Month twelve.

So, a year ago right now, I was laying in my bed staring at this marvelous lump of love and warm named Elijah.  Still fresh and new with tiny flecks of vernix and pruny hands and feet, covered in that new baby smell.  He was only a few hours old and the earthside journey had just begun for us.  In our house.  How incredibly awesome to have had that choice available to us.  I know I might not have had that choice anywhere else I've lived, nor would it have been as supported as it is here.  Oddly, my little corner of Indiana has some awesome midwives, doulas, and birth advocates.  So, there I was, cuddled up with my son and husband in our bed, so in love with the two of them and knowing we were as close to heaven as we humans get in this life.

After the intensity and speed of labor, I should have been exhausted, but after waiting so long to meet this wonderful boy I couldn't sleep.  I lay awake watching him so peacefully asleep between us on the bed knowing that what lay ahead of us was a great adventure.  About this time a year ago, my wonderful midwife and her lovely assistant were just packing up and leaving after having assessed us, starting a load of laundry, and having helped empty out our birth pool and some straightening.  My new life began at 6:30 PM when he entered the world, but it was official once the door locked behind my midwife and it was just Barry and Elijah and I.

We've now made one full trip around the sun as a family.  In that year we've watched a boy blossom from a sleepy, blinking newborn with that wonderful look of awe and confusion to a rambunctious and inquisitive toddler.  We've watched him change and we've watched him change us.  We've begun to see the world as he sees it.  Every experience is new, every occurrence is exciting.  We sat with him through his first thunderstorms, first sunrises and sunsets, first full moons, first spring, summer, fall and winter.  We've watched him explore grass, dirt, sand, fallen leaves, plastic tarps, concrete, rocks, and snow for the first time as though it was our first time as well.  He delights in these mysteries the world has to offer us, so we find delight in them too.  We've sat up with him through night terrors and teething, odd sleep-wake cycles, and reverse cycle nursing.  We've had so many firsts.  I've documented many of them here.  I love how he's changed us.

What is the boy up to now?  He now has eight and a half teeth, is a little over 31" tall, is somewhere around 24 lbs, is strong as an ox, has the stealth of a herd of elephants, and loves to ambush the cat every chance he gets.  He is the embodiment of love and joy and curiosity.  His life very much reflects his birth in the uncomplicated, intense, and fast-forward way he approaches everything at this point.  His favorite playthings are his new toy trucks and cars, wooden blocks, tractor, and a stuffed horse named Pferd.  He also likes to empty my plastics cabinet in the kitchen all over the floor while playing with all of those things listed above.  I plan to get him a toy kitchen in a couple months when we can afford it... something along the lines of http://www.littletikes.com/toys/super-chef-kitchen.aspx, because he enjoys his time in the kitchen with his mom and dad.  He may ransack the cabinet, but he also helps us put away the next day's lunches and his next-day mama milk.  

While he plunges forth into the world in just about everything, he's not 100% fearless.  He's afraid of the vacuum, the blender, the lawnmower, the big mixer, and the cordless drill.  Correction... he's afraid of the sounds they make.  He doesn't mind pushing any of these things around, but turn them on and he has a meltdown.

Our first year as parents has been amazing.  Non-traditional, but amazing.  Barry's got SAHD-hood down to a fine art, even if he's not fully up on what the home-parent's job description is some days.  I'm finding more balance as the WOHM.  (that's stay-at-home-dad and work-out of-home-mom for those on the outside of the terminology)  We're so incredibly lucky to have the kind of family life that allows us to not send our son to daycare.  I still would just about give a limb to trade him places, but our life is working so far.

I know that in the grand scheme of things, it's no big thing that Elijah's a year old.  Babies are born every day.  Parents are made every day.  There are birthdays and milestones every day.  Everyone's experiencing a first and everyone's experiencing a last somewhere in the world.  Maybe my fascination with the whole process is part of the culture I am living in, or perhaps it's the long path we took to become parents.  In any case I pray that the conscious decisions we've made in this first year have lain a sturdy foundation upon which to build the next eighteen years or so and carry him forward with a sense of strength, leadership, and make him a contributing member of society.  I have big hopes for him already even though he's just a toddler.  He seems game for whatever the world brings him.

Onward to year two, and all the adventures within.  

Midwives

My book of the week (because I am a nerd and read as fast as I can cram words into my brain) this week was Midwives by Chris Bohjalian.  It wasn't a record reading for me, it took me all of eight days to get through the whole book- you know, I have that job thing to do during the day, kinda takes up some time here and there.  Ordinarily, I don't really have much to say about a book because there's not much that sticks with me.  I remember characters and emotions, sometimes situations in the book that are striking, but nothing really sticks for me because it's not personal.  This book hit on something near and dear to me: homebirth and the midwives that provide care for women who choose it.

I loved the way it approached homebirth as normal, that things do go wrong, and hated how outsiders' perspectives, namely doctors and other 'experts' referred to homebirth midwives as unskilled, untrained pseudo-practitioners (it was a court scene) who are reckless and dangerous to all they encounter.  I feel that most midwives (caveat being that regardless of the profession in question, there are varying skill levels across the board and some people just don't have 'it') actually better at what they do, especially in a homebirth/ out-of-hospital situation because they do not have massive amounts of technology at their disposal.  They must know their clients, they must have actual knowledge, and they must *gasp* touch people.

One thing that stuck out in my mind as I read was a passage talking about the types of people the midwife in the story had assisted- artists, blue collar folks, tradespeople, clergy, etc.  All kinds of people from every walk of life, but she'd never delivered the babies of bankers, lawyers, or doctors.

Those were the types of people who generally feel safer in hospitals.

That made me smile.  See, I work in a bank.  I thrive on policy-following, I'm very type-A (if such a thing exists), and I crave structure in my life almost as much as I need oxygen to function.  I am surrounded by bankers all day long, five days a week.  You can imagine the tsunami of fear that rose in the cubefarm when I announced that I would birth my son at home.  I might not have said anything at all if it hadn't been for the chorus of "YOU'RE GOING TO WANT AN EPIDURAL!!!" and "how long will your doctor *let* you go?" and myriad horror stories about birth I was treated to throughout my pregnancy.  I calmly and rationally explained that no, birth is safe and if at some point that changes, I'm only 5.35 minutes from the hospital.

That's right.  A banker birthed at home!  (and it was awesome)

I only wish more women were comfortable with birth, viewed it as normal and safe and right, rather than a horror of pain and discomforts.

Wouldn't it be lovely if everyone could know the love of a midwife supporting them through pregnancy, labor, and postpartum time?

I made cookies... you can too!

Tonight, I made my own lactation cookies.  My own recipe.  I'm kinda proud and want to share because they're tasty and I'm thinking someone out there somewhere could use it.  They have no name, they're just my version of something that was already awesome- oatmeal raisin cookies!

You're probably skeptical.  You're probably thinking, "cookies, lady? Really? You're gonna make more milk by eating cookies... I dunnnno."  For me, it's working.  (along with my tea, my capsules, gallons of water, enough sleep, co-sleeping, frequent nursing/pumping, stuffing calories all day... this replaces my bowl of oatmeal and milled flax every night!)

*Oatmeal and molasses can help boost iron, which we all need as women, but more so as pregnant or nursing women (I'm only nursing, so don't anyone get too excited!), because our bodies are doing so much for our little ones as well as all of the amazing things we do for ourselves and our partners.

*Flax is a great fiber source that can help lower cholesterol, which is great for your heart and other parts... somehow by moving things along with more fiber our bodies make more milk.

*Brewers yeast gives you a boost to your B vitamin content which can boost your mood, energy, and not surprisingly with those you might also be making more milk!

*Calories in general are something we all need if we're going to make milk.  This has calories.  This also tastes good.  So, good calories.... there you go.

