tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51495136238837587732024-03-05T20:20:43.448-06:00Our Life...Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.comBlogger199125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-14987671363720692252024-03-05T20:05:00.008-06:002024-03-05T20:20:12.293-06:00Henry Levi Brown Birth<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I have no good reason at all to not have already written Henry’s birth story. </span><span style="white-space: pre;">He’s nearly 2 ½ by now, </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">so that’s </span><span style="white-space: pre;">a fun guilt trip every time I remember that I’ve procrastinated this. To Henry when he reads </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">this some day: I’m </span><span style="white-space: pre;">so so so so so sorry. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">That being said, he’s been my easiest baby to add to the family. Now that I have some perspective on </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">how </span><span style="white-space: pre;">quickly these little humans grow and change, I’ve been far more deliberate about savoring him. I</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> have focused </span><span style="white-space: pre;">on him, his antics, his snuggles, his cuteness, his learning, his way of seeing the </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">world….all the things. All the </span><span style="white-space: pre;">things that escape your mind before you even realize it was sneaking </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">out because all of the sudden the kid is going </span><span style="white-space: pre;">to Kindergarten, and nothing makes sense anymore. </span></span></p><p><b id="docs-internal-guid-ebe53a6a-7fff-426d-67bf-cc802bf939e3" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Henry’s birth was highly anticipated. His pregnancy had been preceded by three unfortunate </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">miscarriages, so I was </span><span style="white-space: pre;">eager to get him all the way to the finish line. About 6 weeks before he was </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">born, I found out that I had Covid. </span><span style="white-space: pre;">Dr. Sanders was concerned about this because of the health risks </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">to the fetus, so he started me on a month long </span><span style="white-space: pre;">protocol of daily injections of a blood thinner at home. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">He also had me start doing weekly non-stress tests to </span><span style="white-space: pre;">monitor the baby’s movements and vitals. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">, my vitals. My blood pressure was misbehaving before Covid </span><span style="white-space: pre;">ever found me, so we were already </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">on alert. At my 39 week appointment, we all agreed that induction was a </span><span style="white-space: pre;">good option since my high </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">blood pressure was only getting higher at every appointment. I was scheduled to go </span><span style="white-space: pre;">to the hospital </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the very next morning. </span></span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Since our lined-up babysitters all had Covid, the hospital was only two blocks away, and we were </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">homeschooling, </span><span style="white-space: pre;">we left the kids at home. I alerted certain neighbors that they were there alone so </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that they could help keep an eye out. Sister Roselyn Stevens came over for a few hours during the </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">day to be with them, and when school ended for the regular school kids, our kids were able to go to </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">a neighbor’s house to spend the remainder of the day and night. Emma and Darren texted each other </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">all day. Emma was using the house cell phone. Their exchanges were highly amusing! Having kids old </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">enough to text is weird, just for the record. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Dr. Sanders came in about an hour after I was admitted to break my water, which was part of the </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">plan. My body is </span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">usually </span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">pretty good at labor with a little bit of encouragement. I thought that </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">breaking my water would be enough, and I really really REALLY wanted to avoid Pitocin. Several </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">hours and lots of yoga ball jumping later, however, I hadn’t made any progress. The goal was getting </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">the baby out, so I opted to receive Pitocin. Following the same line of thinking, we started with a tiny </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">dose. It certainly caused contractions, but I still was barely progressing. After some tough </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">conversations with myself, I told the nurses that I was ready for the full blast, but I was going to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">need an epidural. I was exhausted and hurting and really over the whole thing altogether. Birth is </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">a lot of work, especially when it feels like you’re just spinning your wheels. </span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Throughout all of this, my nurses were fantastic. They focused on what I wanted and made every </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">decision mine. From the very beginning, they wanted to know exactly how I wanted to be treated, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">and then they did that. I told them I wanted to feel empowered, and I certainly did. They never </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">pressured me to take any medication or intervention. They were so respectful of my wishes from </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">beginning to end. Be</span><span style="white-space: pre;">fore getting my epidural, Darren left the hospital to acquire some lunch for us. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre;">He brought me a </span><span style="white-space: pre;">chicken sandwich from Zaxby’s. It was closest thing to Chick-fil-A that Cedar City </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">had to offer, and it hit the spot! So delicious. </span></span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">After getting my epidural, we cranked the Pitocin up. I began making real progress over the next </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">few hours. In about the 4 or 5 PM hour, things got real. I felt my contractions getting closer and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">closer together. I felt my stomach going nuts. But I also felt off. My blood pressure started dropping, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">and the baby monitors on my belly weren’t keeping consistent readings. They hooked him up to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">internal fetal monitors, and it became clear that he was struggling. Pitocin is so hard on babies. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">They explained a couple of options to me: We could stay the course and possibly end up with an </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">emergency C-Section, or we could turn the Pitocin off and see how baby responded. I chose to turn </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">the Pitocin off. Henry responded favorably, and we left it off for an hour or so. When he had a good </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">break, we turned the Pitocin back on, really low. My contractions had calmed down, but never fully </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">stopped. This time around, my progress was significant. Some time in the 7 o’clock hour, I got that </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">world famous urge to poop. Every Labor and Delivery nurse knows that means the baby is getting </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">ready to come. Everyone sprang into action, and Dr. Sanders returned. He had checked on me </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">several times throughout the day. They sat the bed up as far as they could, since I had wanted to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">give birth sitting up. The epidural changed that a bit, but we compromised. Darren had his phone, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">and a nurse held my phone. We have so many photos and videos of Henry’s birth! At precisely 8 PM </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">on November 17, 2021, Henry Levi Brown entered the world. </span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Things he was really good at right away: talking, nursing, snuggling, and sleeping. The nursing </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">though… he was a born nurser. All of my other kids required teaching. He came out hungry and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">ready to roll. </span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">We were discharged from the hospital less than 24 hours later and sent home. The morning after </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">his birth, Darren went home to take the kids to breakfast. They went to Denny’s and had yummy </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">breakfast food and hot chocolate. The kids still talk about that as a highlight of Henry’s birth. </span></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">We went home and met the kids with their new baby brother. Everyone was smitten. He was so </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">sweet and calm and happy to be held by just about anybody at just about any time. We DoorDashed </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">McDonald’s for dinner, which was also met favorably by everybody. No kitchen work or driving </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">required! French fries! Win-win all around. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It’s been over two years since that day, and he’s still everyone’s favorite. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: verdana; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: verdana; font-style: normal; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlVcSXC-AL1Ws6xEZyaRitQrI5uBNnmkb7MGwNDLsHQ2Eco11y2tCvQq-BwhrqqP2fRExADyrLiraYGeSSQGNQXrsZlMTL2utDg5F6Hv54W8jlEuu_7U8c3rRHfbibT2TvqpHFHLX9KypTb4S4k0NH62DAKMODYvkPCkOr7z4iwpGT8kqF0bz0G-la_U/s2048/258698815_10160329979700809_7888160250390147452_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="912" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2QYH53dM_zkBpsSfcaHdpJ8x6kHC1GquHHwaR0uu03s-gXP3tlT2rfStMRQb8H9idWzgs1Fe3y2WNq2b0ORTb7kTo7fhyphenhyphenUcVQqmhheLiB6UP3Z19-wD0whgUJPt7RMeKX04om6YgKIAjprSOWa2PR311Vp6XGK-1APCvAQ-P62BZ3jTl7bHIXIdCMlA/s320/257404608_10160329973415809_8202077021522548180_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlVcSXC-AL1Ws6xEZyaRitQrI5uBNnmkb7MGwNDLsHQ2Eco11y2tCvQq-BwhrqqP2fRExADyrLiraYGeSSQGNQXrsZlMTL2utDg5F6Hv54W8jlEuu_7U8c3rRHfbibT2TvqpHFHLX9KypTb4S4k0NH62DAKMODYvkPCkOr7z4iwpGT8kqF0bz0G-la_U/s320/258698815_10160329979700809_7888160250390147452_n.jpg" width="320" /></div><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2QYH53dM_zkBpsSfcaHdpJ8x6kHC1GquHHwaR0uu03s-gXP3tlT2rfStMRQb8H9idWzgs1Fe3y2WNq2b0ORTb7kTo7fhyphenhyphenUcVQqmhheLiB6UP3Z19-wD0whgUJPt7RMeKX04om6YgKIAjprSOWa2PR311Vp6XGK-1APCvAQ-P62BZ3jTl7bHIXIdCMlA/s912/257404608_10160329973415809_8202077021522548180_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-43104964222001780652021-08-20T02:38:00.002-05:002021-08-20T02:38:29.715-05:0026.5 Weeks Big <p> Pregnancy update. This is not necessarily a pretty update. Just a real one haha </p><p><br /></p><p>Brain dump beginning now:</p><p>I'm officially feeling it. All of it. When baby isn't kicking my bladder, he's hugging my lungs. When I feel so hungry I might die, I can only eat three bites before I feel so full I might die. Every muscle and joint below my ribs is in full-fledged survival mode. My belly band is such a huge help, but also a double-edged sword. It fixes one set of problems while introducing a new set. Still, it's nice to have options. **Choose your pain**</p><p><br /></p><p>Speaking of pain, I'm dealing with an endometriosis flare. UNCOOL, BODY. UNCOOL. For a long while there during this pregnancy, my endo symptoms were sleeping peacefully. The last few weeks have seen a ramping up in discomfort and light pain, and this week brought actual pain. Cursesssss.</p><p><br /></p><p>Braxton-Hicks are going nice and strong. They've been here all along, but the bigger the uterus, the bigger the feels. So that's fun. </p><p><br /></p><p>Baby is so wiggly! He's constantly dancing, stretching, swimming, punching, and kicking. His recreation routine is second to none. My hunger to hold him and kiss his squishy face is practically tangible. </p><p><br /></p><p>My belly is officially a table upon which I can rest my eating vessels. </p><p><br /></p><p>The energy and umph it takes to leave the house after 4 PM is unreal. That's about when my mind and body begin to calculate how close bedtime is, and anything that interferes with that calculation is my literal enemy. </p><p><br /></p><p>Xoxoxo</p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-58689628649891588322021-06-12T04:10:00.002-05:002021-06-12T04:13:32.017-05:00The Ultrasound Says... boy!<p> It's a boy! </p><p>Wednesday morning was spent anticipating a 12 o'clock appointment where the doctor was supposed to check things out and let us know if baby is a boy or a girl. I was so excited/nervous/worried/happy/delirious going into this scan. The kids were also lowkey freaking out. They wanted to know baby's sex so badly, and they were thrilled to be coming along. </p><p>First of all, the heartbeat popped right up, so that worry was immediately put to rest. Then I let myself notice the wiggly baby on the screen, and I was somehow shocked that it's a real baby. Everything was looking real great, but the little booger was sitting upright with his legs crossed. We couldn't get a good look. We tried a transvaginal ultrasound with equally fruitless results. Doc told us we could come back later to try again if we wanted to. </p><p>We decided that we wanted to come back. So, we stopped by the desk and scheduled another appointment for 2:45. We left the office and ran a couple of errands before returning home for a quick lunch. We ran out the door at 2:38 and made it to the office close enough to 2:45. :) During our time away, I had made a concerted effort to not let myself pee. I had drunk plenty of fluid and eaten food. I'm not sure I can take credit for baby cooperating at this point, but I know I did my part! As soon as the ultrasound began, Doc said that the baby had completely flipped. We got a nice and clear shot of his manhood. The kids each had a turn to say what they thought the baby was, based on the image captured on the screen. We had spent part of the morning discussing the signs to look for on an ultrasound. This baby made it very easy. They all saw that penis!</p><p>I'm feeling so incredibly grateful to reach this point. Every passing day with no complications feels like such a gift. </p><p>We're excited to know there's another little boy in our family! Milton is the most excited haha. He's already mentioned how he'll beat him up when he's old enough, which is honestly all a mom could ever want. *tear* *eyeroll* That's the spirit, Milton!</p><p>Lillie was the only one of the kids who wanted a girl, but she got over it pretty quickly. She's excited to be a big sister. </p><p>Emma is 100% geared up to be a second mama, even calling herself as much. She knows how valuable her help is, and I can't even deny it!</p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPa_AfhTnD81OpJtDZ7ZqFSX_k0a2HwUZx9pw9KBrnggZoC60uKo0PZ-kQ0GH38Fr7liZSjn711j6wQn-xtmyuZldFH3mjARzA3YhI3ltlpUH9xKlM6J3YXBlaKfHzMJVQO_2Lk_Pxo8/s1440/195257224_10159991807235809_4638069177958792952_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPa_AfhTnD81OpJtDZ7ZqFSX_k0a2HwUZx9pw9KBrnggZoC60uKo0PZ-kQ0GH38Fr7liZSjn711j6wQn-xtmyuZldFH3mjARzA3YhI3ltlpUH9xKlM6J3YXBlaKfHzMJVQO_2Lk_Pxo8/s320/195257224_10159991807235809_4638069177958792952_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYbnQMvDtCN0wq9CvdDuOrTvVhs_vB8IRZ4fj_mSk-Gej8ofk8sO1bfz_8T1wUO6RxE9dG9QzBO-2d87ULIeWLqFW3t1ZZLW0WXidwRYB66NBp1mcz5RsUW5SHVuk3Dr6hhYvH1oH5eE/s1440/195753775_10159991807240809_1831084417756154214_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYbnQMvDtCN0wq9CvdDuOrTvVhs_vB8IRZ4fj_mSk-Gej8ofk8sO1bfz_8T1wUO6RxE9dG9QzBO-2d87ULIeWLqFW3t1ZZLW0WXidwRYB66NBp1mcz5RsUW5SHVuk3Dr6hhYvH1oH5eE/s320/195753775_10159991807240809_1831084417756154214_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu" style="display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-83741244347255424662021-05-29T07:13:00.004-05:002021-05-29T07:16:55.634-05:00I love crowded tables<p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>Alrighty, I have
some thoughts. This week’s reading in “Come, Follow Me” includes a reference to
“the supper of the Lord”, which is mentioned in Luke 14.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>A feast of fat
things was prepared, and the certain man who made this great supper, to which
many had been invited, commanded his servant to go and fetch those who had been
invited. The servant did this, and everyone he spoke with gave an excuse as to
why they couldn’t come to this dinner they had previously agreed to attend.
