolen and drained of their contents by, guess who, Toddlers One and Two

"Ok! We're really ready!"
Wait...The bottle!!! I forgot! It's scalding!
- get steaming bottle. Be sad that I probably just nuked the nutrients from my hard earned bottle of breastmilk.
- get over it. Grab backpack. Grab baby. Time to go!

"Ok girls! We're ready for real this time! Let's go!"
silence. They are nowhere to be found.
"Children!! Come here please, it's time to go!"
Here they come. Ahh, the pitter patter of little feet.
Crap... feet.
- reapply socks and shoes to Toddlers One and Two

- quickly usher them out the door before they have time to de-shoe themselves again
"Ok girls. I want you to walk straight to the car. It's not time to play, it's time to go to the store. Please obey and walk straight to the car right now."
- watch as Toddlers One and Two run in opposite directions
"Come to the car! RIGHT NOW!"
"No! Come get me, Mama!!"  Laughs maniacally.
"I can't! I'm holding baby brother! Please my dear, sweet children. I'm two seconds away from a meltdown, so why don't you just obey me for once in your short little lives. I'm begging you, come to the car!"
- they finally come. they climb into van. they get into their chairs.

- Ok. attempt to buckle toddlers in
"NO! MY DO IT!!!!"
- you know how this goes. eventually after (two seconds of) me being an AMAZING mom and being SO patient while letting them struggle to buckle themselves in while holding a fussing baby...I take over. Buckled. Done.
- buckle baby in.
- baby starts to cry. Is he hungry? I'll give him some milk. I sit and give him his bottle. Man, he's a slow drinker. He is just lingering, smiling, savoring this moment. You think you're going somewhere, mom? You're not. I'm keeping us in this driveway for as loooooong as possible. I'm just going to take a tiny sip...smile...one more sip...aren't I cute? And on and on. FINALLY he finishes.

All right, folks! We can go!!!

And we do. And while the car ride is not always calm and happy and enjoyable, it's blissful for three reasons.
No one can move.
I can listen to NPR.
I can honestly say "I'm sorry I cant get your juice that you intentionally threw down. I'm driving."

Then we arrive.
I sit for a moment, revving myself up for the next set of tasks.
Ok, here we go.
- get double stroller out of trunk
- get Toddler One out of carseat
- buckle Toddler One into stroller
- get Toddler Two out of carseat
- buckle Toddler Two into stroller
- push them around to the other side of the car to get baby Brother
- get baby carrier on
- insert baby
- strap backpack to the stroller (I have this ENORMOUS carabiner called "The Mommy Hook" that I can hook onto the stroller and then hook stuff to it like bags. Its frightful and embarassing and oh, so useful)
- stop halfway into store to dole out snacks
- walk inside store
- receive pitying looks
- shop. victoriously.
Because I can do hard things.

So, in sum, if you get a Christmas present from me this year, you better at least pretend to be pretty damn excited about it.

Taking the "Bad" with the Good

If you're around new parents and you are not one, you probably think they all secretly hate their kids because we are ALWAYS trying to put our children to bed. "He only slept for 30 minutes!!" may sound to you like we didn't get enough time away from them to put on makeup and watch the six thousand shows on our DVRs. While this is sometimes true (be honest), what we know and you don't is that bad baby sleep has a snowball effect. A bad morning nap almost always means a bad second nap, and a bad third nap, and maybe a 5 minute fourth nap, and two hours of rocking and feeding and fervent praying to get the baby to go to sleep.

And then they will wake up 36 times throughout the night.

And the next morning we will get down on our knees before it's time for the baby's first nap. We will set down our coffee cup that we have now refilled three times, and we will plead with the LORD to bless this nap. Please Jesus, you made this baby's body and you know that he NEEDS TO SLEEP FOR AT LEAST AN HOUR. Absolutely Needs To. Bless him, God. Hallelujah Amen.

Believe me folks, I know ALL about troubled sleepers. My girls were awful daytime sleepers and it took absolutely forever to get their overtired little selves to bed. Baby Jude is now three months old, and I'm remembering what it took to get the girls to bed when they were three months old:
Tandem breastfeed babies, usually accompanied by lots of fussing
Give them a supplement bottle
Each person takes a baby in a different room to rock and sing to them
Pray that they fall asleep
When they do, put them in crib (they shared one)
Go back in two minutes later when they wake up
Shove pacifiers back in
Pat their backs, shush them, sing to them
Pick them up, rock them again
Repeat Repeat Repeat
Cry, try not to look at the clock ("It's been two hours!")
Repeat Repeat Repeat

Tonight I left my brother's birthday party early so that I could get Jude to bed. I will NEVER complain about his early bedtime, even if it makes me miss out on some things. Anyway I get home, snuggle with my little guy, offer him a bottle, and he drifts off to sleep (mostly) in my arms. I put him in his crib. The End.

