I'm the mom of a boy

I read a blog article this evening that highlighted some of the uniquely amazing horrible unique circumstances in which just about every mom of a boy will find herself.  I would like to think that we are a ways off from the circus ahead of us, but I’m not so sure that we are. In fact, I identified with everything on the list in one way or another, and my son is not even a full 9 months old yet.

Milton has, in nearly every way, challenged everything I thought I learned about raising babies from Emma’s babyhood. Despite their many similarities, he is her opposite.

Words to describe him include (but are not limited to): busy, wiggly, on-the-move, curious, adventurous, ambitious, clueless, snuggly, obsessed-with-his-mama, capable, adorable

This boy has managed to acquire more injuries in his 8 ½ months than Emma has in her entire 2 ½ years.

I kid you not.

I don’t even remember Emma’s first real injury, unless you count the times I attempted clipping her fingernails as a little infant. That was a bloody mess. Other than that? She tripped down the steps at our home when she was learning to walk. I think she scraped her forehead. She also likes to scratch her bug bites to the point of being gruesome, but I know that doesn’t count.

On the other hand, Milton likes to explore, and he is never content to accept his immediate environment. The interesting things of the world are never within his reach, therefore, he must always be on the hunt for something more. He climbs through it. Over it. Under it. Never around it. The majority of his cries are the result of some form of climbing (…he doesn’t understand what it is to be top-heavy and face-plants on the other side of whatever it is he attempts to climb), or some sort of standing (…he doesn’t understand that if he wants to remain upright, he must use his hands to hold himself in that position…letting go does not work, and elbows do not grip).

A few days ago I heard a gut-wrenching and violent Hurt Cry coming from another room.  I thought it was Emma, who manages to be extremely clumsy and bump into stuff all the time (see: Toddler). Alas, I found Milton in a position no 8 month old ought to be in (head on the ground with hiney and legs in the air). Emma was hugging his head and attempting to comfort him (I melt!). I pick him up to comfort his bruised head and ego and…

*GASP!*

So. much. blood.

It is apparent that he has busted his lip, but another source of knowledge in me knew to gently lift the lip and inspect the *frenulum for injury. Sure enough, he tore that sucker clean through.

(*not to be mistaken with the frenulum that apparently resides on a man’s genitals. I knew what it was called, but wanted to double check….Google gave me quite a fright. The same name should not be used to describe both body parts. But I digress.)

I wasn’t sure how to clean the blood from his mouth, and it was beginning to spread everywhere. And by that, I mean it was getting all over me. I tried dabbing his tongue with a wet cloth and accomplished nothing. His gaping mouth which was crying out in pain revealed blood basically pouring down his throat. In that moment I decided that if I could get him to nurse, we could wash the blood down and hopefully quiet him down in one fell swoop.

Miraculously, he thought that was an awesome plan.

It was a rough evening, but Tylenol and lots of nursing got us through it.

Since that time, he has managed to make his frenulum bleed again through yet ANOTHER face-plant, knock his head against every possible surface, and fall from every perch at which he can pull himself into a standing position.

He refuses to slow down though, and that’s what makes him my boy. He will grow into my little monster who brings worms into the house and tracks mud on my good rugs.

I’m terrified to be the mom of a boy, but I’m honored for the privilege and can’t wait to see what kind of trouble he'll be getting into! 

"On second thought, this curtain represents a horrible mistake... I need something more stable, or else I will most certainly fall. Mom, is that you? Hellllp!"

He wants to be held

I love my life. My husband. The little children we have created.

We are so blessed.

Lately, I've been feeling especially grateful for Milton. He's been cutting a couple of teeth, and the misery runs deep. But he doesn't know how to be anything but happy. He rarely only cries. Any little effort on mine or Darren's part will bring a smile to his face, even through the whimpers and sad eyes.

Maybe it's because he's such a snuggly sweetheart, but I'm not even that annoyed that he prefers to sleep with me/in my room all night long. Sure, I prefer not sharing the bed with a baby. I definitely sleep better without him. But, as you can see in the picture, his needs are simple. He needs to be held, loved, and loved some more.

I can handle that. I'm grateful for the opportunity.

Potty Talk

When I was pregnant with Emma, I assumed that, with proper focus and example, I could easily train my daughter to use the toilet like a civilized human with relative ease. After all, in some countries babies are toilet trained well before their first birthday. My own sister—my mother’s first born—trained herself at thirteen months. I set a goal for eighteen months, and contentedly envisioned a world where I wasn’t buying Size 6 diapers for four years.

The plan was simple. I set up a training toilet in the bathroom I frequented most and encouraged her to sit on it anytime I was using the facilities. The association of our respective seats was obviously going to become clear to her, and she would be begging to pee in the toilet before I knew what was even happening.

This did not happen.

That training toilet played a variety of roles in that bathroom, most notably, step stool, tripping hazard, storage bin for random junk she collected from around the house, and decorative furniture. Only once did it actually collect the child’s pee. I may or may not have actually cleaned it. It’s hard to say. I’ve had a kid since then.

I decided that eighteen months was a crazy goal, and accepted that I would be purchasing diapers for a while more. After all, at that point I was nearly halfway through my second pregnancy and was lacking energy in the severest of ways. Nevertheless, there were still a few ill-fated attempts at potty training. I bought the girl a package of training panties. They are so cute! Flowers, polka dots, pink trimming…you know, everything a girl could possibly need to pee on after she gets off the toilet. Every once in a while I get a wild hair and think, “Ooh! Today I will put her in panties and sit her on the toilet every 20 minutes. That’ll do the trick! And I love watching her touch her hands all over the toilet seat and try to see her own hoo-ha while yelling, “Mommy, see? Hahaha! See?!”” It’s amazing how she can maneuver on that toilet seat.