Their excuses were fairly common, everyday things—things that could have easily
been reprioritized in the interest of keeping their commitment. One of them
needed to go look at land. In my opinion, that could literally happen at any
point on any day. Another one was married. The other one had bought livestock. With a little effort, these things can be planned around.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>The servant
returned home and informed his master of these new developments. The master of
the house, being angry—most likely because he had gone through the trouble of
preparing a feast for his friends who were now blowing him off—commanded his
servant to go into the streets of the city and get anyone who wanted to attend
and invite them to the great supper. This isn’t just dinner. This is a great
supper. A feast. The master of this house invested time, money, and thought
into this great supper. Imagine how he felt when his friends chose to not
attend.<span> </span></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>No matter. There
are plenty of grateful people who would be happy to attend, and that’s exactly
who the servant brought to the house. He gathered the poor, the maimed, the
halt, and the blind. And if you think about it, many who fit those descriptions
can’t bring themselves to dinner of their own accord. The servant had to have
assisted them to the house. Not only is he gathering the “lesser” of their
community, he is serving them in the midst of invitation. </span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>So, the servant
has been busy with these new invitations. He manages to gather all these people
into the home, but sees that there is yet room. He tells him master, and the
lord tells his servant to continue gathering people. He tells him to look
beyond the streets of the city. He commands his to go into the highways and
hedges. He sends to him look for people who aren’t easy to find, so that they
may also be invited to this great supper and his “house may be filled”. There
is nobody who isn’t invited to this great supper.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> Growing up,</span> family
dinners were always at their best when everyone was home, attempting to gather
around a table that was barely big enough. As the family grew, we definitely
outgrew the table, but we didn’t outgrow family dinner. Even if you were on the
couch, you were part of whatever feast Mom had cooked up. Shoot, even if you weren't in the family and just happened to be present, you were part of the feast. In the midst of utter
chaos, you could see the joy in her eyes when all of us were gathered in. In
the midst of that same chaos, even when his eye was twitching with panic
because WHO ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE, you could see the pride in Dad’s eyes at
knowing we were all HIS people, even if we’d somehow multiplied into an unruly
crowd who makes a lot of noise simply by existing.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>The missing people
were always the easiest to notice. It didn’t matter if there were 10 people or
30 people, we always discussed who was missing and why. It never feels complete
when everyone isn’t there.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>Even with a house
full of people he didn’t know, all of whom were considered to be nothing by the
society in which they lived, the master of that house, the lord of that feast,
recognized those who were missing. He knew there was still room for more, and
he knew where to find them. His great supper meant nothing if he couldn’t share
it with everyone.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> I hope that any time I am called by the Lord to attend a feast or share a kindness, I'm not so busy being caught up in the mundane daily tasks that I make the mistaking of not prioritizing His invitation to join Him.</span><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span> </span>There is a song
written and performed by The Highwomen called, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPfI8zBWub4" target="_blank">Crowded Table</a>” that teaches a
similar principle of sharing the best of what we have. I have loved listening
to it since it was originally released because it always makes me think of family
dinners and the love of my Savior. He wants a house with a crowded table, too.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7Kbogg7-Wi51zIJpsilneQ3SK7IAcoTTK_pQ1vkG4U6KLbn0bMgLVcsTRgPRnUR7QBjKMTaGRSJ63xrOeFjzzyo1RQZlR5tk17UjUQDr5ugEfFy1G5w-RQn785Y_k6HER-VSwDVz5ZE/s438/Screenshot+2021-05-29+061105.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7Kbogg7-Wi51zIJpsilneQ3SK7IAcoTTK_pQ1vkG4U6KLbn0bMgLVcsTRgPRnUR7QBjKMTaGRSJ63xrOeFjzzyo1RQZlR5tk17UjUQDr5ugEfFy1G5w-RQn785Y_k6HER-VSwDVz5ZE/s320/Screenshot+2021-05-29+061105.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">**I obviously do not own any rights to this song. I just really love the message and how universally applicable it is. </span><br /><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-47553668529724345712021-05-21T03:49:00.004-05:002021-05-21T03:49:17.435-05:00"For a little season"<p> <span style="font-size: 14pt;">D&C 51:16-17,
19</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“And I
consecrate unto them this land for a little season, until I, the Lord, shall
provide for them otherwise, and command them to go hence;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“And the
hour and the day is not given unto them, wherefore let them act upon this land
as for years, and this shall turn unto them for their good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“And whoso
is found a faithful, a just, and a wise steward shall enter into the joy of his
Lord, and shall inherit eternal life.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I promise I'm not as "spiritual" as these last couple of posts might make me seem. I'm not trying to be obnoxious and self-righteous. I just have some thoughts I want to share, and putting them on my blog feels way less obnoxious than putting them on Facebook haha</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I love these
scriptures found in Section 51 of the Doctrine and Covenants, where the Lord
said He has consecrated a place to them for a little season, but He commands
them to make the most of it. To “act upon” it as if they’re going to be there
for many years. I’ve noticed many seasons of my life when I haven’t been sure
if I should plant roots or just hang out. I distinctly remember accepting that
my teenage dream of escaping Southeast Texas was not going to happen. I can
recall transitioning from anxious limbo to a new resolve to make the most of my
time there. I didn’t know if I would ever leave, but I knew that then was not
the time to do so. I felt called to make the most of everything being offered
and learn to experience joy. I grew relationships, served in the church,
attended Institute classes, and learned through many good and great and
terrible experiences. Those are the years where I grew into the “me” that would
eventually marry, have kids, and yes, move away from Southeast Texas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These verses
hit differently tonight. I’m kicked back, stretching my body so that the
coconut feeling womb inside of me has space to not feel squished. I’m a third
of the way into my seventh pregnancy, and I’ve spent the last 3 months adding
the same caveat to nearly every statement I’ve made regarding the pregnancy’s
outcome: “If this baby lives…”. I know there are no guarantees in pregnancy,
and the prideful side of me is so afraid of being caught a fool. Like, if I don’t
acknowledge that this pregnancy could fail, I’m going to look real stupid. But
that’s not true. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As it is, I’ve accidentally taught my children to express the
same lack of faith. As the one who taught them to say, “If this baby lives…”, I’m
trying to make a more concerted effort to use more affirming statements and to
talk about the future. I mean, can you imagine having that attitude after the
baby is born? I’m painfully aware that tomorrow isn’t promised for anyone. But
that doesn’t stop us from having dreams for the future. It doesn’t stop us from
encouraging our children to imagine their futures. We don’t say, “If you live to
be a certain age, you can drive too!” We simply dream it with them. Sometimes
those dreams are snatched through their untimely death. But I think that even
then, the default for most is to assume that their futures on earth exists. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
have not been called as a fortune teller or a seer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve not been called to guess what the future
has in store and try to brace myself against whatever tragedy I’m imagining. I’ve
been called to raise a family. During this season, which is of unknown
duration, I’ve been called to grow a baby, and I believe that Heavenly Father
and Christ want me to view this experience through that lens which says, “This
is where I am, and this is my calling. I am going to make the most of it and
have joy.” I believe they want me to be a faithful, just, and wise steward of
all of my children in their various developmental stages. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I believe they want
me to remove myself from the proverbial flower pot, plant myself in the ground,
and experience growth that can only be achieved by completely submitting myself
to the process and allowing my roots space for expansion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Whatever
seasons you or I are in, whether it be 1 or 5 at the same time, I know that the
Lord is mindful. He tends His gardens and knows where to plant us so that we
may grow as He intends. He facilitates our increase, and as long as we allow
ourselves to be planted thus, we can expect to enter into His joy and inherit
eternal life.</span></p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-15985045523678990802021-05-21T01:03:00.000-05:002021-05-21T01:03:08.584-05:00The Formal Non-Announcement of Pregnancy<p>***I wrote this a couple of weeks before announcing on Facebook***<br /><br />I don’t even know where to begin. My mind and my heart have
been back and forth and up and down and sideways and just straight up batty
with indecision regarding how I want to share the news of this much-wanted
pregnancy with the world. The result of such vacillating has led to the default
decision to just let it be. It isn’t a secret. It isn’t exactly common
knowledge yet. But the news is slowly trickling out into the world. The most
important people already know. Sorry, if you’re finding out here, then you’ve
probably guessed that you aren’t on that list. I love you anyway! Besides, the
most important people are always my close family.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want another of my babies so badly. That is a trite
expression to convey a deeply complex feeling. I’m always excited about each
newly created life. I don’t take that gift for granted, like I used to. It’s
difficult to keep that kind of news to myself, so I typically blurt it out on
social media as soon as Darren lets me. There’s a lot of love to be found in
the outpouring of support and excitement from my family and friends. But when
the pregnancy doesn’t last, it is painful to retract. It is painful to announce
a loss. Having done so twice, it begins to feel performative. On the other hand,
there was one baby that didn’t even last long enough to make it to social
media. I didn’t even get to tell Darren about it until after the fact, because
he was at drill, and I wanted to tell him both sets of news, respectively, in
person: We’re pregnant! We lost the baby. Nobody knew about that one at first,
except for God and me. Grieving in solitude is not something I would recommend.