As I write this I am terrified that somehow I'm jinxing it.

Now, don't get the wrong impression. Does he sometimes wake up at 5:45 for the day? Yes. Does he sometimes take super short naps? Sure. Does he ocassionally wake up 4 times at night to eat? Yes. But you know what I realized this time around that I'm not sure I fully understood when the girls were little? Babies are people. They are little tiny people, and you cannot make them do anything. You can help them, you can listen to them and pay attention to what relaxes them and what doesn't, you can watch for sleep signs, but you absolutely cannot make them do anything. You can't make them go to sleep, you can't make them stay asleep, and that's just life. If your baby only takes 30 minute naps for a while, that's just life. It's frustrating as hell, but it's not always something that can be fixed. It's just something that is, and it will pass.

You know what else?

MAJOR Toddler disobedience- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Pumping 6 times a day- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Babies keeping me from sleep- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
All of my housecleaning being undone in 15 minutes- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Doling out time-out after time-out- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Saying "BE QUIET." 600 times a day- It's just something that is, and it will pass.

But also...

My children hanging onto my every word- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Snuggling with my sweet, soft baby- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Playing pretend "baby tiger!" with my toddlers- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Being the one to introduce three open minds to just about everything- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
My little ones crying "Momma!" and running to hug me when they first see me in the morning- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
Fighting over who gets to sit in my lap- It's just something that is, and it will pass.
That goofy grin Jude gives me 600 times a day- It's just something that is, and it will pass.

I'm learning to embrace the bad with the good, and I'm realizing that it isn't even bad. It just is. I no longer expect my kids to be like the books say they should be, to sleep the "right" amounts or to be developmentally on par. They are people too, and we are all so wonderfully different. I want to get to know them better, discover more about who they are, and learn more firmly how to respect their preferences, differences, and eccentricities.

And I'm telling myself a hundred times a day, with the wonderful and the "bad" that this, all of this, is something that is, and something that will pass.

Savor it.

Hey, Jude! The day I met my son.

I was facebooking today and came upon a birth story recently written by a friend of mine. Her story was incredible and told of her three day un-pain-medicated labor and all that she went through to usher her son into the world. It reminded me that I should write down Jude's birth story before I forget, and that I am a total wimp in comparison.

Here's my story.

I do not like being pregnant. There was one day during this last pregnancy, only one day, where I felt really super amazing and thought, "This is actually pretty cool". I had so much energy I felt like I was on drugs. I stayed up all night painting the inside of a playhouse in my backyard, even though there were tons of beetles sneaking up on me and totally getting in the way of my art project. But seriously, it lasted one day. The rest of the time I felt tired, big, and generally annoyed. For me pregnancy is a means to an end, and I mostly wanted it to go by quickly and get on with my life.

Besides feeling blah while taking care of two toddlers, I was carrying baby J veeeery low. Right away he made his nest on my bladder and stayed there the entire time. Many of my maternity clothes didn't fit because the waistline (or, more appropriately, the "girthline" since there was no waist to speak of) couldn't stretch far enough and low enough to accomodate the baby that was doing his best to hang out with my knees. By about 30 weeks my Braxton Hicks contractions were strong and frequent. By 35 weeks I had them nearly every three steps that I took. I wish I were exaggerating. My belly was constantly hard and uncomfortable. By 38 weeks I was in full "barter with God" mode. "Dear Jesus, if you make the baby come today I will dedicate him to the church, full-on Hannah style. I'll even name him Samuel, pleeeeeeease?"  I begged and pleaded with the baby to just come out already. I was so tired, so exhausted, and so uncomfortable that I almost wanted them to say "Oh! We have to induce you. Right now." Sounds silly. It's how I felt.

Thank God for the Olympics on tv 24 hours a day. I needed distraction.

My BH contractions got stronger every day, and since I didn't know what contractions felt like I was always wondering if my labor was starting. With the girls my water broke and I was having a c-section a few hours later. I had maybe three mild contractions. This was all new to me.

Friday August 24th- I wake up in my usual TOTAL GRUMP state. This morning though, I am not having it. I'm not dealing with toddlers, I'm not making everyone food, I'm not cleaning up, I'm not doing anything. Deal with it. Chad took the girls out. I rested. And was grumpy.

I had an OB appointment at 1:00. At this point I am 5 days overdue and ready to kill everyone. I stopped by Whole Foods on the way and noticed that my usual contractions were pretty strong and starting to develop a pattern, about every 10 minutes. I had experienced this probably fifty times before in the past four weeks, so I brushed it off. It was clear that the baby was never coming out and I was going to be enormously pregnant for life. I was coming to terms.

