processing.

So, you wanna know a secret?

It's not really a secret.  It's just something no one talks about, really.  Well, I need to talk about it.  Finally, after a year, I finally found a way to verbalize what's been bouncing around my head.  What it is is pregnancy after loss, and how it affected me.  Sad that it took a fight with my sister to finally break the ice floe loose in my brain.  It's like I'm awake from a foggy, groggy sleep.  And I've been working on this post for just shy of a month... how's that for slow?

I mentioned in a previous post awhile back that I felt like I was robbed of some of my joy from my pregnancy with my son because of previous losses.

It happens.  I know I'm not alone.
I can't honestly say how many losses I had before The One.  I was so elated the day the cross-hairs showed up on that little purple pee-stick.  My husband and I had just come home from raiding a flea market for a table saw we found on craigslist.  I just decided I needed to test.  And I did.  And it was positive... planned for the first time and soooo wanted.  And we danced in the kitchen.  Then we started telling people.  And we set an appointment with the midwife.  And we were so happy about it for about a week and a half.  Then everything spiraled down the Saturday my husband had the car torn apart in the garage (literally, he had to dismantle the entire front end of the little VW Cabrio, our only car, to replace three parts), while I tried not to panic as it ended quietly with a whimper.  I felt cold and empty after the time we spent in the ER, and broken.    You've read the story if you keep up with this at all.  I covered it all in that post about losses a couple months back.

Then an amazing thing happened when I felt most broken.  We decided to just let go of precautions and if it was meant to be, things would go, if not, they wouldn't.

Then came *another* positive test almost a month after the loss... and I didn't know what to do.
I calmly handed the stick to my husband that morning before work and while I felt hopeful, I was also oddly detached.  I was about to enter the rollercoaster of pregnancy with a whole bunch of baggage from the last ride.  I didn't know if I could trust my body to hold on to this baby.  I wanted desperately to have and hold this child, and prayed with every fiber of my being.  I didn't even know if I could depend on the Almighty's help with this one.  It's hard being in that spot where I neither trusted my body or my God to get me to the finish line.  I felt broken and untrustworthy, like my old car- you could always trust it to start, you just couldn't depend on it getting you safely to point B.

While I can tell you everything about the moment of implantation (yes, I felt it), and how grateful I was for every symptom and every good beta test, and how I enjoyed knowing that there was indeed a baby growing in there, I cannot tell you that I believed that this time was going to be different.  My history hung there like a big black cloud overshadowing my joy.  I was disconnected from my darling baby because I didn't want to hurt like that again if we were to lose him... but he kept growing and growing, and every day there was something new and amazing reaffirming that he was there and staying there until he was done baking.  Unfortunately, I had already retreated into myself before he was conceived.  I put distance between my husband and I, because I felt like I was guarding not only my feelings, but his too.  If he couldn't spend time around me, he couldn't spend time around this baby who we may not get to meet.  It's warped logic, but it worked at the time for me.  Maybe not so much for him.

I effectively spent the first three months of the pregnancy in bed or cocooned in my home office when I wasn't at work.  Those were my safe and sacred places.  Part of it was because I was so tired, and part of it was that I didn't want to be around him because I felt he couldn't help me get through this.  Some of that was because he stopped going to school after we lost the one, while I put on my brave face and went back to work.  I can't fault him that, we all have our ways of grieving, mine is to soldier on, his is not so much.  Anyway, I built walls.  I reinforced those walls mightily.  I thought through how I'd deal with each scenario from potential losses to things potentially going wrong in birth.  I'm morbid like that.  But, my morbid mind was only protecting me from emotional pain as it has my whole life.  (Someday I'll talk about my childhood, but that's a bag I'm not ready to unpack...)

Anyway... so, there I was, the wall-building cocoon artist, watching the sun set most every night from my bedroom window.  Spending my waking hours either working or researching pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting survival tips, all the while not sure if I was going to be using much of the information I was absorbing.  It was during this time we met with my family doctor, who recommended we go see his favorite sOB... who the nurse guaranteed allll the ladies loved this guy, and we most certainly would as well.  I showed up at that appointment with my fertility folder full of cycle charts, from the previous cycle with the loss all the way up to that day of the current pregnancy.

I wanted answers and to see things from a professional angle, to have reassurance.  I needed to be safe, and while I didn't totally trust doctors, I still felt *some* safety in the doctor's office  Instead, I had an arrogant ex-Marine, sOB reminding me that a) no pregnancy is a sure thing until sometime after 20 weeks, and b)those things are pretty indestructible, there's probably nothing wrong with you. That was after he asked why we were there.  After we'd spent two hours in the waiting room.  After we'd spent a half hour filling out forms and answering questions for the nurse.  While he was staring at my chart.  The man argued with me about when I had conceived this child (yeah, 'cause he was totally there for the event), and told me my estimate was off on when this child would arrive (Ha! I was right!).

I called their office for three separate spotting episodes and was treated like a flyspeck each time, reminded that I had yet to set my "Nurse Appointment" which is apparently a big thing- where I tell the office nurse all about myself (it was in my charts!! did hooked on phonics just not work for these people?) and let her tell me all about what the doctor 'expects' of his mommies-to-be.  I wasn't supposed to spend time talking to doctor.  Apparently the guy who spends his time sticking things up your old 'ginny isn't supposed to know jack about the women who hire him.  He pays a woman to know the women, and he gets to show up whenever he pleases.  I fired him after the third spotting incident.  When my husband almost hit him with a gun butt... yeah.  It was bad.  My midwife was much better.

I don't know really what was going on with my husband... other than he was pretty protective of me.  My husband the handicapped evolved into my husband the handiman.  He wouldn't let me lift heavy things, wouldn't let me work long in the garden, took over many things that I normally did because he didn't want to risk me harming myself or our offspring.  We had a few fights about this because I am and always will be independent and driven to do on my own.  He spent lots of time talking to friends on facebook during the day while I was at work... well, up until he announced that we were doing a homebirth and almost all of his female friends attacked him like a flock of angry birds.  That's a story for another day...

Obviously, this all turned out well.  E is a healthy, active, intelligent little boy... tenacious like bull, really.  Has been since the day he implanted, all the way up to now.  I worried so much about losing him through pregnancy, but he made it all the way here.  Some part of me knew I just had to trust the process and let go.  Perhaps I had so much fear invested in making it through the pregnancy, that I had little to no fear left by the time birth rolled around.  But, I wonder, if I had not had the previous experiences, would there have been any fear at all through the whole process?  Would I have perhaps plunged into the whole process as most American women do, kvetching about every ache and pain and miserable because that's what a woman is supposed to be?  Or would I have treasured each symptom, cradled each wiggle, or rubbed those tiny feet that poked so insistently at my right ribcage like I did?  Maybe that's the good that came of all the not-so-good there.  That I treasured every second of my pregnancy.  I laughed about it.  I slowed down and let life wash over me.  I actually took care of myself for a change instead of everyone around me.  It's what I needed.

I hope and pray that none of the women in my life have to go through a loss like this.  I hope if they do that they are surrounded with love, understanding, and support, and that their next time around goes off without a hitch and with every possible ounce of joy packed in to make up for it.

-L.

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!