I craved external support for the strength it provides. I want to cry alone,
but I want the prayers of those who love me to help me through it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After our second miscarriage, I decided that I wasn’t strong
enough to endure any more loss. I wasn’t strong enough to face each month with
no new pregnancy. We decided that 3 kids is enough kids. But we were pleasantly
(and terrifyingly) surprised almost a year later to find ourselves expecting,
yet again. Surely. SURELY. Surely, there is no way that this one won’t make it,
I thought. It feels like such a gift. However, Heavenly Father saw fit to allow
the pregnancy to run its course in just a few weeks. There went another one. I understand that it is not in my purview to define His gifts the way I like them to be defined. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With this loss, my head was spinning, but I felt peace. I
felt exhausted, emotionally and physically, but I felt a new strength.
Together, we discussed our future. We felt impressed to acknowledge that maybe
we weren’t done with bringing babies to this world, but maybe it wouldn’t be as
easy as it had been before. Maybe there would be more loss. Maybe we would
never be able to bring another kiddo to the finish line of pregnancy. Maybe.
MAYBE. Maybe, Heavenly Father needs to be in control. We submitted our will to
His. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was another 6 months before I knew there was another
little life inside of me. I felt all the feelings all at once, and then some. Seems
like a brain could explode with so many emotions happening simultaneously, but,
it turns out, the brain is fairly resilient to emotional overload. Name an
emotion, and I promise I was feeling it. I started to breathe a little easier
at our viability scan. That little 7 week human in my belly had a strong heartbeat.
A couple weeks later, I was able to see it again, swimming on the screen. Heart
sounding strong. My breathing got a little easier. My symptoms have been nice
and strong. I’ve been appropriately miserable and nauseated. That’s comforting.
The hard days are the good days. They are the days I can most believe that
everything is going just the way it is supposed to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m now about 11.5 weeks along. With each passing week, my
fear relaxes a little bit in some ways. In other ways, not so much. I know
there are no guarantees. I know that if I were to lose my baby now, it would be
extremely physically painful, and the memory of losing my 9 week pregnancy is
still super fresh. That was incredibly painful. I remember feeling surprised at
how painful it was. I assume it gets harder the more a pregnancy progresses. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m at the point where I believe I am ready to share the
news more publicly. I’m ready to share my joy. I’ve fished around online for
ideas of how to announce, and can I just complain for a minute? I don’t like
the phrase, “rainbow baby”. I absolutely respect others’ use of the phrase, but
it doesn’t sit well with me. I always wondered why it rubbed me the wrong way,
and then I came across <a href="https://foreverymom.com/family-parenting/rainbow-baby-adriel-booker/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=pinterest&utm_campaign=tailwind_tribes&utm_content=tribes&utm_term=816369964_33262982_622526" target="_blank">this blog post</a> that hits the nail on the head. God’s
promise to Noah was that He would never flood the earth again. He doesn’t make
that same promise to me. This is my 3<sup>rd</sup> “rainbow baby” in a row. By definition,
the first one should have made it. But there was no promise there. Heavenly
Father doesn’t promise me a life free from heart hurts and sorrow. He doesn’t
promise me flawless fertility. He promises me His help, and the help of my
Savior. He promises that I will be able to endure whatever hardships I need to
endure to become more like He is. He promises me eternity with my family. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, I will celebrate this life. I will appreciate the gift
we’ve been given. I will cherish its significance, whether I’m only meant to
carry it for a short time or all the way. I will celebrate every passing week
that gets me closer to holding it in my arms, and I pray every day that we will
see that day come (in the appropriate time frame)(ahem). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tl;dr: WE’RE PREGNANT! Due November 23, 2021<o:p></o:p></p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-68262784532718022019-06-03T00:37:00.000-05:002019-06-03T00:37:42.679-05:00Hello Goodbye: The Baby We Lost Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Sunday, May 5, 2019, our developing fetus passed from my body at 8 weeks + 5 days gestation. Just short of 9 weeks. Physically, it was a lump of human cells, shaped to appear human. Like a human larva. I don’t know whether or not it is a boy or a girl, but as I held it in my hand, I felt a sense of confirmation wash over me that this baby is our son. I have no proof other than my feelings, but it feels right. He has a name we hold close to our hearts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was so happy to be pregnant again. I honestly thought for a long time after Lillie that I might be done having children. A healthy mental state was so difficult to recover after her birth. I was discouraged and unsure if I could handle having more children. By the time I felt peaceful about going forward, I felt like I had come to terms with all those hard feelings. The depth of my sadness and discouragement was matched by the heights of my happiness upon seeing those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. I was overjoyed. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I was going to have another gorgeous baby. I looked forward to my tummy growing, feeling the kicks, and just being a miserable cow. Pregnancy isn’t easy, but I eagerly anticipated paying the price necessary to hold that baby in my arms and introduce him to our family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The kids were also thrilled. They asked questions about the baby in my tummy quite a bit. During family prayer once, Milton prayed for all of his immediate family members, including “the other baby”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was supposed to have a newborn during Christmas this year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve never had a complicated pregnancy. There have been plenty of discomforts and a few tense moments (like that 2 weeks of bright red bleeding during my first trimester with Milton...stressful), but overall, I’ve been extremely blessed to not struggle with fertility. My heart aches for those who do. I assumed that this would be a routine pregnancy, just like the others. I guess it was routine, until it wasn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I began lightly bleeding on Tuesday, April 30th. It was light enough to be called spotting, which is totally normal in pregnancy (until it isn’t). I wasn’t concerned, but I alerted the guards in my brain to keep an eye on it. On Wednesday, I was still spotting, but it seemed to be heavier. I told myself it was in my head, and that it wasn’t actually getting heavier. That afternoon saw some dull cramping, which is also normal in pregnancy (until it isn’t). It felt like my period was about to start. I was at the soccer fields with all three kids because Emma had team pictures and a game. We had time to kill between them, so the kids were playing on the playground while I sat on the bench nearby, brooding. I felt a sense of calm doom. My mind was totally distracted by the possibility that this bleeding might mean something serious. We made it through that evening, and I went to bed worried. I kept telling myself it was nothing, but I didn’t believe me. But I had also never experienced a pregnancy loss, so I didn’t which side of me to believe. It became obvious to me the next morning that the bleeding and cramping had intensified. It was still light enough to possibly not be a problem, but heavy enough that I wanted my doctor to know what was happening. I texted Darren from work and told him I was going to make an appointment to see the doctor that afternoon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I made arrangements to leave the girls with my friend Natalia. Milton had been running a fever all day, so I couldn’t leave him. He got to come with me to the doctor. What I wouldn’t have given to be so blissfully unaware. At the same time, I’m so glad I wasn’t caught off guard. I’ve read a lot of miscarriage stories over the last few weeks, and though they all break my heart, putting myself in the shoes of those who eagerly go into an ultrasound to be surprised by no heartbeat, or no baby at all, breaks me into a million pieces. On the other hand, I was pleasantly surprised to see that my baby still had a heartbeat. It was still alive. My heart filled with tentative hope. There may not be a problem after all!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. S was happy to report that there was still a heartbeat, but he immediately admitted his concern over Baby’s heart rate. It was slower than it should be, at about 80 beats per minute. That’s about half of what it should have been. He told me to not lose hope, that the baby could catch up from this. He was honest about the chances for success though. I appreciated his honesty. Before leaving, I asked him at what point we needed to worry about a Rhogam shot. Since I hadn’t had any initial pregnancy blood work-ups, he didn’t even know that I have O-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">blood. His eyebrows shot up, and he declared that we should go ahead and get that ball rolling. He sent me to the hospital lab so they could draw some blood and get my injection ready for the next day. Even though he had no idea what he was looking at, I was glad that Milton was able to see the ultrasound. He’s the only other family member who saw the little heart beating in real time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I returned home. Thursday night is a blur to me. I was busily texting my sisters and mom in our sister chat, keeping them in the loop with all that was happening. They rallied around me from a distance and held me from afar. I attempted to keep my emotions neutral. I didn’t want to completely give up hope, but it was also hard to convince myself that things were going to be okay. All the evidence seemed to indicate a failed pregnancy, and deep down I knew it was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I texted my boss early Friday morning to let him know I wouldn’t be coming in. My cramps and bleeding had gotten worse over night, and it just didn’t make sense to take that suffering and my inevitable tears to a place of business. The pain had disturbed my sleep during the dark and early hours. I tried to stay busy Friday morning by folding laundry. I hate folding laundry, and I hate keeping busy. But I also hated thinking about whether or not the baby was still alive. The thought of waiting until the next Wednesday for my follow-up ultrasound was actual mental torture. I sat on the couch, surrounded by laundry, while Darren droned on and on about something. The stock market? I honestly don’t remember. I don’t know if he was trying to distract me or just oblivious to my emotional state, but I kept wishing he would shush haha. He left for a bit, and I found myself sobbing on the couch. When he returned, I tried to suck in my bottom lip and pretend that I wasn’t crying. I knew it was unconvincing, but he jumped right back into his monologue about stocks. I love you, but shuuuuut up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I returned to the doctor after lunch for the Rhogam shot. It’s a painful butt shot that doesn’t feel super great. I dread it with every pregnancy. Usually, an Rh- mother will get the shot around 28 weeks, so I hadn’t had enough time to get psyched. Nevertheless, there I was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I asked the nurse if I could possibly get another ultrasound. I tried to be cool about it, but my desperation was dripping off of every word. I needed to know if my baby was dead yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She spoke with the doctor, and they agreed to an ultrasound, stating that they had some time available. I was happy to see that Baby’s heartbeat was still going, but it was slower than it had been the day before. Dr. S had a hard time finding and counting the heart rate. He said it was roughly in the 70s. He expressed to me that it did not look good. The slow heart rate, bleeding, and cramping were three strikes against the likelihood of a positive outcome. My voice was shaking as I told him over and over again that I understood what he was saying. He and the nurse left the room, and I lost control. I allowed myself a few moments to feel, and then gathered my purse and my emotions, and exited the ultrasound room, ready to beeline for my car. The nurse walked up behind me and touched my arm, saying that she needed to check my vitals since she hadn’t done so beforehand. I went back into the room, trying to remember that it’s okay to look like I’ve been crying. She quickly checked my temperature and my blood pressure. My blood pressure was a wee bit high (a lot bit high…), so she asked me to stay put while she spoke with the doctor. She came back and said that the doctor thought my blood pressure was high because of how stressed I was. Makes sense. Also, I could have told her that. I ran out the door, down the elevator, and across the parking lot as quickly as I could, praying the whole time that I wouldn’t run into anyone. I was fortunate in that regard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I turned out of the parking lot the opposite direction from home. I didn’t know where to go, but I wanted to cry hard for a bit. Our parking lot felt too intimate. My neighbors and I park way too close together, plus the kids would likely discover me through the front window. I was too busy feeling sad about the littlest among us to be bothered with their presence. Harsh? Perhaps. Either way, I wasn’t going home. I drove south down Main Street, thinking that perhaps I would work my way up the canyon and find a place along the creek to park. But there’s always a chance I could run into other people at the creek. I was approaching the cemetery on my right when I remembered that it isn’t weird to cry at a cemetery, and nobody would bother me there. I parked alongside Baby Jackson’s block and let myself feel. It’s not the first time I’ve cried by his grave, but the reason was new. Once I felt more able to face my family, I drove home. I finished off my afternoon with a hot bath. I texted my friends, Sage (Baby Jackson’s mom) and Stefanie, to let them know what was happening. Within probably an hour, they were both at my house. They had Crumbl cookies delivered, and we had a proper girls’ night. Physically, I was hurting, but emotionally, I was so humbled. I had received such an outpouring of love from my family and friends throughout the day. It felt good to laugh and spend time together and be raw. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friday is also the day my sister Sarah ordered Domino’s and had tons of food delivered to our house to keep the kids fed over the weekend. They subsisted on pizza and chicken nuggets for days. There was also a delivery of french fries and Dr. Pepper because David and Julie (my younger siblings) knew I needed some fries and soda to simultaneously comfort my soul and ruin my physical health. Worth it. I felt the love strong from across the state and country. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saturday morning I discovered that Friday’s cramps were super mild compared to Saturday’s cramps. I would make a similar discovery on Sunday morning about the intensity of Saturday’s cramps, but let’s not get ahead of the story. I began texting people in hopes that someone would want to take my feverish children and let me suffer in peace. Eventually, my friend Gwen came over to spend time with the littles. Emma had gone to work with Darren, so only Milton and Lillie were home. I sat on my bed, snacking on pasta (courtesy of the Domino’s delivery) and binging on Bones. I periodically sat on the toilet and eventually found myself in a warm bath. The rest of the day followed that same general pattern. Gwen left in the afternoon to return to her own sick teenager. I spent some time with the kids and with Darren. Took some Benadryl to help me sleep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through all of this, I’m wearing Depends lady diapers. They are by far the best choice for excessive and heavy bleeding, but they do nothing to help one’s dignity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saturday night I spoke with my mom on the phone for a long time. She shared more about her own miscarriages, and I feel so much closer to her because of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We decided to keep everyone but Emma home from church on Sunday. Milton and Lillie had been running fevers, and I didn’t want to be in charge of them. Darren dropped Emma off at our friend’s home (Adam and Amanda) so that she could go to church with them. He entertained the sick ones downstairs while I continued my solitary confinement. Every now and then I came down to visit for a minute, but not often. I don’t think I watched any TV. The cramps had reached a point where they could be called contractions. They came in waves every minute or so, and I was practicing focused breathing. And moaning. I make weird noises when I’m in labor, but they soothe me through the pain, so I don’t really mind. I’m only self-conscious when I have an audience, so I tried to stay hidden in my room. Darren brought me Lillie around noon. It was time for her nap, and she always lays down with me. I tried to settle her down, but she was too hyper. She eventually left me, and just like Elsa, I let her goooo. Darren spotted her wandering around the house and kept tabs on her after that. I resumed concentrating on my labor pains. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every time I thought it shouldn’t hurt more, it did. The cramps were sharp and sustained. They pulsed through my body. The pain was awful, but satisfying. It was validating in a strangely poetic way. I was worried about the miscarriage occurring without any ceremony, but there I was, going through the motions. Feeling the feelings. Hurting the hurt. Experience the ceremony of birth, albeit seven months early. There was so much love. I was hurting for my baby, and that felt right. I did it for my other kids, so I wanted to do it for this kid. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I feel like this all paints a sad picture, and while it was sad, I felt indescribable peace. Heavenly Father wrapped me in his love. I have zero doubt that the spirits of my loved one were nearby, helping me through the grief and physical pain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As soon as I realized that miscarriage was a real possibility a few days earlier, I began obsessively searching online for stories that sounded similar to mine. I searched Google images for pictures of 8 and 9 week fetus who had been miscarried. I was told more than once that I wouldn’t even see the baby when it passed out. I eventually accepted that the baby wouldn’t survive this pregnancy, but I refused to accept that I would be forced to say goodbye to my little love before I even had the opportunity to say hello. I did not want to flush him down the toilet if I could help it. Every time it felt like something “big” left me, I ran to the bathroom to check. I was crazy determined to find my baby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At about 4:40 PM, on May 5, 2019, the baby was born. I got out of bed between contractions to turn off my box fan. I was standing in front of my bookshelf when a wave of pain hit me. When it was over, I felt it. I ran to the bathroom and fished my baby from inside my trusty old lady diaper. I don’t know when it died, but there I was, holding it in my hands. It was surreal. I had thought I would have to wait a longer time to hold my baby. I certainly didn’t expect to hold it at this early stage of fetal development. I was awash with joy. This is my baby, and I didn’t miss it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I washed it. I carried it downstairs to show to his daddy. We stared at it for a minute, smiling (mostly me...my triumph at not losing him to the pipes was palpable). As I held it and we stared at it, I felt that his spirit was male. He is our son. That evening, I took pictures. I wanted to have them to stare at for the rest of my life, and possibly to show the kids someday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The body was in rough shape. Miscarriage is pretty traumatic to their bodies. The doctor confirmed at the next appointment that it isn’t unusual for it to look deformed, for lack of a better word. For all I know, it was developing incorrectly and inherently deformed. I recognized its face and spine. I recognized the little buds that made up its feet. It had human features. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Emotionally, I was good-to-go for the rest of the day. I felt genuine joy that I had my baby in my possession. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One week later, on Mother’s Day, I wrapped the refrigerated remains of my little one in a strip of cheesecloth for burial. I had originally decided not to show it to the kids, but Emma asked me directly if she could see the baby. I explained that it looked even less like a baby than it had a week before, but handed it over. She held the jar close and looked inside. She was so careful. Milton and Lillie were only interested because of Emma’s interest and each took turns holding the jar. It was in a small ziploc baggie inside the mason jar. I removed it from the bag, and after it was wrapped up in it’s mummy cloth, I took a picture of each of the kids holding it. We drove up the canyon, to a spot that seemed relatively secluded and easy to find. Darren dug a hole, Milton placed the baby in the hole, and then Emma filled it with the shovel. We covered the spot with a few rocks and took more pictures. Milton said a prayer. Then we walked down to the creek and put our toes in the water for a few minutes. The water was moving really fast and was extremely cold, so we didn’t stick around for too long. </span></div>
<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-55999192902504240402019-06-03T00:28:00.000-05:002019-06-03T00:37:50.064-05:00Hello Goodbye: The Baby We Lost Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve thought a lot since things happened. I’ve questioned the validity and significance of my loss. I’ve tried to downplay it to myself. I have wondered if I’ve gotten over it already since I don’t cry every day. The answer to that last question in a hard no. I don’t cry every day, but some days the sadness hits, and it’s hard to think of anything other than the life I had already planned out for my little one. It’s hard to see the weeks tick by and know the baby is no longer growing. Its physical growth has been halted. It’s hard to be sad and know that I’m the only one who got to “know” this baby, even though I didn’t really get to know it. I feel like I know this baby in an extremely intimate way that is dictated only by the feelings of love and familiarity I feel when I think about his life. But I don’t know what kind of sleeper he was going to be or if he was going to be hyper like Milton. I don’t know how he feels about breastfeeding versus bottle-feeding, or if he would have transitioned back and forth easily. I don’t know if he would have been obsessed with his daddy or his mommy. I suppose we won’t know for now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can see how miscarriage would be a hopelessly discouraging experience without already having living children. I’m afraid to try for more kids because I don’t want to go through it again, but I’m also pretty confident that my chances are low. Maybe I’m overly confident, but three healthy pregnancies and three healthy children feels like a decent track record that I don’t deserve, but for which I am so grateful. My heart goes out to the parents who have to experience loss before they get to bring home a child, if they ever do get to bring home a child. That’s a level of devastation I am certain would break me. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am happy to know that because of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, all that is unfair during this earth life will be corrected. Sorrow will become joy. Families will be restored to each other. Children will be returned to parents, and parents will hold their children again. Siblings will embrace, sometimes for the first time. Happy crying will reign supreme. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When it comes down to it, this has been a sweeter experience than I would have expected going into it. I know I am loved beyond measure. My family and friends dropped everything to aid me in my hour of need. I’m not sure to what degree Darren hurt, but he held me while I cried more than once. I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father surround me and hold me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The children talk about the baby. We have visited his grave since the burial. Emma has cried a couple of times. We include this loved baby in our family membership now. It’s child number 4, and the kids seem to really love that. I know I do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We will always hold a place for this family member. Always to remember. </span></div>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-63214881517802649362018-06-11T13:00:00.000-05:002018-06-11T13:04:01.162-05:00We went camping!<br />
The first official Brown Family campout is officially recorded in the official record of Brown Family outings. We left after work on Friday and drove up to the Navajo Lake campgrounds. We snagged a pretty good location located comfortably close to both the bathroom and the lake. I used to be really uncomfortable with the idea of camping near water with kids, but for some reason that anxiety has lifted. Thankfully the water was too cold to be much of a temptation haha. We did play in it a little, but the cold temps combined with the wind soon became more than we could handle. And by "we" I mean, the kids and I. Darren is apparently impervious to the cold. He loves cold water.<br />
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Darren brought the kayak along and gave the kids each a ride on the water. Lillie loved it the most. She was so relaxed in his lap and super angry to lose her turn.<br />
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For dinner we attempted tortilla pizzas (pizza sauce, pepperoni, and cheese folded into tortilla and warmed up over fire). We let them cook too long though, so most were burnt and nasty. Thank goodness for dessert!<br />
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The temperature cooled down pretty quickly, so we got settled in for the night and played with flashlights for a little while. Lillie settled in with Darren for the first part of the night, and the other two settled down to me reading "The Witch of Blackbird Pond" aloud. They fell asleep within about 10 minutes.<br />
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I barely slept. The ground was so hard. It was cold (but I overpacked, so we were warm enough!). Lillie was restless, which did nothing for me. I was so happy to see the sunshine in the morning. My phone had no reception of course, but it was a useful camera. I spent my awake times looking at the pictures I had taken and also making a list of camping lessons learned in my notepad app.<br />
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We ate a breakfast of french toast sausage roll thingies and then packed up our camp. We drove over to the beginning of the trail for the hike to Cascade Falls and made the trek (about a half mile one way). We hoped it was be a water fall we could splash around in, but it definitely is NOT. After that, we headed back to town and went to the local swimming hole for some actual swimming. Yes, the water was still too cold for me. I forced myself into it for a while, but eventually joined Lillie on the shore. She's not interested in cold water either. She just sat in a camp chair and watched us. Darren took Emma out on the kayak for a long time so that she could paddle around. She thinks she's stronger than the wind. One day she will be. ;)<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Navajo Lake</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cascade Falls</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The lake in town</span></b></div>