The recipe:
lactation cookies, my version: 
1C honey, 1 C brown sugar, 1/2 C butter, 1/2 C peanut butter, 1 or 2 T blackstrap molasses, 2T brewers yeast, 2 eggs, 1t vanilla, 2 C flour, 2 or 3 T milled flaxseed, 1t baking soda, 3C oats, 1 C raisins (or chocolate chips... or craisins, etc), 4T water.

Mix flax and water, set aside for a few minutes.

Mix wet ingredients + butter, then add soggy flax.

Mix in dry ingredients, then oatmeal, then raisins or other edible shrapnel you might want to toss in there.
Bake 8-12 minutes at 375 degrees fahrenheit.

You can also add ground fenugreek if you're into that. :-)

mama milk.

My son is built like a tank.  It's not just his size or musculature.  It's his constitution as a whole.  He's not been sick yet (knock on wood) in ten months earthside.  He goes out in public.  He plays in dirt. He licks everything he can get his hands around.  He does gross things, but he's a baby and doesn't know that yet.  I've made many choices that my parenting peers haven't chosen which probably correlate positively with the fact that he's so healthy... such as not feeding him candy or sweet snacks other than fruits and veggies which are naturally sweet... but I think the biggest contributor is the mama milk.  I know anecdotally there are tons of people out there who will declare violently that either their breastfed baby was sick all the time or their formula fed kid was healthy as a mule and that what I have to say is just luck or God's grace.  Either way, I'm thinking there might just be something to the breastfeeding benefits package.

I've talked about my son here many times.  He's beautiful, tall, curious, and precocious.  I love that kid with all my heart and soul, and I don't see it as an inconvenience that at least 45 minutes a day hooked to my milk machine.  Okay, it's a little inconvenient and uncomfortable- but worth it.  Same with on-demand, unscheduled feedings.  He asks, I give.  It's simple.  Because of him, I spend my lunches and breaks in a small, windowless, semi-dim room rocking along with the buzz and whir of my little Medela Freestyle and do my best to not let these clumsy hands tip the collected milk out, and remind myself frequently to tighten caps THEN place in cooler bag (I forgot once, big mess, lots of tears).

I had no misconceptions going in about the type of commitment it was going to take, I knew about cluster feedings and growth spurts, raw skin and latches, positions and preferences.  I knew so much, but I had no real practice.  Then he was born, and we had a very wide learning curve.  There were days when I wondered if I'd even make it six weeks, let alone the year I had planned... but we pulled it out thanks to supportive women in my life, websites like www.llli.org and www.mobimotherhood.org, and my husband who believed as much as I did that it was not just the right thing to do, but it was the normal thing to do, and that we were going to do that, even if he had to sit on the sidelines for a bit while we learned how to nurse.  He also tells other people how awesome breastfeeding is... whether they want to know or not. (we're working on that) One website I found tonight really resonates with me, http://www.nancymohrbacher.com/blog/2010/10/7/fear-and-surrender.html, which I wish I had had in my arsenal of reading prior to beginning this journey!

I learned rather quickly that some foods I ate made E cry when he nursed.  Specifically, he's sensitive to dairy, and for the longest time was also sensitive to citrus and heavily acidic items like soda.  I didn't need soda anyway, so big loss there.  Anyway, that was part of the learning process.  If he was sensitive to an item, it was akin to that scene in The Exorcist.  My tiny infant could coat one's shirt in a vile cheese-scented goo in no time.  Not every mom is willing to exclude things from her diet to continue breastfeeding in peace, but I did it because I believed.  (and still do!)

While the first weeks were a little rocky, the truly difficult part began when I went back to work in February.  While I went back to work with supportive supervisors who do not begrudge me the two fifteen minute breaks I take to go take care of business, I found myself isolated when I began to struggle with supply as I went from nursing on demand to 'nursing' on a schedule.  Evenings and weekends are easy- I'm a 24/7 milk bar who co-sleeps to keep the milk going on demand.  It's during the work week that I started to have problems... around about May-June my output dropped significantly.  E was drinking more and more during the day and I was making less and less, bottoming out at about ten ounces a day for a time.  It was stressful and I really had no one I felt I could talk to in my circle of people.  All the nursing moms I know are stay-at-home moms, and the working moms I know either combo-fed or fed straight formula.  I struggled silently, prayed, took herbal supplements (more milk plus by motherlove), drank nursing teas, ate oatmeal by the canister, added milled flaxseed to every food I ate, gave my husband sensitivity and semantics lessons after a few comments about how much I was bringing home, and nearly depleted my freezer stocks before a miracle happened and my supply came back.  We did it!

The day I pumped seven total ounces in one ten minute session I not only cried happy tears, but found myself dancing around the room like an idiot and thanking God over and over.  I swear I floated back to my desk on a cloud of joy because it had been so long since I'd made that much in one sitting.  

So, for ten months now I've been building a boy with mama milk.  I've had people tell me that it's ridiculous that I put in so much effort, that I'm the only one who cares that my kid only had mama milk to drink for the first year, or that formula is 'just as good so stop stressing about it'.  I feel that because I'm the mama, I damn well *should* be the one who cares what goes in that baby's body.  It's a vital part of how I mother.  Just because someone can and will have to feed my child while I'm at work does not mean that I can't be a part of creating what he gets to eat.  As a working mom it's even more important because the family depends on my income.  If he gets sick, I need to be with him (even though my husband gets to stay home with him during the day, I feel sick days are a tag-team event should we ever have one), so if my milk can help protect him from illness, I'll move heaven and earth to make milk as long as he wants it.  I intend to be a full-term breastfeeder, which could take me into the taboo world of nursing a child over two years old. *GASP!!*  I may not continue to pump all that time, but definitely intend to keep pumping through the second year until he overcomes his dairy sensitivity or is ready for other liquids.  I may have to do some explaining to coworkers and maybe even supervisors as everyone's pretty mainstream around there and may not fully understand why I'm still making daily trips to the lactolounge.

The biggest obstacle I'm going to have with continuing to nurse him in the coming year(s) is going to be that he's so large and robust for his age.  I'll likely start to hear about how I'm abusing him, or how he's 'too old for that' when he asks for a drink in public.  I suspect my lactivist spouse is somewhat uneasy about it as well because it's just not a part of our society.  My own father made a comment in recent weeks that I wouldn't have to worry about it much longer (my stepmom weaned everyone before they were long into their first year), and that he didn't want me to be like that 'weirdo who used to visit next door who nursed her kid until he was like 4 1/2 or something- that's borderline child abuse, you know'.  Gosh, really?  People seriously believe that's child abuse?  We place our children in plastic buckets and swings and leave them to cry to 'toughen them up' and it's okay, but feeding your child in a manner that boosts their immune system and helps fill in the gaps in nutrition that solids sometimes leave in the early years is wrong.  So upside-down.  

Anyway, it's been a great trip so far.  I hope many more women join me on this journey.  

The return of Aunt Flo.

Today's a good day, or was to a point.  Then SHE showed up.  I haven't missed her much, she comes in, makes a mess of things, then after a few days of dragging me down wanders off to bugger some other poor soul for awhile.  Mother Nature.  Aunt Flo.  Whatever name the she-beast goes by, she's here.  For her first visit in awhile.  She visited briefly in August, but decided to wait until now to come back.  I was starting to get a little concerned in her most recent absence, even took a pregnancy test (negative, of course) just to be 'sure.'

I'm not her biggest fan, well in a way I am... as long as she's here I know that I have possibilities in the future.  It's a renewal.  Sweeping out the nest in case someone else decides to move in.  I'm hoping in 3-4 years someone does move in, hopefully not before then because poor husband couldn't keep up with a toddler and a newbie at this point in time.

I've decided that I am more of a fan of contractions than of menstrual cramps.  Contractions were powerful.  Overwhelming at times... but a quiet powerfulness that had a deep and utilitarian purpose, bringing me ever closer to meeting a sweet new soul who had been previously hidden for months.  Menstrual cramps on the other hand are a dull and somewhat constant ache.  An annoying ache.  

At the end of contractions is a sweet and shiny surprise.  