So I put her in a pair of training pants and carefully explain to her that when she needs to pee like Mommy, she needs to tell me so that we can run to the toilet and pee on the toilet. The latest example of this was complete with changing “pee” to a sound effect: “psssssssshh”. I'm still not sure how that sound effect became a thing... 

“Hey Emma, do you need to pssssssshh on the potty? Let Mommy know when you need to psssssshh on the potty, okay?”

“Pssssssshh on pah-ee? O-tay!”

“Go ahead and pssssssshh on the potty Emma, okay? You will get a sticker if you psssssshh on the potty!”

“Yayyyyy!”

*15 minutes later*

“Emma, are you going to psssssssshh on the potty? Because you need to get down if you aren’t ready to psssssssshh on the potty.”

“Mommy, I psssssshh on potty.”

“Let me check…no, you didn’t pssssshh on the potty. You can do it later though, okay? Remember, if you need to pssssssshh on the potty, come and tell Mommy.”

“O-tay!”

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the couch nursing the baby when I suddenly noticed that Emma is sitting on the rug in front of me, furiously trying to remove her undies. I tried to talk her through it, but tiny dictators don’t respond well to direct orders. After they were removed, I further inspected the situation and found that they were, indeed, soaked with pee  psssshh and that my daughter still isn’t potty trained.

I wonder how long she will be a Size 6?

Parenting Epiphanies

I adore my children, but there is not much to be said about ease in mothering a two-year old. So far it is proving to be an extra delightful demanding interesting ...interestingly delightful and demanding age. Everything is an extreme. Everything. She is never just happy or made. She is VERY happy or VERY mad. And everything in between. Keeping up with her moods and (and my resulting moods) is a constant source of emotional whiplash, and though it is a struggle, it is my struggle, and I love my daughter enough to see us through. ;)

That being said, I LOVE when I feel like I've found something that works! Something that can help me help her or understand her better. She still doesn't speak very well or clearly, so communication is a huge factor in our disconnected moments. I am trying to teach her ways to communicate with me, and she is constantly trying to reach me. Love is more of a battlefield in parenting than in the dating world, in my humble opinion. Within the last week I have had two light bulb moments. Two moments where I received direct inspiration that enabled me to open my mind for a moment and recognize what was happening.

1. Pictures speak to toddlers.

This seems super obvious, but I never realized just how much influence pictures can have.  There is a picture frame on Emma's nightstand that includes pictures of several people, including her Uncle Panda (Aunt Amanda). She adores Panda. One day, Darren was saying something to Emma about Panda, and without a word she left the room, retrieved the picture, and ran back to Darren, pointing to her.  Several days later, Panda called Emma on the phone, and I found Em in her room holding the phone up to the picture (as though Amanda can see through it ;) ) and repeatedly screaming, "It's you! It's you!". Separately, Emma has been fighting us so hard at prayer time lately. She has been folding her arms since she was 10 months old, but has suddenly decided that she won't have anything to do with it. Out of desperation one night I took a picture off of her wall that shows a little girl praying. I tried to help her copy the girl, but she refused. I ended up forgetting to put the picture away, so it stayed on the bottom shelf of her nightstand for several days. Then, one night, we were saying family prayer and she insisted on folding her hands the same way that the girl holds her hands in the picture, and she's been doing it ever since.

Moral of the story: I have an opportunity here to intentionally place influential pictures at my daughter's height through her room, and even the house. Why are the pictures I want her to have up high? As though she is really looking up there? No. She sees. She pay attention. She mimics. This is a real opportunity.

2. The food my daughter eats is a direct reflection of how I'm feeding myself/The more I care about what I'm eating, the healthier I feed my daughter.

I have been making a concentrated effort for the last 8 days to exercise real moderation and portion control in my diet, as well as making healthier food choices. The most obvious result so far? Emma loves to be like Mommy. Turns out she LOVES carrots and ranch, and she always wants some of my snacks. This is also an opportunity. I can use this time to instill in her a love and preference for tasty and healthy snacks. Her hotdog consumption has decreased dramatically since I began focusing on my eating, and that's not through any obvious effort on my part. She is wanting what I eat and asking for the foods I eat (even when I'm not necessarily eating them).

Opportunity.

Things I love

As referenced in the previous post, I used to run a lot, then stopped, and now I am trying again.

Things I love about returning from a daily run:

• The sense of accomplishment
• The post-run shower
• The hurt-so-good soreness
• Feeling skinny just because I did it (this one may be a tad psychological ;))
• The way the skin on my face feels tight
• The loose feeling I have in my lungs 
• Bragging to everyone in the house about how far I went
• Getting to reflect on the thoughts I pondered and conversations I had with myself during my run
• How soft my face feels (...I scrub my face HARD after runs)

Why I run

Every once in a while I become re-motivated to work out and get skinny. Every single time I fail.

This time though? This time.

Let me tell you about when I first became a runner...

Flashback: It was Fall 2008. I was a young and very dumb 19 year-old girl who had recently been unceremoniously dumped by a boyfriend. In hindsight, he may or may not have realized that he was, in fact, my boyfriend... but hindsight also reveals that he played dumb much of the time, which I do not appreciate on behalf of my very inexperienced 19 year-old self.