At the appointment my midwife once again pointed out how low the baby was. His head was so low that it was in the way of her getting to my cervix to check it. Like, she had to physically push it out of the way from the inside (NEAT-O). I was only 1-2 cm. Sigh. But my contractions were still pretty regular and she noticed that I broke out into a sweat with each one. She guessed that I would be in labor within 24 hours, and I nodded and smiled to make her feel good even though I knew he was going to stay in there indefinitely. I went home.

Per her suggestion, I took a bath. I was still not entertaining the idea that "today's the day!" but my contractions were so darn regular! I knew they were tricking me. I sat down with Chad and the kiddos and watched Ellen for an hour. Man, I love Ellen. Anyway I called out "write it down" every time I felt one start, and Chad would then obediently check the time and write it down. Throughout the whole show they were five minutes apart. Eh, not that painful, can't be real. I'm going to sit here, watch Ellen, laugh at her wit, and they will stop. See? It's been 5 minutes and...oh. Write it down.

Unfortunately Ellen came to an end and NOTHING comes on tv at 5:00 if you don't have cable. I was not about to count contractions to Judge Judy so we went on a walk.The contractions were still coming but I could walk through them, and gosh darn it if they weren't about every three minutes. By the time I waddled back to the house I was thinking, "Ok, self. It might be time to entertain the idea that you may, possibly, push a baby out tonight. Just give that thought a test-run in your brain and see what happens. No freaking out." And I immediately started freaking out.

I spent the next hour on the toilet. I was timing my contractions and they were two minutes apart. I was noticing that they were getting longer and starting timing that too. They were two minutes apart lasting a full minute each, some longer, for an hour. I came out of the bathroom and went into the kitchen where Chad was attempting to get our girls to eat dinner and said, "So, they're two minutes apart. How much longer should we wait?" How about NO MUCH LONGER YOU IDIOT! Oh self, how in denial you were. We did call my parents and told them to lazily make their way over to our house to watch the girls, no rush. We pulled out the suitcase. And then things got bad.

The next few contractions had me on the floor. I literally was crawling around my room trying to pack stuff into the suitcase while Chad was gathering power cords and batteries and tripods for various electronic devices that were absolutely necessary to bring with us to the hospital. Each contraction was stronger than the last, and eventually I was on my knees by the front door waiting to see my parents car drive up so Chad and I could leave. I was making crazy animal noises. I was crying. I was one enormous hot mess.

Listen, folks. I read all the books. I fully expected to have a long, drawn out labor with candles and massages where I knew what was happening and could center myself and connect with my baby and blah blah blah. It would be 18 hours and I would have relaxing music playing amd it would be awesome and spiritual and calm. Natural childbirth! I can do this! I'm a strong woman!

But this was not awesome. The ride to the hospital was nearly unbearable. I cried a lot. I had three contractions walking from the car to the front door, and we had a good parking spot. Are you LITERALLY going to make me sit in this lobby chair and sign this form right now? I SOUND LIKE A DYING ANIMAL, HELP ME! They finally got the hint and wheeled me to the room. Contraction after contraction was barrelling me over. I was loud. I kept apologizing. I was embarrassed. I was confused. Why is my body not giving me a break? Why won't it stop? Can I just have one full minute to gather myself? I know what you're all thinking. It's because she's in transition! She's 10 centimeters and the baby is crowning! The baby was halfway out and she didn't know it! No, my friends. I was not ready to push. I wasn't even close.

The miwdife checked me. I was three centimeters.

And in that moment, "epidural" went from a no to a YESSSSSSS!!!!! in my brain.

Why, why, why was I having so many very close contractions and was still only 3 cm? I will never know. I had practiced my "please don't offer us pain medication" speech in my head so many times, but now I was saying "YES!" every time she offered me anything. I couldn't imagine doing this for potentially hours to come. How long will it take to go from 3cm to 10cm? I did not want to find out unless I had something to help me. I felt totally and completely out of control, and here my midwife is telling me it could be a while. I agreed to the epidural, no second thoughts.

After forty minutes and twenty contractions, the epidural man came. He was beautiful. He was an angel. I had many, many contractions while he was giving me the epidural. It was absolutely terrible trying to sit still, but 15 minutes later I was in a land of bliss. I smiled, chatted with Chad, and watched Jimmy Kimmel. By this point they had broken my water. In not too long I was feeling a lot of pressure with each contraction. I knew it couldn't possibly be that I was ready to push, (I was 3 cm like an hour ago!) but I told the nurse anyway. She looked at me like I was an idiot and told me that it's just the epidural wearing off and to push my little button for a little extra surge of meds. I did. I still felt like I was going to poop all over everywhere with each contraction, and I told her so. She agreed to get the midwife to check me, and glory of glories I was 10cm! I was expecting the epidural to slow things down but no, when Jude finally decided it was time to come he came hard and fast.