At the end of menstrual cramps is a pile of 'medical waste'.  

*sigh*

I'm trying something new for the cramps... I have my son's baltic amber taped to my lower abdomen.  So far, whether by placebo effect or other, it's helping.

-L.

If I had it to do over...

I've been thinking about Elijah's birth a whole lot lately.  I've been going over the things I can remember clearly, and as awesome as it was, there are things I'd do differently.

For starters, I'd have held onto E from the moment he was placed on my chest until the moment the placenta slopped its way out.  Unfortunately, I had to get out of the tub a little before the cord stopped pulsing because it was too painful to continue sitting on my too-sore tailbone any longer, and laying on the bed sounded heavenly, but that was about a fifteen foot walk from tub to bed (different rooms).  We went ahead and cut the cord, E was handed off to my husband, and husband held the boy for the next half hour or so while he called grandparents and aunts and uncles to let them know what we did that day.  It was hard to lay there and watch him carry our boy around, though it was a good time to go ahead and do assessments, get that shock of how much he really weighed, and all that mess... it's the idea that after carrying him inside me for so long we were separated, even if I could see him.

I'd have banned all visitors for the first week after the birth.  The minute people heard that E had arrived earthside we were inundated with requests to come visit.  That meant I had to either wear clothes and make my way down the stairs to first floor, or surrender my beautiful baby to my husband to carry downstairs away from my little nest in the bed to the living room below us.  Wearing clothes was not an appealing idea.  Hobbling down the stairs was not an appealing idea.  Handing over my son to someplace I couldn't see him when all I wanted to do was see him, can you see where this is going?  I ended up going downstairs for one group, and handed over the boy for another group.

I would have made it a requirement for all visitors to either bring food or help with the housework that I hadn't gotten to in my final bit of nesting the day or two before E was born.  See, I had a fantastic, high energy day in which I'd finished and put away all laundry, done all floors and bathrooms, and had completely tuckered out by the time I got to the kitchen.  I had a mountain of dishes left the night before, and was *planning* to do them on that Monday after work.  My husband had some errands to run that morning, so he didn't get to it.  I had a different sort of work to do, so I didn't get to it.  One friend brought three meals, and another friend did dishes for us.  That is two visitors out of ten.  I am forever grateful to those two women, because strong as I am, there wasn't enough of me to take care of those things, and my husband was still recovering from surgery.  I made him go get unhealthy junk because I had a pantry full of ingredients, and neither of us slept much the first week.  I guess I could probably have planned ahead and made frozen meals, but the food budget was tight as was my time and energy.

I would have had my birth area more prepared than it was so my husband didn't have to run like a gerbil on meth to get things unpacked.  I also would have put more air in the walls of the birth pool like a very wise woman suggested, but I didn't realize just how firm I'd need the sides to be.  I would have just had the laptop sitting in the birth room, ready to push play and plugged in.  When the computer battery died early in labor, B stashed it safely out of harm's way in the bedroom on a shelf, so I had no music to relax to (not like relaxation was really an option as fast as things progressed) and I think I would have enjoyed that in the quieter moments.

I guess I think about these sort of things because even as awesome as our experience was, and that there's still no way I'd have considered another place on the planet than home for this, I want to think of how to make it better if we do it again.  Maybe this can help someone else have an awesome experience!

Political Spiel.

So, today was voting day across the entire United States.  That's good for two reasons: (1) the people get to once again pick representatives, and (2) THOSE GAWDAWFUL ADS WILL FINALLY STOP RUNNING!!

I personally despise the pre-voting season, as ordinarily rational adults scream at each other about how the representative they have chosen is either the right guy or the wrong guy, when it really doesn't matter in the long run because they're missing the big picture.  I noticed this during the last presidential election: Republicans were pitted against Democrats (I still think the bigger issue was that there was a choice between Geezer/Dingbat and Tan guy/Bigmouth) and people were sooooo angry.  In that race, I was a supporter of the guy who won because what I saw in any debate was this: one man had answers and ideas for some of our country's ills, two other guys had horrible accusations for the guy with ideas (and one woman could see Russia from her house, but that's another story in and of itself).  While the ideas weren't perfect, and they would be further fouled up by the body of representatives who would later be tossed those ideas to vote upon, they were still ideas, and I am a woman who likes at least an idea to fix problems.  That's why you'll rarely find me whining about a problem, instead I think of ways to solve it, then I grouch about how ineffective said solution was, and set about finding something better should problem arise again.

At one point during the presidential season I got into a discussion with a friend about how if she had a problem with the ideas in play, perhaps she should come up with better ideas.  Ideas are a good start and who knows, someday it could grow beyond an idea to maybe a movement because people like ideas and gravitate toward folks with good ones.  She scoffed at me and said it wasn't her job, that's what 'That Idiot' was hired to do.  It was too much responsibility to expect her, a mere citizen (who had never served her country or sacrificed much of anything save sales tax) to be thinking for the herd.  I was speechless.  My brain nearly imploded at this concept.  (we later parted ways never to speak again because of something related to telling me how to parent... again another story for another time.)

I'm getting off target again.  There is a point to all of this...

Today we set about choosing people to represent us as we are for all intents and purposes a government for the people, by the people.  Those representatives are human beings charged with the task of bearing forth our wishes for how we are to be governed in all aspects of our lives.  They often get a bad rep for making decisions we don't agree with, but we as a collective people are lazy.  We send these fine men and women up to the Big House with our well wishes (and some grumbling if he or she is not the one we picked), but we then expect them to be able to read our minds and think for us.

They are people, yes.  That's one of the requirements for the job of assembling the government for us and by us.  They are not all of us though.  They're not even a small fraction of us.  They're a small group of individuals who are not a representative sample of our population.  They haven't a freaking CLUE about what's in our hearts and minds.  For all they know, we all resemble Wal-Creatures, live for NASCAR, and sit on a beanbag eating cheetos and watching re-runs of Roseanne.  Or maybe they think we all drive SUVs and live in fancy quarter million dollar vinyl mansions in little additions out in the Hell known as 'Suburbia'.  Or they think we're all farmers and blue collar workers.  Who knows?  The only thing that is absolutely certain is that our representatives can only represent so well on their own.  They are not in place to think for us.

Here is my challenge to all of you- regardless of who is picked or what party label they come in wearing, get off your lazy duff and think for yourself.  If you don't agree with a policy, challenge it.  Learn to write to your congressperson or visit their local office.  Learn where the   Learn to write to your city councilmen.  Go to the city council meetings if you are available.  Learn to lobby if you're passionate about something.  Start an organization or join one if one already exists.  Do not settle for grumbling about that man or woman we all helped send to sit at the table for us unless you've done your part to help them make that decision with full consideration of their constituents.

Our rights will only be upheld through our diligence and personal effort.  Expecting some random stranger you've just picked, likely at random or because you hated their commercials less than the other guy's stuff, is not the same thing.

Losses.

This week I've been doing some remembering. October 15 is Pregnancy Loss and Rememberance Day, which means, I spent a good part of Friday remembering. And remembering. And remembering. And remembering. And as I sit here in the wee hours of yet another no-sleep night watching my one very healthy son sleep, still remembering. Especially since a friend of mine has been asking for advice on how to help her friend and neighbor cope with her impending loss. I'm glad to be able to offer advice, though I wish I had no experience in that realm.

I have had several losses. Early in my adulthood I was thankful when it happened, felt it was God's way of looking out for me in my college years. Then I felt it was God's mercy in my first (and unhealthy) marriage. Then after that marriage ended and I found myself with my current husband, and things just seemed right. In 2006, I was doing triple-duty: working the bank, the store, and pursuing my MBA. I was forty pounds lighter than I am now, stressed, not healthy at all... then I came up late. Figured I was just too stressed, and good ol' mother nature would make her appearance soon enough.