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<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-54761158159519197062018-06-08T11:01:00.000-05:002018-06-08T11:03:02.127-05:00My Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Emma is starting Kindergarten this fall! How and when did this happen?!? She's more and more beautiful every time I look at her, and it has been so fun to watch her personality develop and mature. Sometimes I am stunned by her wisdom. Other times I wonder if she's actually 5 and not, say, 2... She is always singing and always dancing. When she shares her creative insights, I am blown away. She excels at applying personification to even the most boring inanimate object, and she likes to do silly voices. I adore my little sidekick!</div>
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Milton is adventurous, clueless, curious, industrious, and whiny. He's a sweetheart with a strong sensitivity streak, but he's also super bullheaded and ruthless. He makes me laugh and scream with incredible consistency. His speech has improved so much this year, and conversations with him are hilarious. I've always wondered what goes on in his head!</div>
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Lillie is beauty in every sense of the word. She's affectionate, cuddly, and smart as a whip. So smart. She figures things out very quickly. She is also a stubborn one though, and is so obnoxious about it. She won't say "Mama" on command at all---instead, she closes her eyes, smiles really big, and shakes her head "no" like she's embarrassed. Other times, when she doesn't want to be obedient about something, she stares us down and dares us to stop her. Then she's offended that we dared to get her in trouble. She has recently started experimenting with new little words and her sign language is improving. She melts Darren's heart every five seconds with her incessant, "Dada!" babbles and cuddle demands. He can't resist her for anything. We are so happy she joined our family when she did!</div>
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<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-61705240138018721552017-05-10T23:50:00.001-05:002017-05-10T23:50:24.169-05:005 thoughtsI have a lot of thoughts running through my head right now. So, in no particular order, welcome to my brain:<div>
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1. I took my 3 kids and nephew to the splash park today. It is so close to our house, but we rarely drive past it. However, we happened to drive by today and notice that the gate was open! We gathered some supplies at home and returned shortly. I learned something. My nephew is 7, going on 8 here in a few months. In my head, he's just a child....because he is just a child. But do you know what a 7 year old can do? He can *mostly* buckle children into their carseat. (*insert heavenly choir right here*). I hate buckling kids into car seat. And I have 3 of them. So while I was buckling the baby, I noticed that he was pulling straps onto the other two and attempting to secure all buckles. PRAISE BE. All I had to do was some final clicking and clip adjusting, and we were on our way. He might really come in handy this summer...<br /><br />2. I've been taking an antidepressant for about a month now, and every time I stop to pause, I am so grateful. I've spent so many months during my pregnancy and post partum period feeling so stunted and unable to emotionally connect with much of anything. Sometimes I catch myself feeling free, and I honestly can't get enough of it. I still struggle and cope some days, but as with a lot of life, it's the little things. Delaying bedtime for a few minutes because I'M enjoying tickling my son. Staying at the splash park for more than a half hour because I'M enjoying watching the kids have a blast. Enjoying the sunshine on my skin while herding 3 and 4 year-olds around a soccer field for an hour because I'M enjoying being a part of something that goes beyond my comfort zone. It's truly amazing, and I'm enjoying the change.<br /><br />3. To kick off my PPD treatment, the midwife asked me to set some goals. I had already decided to start the soccer group, but since she insisted on me establishing goals on paper, I went ahead and made it official. Since I missed the deadlines to sign Emma up for soccer and didn't have any money for it anyway, I used Facebook and got a group going. Our season is 6 weeks, and our little group of players is too adorable for words. Next week is our last week, and even though I'm ready for the break, it makes me kind of sad. The kids have actually improved since the first week, and I feel a lot of pride for that. It's hard to work on skills with such young kiddos, so my main goal has been to just keep them moving and spend a few minutes each week letting them take turns kicking the ball into the goal. At yesterday's game, they were actually stealing the ball from each other. I was/am SO thrilled to see them being more assertive on the field. So proud. </div>
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4. I'm in the process of removing a hundred billion kajillion pictures from my phone. It's taking a while. </div>
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5. Lillie wore a swimsuit today for the first time ever. Her fluffy baby rolls were out of control and deliciously squeezy. </div>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-27220135121289385452017-03-04T20:52:00.000-06:002017-03-04T20:52:47.199-06:00Today, I WinToday has been a good day. I love days like this, when the weight of my PPD issues don't smother me with discouragement or despair. I spent the day with my family (which isn't exactly different from every other day of the week 😏). The day began with a 5K race for husband. It was a lot of work, but a lot of fun, to wait for Daddy to run by and then trek to the finish line with the kids. Darren beat us to the finish line... By my calculations, he totally shouldn't have, buuuuuut....walking/running with kids and whatnot... We watched him cross the line from the top of an overhead crosswalk. The rest of the day saw a home-teaching visit, NAPS ALL AROUND, and Emma's first official play date. She's been to play dates without me before, but it's usually a babysitting/my convenience situation. Today her friend invited her over. ❤ While she was gone I got some food prep done (!!!)(I'm terrible at food prep)(breakfast for the next few days is in the bag)(literally). I love that girl, but I'm looking forward to pre-k next fall. It's nice to only have one "helper" underfoot for a couple of hours. While she was gone, Darren took Milton on an errand, which meant blissful one-on-one time with my pretty little baby.<br />
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Now the house is going to sleep. All three kids are freshly bathed (my favorite!). Darren passed out before dinner, Lillie and I are snuggled up and nursing on the couch, and <strike>the kids are in bed </strike>one kid is in bed. The other one just snuck out to snuggle with my butt.<br />
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I'm not a thousand percent certain that I'm prepared for primary tomorrow (need to check on that), but I feel peaceful. I feel very content.<br />
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And I looooove this feeling. Very grateful for days like this.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-32675437660716551982017-02-26T21:11:00.000-06:002017-02-26T21:11:07.555-06:00Sunday night's list1. I'm sick. I don't like being sick, but I guess there are worse things. It started as a faint buzzing in my head and tingle in my throat this morning and has progressed throughout the day. I currently feel very flu-ish, but I've never had the flu (that I know of), so I could just be dramatic.<br />
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2. I led part of the primary in Sacram ent Meeting this morning for ward conference. They nailed it. A group of kids will never do it perfectly, but they did SUCH a good job singing "I Love to See the Temple" and "In That Holy Place" (Sally DeFord). They sat up in the choir seats and everything. It was fun to be part of that group, and I am extremely proud of them, but OH MY GOODNESS, it is terrifying to lead kids in front of everyone. The only awesome part was that my back was turned to the congregation, so I was looking at the kids the entire time. That's a muuuuuch better view. It took me a good 45 minutes or so to decompress and stop shaking. Haha<br />
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3. Speaking of primary, I have been called as the music leader. Obviously, per #2. It's intimidating, but I'm having fun reviving the old school music posters my mom used when I was in primary. I have a couple of her originals that have survived and am making more of my own in a similar style. It was my favorite way to learn the music as a kid, and the easiest way (for me) to teach it. Some people like using notebooks, but I can't keep up with the page flipping, and I don't think kids need every single word in front of them. I have a lot to learn and have also learned quite a bit already.<br /><br />4. Amanda and her crew came over tonight and cleaned my kitchen and made us dinner. It was perfectly delicious, and now my belly is full and kitchen is cleaned. She gets an A+ for awesomeness!<br />
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5. I feel like poop.<br />
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XOXOXOEmilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-69245223317825607292017-02-14T21:51:00.001-06:002017-02-14T21:56:14.225-06:00The war in my head<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGom7LMuS8Q02mQw-21q81LUCo0W0xru0PbsEv9-8mxjc7CgxS6YhkXeMUKAo23BwKO30CCE1fIQXsB6gZP9ND3uzF4Vv59c3VcWMMZR4Oqj9-O5Wa8VbND48QJqEP-ZEi2r6P5E-y10/s1600/emily_holding_lillie_roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGom7LMuS8Q02mQw-21q81LUCo0W0xru0PbsEv9-8mxjc7CgxS6YhkXeMUKAo23BwKO30CCE1fIQXsB6gZP9ND3uzF4Vv59c3VcWMMZR4Oqj9-O5Wa8VbND48QJqEP-ZEi2r6P5E-y10/s640/emily_holding_lillie_roses.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Credit: Darilyn Jeter Photography</i></td></tr>
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Dear Friends,</span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">I feel like I should be super grossed out by how I'm looking in this picture (and honestly, I kind of am...but that's just because </span></span><span class="_5zk7" data-offset-key="1cd06-1-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: rgba(88 , 144 , 255 , 0.14902); border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(88 , 144 , 255 , 0.298039); color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="1cd06-1-0"><span data-text="true">#vanity</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">). It was really humid that day, and post partum hormones have NOT been kind to my hairs. Not even a little bit. My hair and I aren't really getting along these days, and most of the time I hate how it looks. </span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">However, I think this picture is positively dreamy. </span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">When I look at it, I see my struggles. They are written in every single detail of my appearance. I see how hard I tried to make my hair look like "me". I see that I took the time to put on some make-up, despite my current lack of enthusiasm for putting forth that kind of effort. I see my puffy cheeks and my sad and tired eyes. Honestly, I see pain, and it hurts my heart that the woman in this picture doesn't even know that she is hurting. She hasn't yet realized that she has lost control. She feels every emotion a hundred times deeper and harder than ever before, but she isn't really noticing. She doesn't even know that I'm looking at her and feeling sorry for her. </span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">But I also see my baby curled up against my body, like she was made for that spot. Like that spot was made for her. I see a soft smile on my face. I see that I'm trying. I see a love that radiates from me and back from the baby. I see a baby that needs me. That baby loves me. I need that baby.
I literally need that baby.
She has been my constant link to unconditional love and sanity since she was born. She literally could not care less what kind of shortcomings I have--she always hugs me like this. Objectively, I know my other kids and husband feel the same way, but it isn't always as obvious because they are old enough to make the kind of choices that sometimes leave a person as vulnerable as myself questioning everything. She has honestly only been inconsolable once or twice EVER, and it was due to tummy pains. She cries when she needs to be held, when she's sick of the car seat, or when her brother mauls her, and that's pretty much it. She loves to be held and played with. She loves to snuggle.
</span></span><br />
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<i>I have post partum depression, and it. has. been. a. struggle. </i></b>
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Like, I can't even deal. And I mean that with all the sincerity that current millennials usually lack whenever they use that phrase.
Except I have to deal. I have children to care for and a husband to serve. I have a future to plan for, and a future me who wants to be able to look back.
Though getting my hands on a solid treatment plan from the medical community has been a circus, I am doing everything I can to learn what I need from the other corners of my life. I am learning what I need from my husband and family. I am learning how to communicate my feelings. I am learning how to rearrange my priorities every other hour so that I can stay afloat. And by "stay afloat", I mean, keep my emotions topside. It takes very little to send them sliding down, so I do everything in my power to manipulate my circumstances and emotions. As you might imagine, success is spotty, but I'll take whatever I can get. </span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span>
<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">When the world turns dark, it's as though I am under water. I lose orientation and am frantically slapping my arms around, hoping to make contact with the one thing that will bring relief. My "air" is hard to identify, and sometimes I just have to cry. It doesn't actually make me feel better, but that doesn't make it any less compelling. Sometimes, it's all I can do to just keep the tears in my eyelids. And sometimes, the trigger is nothing more aggressive than a person at Wal-Mart not smiling and acknowledging my apology after my kid ran in front of her basket.