I was DEVASTATED. Not because the Happily Ever After I had dreamed up did not come true; that was a minor thing. My devastation stemmed from a festering wound of humiliation. Why had I invested so much emotionally into a dead relationship? Why had I gone through so much expense and trouble? (<--I had paid a hefty amount to travel by air to visit him in a far away land) (Utah). Why was I so clueless?! I was stupidly embarrassed to have been so blind to his lack of long-term interest.

So I moped around for about a month, unsure of how to rid myself of the funk that had descended so darkly over my life.

Then something happened. I received a birthday card in the mail from that particular ex-boyfriend with a check enclosed to reimburse me for half of my plane ticket. (If you ask me, he should have reimbursed the whole amount as penance for leading me on so dreadfully, but that's a lecture for another time.) Seeing the check made me immediately start crying. But they were different tears. I was....pleased? Not necessarily happy, but grateful that he had considered that loss on my part. I was working part time at a grocery store, and plane tickets aren't exactly cheap.

After musing about the check for a few days, wondering how to shift my attitude from embarrassment to ANYTHING else, I began to consider why I felt the way I did. The short answer: I was so concerned about how his actions had made me doubt my worth that I had lost sight of the fact that his opinion of me was completely irrelevant. I needed to remember that I knew my worth, and that it was not based on the opinion of any person alive outside of my Savior and I. The gears started turning in my head and before I knew it I told myself that I was going to train for a half-marathon, and I was going to register and run a race to prove to MYSELF that I could. I wanted to be proud of me.

These thoughts happened within the span of about 5 minutes, and, literally, from that moment on, I was not sad anymore.

So I printed off a training schedule, and with 12 weeks to spare, started a 10 week course. My sister, Anne-Marie, was registered to run a half at the end of those weeks, so I called her up and invited myself along.

Every time I ran, woke early, stayed up late, showered fast, went without make-up, ran further than I thought possible, or nursed shin splints and sore ankles, I was motivated by that drive to prove myself TO myself. It didn't hurt that I was losing weight at the same time.

Boom. Success. I rocked that half-marathon, and thought I was a runner for life.

Wrong.

Though I did run a couple more H-Ms and several 5Ks, they just weren't the same. I didn't train as well and didn't perform as well. And I eventually stopped running altogether. I attempted to restart SEVERAL times, but was not ever permanently successful.

Flashback over. Back to the present.

I am not happy with the current shape of my body AT ALL. I love my body. I love that it grows and nourishes babies with an ease that I can't help but be grateful for. I love that my babies love it and that my husband still loves me in spite of my attitude about it.

I love my body enough to achieve the health and shape that I've always wanted.

All the times I've ever started running again since I stopped were missing a key motivational factor: I'm running for me. I'm running to prove that I can. I'm running to achieve the body I want. I'm running because I want my children to have a healthy mother. I'm running because I want to prove to myself that having babies shouldn't be a free pass to excess fluffiness. I'm running because I want my husband to be proud of my personal pursuits. I'm running because I want my husband to be proud to stand next to a wife who is proud of her accomplishments. I'm running because I know that I can achieve ALL of my goals.

You know how with a lot of things in life you just know? These first two runs I've been on since having my son have felt that way. I feel that same degree of intense motivation I felt when I had my heart broken, (but without all the sadness), and it makes it easier to meet this challenge head-on.

I sometimes look through old Facebook pictures so that I can see how skinny I was and be depressed. This evening I got lost in the past and came up motivated. I can look like this again!

I used to be able to curl my legs up and fit in small spaces.

I didn't know I looked like that.

I can't climb swing sets anymore, but I will soon! ;) 

Right after my first half-marathon.

Look at that skinny bride-to-be!

I had just returned from a 6 mile run. No biggie.

I always dress really cute when I run...not.

Though this post seems to have an overall depressing tone, it isn't meant that way! I am so excited to start running again, and am looking forward to all the positive that goes with it!

A Birth Story for Milton

It's hard to decide where to begin when trying to document a birth story. When does the "birth story" actually begin? Is it weeks previous, when I struggled with irritatingly painful Braxton Hicks contractions? Or maybe the last appointment with my OB? Or somewhere in the middle?

Well, I'm a whiner. I'll start with the weeks of irritatingly painful Braxton Hicks. They happened. They weren't so much painful as they were uncomfortable, though time allowed for that to escalate.

Also, this account will include side notes and tangents of various tidbits that don't necessarily contribute to the story, but deserve a place in my history book as stuff I want to remember.  

Fast forward to January 6, 2015. I attended an OB appointment that morning and was on track to be considered 38 weeks the next day. Unfortunately, my blood pressure was registering a little higher than usual, and my legs were pretty swollen, so Dr. L sent me to L&D for monitoring and tests. We were also concerned about a suspected blood clot in my right leg, so that was also something that needed to be checked out. I spent the next several hours (i.e. rest of the day...) in L&D's triage room hooked up to all the various machines they have to offer. My BP continued to be higher than usual, but not so high that we needed to be too concerned. The ultrasound of my leg showed that I didn't have a clot, so all in all, we were good to go. I was lucky enough to get to take a giant jug with me for to collect the next 24 hours worth of urine (yummy). 

Emma had spent the morning at Ellen's house, and as the day wore on it became imperative that she find  a way to my mom's. The problem was that I had the car seat with me. She ended up getting to ride home in the front seat of my mom's little truck like a big girl. I'm so very grateful there wasn't an accident, but the image in my mind her her buckled into the front seat of Grandma's truck makes me smile. 