About this time it seemed like everyone in my world was turning up pregnant. Three women at the store, several people at the bank, classmates, friends elsewhere in the world. Then I was. Then I was terrified- how on earth was a temp/part-time employee of two companies and the sole breadwinner of the household with no health insurance going to be pregnant? I was further stressed out, but couldn't talk with my husband (then fiance') about it because he had his own issues to work through. He had recently become unemployed (a condition that continues still today) due to his disabilities and was only receiving $250/month from the VA for said disability (that's improved a bit). He was also getting to know the VA medical system on an intimate level. Very bad timing indeed.

Then one morning, I was queasy and crampy, and suddenly not as worried as I had been. I was only a month and a half late. I was wracked with lower back cramps and passing clots the size of quarters. Three days I didn't go to work. I couldn't face the gathering horde of women who I simultaneously loved and hated as their bellies grew. As thankful as I was that it wasn't happening for me because of my circumstances, I was somewhat bitter that it wasn't happening for me, because I've always wanted kids. I left my first husband because he asked me to 'get fixed' (among many other things which may end up in another post). I kept quiet because I didn't need to scare the pregnant women and didn't need pity or advice. I felt alone.

Fast forward to 2008, when we bought our house. The first thing I said the night we put in our offer is that this house would be where my babies would be born. By this time, my husband and I had known each other three years, been married for a year and some change, and things were stable. We decided that winter after we moved in that 2009 would be the year of the Parent for us. So, we made plans, and started charting. February 28, 2009 we saw those magical crosshairs on a test and told the world on March 4. We made an appointment with our midwife. We had waited for so long and were ecstatic. We even started calling our little embryo 'Peanut'. Then, about a week and a half into this magical adventure, my body did what it always seemed to do. I woke up to spotting and cramping Saturday, March 8, 2009. I tried at first to not get worried since my husband had the car torn apart in the garage that day and had enough to deal with... disassembling and reassembling a Volkswagen Cabrio is not an easy task. Being an emotional wreck would not help either of our causes, but as the day wore on and the spotting grew heavier and redder, I finally involved my husband (after the car was reassembled) and we ventured to the local emergency room.

We endured 45 minutes in the waiting room at the hospital where a young mother was ignoring her two toddlers as they ran amok. We endured nine hours in the actual room. I had blood drawn. I had a pelvic exam. I had a violent intravaginal ultrasound with bladder catheter. I probably cried a liter of tears and my nose was fully raw from tissues. I had a misogynist OB/GYN who came down to say 'oh, another one? What is this? Some sort of epidemic?' and 'well, it's probably not a miscarriage, but it could be. Don't get too attached anyway- pregnancies really aren't a sure thing until 20 weeks anyway.' They ruled out ectopic (though looking back, I think it's possible that's what it was by the symptoms...) through the ultrasound. They saw nothing. By this point there should have at least been a little sac, but no. The lights were on and no one was home. But they gave me a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe my dates were off. Maybe I really didn't know by my charts what day I conceived. Maybe in a few weeks there'll be something, so maybe we should just check in with an OB in a few days for a follow-up.

I accepted that nothing was going to change the facts, it was what it was. It didn't make me feel any better about the situation. The worst was yet to come. Arriving home after the hospital, I wrote about it, then went to bed. I missed church. I woke that afternoon to more cramping, heavier bleeding. Clots. I broke down. I called my friend. I consulted with my due date group and my TTC groups online. I called off work. I wrote this:

"I don't know how to make sense of this situation. I'm not sure I even have the words to do more than awkwardly convey what the emotional rollercoaster has been the last three days. There probably aren't words even made in this language beyond screaming, shouting, tears, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness and rage against whatever defect I possess that would make this happen again. I dread going back to the bathroom because I don't want to see it happening.

Last week was awesome. No doubt about it, it was awesome and so packed with joy. I was facing motherhood and things were going well. I felt okay, I was gaining weight appropriately, and every home test I took (every couple of days) was darker than the last. We even had a nickname for the little embryo and had picked out names for the big day in November.

We knew this was a possibility from the beginning though. Maybe I should have been more pessimistic than optimistic. How could I not feel some surge of optimism though?

My dad wrote me last week and warned me that if it happens, it's not the end of the world... but now that it is happening, I have a hard time believing that. There's a grave injustice in this world when crack whores, high school and middle school students, and people who in general just don't want a child can carry one to term with no complications. I quit drinking three years ago to prepare for this. I changed my lifestyle completely. I prayed so hard for that moment to come when the test went positive... and it did... then this happened. How is it that I can do so much for this very wanted child, and not be able to keep it?

I'm not fishing for sympathy. I just feel hollow and so very alone right now. It's a different kind of alone to go from two people in a body to just one. Why can't this just happen to the people who don't want kids? I don't want their kids either. I want my own. I'm selfish like that. I want to give birth to my own healthy, whole, and pink little infant. Maybe it's in the cards for the future. I'm trying to find that bright spot. Right now, however, it's very, very, very hard. "

I didn't have answers. I didn't know where to go with it. I felt as though the God who was so generously looking out for me in the beginning was now just a big meanie in the sky who was out to get me, and after three days away from work I had to go back. I didn't get bereavement time for it, it was considered a sickness, not a true loss of a child... and my co-workers had all chipped in for a dozen white roses which were sitting on my desk on my first day back.

For anyone who knows much of anything about me, I'd rather have seeds and live plants any day of the week. It's part of my love of gardening. In this situation especially... seeing twelve cut flowers sitting in a pretty glass vase, I was seeing twelve empty uteruses. Twelve lives cut short before their time. Premature ends. It made my soul break. Not my heart, my soul.

I was angry, bitter, and confused. I felt alone, damaged, broken. I was almost certain I would never, ever be the parent I had dreamed of being. I was a porcupine in human form.

I fought with my mother about how I needed to be medicated in the couple weeks after the event, or needed to go see 'a real doctor' for any future pregnancies. I alienated my husband who was allowed to stay home through the duration of his grief while I had to return to work and put on a brave face. I was so wrapped up in my grief I felt I would never heal.

The sun kept coming up. The moon kept coming up. My broken body kept going through its routines. Two weeks later, a true miracle... I conceived again. I grew a tenacious little boy this time, one who made it through to a wonderful homebirth. I cautiously embraced my pregnancy, wanting to revel in every sensation, enjoying even the nausea because it was proof of life. So thankful for every day we were pregnant, but every day we were pregnant was colored by prior experiences that I feel almost as though we were robbed because every cramp and spot brought back my fears.

If you're suffering through a loss, I offer my wholehearted prayers for your heart and soul to mend. It's tough. There will be people who completely downgrade your grief, though your grief is valid whether you've been pregnant a day or a whole 40+ weeks. You need to make a space for yourself to heal, even if it means stepping away from the outside world for a bit. Surround yourself with loving people, supportive people. Ask for help from your partner, family, friends. Be kind to yourself. Rest. Pray if you're a pray-er. Talk if you're a talker. Write if you're a writer. Paint if you're a painter. Let it out. Do not hide your grief to make others feel better. This is a powerful experience you're having. It's a hard concept for others to deal with unless they, too, have felt loss on your level.

If you have a friend suffering a loss, one of the best things you can do is just BE THERE. Be the shoulder, be the ear, be the extra pair of hands around the house, be the extra set of legs for errands. Consider also this link: http://www.diaperswappers.com/forum/showthread.php?t=832479.

-L.

Pregnancy, birth, and gardens.

For anyone who knows me well, you know that I get antsy about January-February when the first seed catalogs come out for the year. I spend hours poring over them and dreaming about how the plants will grow in the garden, how the garden will have to expand to allow for one more variety or how the weird heirloom varieties will taste. I dream of planting. I begin planting indoors three months before it's warm enough to put them in the ground outdoors. I plan and plan and plan. It's a sacred thing.