Nobody owes that to me, but that extra kindness would be so appreciated on those days. Other days, I don't care. But that just makes me hard to please, doesn't it?
Being under water brings a heavy darkness that overwhelms me. It's a darkness that completely disorients me. A darkness that is always nearby, even when I'm not actually feeling it. It is ready to be involved at a moment's notice, and it manages to suck the fun out of nearly everything. That isn't to say that I don't enjoy life. Some days are good, and some days are bad. The bad days are usually terrible, but I'm learning more how to cherish the good days, especially since I never know when things will become dark again. I never know when I'll need to return to full-fledged Survival Mode.
Anyway. I've always wanted newborn pictures of my babies. I was so unbelievably thrilled when my talented sister-in-law said that she would take these pictures when she was in town. I wanted to catch the wonder that is a new baby. I had no idea that she could capture so much more.
I want to hate this picture, but the truth is that I love it. I love it so much. This trial will be a defining experience in my life, I can guarantee it. I'm certain that I will never forget these trenches that I am so eager to leave behind. One day I will look back at this picture, and I promise that I will be able to identify every scrap of strength in my image. I will see my fight, and I will know my strength, because by then, I will have completely overcome the challenge.
I love this picture because I am trying so hard to love myself. Like no other time in my life (except, perhaps, 7th grade) I struggle to accept who I am and what I am worth. Since today is Valentine's Day, I am trying to be mindful of myself. I hope my meager offering to my husband and children were and are acceptable to them. I know I sincerely appreciated the opportunity to sleep in this morning (thank you, Darren!). I think negative self-talk is something a lot of people struggle with, but right now it is one of my greatest enemies. In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I am recommitting to loving myself by not speaking ugly to myself or about myself. </span></span><br />
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Also, feel free to discuss it with me. The truth about trying to end the stigma around PPD is that when you have it (in my case anyway), the fear of drawing attention to myself and appearing dramatic is crippling. I want it to be talked about, because no mother should be afraid to reach out for help. And no friend should be afraid to offer it. But I don't want anybody to think I am a helpless victim. In some ways I believe that I am a victim, but that's where the challenge lies. There are legitimate struggles that, to an outsider, might look pathetic. Some weeks, it is all I can do to keep the hotdogs thawed out so that my kids don't starve. The strength I have today isn't up for debate with anyone, but once I've turned those tables, I'll no longer be a victim.
Thanks for your support.
XOXOXOXOXO</span></span><br />
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<span data-offset-key="1cd06-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">Love, Emily
P.S. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiF09D9TIls" target="_blank">This song</a> has been one of my personal anthems through these past few months. If you can tolerate contemporary Christian rock (13 year old me would so roll her eyes if she knew I listened to that stuff now...), give it a listen.
P.S.S. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dp4WC_YZAuw" target="_blank">This song</a> too.
</span></span>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-55569814086224892602017-01-15T23:15:00.001-06:002017-01-15T23:30:50.025-06:00The Part Where Lillie Was Born<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Lillie Mae Brown’s Birth Story</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">November 8, 2016</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">9:16 AM</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">7 lbs 14.5 oz</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">20 inches</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I prepared for this labor unlike I have ever before prepared. Having previously run long distance races, the correlation between the 3 Emotional Signposts of Labor and a marathon was key for me, and I read as much as I could to learn about it. In short, the first Emotional Signpost can be described as fairly laid-back and fun. The second could be called hard work. The third describes a feeling of defeat as the runner/laborer feels as though she can't possibly keep going, though in actuality, the end is closer than ever. I studied labor with this imagery in mind, hoping that it would prove helpful when the time came. And it did! So yahoo!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Also: This is my obligatory warning that this is an uncensored record of events. There's almost nothing about childbirth that isn't disgusting. </span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><u>The Part Where Labor Begins</u></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let me begin by saying that up until closer to the end, anticipation for Lillie’s labor, and the actual labor itself, was probably a trillion times more relaxed than either of my previous labors. In and of itself, that fact makes me feel like I’ve arrived. I’ve made it. I know how to handle waiting for baby to arrive. It helps that having two other little kids under foot keep a mama SUPER busy. There was not a lot of time for sitting around and wishing labor would begin. I was usually wishing that labor would wait for a convenient moment.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN-KL3uqOTbvKNfyf3JutVx7cIfZWqzSZopXjun5P9A2W0E1ccg4LT_k1mvfVhKa4yTCYK3BzgSl2zQ-bnx2miIED5Uu-TDmgQxhNqHq3fowp_yNlSbIhxg7TFMcURJXao23fZyvfr2o/s1600/20161019_221649-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHN-KL3uqOTbvKNfyf3JutVx7cIfZWqzSZopXjun5P9A2W0E1ccg4LT_k1mvfVhKa4yTCYK3BzgSl2zQ-bnx2miIED5Uu-TDmgQxhNqHq3fowp_yNlSbIhxg7TFMcURJXao23fZyvfr2o/s320/20161019_221649-1.jpg" width="198" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Looking gigantic and cute about a week before birth</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I also felt a lot of pressure to NOT go into labor before all the members of my contingency plans were ready. The week before she was due, Darren had two work meetings on the calendar—one of them being in Houston. Mom (Louise Jeter…my mom…in case you were wondering) had a HUGE church event scheduled for Saturday of that week (the 12th) for which she had been planning and preparing for an entire year (a family history Discovery Day). She was also committed to work the presidential election, which is literally an all-day event--she arrives before sunrise and leaves well after it has gone to sleep. She doesn't have time to help me that day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I was at peace with this because I was also hoping to get to watch the Primary Presentation at church that Sunday, November 13, and I had a lot of Christmas decorating to accomplish since I had lost the whole first week of November to a stupid cold.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, naturally, pre-labor began during the wee hours of the morning on Monday, November 7. I was wakened by slow and sharp menstrual-type pains that definitely caught my attention. I was able to sleep well enough, but they were definitely more convincing than my pre-pre-labor pains*.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">---</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*my pregnancies involve a lot of contractions that have no direct effect on labor</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*the progression of these stages of pain is something I can't really describe...just know there are differences along the way, and by the 3rd time around I had a decent idea of what the pains meant, for the most part. Pre-pre-labor pains is a perfectly legitimate description.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Understanding that it was an incredibly inconvenient week for childbirth, I exercised a calculated level of denial and went about my morning. The only piece of information I was really willing to acknowledge was that in the hours since they had begun, the intensity of the contractions had not subsided.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was during my warm morning bath that I remembered the pains from Emma's labor. Sensory memory is a thing, right? I had taken a warm bath when similar contractions were happening in 2013. I realized that IF my body was taking the same route as it had then, we would be in the hospital in less than 24 hours.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I spoke with Darren. I told him that I didn't want to alarm him or sound dramatic, but I had a really strong feeling that there was a good chance I would be going into labor within a day. I asked him what kind of ramifications there would be if he missed his meeting the next day. The career prospects weren't great with that scenario, but he gave the powers-that-be a call and explained the situation. They weren't sympathetic, but did let him know that the chances of actual repercussions were minimal and to reschedule his meeting. He did so, and I felt a little more at ease knowing that it was no longer on the calendar.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoijFpXAyBw82H8IZg107_iWOC0qu_FESVHV20PenZ4aLtWYIIsL1pe7iuBDJexssW8k8woIz9tFQ3v_u2ghhwrt0Pa8QWCSQOutnDvwDjwyWm_FB0hOOeAJPmWO67A6XkWGDF5xZUHU/s1600/20161107_131300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoijFpXAyBw82H8IZg107_iWOC0qu_FESVHV20PenZ4aLtWYIIsL1pe7iuBDJexssW8k8woIz9tFQ3v_u2ghhwrt0Pa8QWCSQOutnDvwDjwyWm_FB0hOOeAJPmWO67A6XkWGDF5xZUHU/s320/20161107_131300.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Snuggling with my babies at nap time</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I went throughout the day quietly acknowledging each menial task as a “last time” event, and took many pictures with my heart. When I laid the kids down for naps, I snuggled a bit longer. I held Milton in particular. It's never easy when your baby is promoted and doesn't get to be the baby anymore. I laid in his bed and held him close, kissing his warm and sticky face every now and then as he breathed on me. One day I won't get to hold him while he sleeps, and that honestly makes me sad. There's something about my baby boy.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHs97Ex55Su_yf_lXqIxgb5iAXxTp18qvCuO_Y969gN69vwK9a2qDo5de-pKrjsWVnQinbwjfRbzxqxQTjJ4xSHhkKNREPgzv5pbgd_3OIJzyuIICmas2MEvMZR25z-ZOQ7o7cBqGkUXM/s1600/20161107_132121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHs97Ex55Su_yf_lXqIxgb5iAXxTp18qvCuO_Y969gN69vwK9a2qDo5de-pKrjsWVnQinbwjfRbzxqxQTjJ4xSHhkKNREPgzv5pbgd_3OIJzyuIICmas2MEvMZR25z-ZOQ7o7cBqGkUXM/s320/20161107_132121.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nap</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As the evening drew near, I caught a second wind and finished decorating for Christmas. I spoke with my sister, Anne-Marie, on the phone for a little while and shared my anticipations. I finished packing my hospital suitcase. Darren made a dinner of spaghetti and sausage. It was an interesting combination, but Mama doesn't complain when Mama doesn't have to do the cooking or cleaning!</span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJqyvvqDAsK-M5eVKUlSX4cB71l31BTKoFYrEE2l9YdElbqUAXy9Bpdy7gg1ba3iGj2HQ8K0uuRfHRLqPfqocsB-GrPI6lnfz-zf8s4SWSWcHdeF2iA1vaC5i11Hoyd5670QLcc7CdvI/s1600/20161107_153817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJqyvvqDAsK-M5eVKUlSX4cB71l31BTKoFYrEE2l9YdElbqUAXy9Bpdy7gg1ba3iGj2HQ8K0uuRfHRLqPfqocsB-GrPI6lnfz-zf8s4SWSWcHdeF2iA1vaC5i11Hoyd5670QLcc7CdvI/s320/20161107_153817.jpg" width="180" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I spent the calm parts of the evening sitting on the couch, basking in the soft glow of Christmas lights and decorations while watching Cinderella. The kids joined me for a while, but eventually we put them to bed. Darren and I watched TV until late. We discussed the what-ifs ahead of us. I went to bed before he was ready, and he decided to sleep on the couch. I wanted to get a good night of sleep so that I could hopefully have a little energy for the following day, should things become exciting.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2u6eccS4CL0_-G7KYKFQ_9XT3RmKA8Gi4kMcMI7EKwGwwNRxqH77qPHpPzjjZRmhgCfUHub1WjtdhMXCvS1w_brcWuj0ca7Yk7EQBCIYKDXvYaPB4ODT1TQOkHabMxq6QT39S9guvWaY/s1600/20161107_183121.jpg" imageanchor="1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2u6eccS4CL0_-G7KYKFQ_9XT3RmKA8Gi4kMcMI7EKwGwwNRxqH77qPHpPzjjZRmhgCfUHub1WjtdhMXCvS1w_brcWuj0ca7Yk7EQBCIYKDXvYaPB4ODT1TQOkHabMxq6QT39S9guvWaY/s320/20161107_183121.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I nervously gave Mom a call and informed her of the day's events. I hadn't wanted to tell her too soon without being reasonably sure, but by that point I had been contracting for nearly 20 hours. It was time to tell our Plan A babysitter what was happening! I told her that I might be calling during the night, but hopefully not. Hopefully the baby would stay put for a while longer. As I laid in bed to sleep, I took the opportunity to check with a couple of friends about possibly babysitting the next day if the need arose. By the time I was ready to close my eyes, I was feeling prepared and supported, but mostly I felt TIRED. So I went to sleep at 10:30.