Side notes:

• I was SO hungry. I hadn't had time for a real breakfast that morning, so I stopped at a gas station on my way to the appointment and grabbed a couple of muffins and a honey bun. At first I was ashamed to eat so poorly, but since it ended up being the last thing I got to eat before dinner, I stopped being ashamed soon enough. Instead, I was grateful. 
• The woman in the bed next to me was facing the reality of losing custody of her baby upon birth due to drug use. Thankfully, her best friend was going to be the foster mother. I heard absolutely everything said. It was devastating and sad to hear, but oh my word--it was also hysterical. In between her emotional outbursts she was just being hilarious, and not always on purpose. I sincerely hope she can get clean and get her children back, but for now, I'm just glad I had some comic relief during that long and boring day.

I returned my urine jug as instructed a couple days later and continued on about my week. I was hurting and so, so, so, so, so, so sick of being pregnant. I wanted to meet the little bundle and get past the pain and discomfort that are so typical of the end of pregnancy. I wanted to be able to sleep again and stop having to pee every 10 seconds. 

I finished out the week with on and off contractions that were incredibly exhausting and so very frustrating. 

The next Tuesday, the 13th, I found myself feeling closer and closer to labor. I'd spent the first part of the week bouncing on a yoga ball, and baby was feeling lower than ever. When Darren came home from work we got dressed to go mall-walking. As we prepared to head out the door I had painful contractions begin again. Feeling encouraged, we proceeded on to the mall. Ultimately, I only walked two laps total, but I was pushing myself through some pretty painful contractions. We did the first lap as a family, with Emma in the stroller. After the first lap Darren took Emma to the play area, and I took off to do the next lap alone. I was struggling. I kept crossing paths with one of the mall cleaning staff, and she eventually asked some questions. As we parted ways, she said that she would walk with me to keep me company if she could. I wished so badly that she could! Darren called my phone a few minutes later to make fun of my walking all over the place (I kept turning around, thinking that I couldn't commit to a full lap). I kept him on the phone the rest of the time I walked so that I could feel like I wasn't so alone. Before we left the mall, we stopped at the photo booth to take some family snapshots. In a way, we knew it was our last night as a family of three. 

Unfortunately, those contractions stopped. They were consistently about 15 minutes apart and never got closer or intensified. I was a bit discouraged, but I still let my mom know what was going on since she is my #1 on-call babysitter.

The next morning, I woke up feeling more restless than usual. I had an appointment scheduled and knew that there was a good possibility that my blood pressure had not improved. I got out of bed and got myself ready for my appointment. I also went ahead and grabbed a clean change of clothes for Darren, just in case I ended up at the hospital again after the appointment. And then I kept going... I packed his suitcase. I finished packing my bag. I packed Emma's overnight bag. I gathered everything we would possibly need at the hospital, including electronics, chargers, and pillows. I grabbed a few of Emma's favorite toys. I loaded all of it up in the car. At some point Emma woke up, so I got her dressed and ready to go. 

I dropped her off at Ellen's house again, leaving behind the car seat. Just in case.

At my appointment we learned that my blood pressure had not improved. After a thorough conversation with the doctor we decided that it was a good idea to go ahead with an induction. Basically, she was concerned about me developing pre-eclampsia. I was also concerned, and had actually spent the last week obsessively checking my swelling and blood pressure. Of all the pregnancy complications available, pre-eclampsia scares me senseless. I was surprisingly a little relieve when she suggested that we induce. I was stressing out way too much about whether or not I was developing the symptoms. She told me to get my affairs in order and meet her back at L&D at 3 that afternoon. I left the hospital and called Darren and my mom.

The closer I got to Ellen's, the harder it became to fight back tears. I was so. very. anxious. I was scared to face my baby girl. The moment had finally arrived, and I was going to have to tell her goodbye as an only child. I knew the next time I saw her that I would have another child, and nothing would ever be the same again. I was scared of crying all over the place when I picked her up, but I held it together! Wise Ellen offered some comforting words as I left, which was highly appreciated. Emma and I headed over to my mom's afterwards. I was so glad to have already packed everything up. I would have been so frustrated spending the last bit of time available packing. 

Emma fell asleep before we got to Mom's. I carried her in and laid her down on Edward's bed. She woke up, so I got to rock her to sleep one last time as my only baby. I'm grateful for that tender mercy, and that she was sleeping and getting a good nap in before we left. Darren came in from work, we ate a quick lunch (thanks, Mom!), and headed out the door, en route to the hospital. 

Can you just smell my anxiety? 

During the 30 minute drive, we discussed my anxieties, joked about how Darren should have left work sooner, fought about the radio (because Prince Charming was wanting to belt out an epic sing-a-long to the Heaven's Eyes song from the Prince of Egypt soundtrack whilst I attempted to pour my heart out).

Basically, we didn't know what to talk about as we proceeded to meet out future. What DO you talk about during those times? Because really.

Anyway.

We arrived, parked, thankfully bypassed the registration desk (pre-registration rocks!) and the ER (not going in the middle of the night rocks!).  We went straight up to L&D and got settled into our room.

**This is the point of no return. If you read past this point, you may or may not read words, descriptions, etc. or see photos that could make you blush. I'm not responsible for whether or not you're ever able to look me in the eye again.**

What is it like to be admitted to give birth?

Gross. It's gross.