The midwife came in, the lights were dim, and everything was really calm. I was glad to not fight the urge to push and very happy that this all was almost over. Jude's heart rate was more stable when I was on my side, so I pushed from that position. In about 40 minutes (I was an awesome pusher, for real! At least I didn't suck at everything), my little man came into this world. They laid him on my chest and I felt his little wet and warm body for the first time. That moment was the whole reason I fought for this VBAC instead of a repeat cesarean. I will never forget the feeling of his skin under my fingers or his 7lb 8oz weight on my chest. He was calm but very alert. He was perfect. He was mine.

Just like everything else in life, this labor and delivery did not go as planned. I had wanted a homebirth, but no midwives were taking VBAC clients. I had hoped to not be overdue and I was. I thought I was going to be in control of my labor and would have a while to warm up to the idea and to the pain, but in an hour my contractions went from bearable to incredibly intense and one after another. I had wanted it to be drug-free but choosing an epidural was the right thing for me in that moment. I had hoped I wouldn't tear or need stitches and I did. But really, none of that matters anymore. Now, it's just a story. It's the first chapter in Jude's story, and now we're onto chapter two. Chapter two is where the cutest baby in the world has an obsessive mommy who watches him sleep and cries when he smiles at her. Stay tuned for chapter three :)

Milking It

This blog is not intended to be solely about breastfeeding, but that's what is happening in my life right now so that's what I'm going to talk about. If you're not interested in the goings on of my boobs, I would skip to the next blog post.

Guys, you won't believe what I'm doing right now. It's something that I said I would NEVER EVER EVER  do again, no matter what. I swore up and down that it wasn't going to happen, no way no how. But here I sit, in this chair....pumping (the boobs, not iron). For a little background, I started pumping the day after the girls were born. I pumped every single day, many times a day, for eleven months.

Eleven.


Months.



I'm just giving that a minute to sink in.


In the beginning I would feed both of them, then pump for 20 minutes. Do you know how often you feed newborns? Like 10 times a day. So that means I fed each baby ten times a day, and then pumped. Ten times a day. The lactation consultants terrified me about not having enough milk for two babies, and I was NOT going to fail on this one. So I pumped. A few months down the road we figured out that the girls both had a tongue tie and my supply was going down, so eventually I pumped and fed the milk to them in bottles. It was terribly time consuming and often very inconvenient. My few minutes of rest time were spent hooked up to a machine that makes my nipples look like turtle heads poking in and out of their shells. Many, many times a baby cried out for me and I had to unhook myself and run down the hall leaving a milk trail behind me. It was terribly not fun, but it's what I had to do. What I chose to do.

And here I am again. I'm looking at Medela Pump In Style, and I'm realizing that it is no longer my enemy. It never was really, but I loathed it completely. That stupid little black bag that all zipped up looks pretty harmless. A tote bag? What are you toting around? Library books? Your groceries? Some fresh scones? 

Oh, this? No. It's a torture device that sucks the milk out of me.

Medela Pump In Style, you are, more accurately, my frenemy. You help me to feed my baby, how helpful! You help to keep my milk supply up, what a delight! But I wish I didn't have to use you, ever. I wish I wasn't going to see you 5 times a day for the next few months (possibly ten...). You remind me of what I wanted to do, so badly, and couldn't. You remind me that once again, feeding my baby isn't going as planned. But Medela Pump In Style, it's not your fault. You're just here to help. And I appreciate that.  I'm going to make a real effort to not hate you so much.

You see folks, feeding Baby Jude has been a struggle. At first it was awesome, but from allergies to reflux to my overactive letdown which literally drowns the kid in milk, it's been one struggle after another. Jude has, quite frankly, had enough. My lactation consultants and doctors visits have basically confirmed the fact that it's not Jude, it's me. It just comes out too fast and he can't handle it. It hurts his tummy, gives him gas, aggravates his reflux, and makes him upset. There is nothing worse than a baby crying and pushing away from your breast. Absolutely nothing worse. But I know that he isn't rejecting me, he is just rejecting the raging river of milk forcing its way down his throat. He would prefer a bottle please, preferably something a little less...aggressive. And that's okay, because he is my baby and I am going to listen carefully to what he needs, not to what I want.

So Medela Pump In Style, I'm sorry for wanting to throw you off of a building or for saying that I was going to break you apart with a sledgehammer. The truth is, I need you. I needed you two years ago and I need you now.

Truce?