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The contractions continued. I felt like I was sleeping hard between contractions. I would drift toward consciousness with the pain, but then it would subside, and I would relax into oblivion again. Around 2 o'clock in the morning, I felt a contraction beginning. It hurt, and I rolled onto my left side, burying my face in the mattress as I focused on relaxing through the pain until it was over. I was barely awake.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That is when it happened.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In my semi-conscious state, I was very confused when I heard and felt a disctinct popping sound. It sounded like someone with very large fingers had just cracked a knuckle. In fact, it felt like my pelvis had just cracked a knuckle. In any case, I was suddenly VERY awake. I considered the possibilities: I'm either dying, imagining things, or maybe my water broke? I laid there and waited for a gush of fluids. It did not happen. A moment of clarity later, I realized that if a gush of fluids were to commence, I should probably move myself to the toilet. I'm an excellent decision maker. The moment I sat, I felt the gush.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was in that moment of definitive evidence that my mind ceased to function. All the reading and talking and preparing never seems to sufficiently prepare me for the real thing. I suddenly had no idea what to do with myself. Do we go to the hospital? Do we wait? Should I call mom? Should I call the hospital? HOW DO I REACH DARREN?!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Since he was on the other side of the house, I was at a loss. I tried to holler for him, but no luck. I tried to call him on my phone, but that did not work either. By this time, it had been 10 minutes since my water had broken, and contractions we becoming decidedly more intense. I put in a call to Labor and Delivery. The nurse I spoke with encouraged me to go ahead and come to the hospital. I wanted to speak to Darren before making any real decisions, but after a minute realized that he would be deferring me anyway since I was the one in pain, so I called Mom around 2:15 and asked her to come and be with the kids. Then I dressed myself and woke a sleeping Darren on the couch, informing him that he needed to get up and get packed because Mom was on her way, and we needed to get going.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6eA9sqddqCqqLVgtd3xYhLynlmqQDeUts0QpkTrUz2bbv5cgXVIoMay0aM7WBBMKQNTSmXF6CgM9AAQjL47WqIsKot9SfI_0l81zhyD1WFNdXjcEHO_odxFBdrfmFFp1DSsv2OgfEIPY/s1600/20161108_025014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6eA9sqddqCqqLVgtd3xYhLynlmqQDeUts0QpkTrUz2bbv5cgXVIoMay0aM7WBBMKQNTSmXF6CgM9AAQjL47WqIsKot9SfI_0l81zhyD1WFNdXjcEHO_odxFBdrfmFFp1DSsv2OgfEIPY/s320/20161108_025014.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Will Baby be a He or a She?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom arrived at 2:30. We finished gathering our things, and I snuck into the kids' room to take a quick picture of them. "Last pictures" are very important to me. I need to remember that last moment before I leave to bring home a new baby. Darren took a last baby bump picture of me also. It is pretty awful, but it was the middle of the night. I reserve the right to not be super fresh and beautiful. I h</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ugged Mom, thanked her (I hope), and we left.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As we pulled from the driveway, Darren told me that he was hungry and asked if he could get a quick bite on the way. I said that was fine. It's the middle of the night, I thought. There is no way any place is so busy that it won't be a quick stop, and there's no telling when he'll have a good opportunity to eat again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Turns out I was only half right. Jack-in-the-Box wasn't even remotely busy, but they took FOREVER. We waited forever to order. We waited forever to pay. And then we waited forever to get the food. And then when they brought us the food, the employee said that someone had goofed up with the money and asked us to sit tight while he went inside to figure out if we had been given too much change. We hadn't been given a recipt so it was their word against ours. Not amused. By this time, I was having some pretty intense contractions. The verdict was that we had the right amount of change. Darren chose at this point to demand a receipt upon principle (and because he wanted to call and leave a poor review on their servey). We never did get that receipt. We mocked them the whole way to the hospital. We are very compassionate and mature like that. I'm going to defend myself by claiming that the pain was making me irritable, because it was.</span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><u>The Part Where We Go to the Hospital</u></span></b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQusJBsX1ADvbmd6rqsAYwyCUv1qdhM1Dl5NVwDdNh-1dfcQTNhAygg95-5E1DZbndCGZXshCxA9_G9hITwnU81iO6OI84vDF-3uj5i4O39smLRN0q5J4052vOz154eJsCJYJVTEsMtQ/s1600/20161108_024551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQusJBsX1ADvbmd6rqsAYwyCUv1qdhM1Dl5NVwDdNh-1dfcQTNhAygg95-5E1DZbndCGZXshCxA9_G9hITwnU81iO6OI84vDF-3uj5i4O39smLRN0q5J4052vOz154eJsCJYJVTEsMtQ/s320/20161108_024551.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Last Look. This was their last night as a kid crew of only two.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When we arrived at the hospital, we were blessed with a prime parking spot. We entered through the ER and were ferried up to the third floor to Labor and Delivery triage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I'm not sure if it had been a rough night or if she was just tired, but my admitting nurse didn't seem to have much humor left in her. She questioned whether or not my water had actually broken because the test came back negative the first time. Um, no. If that isn't amniotic fluid flowing out, then something is terribly wrong with me. When she checked my dilation, she contributed to the tear in the sack by accidentally ripping it wide open. No second test necessary, it turns out. We all knew what was happening, and I was moved to a room. It was 3:23 AM, according to the post I made in the Jeter Facebook page.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMW2O7uQXCQ7h2Lic0q5WkR0caMQ9w4JKTn9z_Krakutvl22QnUNGBaVEK1nSVMr-nZLaNHcx1bBowsEPrvL9yHoac6-cdZ0ANpF17FtAH7bK40drVmqbYVKePm3L21cP1LKaKs4SciU/s1600/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-19-1_resized.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMW2O7uQXCQ7h2Lic0q5WkR0caMQ9w4JKTn9z_Krakutvl22QnUNGBaVEK1nSVMr-nZLaNHcx1bBowsEPrvL9yHoac6-cdZ0ANpF17FtAH7bK40drVmqbYVKePm3L21cP1LKaKs4SciU/s400/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-19-1_resized.png" width="303" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbvB4nHgcAGGmvebM3_edMJIpw5j_xjVDNHQBjlHEIYlhw2HGLDrscQ-xmHPKFA04UkPXkyLAOa_aLD4BexhLjDvs6KJZczxQB5XtKlAeEsVeWfBjYBHEaSRQ_pZj9ZqQRQ2NVDbee7s/s1600/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-30-1-1_resized.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbvB4nHgcAGGmvebM3_edMJIpw5j_xjVDNHQBjlHEIYlhw2HGLDrscQ-xmHPKFA04UkPXkyLAOa_aLD4BexhLjDvs6KJZczxQB5XtKlAeEsVeWfBjYBHEaSRQ_pZj9ZqQRQ2NVDbee7s/s320/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-30-1-1_resized.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTh9ywaUh_MwOdOTJ6vKkgsJs8LWN-5BDAzLjbckuYZ7PWoPDfpt_q2MEbly0rCDjPxGXyNtg6-iUC8GthyHvfTydkeNgVX9Ce1TpXQBZjJXGiXfzoIpQfivoJLLfmUGT_vzACh5wnCs/s1600/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-40-1_resized.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCTh9ywaUh_MwOdOTJ6vKkgsJs8LWN-5BDAzLjbckuYZ7PWoPDfpt_q2MEbly0rCDjPxGXyNtg6-iUC8GthyHvfTydkeNgVX9Ce1TpXQBZjJXGiXfzoIpQfivoJLLfmUGT_vzACh5wnCs/s320/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-40-1_resized.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojpSIQKajr6U4FdaoBAwSUzLmPk70a39RihGLhQcAzMkS_FLvu_zsLtJ0SQi7VkkivUQ_-g9duYQKWfmObwKD4MfR2-zQkdXX-uHQfwx8Kv68PkWVAWJe3MZaqfWRDDeFjHfFrrkjKXE/s1600/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-36-1-1_resized.png" imageanchor="1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojpSIQKajr6U4FdaoBAwSUzLmPk70a39RihGLhQcAzMkS_FLvu_zsLtJ0SQi7VkkivUQ_-g9duYQKWfmObwKD4MfR2-zQkdXX-uHQfwx8Kv68PkWVAWJe3MZaqfWRDDeFjHfFrrkjKXE/s320/Screenshot_2017-01-01-17-14-36-1-1_resized.png" width="294" /></span></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For the first time ever, I was finally brave enough to ask the nurse if we could skip the IV. I was okay with the needle part being inserted into my arm, but didn't want to be hooked up to saline unless I needed it: less trips to the bathroom, less feeling cold (IVs make me cold...don't ask me why), and one less thing to be tethered to. She granted my wish, and I continued to labor "comfortably".</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At this point, everything is someone what of a blur. Time passes differently in a hospital. Time passes differently when you're hurting. But time still passes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For the part of labor that correlates with the "Second Emotional Signpost" discussed in the Bradley Method book that I read, I worked my way through each contraction by groaning while Darren rubbed my back. The TV was off. We were alone. I asked that the lights be dimmed. It was a perfect as it could be. The contractions continued to increase in their intensity, but I honestly can't say anything about how fast they came. I never once timed them officially, not even while at home. At home I had just kept an eye on the clock, but had no intention of putting forth extra effort if they didn't start hurting more. After a time, I needed Darren to stop rubbing my back. His touching me was a distraction, and physically very annoying. I went to the bathroom a few times here and there, including one toilet-destroying trip, if you know what I mean. Nothing like a little bit of labor with a side of explosive...toilet-destroying.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">More than once I became concerned that the baby was coming faster than anyone was ready for. I asked to be checked several times, and was pretty disappointed each time to learn that I wasn't dilated to 10 centimeters yet. It sure hurt like I was! (so naive about how bad the pain was going to become...). And yes, I know that each dilation check is a new opportunity to introduce bacteria to the birth canal. But I don't have to justify my decisions to you. YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Labor makes me dramatic.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">During each contraction, I focused on breathing and groaning in rhythm with the pain. I focused my mind on the pain and its journey through my body. It felt like each wave began near my chest and ended in my pelvis. This was effective for me, and got me through several hours of increasingly intense contractions. At some point, a new sensation of pain joined at the end of each contraction. As the contraction waned, and I expected the pain to dissipate, a tugging sensation deep in my pelvis started to catch my attention. With every new contraction the tugging progressed to painful pulling until it felt like my insides were stretching apart. I asked Darren if it was possible to feel my cervix dilate. Weirdly enough, he had no idea. I think he said something about not having a cervix. Like that matters. ;)</span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The Part Where Darren Makes Me Cry</span></b></u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I eventually hit the 3rd Emotional Signpost of labor (per my Bradley method book). I was still handling my contractions, but it was starting to feel endless. I lost my ability to control my breathing for a few minutes, and was afraid that I wouldn't be able to get that back. I <strike>confessed</strike> whined to Darren how I was feeling, and told him that I needed a pep talk. I was pretty specific about what I needed him to say to me. I needed him to be sweet and kind and tell me I was beautiful and amazing. Most of all, I needed him to express pride in how far I had come.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If you know Darren, you know he doesn't say garbage like that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Instead, he spoke to me like a little league coach and made me cry.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It wasn't his finest moment, but again, if you know Darren, you know that's his recipe for support.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I've forgiven him, but FYI, don't go crawling to him for a pat on the back.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I managed to pull myself together and give him a small piece of my mind. In hindsight, that might have been his plan all along: making me mad enough to yell at him would pull me out of a slump.