I changed into my revealing hospital gown and uncomfortably settled into my uncomfortable hospital bed, sans panties. They have the beds made up in such a way that if a patient were to suddenly break their waters or pee everywhere, about 2 square feet of mattress will be protected from the menacing fluids. Nothing quite makes a healthy young mother feel like an incontinent 90 year-old like trying to get situated on one of those blue puppy incontinence pads. Yay. There are a few other layers of stuff beneath that, but I've never noticed what they are. I've been too busy sweating a fine seal of adhesion to my puppy pad to notice. This means that every time I needed to pee (which was often, though I held it as long as possible), I had to somehow stand with fourteen cords attached to me and my tooshie hanging out with that stupid thing stuck to it. It's very glamorous.

After sitting and watching TV for about an hour, my doctor arrived to begin the induction process by inserting a foley bulb into my lady parts.


Basically, it is inserted into my cervix and blown up, creating a nice place for baby to rest his head. The combination of baby bearing down and the expanded bulb work together to result in dilation. The bulb maxes out at 4 cm., and theoretically falls out at that point. Following a night of foley dilation, the plan was to hook me up to Pitocin first thing in the morning. I was dreading the Pitocin--scared of the statistical likelihood that I would end up in the operating room. I wanted my body to be ready, and sometimes there's no real way to know. I was optimistic that the foley bulb would do its job and the Pit could be avoided. My doctor had said if I were dilated to a 4 or 5 by morning we could discuss nixing the Pitocin altogether.

Allow me a moment to point out that my body rocks at having babies. I may not be so good at that pregnancy thing, but when it's "go time", my baby having facility gets things done.

Approximately 4 hours and lots of contractions later, my water broke.

Collin and Linzee (Darren's brother and his wife) had come to visit us at the hospital. Linzee had come bearing my last meal: Chick-fil-a. She wuvs me. While we were all talking I noticed a sudden "gushy" sensation that had me picturing super disgusting results all over my puppy pad. After a minute or so, it stopped. I wondered if it was nothing since I'd already thought my water had broken earlier in the day, but had been proven wrong. I didn't want to be wrong twice. About 15 minutes later it began again. And in earnest.

The dam had broken.

I attempted to drop hints that it was time for our visitors to go, but I didn't want to be rude. I suppose I was too subtle since nobody was leaving. I finally stated that I needed a nurse.  Someone asked me why, so I said something along the lines of, "I'm almost 100% certain my water has broken, and I need her to come and check me to make sure."

They made a speedy exit, and my nurse entered quickly. She took one look and confirmed that it was my water and that she didn't even need to do the actual test (with the little tester stick or whatever). She left to call Dr. L and returned shortly thereafter to remove the foley bulb since it was basically useless by then. I was perfectly okay with that arrangement.

What followed was a long night of what I may always remember as the best sleep I've ever gotten. Confession: I absolutely LOVE the sensation of falling asleep under the influence of medicine. Any time I have to go under for a procedure, I pay attention to the moment anesthesia is administered just so I can pleasantly drift to the nothingness.

No, I'm not a drug addict.

Though I swore that I would not accept any IV pain meds during labor ever again, I hadn't anticipated needing to spend the night in the hospital. In one of their awful beds. On a puppy pad. Stewing in my own juices. Hooked up to a bajillion monitors. With LABOR contractions.

On second thought, I believe I will take a shot of that Demerol.

Nurse Terry helped me to the restroom and tucked me into bed (lying on my side with a thousand pillows around me). She then administered those fine drugs into my IV, and I became extra tired. I laid my head down happily and let the sleep take me.

You know those times you wake up in the middle of the night, see that you still have 3 hours left to sleep and you're so excited about that because you are really tired and it seems like you find your sweet spot for falling back asleep really fast? That's how sleep pain meds feel to me. Perfection.

The night went on in roughly two hour segments. The medicine would start to wear off and contractions would wake me and alert me to the fact that I needed to pee right away.  Terry would help me to the bathroom and tuck me in (and depending on the hour, give me more meds).

The contractions became more intense and painful throughout the night. I eventually reached a point (somewhere in the 4 o'clock hour) where I could no longer manage them on my own and hollered for Darren to wake up and help me. Once he was awake, he did just that. He doesn't wake easily. I don't know why I was trying to be so quietly kind. I was the only patient on the floor, and there was zero risk of my voice disturbing anyone's sleep but his.

The last time I woke was around 5 a.m. Knowing that Pitocin was set to begin around 6, I decided to be awake for the day. I went to pee and returned to my bed, but this time decided to just sit on the side of it until they came with the Pit.

I don't know who decided laboring women need to lay on their backs, but they have obviously never been a laboring woman. Sitting up makes a huge difference for me. I was able to breathe and manage the pain much more effectively. That hour passed very fast, and before we knew it I was back in business on the puppy pad and hooked up to all my monitors....and the dreaded Pitocin. Unfortunately I wasn't dilated quite far enough, though sitting up for a while helped. I was much more dilated after that than before.  I was also receiving antibiotics thanks to a little thing known as GBS. Google it.

I received my epidural at 4 cm. I did not want to play with Pitocin contractions. I've heard enough descriptions of how hard, fast, and painful those can be. The anesthesiologist missed the mark once, so I got to sit through it twice (so wonderful!). Darren and my nurse helped me through. In other words, I, once again, shamelessly held hands with a woman I had just met while sitting on the side of a bed, virtually naked, while a middle-aged man (also someone I had just met) inserted needles and drugs into my back and spinal chord.  The nurse and Darren were champs. I struggled. A lot. I don't remember it being so difficult to hold still for Emma, but for some reason every single nick of the needles made me jumpy. Guess what being jumpy during an epidural can get you? Paralyzed. It can get you paralyzed.