In years past I believed that you had to apply pesticides to every plant to keep the bugs and such off of them. I bought broad spectrum sprays to kill aphids and probably (shamefully, I admit) did my share of damage to the local bee population because I didn't know there was anything different. This is what I knew, and it worked, and I was okay with that. I had a friend who shared a book with me on companion planting after seeing my arsenal of chemical warfare, and I began to see not only a natural way of increasing my yields, but it gave me a way of fitting more and healthier plants into the garden bed by letting them work the way they were made to work with one another, complementing one another's weaknesses with a strength. They protected each other, and brought beautiful fruit into my garden, and I left them alone to do it. It was magical in many ways.

This year, in keeping with the new and natural (normal) way of gardening, I planned, I planted, and let the plants be. They weathered storms with their companions and I waited in childlike anticipation for the first fruits to be ready to share with my family... then came mice from the vacant house next door. They nibbled on each partially ripe tomato one night, making the first dozen or so ripe ones inedible for humans. I was sad, but still determined to do nothing because gardens are a gift from God and surely I couldn't have eaten all those tomatoes myself... so for a week it went that as a tomato became ripe, just slightly ripe, the mice would chew holes. I was frustrated, and decided to do something I rarely do. I started plucking every mildly pinkish-orange tomato off the vines before the mice could get to it. We bought mousetraps and placed them between each plant, then resumed the picking schedule to get to them before the mice could... even after the mice stopped nibbling. I slowed down though when I realized that I was essentially doing to my garden what Western medicine is doing to pregnant women, that line of thinking I nearly accepted back in the day.

Four years ago I was content to believe that babies were born in hospitals. I had spent hours watching "A Baby Story" on TLC with my dorm-mates in college, I had four hospital-born siblings, and the one homebirth I had ever heard of was horribly tragic- the little boy's heart wasn't working properly and he had ended up with a severe case of cerebral palsy. I was secure in the belief that babies were born in hospitals, and that's how it was done. Birth was terrifying and filled with doctors and emergencies, because that's what the TV showed me. (Perhaps this is why I had to wait as long as I did to conceive a baby with the tenacity to go full-term... I do believe things happen for a reason.) Then I got to know K, a vibrant, snarky, weird, wonderful, earth-mama hippie-type, who was going to have a home birth. My goodness. HOME BIRTH!! She wasn't going to see the doctors. She wasn't going to be part of the machines. No needles. No prohibited activities. Her midwife looked at her as a human, not a collection of possible calamities. Unheard of. I thought she was crazy... at first.

Then she had a beautiful, healthy baby girl at home. Safely. No interference. She was fine. Her baby was fine. Nobody had to release her to do anything, she just laid down in her own bed to rest afterwards and her family was already there to be with her. Hmmmm... then I read her birth story and I was hooked. I already had a pretty healthy fascination for birth in general (though I have no idea why, I just naturally stalked pregnant people, maybe in hopes their fertility would rub off on me, maybe it's just because they're doing one of the coolest things on the planet), but then I began to read the birth stories out there and learn about the REAL normal. I understood that there was a time and place for the hospital, but that for every woman the hospital was neither the place nor even a good idea... and that for me, I was not a hospital woman.

The problem I see with the hospital is that the doctors treat women not with the honor, respect, and normalcy that they deserve in birth. Instead, they are treated like my tomato field- they must be plucked early- get them in out of the field before *something* happens. So, women are bullied into inductions or C-sections they neither need or want because they *could* have a big baby. They are told that their bodies aren't going to work for them as designed because there's just so much at stake... what if you go to term and something bad happens, but you could have avoided that bad thing by just doing what you're told now?

I hear from these women later that their babies are just fine, and for the most part they are. If you discount any bonding, breastfeeding, or emotional issues mother and child may experience from this method of birthing, yes, everyone is fine. Everyone has a pulse, that's fine. Everyone came home, that's fine. The doctor saved the day he or she helped create, and that's sorta fine.

My tomatoes ripening in the windowsill are fine, too... but I wonder as I stare at them sitting there, could they maybe have been better than fine if I'd left them alone and let them decide when they were going to be ready? If I had just accepted that nature happens and that not every tomato makes it out of the garden unscathed, maybe those tomatoes could have not only been fine, but outstanding, awesome, amazing, or other great adjective.

So, I guess there's a parallel between my love of green and growing things and my fascination with birth and pregnancy. If we learn to just leave things alone, maybe we'll come to expect that the unexpected is amazing, and amazing is better than fine.

-L.

Circumcision, or "your son's going to hate you when he's older."

So, being a new parent is fun. I've heard it said that veteran parents view a new parent as a dangerous idiot with a small person who needs to be protected by their advice. I've already been subjected to the clucking of tongues and shaking of heads for some parenting decisions I've made out of sheer research and being a part of the counterculture of birth and child rearing.

If I were to give myself a grade thus far, I'd give myself at least a B+ for being able to weed through the BS and smile and nod through the conversations with older, experienced (read: my children were born 30 years ago and this is how it should go) veteran parents try to give 'time honored advice'. I realize the accessibility of information was not as high a generation ago as it is today, but some advice is just plain awful.

From my mental reject pile: "oh, you should have been giving him rice cereal at two weeks to help him sleep! (random stranger)" "don't hold him too much, babies shouldn't be too dependent. You'll spoil him. (my birth mom)" "you gotta let them cry until they stop, my doctor told me so and you turned out fine (mom)." "you can't let them sleep with you, that's just wrong (random stranger)" "formula is so much more convenient than breast feeding (coworker)" "you HAVE to get a boy circumcised. Have to. He'll give his wife yeast infections and other problems... (co worker)" "If you don't get your boy cut, he'll hate you when he's older and the other boys laugh at him.(from several people, actually.)" I could do a post on each of these, and who knows- if I'm feeling frisky I just might. The one that concerns me most right now is that last one.

See, a few days ago I was having a light-hearted conversation with my dad (something I really need to find a way to do more often) on the phone. He wanted to know how E was doing and whether or not he'd peed on either of us yet. Unless you consider the couple of overflowing diapers we've had in the morning, nope. So, innocently I said, "He's uncircumcised so that's not a problem. It slows the flow and points it down instead of everywhere." Quite pleased with my own answer and not realizing that this was about to spiral into something, I smiled at my son wiggling around on the floor.

Dad: "What? Why the hell not?"

Me: "well, it makes sense. It's not MY penis. It's his."

Dad: "You really should have gotten that taken care of. He's going to hate you when he's older."

Me: "If he wants it when he's older, he can get it when he's older. Where I gave birth, it's not

part of the package and insurance feels that's cosmetic."

Dad: "your insurance sucks. Maybe you should look for better insurance."

Me: "they repaid me 60% of my birth cost. I think I'll keep them."

Dad: "You still should have gotten it done when he was little and he couldn't feel it."

Me: "Seriously? Yes, he would have felt it."

Dad: "Maybe. He wouldn't remember it though. Later he'll remember it and it'll hurt more."

Me: "So, I should have had a third of my son's penis removed so he wouldn't have remembered

it and couldn't have pain meds to deal with it other than tylenol or motrin?"

Dad: "He'll be embarrassed about it later."

Me: "aaaaaanyway... he's doing good. Growing. He's a happy kid."

Originally, I was leaving the decision up to my husband. I figured that the other person in the house with a penis would ultimately make the best decision on what to do with a penis. I don't have one. Well, technically I could say I had one for the better part of nine months while I was baking a boy, but generally speaking, the other twenty eight years of my life I have not had one and don't know what to do with one in terms of ownership and maintenance. I didn't put much research into it other than to read a few posts at peaceful parenting halfheartedly, I just figured I'd squirrel away the money for the procedure (what it would cost outside of insurance) since he wanted to have it done so his son would not have to worry about women or other guys laughing about his intact penis later on.

Then he was born. Things changed.