I'm not paralyzed, but I'm sure I just barely missed that boat.

In a weird way I appreciate the anesthesiologist not being super sweet about my jumpiness. The one I had with Emma was super nice and would say, "Now I need you to hold still..." if I moved too much during a contraction. There's nothing wrong with that approach, but this new man was more like, "You cannot move!". Yes sir! That is probably the only time in the history of ever that someone barking an order at me has made me more motivated to succeed.

SWEET RELIEF.

I want to say the epidural was administered about 7 or 8 o'clock, but I'm the worst at keeping track of time during labor.

After everything settled down, it became a waiting game. Darren and Amanda ate donuts in front of me (the injustice!), and I dreamt of the donuts I would be eating afterwards (the torture!). I honestly felt pretty bad for Amanda. Since I was finally pain free, she had nothing to do besides keep me company, and she'd used a vacation day to do it. I'm so glad she was there though! I hope she thinks it was as worth it as I do. She's amazing. I love my sisters, and it would be so fun to revisit the old days and have all the women in my family surround me during labor and birth. Two years ago that thought made me shudder, but there really is a sisterhood in the womanhood, and given how strongly I felt their support across the room, state, and country, the power of their collective support in person would have been incredible.

It was also around this time that I realized my body was hooked up to everything except for Facebook. Give me my phone, and shut up! I dispatched my handsome husband to retrieve my phone so that I could update my family via our super secret Facebook group page that nobody knows about. Surprisingly (to me, anyway), a good number of them are either just super connected to Facebook, or they were actively waiting for updates.  It was exciting to get such immediate responses to each of my updates. Having a baby really is a lot more fun with such a large cheering section in our corner. Our little boy's birth was highly anticipated!

As we waited, I suddenly felt a weird nausea welling up in the right side of my abdomen. This was unexpected because, A) I was supposedly numb from the epidural, and B) I don't expect to feel nauseous during labor.  When I barfed during Emma's labor it was pre-epidural and super sudden. No time to actually feel sick. I told Amanda and Darren that I was feeling sick in "this part of my stomach" (I gestured with my hand toward the affected section). I only said it to whine, but Amanda encouraged me to call the nurse for some anti-nausea meds so that I wouldn't get any sicker. She suggested that it was probably a side effect of the epidural.  Sounds plausible to me, so I hit the call button. My nurse responded quickly, and I let her know what was going on. It had been a while since I was last checked, so she went ahead and checked me. Verdict: Go time!

A few minutes previous to the nausea thing starting up, I'd been on the phone with my mom. Bless. her. heart. She was trying to corral up my slow pokey little one at her house so they could come up to the hospital. It was looking hopeful that she would make it in time for the birth (because, seriously...labor takes forever). When the nurse said that I was fully cooked, I panicked a bit. I pushed for like, 45 minutes with Emma, but something (my gut...the figurative gut and the literal one) suggested something else entirely was about to take place.

My "nausea" became a full-blown sense of mad pressure in my gut and pelvis. No pain (thankfully), but plenty of pressure.

The nurse left to call my doctor and gather supplies. It was then that I sounded a different alarm.

My puffy, hot, and sweaty face needed a make-over. I asked Amanda to fetch my make-up from my luggage and get to work. Five minutes later, I was primped and good to go, just in time for the host of nurses and doctor to arrive. I don't want to go into detail about how vainly important it was to me that I feel beautiful for this, but suffice it to say that I was happy to face birth with lipstick on. Lipstick = confidence. So if you think I look weird in lipstick, never tell me. I will be crushed.

Moving on.

Dr. L and her minions got everything ready to go, and I was anxiously content to wait for further instruction. But you know what moms don't really need? Instructions. My body was GOING FOR IT. She took a few looks at the monitor, checked the baby's exit, and gave me all the instruction I needed: Get the baby out. Basically, my #1 reason for not wanting to be induced was coming true: baby was going into distress. She said, "Emily, I want you to push whenever you need to. Baby is starting to not tolerate labor anymore, so if you feel the urge to push, just push. Don't worry about us, just push."

Done. No way this girl is heading to the OR for an unnecessarily necessary C-section.

Deep breath face

Darren was standing at my side, and Amanda was somewhere in the back with my fancy birthday camera taking ultra graphic photos for me. (Side note: I'm so glad I asked her to do that. Looking at those pictures inspires me. My body and I did something super hard and amazing by pushing that thing out. I can basically do anything.). Both of them were cheering and celebrating every breath and push. I'm sure the nurses and Dr. L were also cheering, but I only remember hearing those two voices. Darren was almost giddy a couple of times that I almost had Milton out. I choked on my tears right about then.

It's hard to hold a deep breath when my emotional side is trying to strangle me.

Nine ugly, deep breath faces later I felt the most impossible to describe, gut-wrenching sensation of pressure ever and saw my beautiful baby being hoisted into the air like Simba.

"It's a boy!"

Oh, the pride on Darren's face. He had a boy.

Daddy's first look

Mama's first look

My heart could burst

Next thing I know, this little creature who is absolutely beautiful (except for the crusty appearance of bloody cheese all over his body) has been laid on my chest, underneath my gown. Uh, say what? I'm all for skin to skin, but I'm also a little grossed out by bodily fluids, and the previous 24 hours had been chock full of them. I wanted him to get clean before I touched him, but there he was. I couldn't protest however, because I was a little mesmerized by the little creature snuggled up against my body. My boy. I was a mommy again.