Suddenly I cared very much about what happened to this little guy's parts. Suddenly it didn't matter that I didn't have one of my own to maintain, but it DID matter to me that he did. It was his, and he should have a say in what happens to it. Also, I couldn't afford it since I was taking extra time off work, and most of our tax refund was going into house repairs and debt repayment. So, I never made an appointment with the good doctor. Time passed, our son grew, and grew, and grew. At no time in the last eight months has he requested that we remove that skin. He's not had a single infection, he's not hosed an entire room, he doesn't know that daddy's penis is different, but he does seem to know that it is his and that he likes having it attached as diaper change and bath time usually involves me repeating over and over "please let go of your penis." Can we interpret it as gratefulness for having it still there? Perhaps.

So, in eight months of learning about my son and his intactness, here's what I have to say on the matter.

We as parents are put here to teach, look after the best interests, and to protect our offspring from trauma and danger until they are old enough to go off on their own to do things their way. God delivers them to us in one piece and we're supposed to try to keep them that way even when they seem bent on self destruction once they learn to move on their own. It's counterintuitive to accept the responsibility of parenthood, then to reject it completely by handing over your new and confused baby boy to your trusted doctor of choice and saying, "just a little off the end there, doc!" How are we to build trust and security for our babies by doing this?

While some religious sects advocate for the removal of a boy's foreskin, not all do. Now it is done routinely and 33% of all US newborns are circumcised (down from 50% a few years ago)... but how often are parents fully informed about the risks of such a surgery or even have a good reason to do it? It is a fallacy to believe that a newborn can feel no pain, yet many people still believe that they cannot (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/09/090927130048.htm). It's a fallacy to believe that circumcision prevents STDs- no, proper precautions such as condoms or simply abstaining does (www.intactamerica.org). It's a fallacy to believe that a son should resemble his father in that respect, because no two circumcisions look the same. It's not going to protect him from bladder infections, ridicule, or anything else. It's not going to be any easier to 'keep clean' if you have it removed.

Removing it is however going to put your son at risk for permanent damage which CAN make him hate you later. A botched circumcision can affect his sexual performance later in life or ability to urinate (infocirc.org). It can damage nerves and sensitivity which will affect his level of enjoyment... that may not matter to a mom or dad right now- it's hard to imagine your sweet, innocent infant as a grown man with desires and 'needs' right now, but you might want to consider it. The worst possible outcome is a life-threatening hemorrhage. There are very important blood vessels in that area, and snipping one could very well bring your new parenting bliss to a screeching halt. Yes, death is a possible outcome of circumcision as with any major surgery, because newborns are tiny and it doesn't take much. What would be a mere flesh wound to his mommy or daddy is dangerous for him, but we risk it anyway for reasons that make no sense (http://www.drmomma.org/2010/05/death-from-circumcision.html).

For parents who have already made this decision, I know it can't be undone and I also know that you likely didn't have access to the information at the time. I almost decided to do it despite my midwife cautioning against it and an awesome birth instructor having a very open discussion about it. For those expecting a boy, or recently blessed with a boy, please consider before you do it. If you need a little extra help, take a gander at this- prepared by doctors. http://www.doctorsopposingcircumcision.org/pdf/shortguide03-04.pdf

-L.

International Breastfeeding Week.

I had one of those oddly awesome encounters this evening with one of my neighbor ladies. We were out for a little family walk, husband, son, and myself. One of the long-time residents was out enjoying the mosquitoes and early lightning bugs and came over to the sidewalk to say hello to the boy and to us. This is pretty common, really. The ladies love my son, and my son, in turn, loves the ladies. Anyway, she recognized us as the 'folks who live in that big stone house on the corner over there' and launched into the tale of how her husband had wanted to buy this house when it was for sale, but she'd lived long enough in their current house that if she was going to move it would have to be MUCH farther... and hey, how old is that there baby? He reminded her of her first born, a whopper who came home from the hospital at over 10 lbs. The other three were little nine-pounders like our guy, but that first one, boy. Big. (This is the part where my husband the home birth activist chimes in with "Our kid was born in our HOUSE!! It was awesome!") Upon hearing about our homebirth adventures she brightened up and said "Well, you know what? What's gone around is coming back around. That's something. Would you believe that when I brought home my first boy and was breastfeeding it was taboo. Now women out and about just flip 'em out anywhere and pop their kids on. And you guys. At home? Now that's something." I grinned. I don't even know her name yet, she was more excited to talk than to learn names tonight, but I love her spirit. I love that I was talking to another fellow renegade who just said 'no' to formula, despite its popularity and social acceptability and gave a great gift to all four of her kids. She did this before there were lactation consultants and La Leche League. She did it before it was okay to nurse kids wherever and whenever they wanted to be nursed, and against the approval of her mother. That's big.

It's totally different than the climate I enjoy today. When I went home to visit my family in December, two weeks after E came into the world- my whole family embraced that the boy would not be receiving anything but breastmilk until he's ready for something more. My grandma even told me stories about nursing all four of her boys, and said "you don't need to worry about a cover here, just keep talking, he'll keep eating." My own mother nursed me, my paternal grandmother nursed four healthy boys, and I get to pass that gift down to my own child. I don't even have to stay home to do it like my neighbor likely had to do. I have a nifty little battery powered pump to take to work with me so I can still provide for my child. I also have laws to protect my rights out in the world as I feed my boy. I have women like my neighbor to thank for that.

L.

Bumps in the road.

A working mom is a woman with three jobs and no time off. There's the so-called Real World work-for-money job, the neverending job of 'wife', and that of 'mom'. The three form a triangle of life for the mom... and sometimes it's like the Bermuda triangle for me. I get lost in the middle as all three pull at me with different strength and direction. They each pull with their own separate gravity. Part of the wife-mom gig is that I run the household, clean, organize bills... the never-ending little bullshit that makes the world go 'round. So, it's wake up to feed the baby-wake up to feed the baby-work-feed baby or pump at lunch-work-cook dinner-hold baby-eat dinner-bathe baby-rock/nurse baby to sleep-chores-sleep-repeat.

Such is my life. I can't deny it, I love being wife and mom. I am however the sole earner in my household for now, and it's rougher than I ever thought it would be because my baby and husband both need me so much some days, and I still have to get out of the car, walk into the cubefarm, and pretend like it's not tearing my heart open to do it.

Sometimes though, the situation requires me to stay home... such as last week when my newly mobile little guy suddenly propelled himself off the bed. My arm couldn't stop him. He was laying there nursing, I dozed off as I often do, then there was that surreal thud and mewling cry. I usually have my arm wrapped up around his body so we're belly-to-belly, but somehow he still found his way out, over, and off the bed... a close to hip-high drop were I standing. I felt sick. I cried. I held him and rocked him and cried with him because I could not protect him from his newfound skills, then I had to figure out the best course of action as his little forehead turned purple and two goose eggs appeared. Run neurological exam? Check. Pupils equal? Check. Call Dr. Jerkwad? Check. Miss half a day of work to make sure he's okay, endanger the financial stability of the family for four precious hours with my son? Check.

This is where the triangle begins to pull. Husband and son need me emotionally and financially. My co-workers need me to show up and do my job. My husband and son need me to be here and be the rock they can count on. They need me at work to be dependable and punctual and productive. My husband needs me to be okay, I can't be okay if I don't know for certain that our son is okay. My son needs a mama to hug and hold until the hurts are gone. All of this bounced through my head when my husband asked me to PLEASE just stay home that day. I felt guilty that my co-workers might need me (and it turns out they did, since a critical piece of data failed and my job had to be done manually) while I'm sitting in my rocker holding my bruised up baby and talking to doctors. I felt guilty about feeling guilty for being where I belonged at that moment in time.

I went back to work that afternoon after it was clear that my son has no lasting damage, after the doctor cleared him, after my numerous neurological tests passed (I've had those tests run on me so many times, I could probably run them on someone else in my sleep... but I'll probably tell that story some other time), after I got him to hold still for ice packs and arnica oil. I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky I missed that morning at work- when the process broke and there was chaos. Was I? I'd rather have a shit day at work any day than to witness my son in pain. I'd rather run manual data entry any day than see my baby bruised and see that fear and to hear the tone in my husband's voice.

-L.

big bullies.

Women are just big bullies.