Before I knew she was going to stuff him into my gown

The nurse who did all of his measurements and stuff was actually my main nurse from Emma's birth. Dear Julie. She performed several assessments on him while he was on my chest. I think I heard phone calls being made to various family members, but I was lost in the daze of what had just happened. I was so excited, but didn't really come to grips with having a son until well after we returned home from the hospital (like, for several weeks!). I kept touching his slimy head full of dark brown hair, in absolute awe of his existence.

After he'd been cleaned up a bit

Tidbit for remembrance: I did, unfortunately, tear. But it was only a 2nd degree tear this time, and significantly easier to recover from than the tear from Emma's birth.

With Dr. L

Chelsea was so great

He measured in at 7 lbs 8 oz and 20.5 inches long. He was born at 10:37 AM.

Nurses finally cleared out, Milton got cleaned up, and a few minutes later, my mom arrived. She and Emma came in, and it was so exciting for me to watch them interact with him. One of the first things Mom said to Milton was, "You've got big feet! You're going to be a big puppy!". I don't know why I remember that so clearly, but it was adorable.

Meeting his Grandma for the first time

By the way, my mom has been a grandma almost my whole life. That title is nothing new to me, but NOTHING beats watching her be a grandma to MY kids. It's so special to me. I adore that woman.

After moving over to my postpartum room, my new nurse attempted to start a new IV in my hand since the one that was there had become useless, and I still had another bag of Pitocin to go (they give Pit after birth to help the uterus contract a lot in order to quirt out more blood and shrink some). She blew my vain. She tried again in another location, and the same thing happened. I was become less impressed with her skills, but kept hoping she would get it right. Thankfully, she recognized that customer service is priceless and offered to bring in another nurse to start the IV since she seemed to be having trouble (good customer service = taking responsibility whether or not it's actually your fault... many could learn from this nurse!). Her humility made me more forgiving (she really was hurting me, even if she didn't mean to), so I insisted that she was fine. She insisted on getting someone else. Someone else came in, and guess what? She blew my vain. I'm beginning to think that I'm the problem here...

The nurses called Dr. L and got permission to nix the IV altogether and just give me Pitocin via a shot. WHAT? That exists?! Why does any postpartum mother have to endure that stupid IV drip when we can just get the shot? I guess it isn't AS effective, because they said they were going to have to keep a closer eye on my bleeding for a bit, but I couldn't have cared less. Get that danged IV pole out of my sight. In any cases, wonderful, wonderful nurses.

The remainder of our hospital stay was much more pleasant than the first time around in a lot of ways. Knowledge is power, right?

• I took a bath within the first few hours after birth. NOTHING IN THE WORLD feels more physically clean than the clean that you feel after that. I put my wet hair up in a bun and slipped on a headband, ensuring that the cool and wet would last a while on my head, and that none of it would slip on my face or neck. I also scrubbed my face raw and didn't put make-up back on. I felt so clean. 
• I brought yoga pants. Jammies and sweatpants are way too easy to sweat in. Mucho uncomfortable. 
• I had a tight undershirt on beneath my loose t-shirt. Again, just more comfortable for me. My whole abdomen doesn't know what to do with itself when the baby isn't there anymore, so it gets overexcited with the sag, sag, jiggle, sag routine.
• Thankfully my tender lady bits didn't hurt so much that moving around wasn't a terrible idea. The morning after birth I got up more and began rotating between the bed and the rocking chair. Moving around feels human.
• By the second morning, we were getting ready to go home (!!!). I arose, ate, showered, blew my hair dry, straightened it, put on a full face of make-up, got dressed in my maternity jeans and a comfortable shirt 

We had several visitors come by during our stay, including Ashley H., Russell, Collin, Linzee, Samm and her kids, Edward, Jess, Daniel, Aunt Ruth, Sis. Cummings, and, of course, my mom and Emma. I hope I didn't forget anybody. 

He didn't catch on to breastfeeding quite as easily as Emma did, but he did give it an honest try whenever it was time to eat. I had to work with him on his latching. Whenever he wanted to eat he would try for about 15 or 20 minutes, occasionally latching successfully, but by the end of that time he was just done trying and would fall back asleep. As a second time mom I felt confident enough to [mostly] tell the truth when the nurses checked on his eating. They seemed less worried/concerned than they had with Emma, but I like to think that they were just responding to my confidence. I was a little concerned that he might not be getting enough, but I recognized that he improved with each nursing session, so I celebrated those little victories, and I celebrated them to the nurses. When he finally latched on for about 5 minutes straight before falling asleep, I reported it as a success instead of a worry. Whenever the pedi made his final visit to discharge Milton he told us we were his easiest family at the time. He would ask questions about our breastfeeding and probe to find out if we had any concerns about anything, and we didn't. I knew that continuing to work with him would pay off, and it did. I am very grateful for my confidence as a breastfeeder. If I've learned anything over the last 2+ years I've been in my peer support group, it's that confidence in breastfeeding does not come easy to everyone who tries. I do not take that confidence for granted, trust me! Especially when there are so many other areas of parenting where my lack of confidence is QUITE the struggle.

Returning home was so nice. Mom went to the house first to turn the heater on for us and make sure that Emma was on her home turf before the new intruder arrived. Emma was so very excited to have us there and was behaving rather hyper. Mom washed our dishes (she's a saint), and I enjoyed using my own toilet for the first time in days (I have severe toilet loyalty). We had our dinner delivered shortly thereafter from Amber and Tori, and I got to spend most of the rest of the day on the couch while people served me. Amanda came for the evening. Dad stopped by when he got back into town. Joseph and little Rachel surprised us with a short visit.

Milton is so loved.

I am forever grateful that I have been blessed with the opportunity to be a mother. Heavenly Father sure is taking a big chance on me, and I only hope I don't botch it completely. I love the babies that he has given me. I love the husband I chose to be my partner in the journey. I love the examples that have been set for me. Both of our babies were loved and anticipated well before we knew they were even on their way, which makes their presence in our home that much sweeter. Julie B. Beck said that, "Bearing children is a faith-based work." I heard her say that in a talk well before I was married, and it has stuck with me ever since. My impression upon hearing it was that I didn't understand the statement, though it made perfect sense. I understand it more clearly now, and it makes much more sense than I can ever understand. I'm grateful for my faith.

Here are a few pictures for your viewing pleasure:

First pic with Mommy and Daddy

Uncle Panda is always there when you need her

Emma's first look

She couldn't have been more excited for Daddy to finally be home

While we were waiting to be discharged

Beautiful boy

Skin to skin with Mama

That expression says SO much

Hello, World. I'm your newest member.

I love this

Smooching on my sweet boy

Original update to my family

Heading home

The Barbies of my youth. Or not.

Growing up, I wasn't allowed to own any Barbies.

Little Girl Emily thought that such a policy was absolute torture, especially when so many of my friends had so many amazing specimens. Like...

Her,

and them,

and her.

I missed out, right?!

But seriously. In hindsight, there was a definite wisdom in not allowing them into the home. The reasons my mother gave me seemed to always have something to do with how it would just mean a bunch of naked barbies all over the house. Preposterous... (or so I thought...).

...which brings us to today. 

I was at Walmart earlier, and, on a whim, decided to take a quick stroll down the girlie toy aisle in the hopes that I could find a cheap "Frozen" toy. Emma has been pretty obsessed with "Let it Go" lately. If she sees an image of any kind from the movie, she immediately begins to enthusiastically yell, "Wed't Doh!". Or she sings it. In any case, she's super into it.

I found this:

Jackpot.

I brought her (the doll) home and sneakily handed her (the doll) off to Darren so that he could present it to her (Emma) while I recorded her (Emma's) adorable reaction.

As expected, Emma was thoroughly delighted with her new "Wed't Doh!" and so happy to hold onto her for a good, long time. She waved little Elsa in our faces over and over again. She scolded me fiercely when she thought I had adjusted Elsa's arms to reach for the sky (Darren was actually the guilty party there, but did she see the truth? Noooo.)

Less than two hours after arriving home from the store I was in the kitchen while Emma played joyfully in the living room with her new treasure. Suddenly. Alarm.

"She's undressing her! She's wearing nothing but her cape!"

Come again?

I poke my head around the fridge and see Darren towering over an oblivious Emma, looking incredulous. She was busy walking a newly undressed Elsa along the floor as though it was a Victoria's Secret fashion show. I could swear I saw fan wind billowing through her cape. Thankfully, Barbie makers have improved the appearance of their nudy dolls. She wasn't actually nude, but appeared to be wearing a leotard under her skirt.

The point is, my two year old figured it out within two hours of receiving the doll. How did she even KNOW that undressing it was an option?

Mama may have been on to something with that Barbie rule.

I feel like I can be honest here...

...unlike on Facebook. News travels much slower via my blog than the more instant versions of social networking. ;)

I feel like there's a decent chance that labor could really get going tonight. Obviously there is no guarantee, but unless I'm experiencing that awful sounding scenario where labor starts and stops and starts and stops... there's no reason for this to not progress. That being said, the next step on my to-do is to go to bed and get some rest. The Google says that is what I need to do to help encourage it.

I had some pretty gnarly contractions for a few hours tonight, but they never really got closer than 10-20 minutes apart. They certainly hurt though. Since then they've kind of petered out and left me with mild cramps and achy hips and what feels like the beginning of a million contractions. The pain keeps coming on suddenly and then dying before it's had a chance to do much. I've spent some quality time with the yoga ball today, and I do believe there is something to that method. Not that I expect it to throw me into labor, but it really helps me feel like my pelvis is opening up and the baby is descending lower. Plus, it's a really good excuse to watch Netflix for absurdly long stretches at a time, guilt-free. Win-win.

I'm so scared of Emma losing her "only child" status. She's my baby and the center of my little world. We have such a special relationship. She is the center of her own little universe. I've never worried that I wouldn't have enough love to share between my children, but the closer we get to having two of them, the more worried I become that the first one won't understand that I still love her more than anything. I worry more that I won't be able to effectively demonstrate the love I feel. I worry that she'll negatively react to the shift in my attention. I know in my heart that none of that is as true as I let myself think it is, but still. I've been trying to soak up every "last time" activity so that I can have that memory. Every night for the last couple of weeks when I put her to bed I tell myself it's the last time I'll be doing that for her as an only child. The last night we'll get to go through our special bedtime rituals. So far it's been a lie, but intentionally treating each night like "the last" has been great for me. It helps me cherish her snuggles more, even if she is crushing my belly. My baby.

Anyway, wish me luck. Here's to hoping that things will really start hurting within the next few hours. Cheers.

My sweet girl giving me smoochies