Yes, that is a sweeping generalization, but it's one that I've been contemplating since childhood- where the obvious differences between me and my more desirable peers was farther reaching than just my big, bulky glasses and protruding overbite... I was an outsider from the inside out, and most of the other girls made sure I knew that. As an adult, it became more and more clear when I became pregnant with my son over a year ago. I was reminded of it again in a blog post I read last week, http://www.birthactivist.com/2010/06/what-we-tell-our-daughters/. After the struggles

we as a gender have endured for equality and everything else, one would think we'd be kinder

to one another. After all, we are women. Shouldn't we support and care for one another?

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work that way.

I work in an office with over 20 women and a handful of men. After years of working in male

dominated environments, it's been an adjustment to work in a heavily estrogenated environment.

It's not necessarily a bad thing. It's just different. Women tend to bite their words and whether

intentionally or unintentionally, we are just unbelievably cruel to one another. I can compare

this to various other disenfranchised cultures, or simply to crabs in a bucket- we just aren't kind.

Back to pregnancy though. I've been un-pregnant now for six months. I admit I haven't been

putting tons of effort into losing the baby weight since my obsession has been feeding my breasts

so they will continue to feed my boy. Amazingly, my supply has made a comeback after its drop

in early May. But I digress. Six months un-pregnant. I still make two or three runs to the break

room for water and tea, like I did when I was pregnant. I still wear maternity tops since they aren't

too tight and they leave room for easy nursing access for little man. I have not put on any weight

I've just maintained. I thought I was looking pretty good for bringing a nine-pounder into the world.

All these things considered, I had a co-worker walk up to me one afternoon and ask me that most

dreaded of personal questions, "are you pregnant?"

I quickly responded with "nope, just fat and unmotivated."

I then retreated back to my desk, the safety of my cubicle to spend the rest of my afternoon

questioning whether I really looked *that* awful.

The same sort of things happen in pregnancy. I had to deal with the constant onslaught of comments

about how large I looked, the horror stories about how awful labor and birth can be, how scary pregnancy

is, that my choice to have a homebirth was possibly going to kill me or our baby, and every birth trauma

under the sun became as common in passing discussion as attempts to touch the growing belly without

permission. When I see a pregnant woman, my first response isn't any of the above. No, my first

thought is 'how much longer do you have?' followed by 'how can I boost, honor, and respect her?'

If we could change the culture of women to begin responding to one another in a positive manner, to

stop pulling one another back into a bucket of negative feelings when we aspire to be okay with ourselves,

perhaps things could be better for all of us. Perhaps women's health care will improve for mamas and babies

because we won't expect that another woman suffer humiliation and fear because someone else did.

Perhaps if we lift each other up we can bring about a better world because we'll all just *feel* better

about being wherever we are.

So, ladies... KNOCK IT OFF. Play nicely. Support each other. Share positive stories, especially

with first timers. We are learning from each other and we are all responsible for teaching the next generation.

-L.

The beginning.

So, it's pretty much official now that I'm not going to be able to afford my certification class this year since our friendly local natural gas company has decided after four generous months of $15/month budget that we can afford to pay $172/month (I'll make it happen, but I'm not sure what we'll be giving up just yet). I wasn't expecting that. I'm more than a little upset about it. Such is life, I'm not going to whine about the financial woes because I do stupid things from time to time that I end up paying for for months and years. I put myself in this hole and I'll find a way to dig out of it! I am however sad that I'm not going to meet my goal for this year... my goal was to be at least working on the certification process by June, which is only a few days away.

Despite all of this I am still thinking constantly about teaching. I want to teach women and their partners about birth. I'm not just talking about that weak hospital kind of teaching either. I dream about it at night. I daydream about it when things are quiet in the cubefarm. Sometimes I daydream about it when it's not so quiet in the cubefarm. I think about it constantly when I see pregnant women on the street. I think about it when I hear women tell horror stories about how their labor was soooooo awful and traumatic. I think about it when I hear about a homebirth that went peacefully as planned. I think about it when I hear that the national rate of C-sections is growing. I think about it when I hear that the rate of homebirths and VBACs-at-home is growing (but not fast enough). I am fortunate though to have a friend who is just as rabid about birth education as I am.

So. We're working with a mutual friend and outstanding birth-worker to develop our own Out-of-Hospital CBE program... and maybe even our own certification process.

I'm ready to teach for folks who want an out-of-hospital experience. I also want to teach teen moms-to-be. I want to talk to hospital birthers. I want to make sure people know that birth is safe, that doctors and other attendants do not in fact lessen one's chances of 'something bad happening'.

I have ideas for what I'd like to teach... but my brain's in a blender right now and I need to think some more, so that's in a future post.

drawn.

So, world, what's a girl to do when she's called to do something and has been treading the same path for so long she's in a rut up to her eyeballs? More than anything, I'd like to teach about birth. I obviously couldn't do it full-time, I do have a family to support. I crave it though. I read about birth, I read about birth options, I pester my pregnant friends and family, I cry when I hear about unnecessary interventions, I yell at the TV when I watch TLC's birth story shows, I get emotional. It's where my heart is.

By day I'm a crazy, policy-lovin', paperwork filin' banker. By any other time, I revel in the new beginnings of birth and longing for an outlet.

I could take the money out of savings for my certification, but I'm afraid if I do that I will be shorting my family in case of an emergency. Also, my husband is not in school this summer... the VA did not renew his Vocational-Rehab funding, so we're going to have to button down and tighten our belts around here. (easier said than done) When he's in school there's a little extra cash flow with his school stipend.

Since savings isn't an option, a second job for me is not an option, I feel stuck right now. I can't seem to do more than I am doing. I guess I'll have to settle for an informal education from the likes of Henci Goer, Dr. Sears, Michel Odent, Ina May Gaskin, and my friends in the local birthing community. I'd like to teach people that homebirth is safe, and that birth in general is nothing to be afraid of.

I like banking, but I love birthing. I love new moms with their pink and squeaking newborns. I love the raw and overwhelming power of birth, the surrender of mere womanhood to motherhood. I need students.

-L.

Mother's day.

It was my first mother's day today. I never really believed I'd have one, but I have. I must say, it was awesome.

Not only am I completely in awe of this small child I so wholeheartedly love, I am completely thankful to the loving God who brought him into my life. Thankful for the husband who helped me bring him into our life to bring us from a couple to a family. Thankful for every smile and tear we've shared since.

I've said before that I am addicted to my child. I still maintain that I am.

Motherhood is something far, far, far greater than I ever thought. It's a feat of strength. It's a test of courage. It's an exercise in problem solving. It's a test of tenderness and thresholds. It's high-level multitasking. It's so big I can scarcely wrap my brain around it. It's love greater than I have experienced in my life previously. It grows every day with my little guy.

I used to worry about whether motherhood would interfere with my work. I have worked since I was 12, so it's obvious that I'd have my concerns about work. Work was my life. Now my son is my life and work still works... I think motherhood has actually made me a better worker. Now I have a reason for the work. Now I have a reason to be the best person I can be, because I am now not just accountable to myself, but to my son, who is learning how to be a human from my husband and I.

Have I mentioned I'm so very thankful? I am. Happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers out there, present and future.

Motherhood: 1st Quarter, year one.

Originally posted to Facebook January-March 2010:

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Month One. (January 2010)

For thirty days now I’ve been party to a miracle in progress. My world is vastly different than it once was now that he’s here with us and we can watch him unfold into the person he will someday become… and the worries associated with that process.

This is my fourth week as a mother. I’ve become one of those people I used to dread: I eat, sleep, dream, and live parenthood. I will unwittingly hold people hostage while regaling them with tales of my amazing baby’s adorableness. I am consumed with the mundane life functions of a tiny human, my life revolves around his nap-eat-change schedule. I’ve become fascinated with cloth diapers, and have become pretty good at using them effectively. I spend hours nursing him. I co-sleep, something I NEVER thought I’d do, but actually enjoy sharing my bed with my infant. I sit for hours with only one arm available to do anything because I’m either nursing the baby or the baby is asleep on my lap. I’m not going to forfeit a single moment with him.

The first week was complicated. Elijah spent his first week adjusting to a world full of lights, sounds, and unfamiliar experiences such as wearing clothes and being touched. There were tons of things for him to experience for the first time, and it was likely overwhelming. He did a lot of screaming when he wasn’t nursing or sleeping… and learning to nurse was a challenge for him. For me, the first week was difficult because I couldn’t move around freely without feeling like my entire body hated me. I used muscles in labor I never even discovered in my bike tours years ago. I had bruises on my legs from where I’d braced against them with my hands while pushing, my tailbone felt like it was in the wrong place, and simply making a trip to the bathroom was a fresh new hell every time. Labor was actually easier than the first week postpartum.

The second week was better. Elijah got to meet aunts, uncles, cousins from his daddy’s side, and I ventured down the stairs to survey the mess my house was in. There were things on my to-do list which I had planned to finish before he was born, like dishes and laundry, which were still undone and overwhelming since it hurt to stand for any length of time still. I also decided after a brief conversation with my grandparents that we needed to make use of my time off and take the long drive to Kansas. 14 days after he first made his appearance, we loaded up the car and made the epic journey to introduce him to more family, including a brand-new set of grandparents and great grandparents. This helped me out on many levels… first to be back with my own people, and to have some of the pressure of running a household off my shoulders for a week. For Elijah, it was an opportunity to be held and loved and held and loved… oh, and held and loved.

Week three was of course quietly spent back here at our own home, continuing to get to know one another and learn how best to function as a family unit. For me, I also began to focus on getting a milk supply up in the freezer for him to use once I return to work, as well as how to get things done while also taking care of his needs. I’m also learning how to share him with Barry, which is hard to do. Generally when he’s awake, he wants to nurse. That’s fine by me, it’s one of the best things I can do for him, and it gives me hours of closeness and time with him which I’m going to miss later.

This week, week four, we’ve spent in and out of the house with appointments, a visit to a store, and one foray up to Human Resources to drop off paperwork to make him an official part of my insurance package. We’ve also been spending more time enjoying him as he’s been awake more. Those big blue eyes have been wide open and surveying everything. He’s begun to hold his head up and look around more, to push up off his chest when he’s on his belly, and for over two weeks he’s been able to roll up onto his side. Simply brilliant. No one had to teach him these things, he just instinctively did them. I know we’re all programmed with this stuff, but it’s still amazing to watch him do it.

Elijah is a month old, which makes me a little sad because time is passing so quickly, and in four more very short weeks I’ll return to the cubefarm and leave the little guy at home with his daddy during the day. Hard to believe it was this time last year when we decided that we definitely wanted to be parents, and that so much has transpired between the discussion where we decided we could do this, to finally be putting it all into practice. With our first month now behind us, I can hardly wait to see what tomorrow and all the tomorrows behind it have in store for us.

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Month Two. (February 2010)

As always, the last four weeks have been a learning adventure- not just for us, but for Elijah as well. Here we are in our eighth week as a family.

Sunday, Elijah will officially be a full two months old, headed into month three. He’s huge. He’s 13.5 lbs, 25 inches long, and becoming more and more independent.

He wants to use his legs more than anything, and pushes off with them to stand as often as he can when we hold him. He’s not yet mastered the art of rolling over or pushing up onto his hands when he has tummy time, but he’s working on it.

He has learned to smile as an actual response to us, and is working on learning to giggle. It's adorable. He has a dimple in each cheek and a big one in his chin. He now smiles when he first makes eye contact with me in the morning. Makes it worthwhile to open my eyes early.

He had his first round of vaccines today, 2/10, and I cried. I hated that I was the reason he was in pain, even though it’s for a good cause.

He’s learning how to swallow better with the bottle. He still chokes since every slow-flow bottle still runs too fast. He’s still not a big fan of the bottle even though he’s going to get a crash course in bottle feeding starting 2/15 when I go back to work.

Ah, yes. Going back to work.

I’ve spent eight crazy weeks here at home with the little man. 1,344 hours of concentrated motherhood to last me the next few years. It’s been amazing to watch him blossom from curled up and sleepy newborn, squinting in the light, to inquisitive infant with eyes open wide most of the day. I enjoy the quiet moments nursing him. I never thought I’d enjoy it as much as I do. I’ve also become a bit of a hermit since the weather’s been so incredibly awful the last two months, so I’m nervous about my return to my old routines. I worry about how the two roles will fit together. I know it can since so many of my coworkers are also mothers, and I have the added benefit of a stay-at-home daddy instead of strangers watching my baby… but at the same time, he’s not me. I worry that he’s going to be less interested in me when I come home since daddy’s the one who is there when he needs someone during the day.

It’s going to be hard to go back to the office and have to wait a full nine hours a day to see him, hold him, cuddle him. I’m also going to have to overcome my nervousness about carrying my pump around with me since every two hours or so I’m going to have to go take care of business or risk my milk supply dropping. Yeah, that’s one of those things no one really talks about in the open… but I really think we as women need to!
The experience I’ve had so far is that lots of folks seem to expect that I will just give up on breastfeeding in favor of formula for the sake of ‘convenience’. I’ve had about a dozen people tell me it’s what’s best for me, but what about what’s best for him? What about what I can afford? I’m not knocking the women who’ve made that decision. It’s what worked best for them, and I’m cool with that. For me, I’d rather just continue to do as I’ve been doing. Just have to do it a bit differently.

As for my husband and his new role when I return to work, he seems excited. I’ve never seen a man so ready for the challenge of daytime solo parenting even though it’s not as widely accepted that he be the stay at home parent.

Here we go into our third month as a family, and all the adventure therein.

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Month Three. (march 15, 2010)

Month three has had some milestones and some challenges. Elijah is now 14.8 lbs, 26.5 inches tall, alert most of the day, and has mastered the art of drinking from a bottle without choking (took him all of 11 weeks to figure that one out, they all flowed too fast). He has learned to laugh and to smile when he sees someone he knows (mostly mom and dad). He babbles off and on, sometimes even while latched on to the breast or bottle. I can already tell he’s going to be ‘that kid’. You know, the one who has to be told at least once a meal to not talk with his mouth full? That kid. Most of his reflux issues have calmed down and I no longer have to exclude all the good things I love from my diet (as long as they’re in moderation) for fear of giving poor little E heartburn… though at least once a day he gives an epic spew of partially digested milk all over whomever may be holding him at that point in time.

He has also discovered that he loves to stand. Elijah will stand for as long as someone can hold his hands for him. He even tries to walk while doing this. At least once a day when I’m home I let him play in his jumper- it hangs from the door frame so I can move it to whatever room I’m working in, turn on music, and let him go. He usually squeals and spins, though bouncing is something he’s trying to figure out. He hasn’t gotten the muscle coordination down yet for that!

On top of all of these developments, we’re discovering that Elijah has a sense of rhythm. It’s uncanny to watch him keep time to something. We first noticed it last Sunday afternoon, when at the end of the movie Barry and I had been watching (Elijah was playing on his gym mat at the time) a song came on that neither of us had played for him before. He began kicking both feet into the floor in time with the percussion in the song. We hit pause on the movie, he stopped. We hit play, he began again. Interesting.

Barry has been handling daytimes like a champ, even though we can set a clock by Elijah's cranky hours- 11:00 am, 3:30pm, 5:30pm, 7:00pm- which only fail to occur if he's asleep. He brings Elijah to lunch for me every day that he can so I can spend a little quality time with him, and Barry can take a nap while I get my quality time. It works out well.

As for me, I’m adjusting pretty well to being back at work. I can't say I'm not jealous of my husband getting to spend all day with our little package of awesomeness. There's alot I miss during the day, and I come home to the tired baby, tired husband, housework, and tired self. There's still some tweaking needed to make this new life blend with the old life.