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I disagree with his methods, but I guess that point is moot by now. He was an alright Coach.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let it be understood that I didn't cry at any other point in labor, so I'm basically awesome. It takes very little pain to make me cry!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">After weeping like a small child and then yelling like a wench, I needed to pee. Darren helped me out of bed and disconnected all my wires. Before I could walk away from the bed, a contraction hit. I was standing at the end of the bed, holding onto the footboard, when the nurse walked in carrying all the equipment she needed to hook me up to a Pitocin drip.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Come again?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I asked her what "all that" was. She replied that the doctor had put in orders for me to receive Pitocin. Feeling offended, I asked her why. She said that Dr. L wanted to be sure that she was the one who delivered the baby.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now don't get me wrong: I love Dr. L. She is an excellent doctor with impeccable bedside manner. She listens and is attentive. She respects wishes and accomodates them as well as she can within the parameters of her professional and hospital policy. As far as physician care goes, she's hard to beat, especially for this area. However, I was genuinely insulted that she thought I needed Pitocin to progress and that she felt entitled to the baby's delivery. I wanted her to deliver the baby, but I wasn't committed enough to the idea that I was willing to take unnecessary medicine to make it happen.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I boldy (see: with a shaky voice, afraid to cause a scene) told the nurse that I did not want the Pitocin since I was progressing just fine without it. She didn't look super happy, but she said that she would give the doctor a call. After peeing and settling back into bed, she returned to let me know that Dr. L would be by soon to visit me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A few minutes later, Dr. L entered the room with a huge smile on her face. One second later, her smile dropped and a sympathetic expression took over. She declared, "You're really hurting; I didn't realize you were in so much pain."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You think?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Before you take my sarcasm and run with it, I understood and understand what she meant perfectly. For a decent portion of labor, it's basically fun and games with a side of pain. Eventually it turns into just pain. I had only been in true labor for a few hours by this time, so I assume she was expecting me to still be in the "fun and games" part. Alas, I was not.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She instructed me to lay down so that she could check my dilation. I let her know that laying down was excruciating, so I wanted to get it over with very quickly so that I could return my bed to an upright position. She told me I was 4 centimeters. I asked if it was possible to feel the cervix dilate, and she said she had never heard that before but assumed it could be possible. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I submit that it is possible.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dr. L let me know that I could do whatever I wanted at that point and that there was even a yoga ball in the closet I could use if I wanted to. I do not like to move around in labor, so I declined the offer and continued to forge ahead from the comfort of my bed, sitting up, with my diamond-making frog legs supported by a million pillows.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The rest of labor is a blur of contractions. I was no longer groaning or growling. I was sitting up and felt every single body-shredding pain as the baby barrelled its way through my pelvis.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I frequently thought each contraction was "the" contraction. It felt like the baby was going to slam through at any moment, and that if we weren't careful, nobody would be prepared to catch it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dr. L came by at another time to check on me and ask how I was doing. I was sweaty and hurting, but things were going as well as possible. I asked her to check me again since I was so sure, this time, that I had to be dilated to 20 centimeters. That's how I felt, anyway. We decided, per her check, that the baby was on its way out soon. I was at 8 centimeters, and progressing quickly. She said she was going to gather supplies and nurses and return.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><u>The Part Where I Scream</u></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><strike>THIRTY-FOUR HOURS LATER</strike> Two contractions and a few minutes later, I demanded that Darren find out where the cavalry was at because my body was possessed by a pelvis-pulverizing demon. I was starting to quietly scream every time it hit. I was holding Darren's hand and squeezing steady support from his finger tips when it hurt the worst. He asked me if I would be alright without him. I honestly wasn't sure since holdling his hand made me feel better for some reason, but I needed some medical professionals STAT. I wasn't interested in delivering this baby alone. I endured one more contraction with his hand handy, and then told him to get to steppin'. Twenty seconds (or so) later, I could feel another pain rushing on.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is the part of the story where my dignity takes a swift exit and trips down a flight of stairs on her way out.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This pain that hit... How do I describe it?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Imagine, for a moment, that you have four foot blade stabbing up the hole of your hiney. Seems like it might be excruciating, right? Now try to imagine the opposite. Imagine that blade originates somewhere inside of your body and is trying to find its way out without slicing any vital tissues.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There I was, sitting upright in bed, on my fists. My butt was no longer touching the bed as the pain caused me to levitate with little more than my wimpy fists to support me. The pillows that had been so carefully placed underneath my legs and knees were being pummeled all about as my legs writhed with the rhythm of the pain. Is there another word for pain? We'll go with agony.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The next thing I did was embarrassing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I felt the urge coming over me, and I wanted to stop it. Really, I did. But it just kind of... came out...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I screamed. I screamed out loud. I screamed really loud, and I didn't care who heard me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That isn't completely true... I wanted Darren to hear me. I wanted him to know it was me and come running back to assure me that I wouldn't die on that bed. He later shared that in his quest to find a nurse and/or my doctor, he was finally speaking with a nurse when he heard me scream. He knew it was me, and he told the nurse it was me. They came to me shortly after.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dr. L checked me one last time. I felt her hand inside of me playing a twisted game of Rock-Paper-Scissors. I jerked my head up toward her and loudly demanded to know what she was doing since, as far as I was concerned, she had gone offscript. She said she was making sure I was completely effaced before encouraging me to push.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Don't care. Effaced or not, this baby is coming. When it is out of me, we'll know how effaced I am. In the meantime, get your hand out of my vagina!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">**Didn't say any of that out loud, but I thought it really loud.**</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It only got more blurry from there. The rest of my transition memory is a blob of, of course, PAIN, screaming, sarcasm, and embarrassment. I was laid down in bed as my legs were hoisted into stirrups. Whose idea were those?! Like, seriously. They are the last great pillar of broken dignity on the road to hospital delivery.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So my legs are in the stirrups and I am laying on my back. I am convinced at this point that the pain is worse on my back, but in reality, the list of comfortable positions for managing contractions was shrunk down to zero.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was go time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><u>The Part Where I Poop</u></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"Push! Push, Emily! Push! You can do it!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It's hard to put into words how my body physically felt in those moments. I wanted the pain to end, but I did not want to do what it took to make that pain end because it would cause me short-term pain that hurt even worse. Also, the urge to poo was getting stronger by the second. I'm not sure why those physiological features and functions have to be in such close geographic range. The chorus of people telling me to push was unwelcome, as I had no desire to do so. I attempted a few half-hearted pushes, hoping that they would be enough. They weren't enough. During the moments I wasn't screaming in agony, I kept yelling that I didn't want to push.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There was a brief rest between contractions. I knew I had to push. I knew I was the only one who could end this. And I knew that I had to do it, no matter the consequences. So I did the only thing I knew to instill a little bravery into my heart. I bellowed a battle cry:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"I NEED TO POOOOOOOOOP!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I pushed and pushed and pushed, and pushed some more. Two-ish contractions later, I felt the baby's body burst out of me with all the gentle grace of a linebacker. I felt like I had been ripped in two. (I also felt other things leave my body, but in that moment I had decided not to care.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The debilitating pain was over. I flopped my head back onto my pillow, closed my eyes, and laid my hand across my face. I needed to breathe. I needed to rest.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"Y'all, I'm just going to hold the baby up so you can see for yourself what you have," said the excited doctor.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The exhausted mama didn't move.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I simply said, "I'm gonna need a minute," and remained with my head on the pillow, arm across my face, eyes closed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I think Darren snickered.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I continued to lay still.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I realized I was going to have to look sooner or later.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I gathered my strength, and forced myself to look.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I saw Dr. L through my legs, sitting there, holding a goop-covered baby girl in the air to meet her parents.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That baby was beautiful.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Darren's face was elated. He loves his baby girls.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We had our Lillie Mae.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mTFd6lW0uzO1uLVJVl7IkF0Q-e22IRCQ7BWkM5fQoQ_Rd3F8rL7DGCs2vQ2urmF5RkrhX25qXMfdmKuzeD9x3blirtCdNIYJB1f4pwP5tsxyeBVVgDx83P9Xqz_9wUKRxTd7iexM21k/s1600/FB_IMG_1484510364097_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mTFd6lW0uzO1uLVJVl7IkF0Q-e22IRCQ7BWkM5fQoQ_Rd3F8rL7DGCs2vQ2urmF5RkrhX25qXMfdmKuzeD9x3blirtCdNIYJB1f4pwP5tsxyeBVVgDx83P9Xqz_9wUKRxTd7iexM21k/s320/FB_IMG_1484510364097_resized.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBhyphenhyphensOkzPUuft_6sIyh6O1sn5ViTWLp814i3os2rCPec_vsA0hyYv8skwmsAOnnGp0UDOes_B1tHq1Fs_UFNsfMLhkiCxRbfHSWzo-FteIL4P1yGsAMewI8crT7xbRLT8FzZUPKMi5qI/s1600/20161108_102947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBhyphenhyphensOkzPUuft_6sIyh6O1sn5ViTWLp814i3os2rCPec_vsA0hyYv8skwmsAOnnGp0UDOes_B1tHq1Fs_UFNsfMLhkiCxRbfHSWzo-FteIL4P1yGsAMewI8crT7xbRLT8FzZUPKMi5qI/s320/20161108_102947.jpg" width="180" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBhyphenhyphensOkzPUuft_6sIyh6O1sn5ViTWLp814i3os2rCPec_vsA0hyYv8skwmsAOnnGp0UDOes_B1tHq1Fs_UFNsfMLhkiCxRbfHSWzo-FteIL4P1yGsAMewI8crT7xbRLT8FzZUPKMi5qI/s1600/20161108_102947.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOgDbMldJTSB7LM3mu2R-25o5fuqrkzcLc4gqlgFO019Diz8PL9ze2PqqqWk7vgoRmSK5IOabt0ePBnS-uA8plZUyYna_vsoeCuUDVIjEwj62p0Z62jearFhsrro8G7sMhpD3k4bfgNU/s1600/20161108_0947281_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOgDbMldJTSB7LM3mu2R-25o5fuqrkzcLc4gqlgFO019Diz8PL9ze2PqqqWk7vgoRmSK5IOabt0ePBnS-uA8plZUyYna_vsoeCuUDVIjEwj62p0Z62jearFhsrro8G7sMhpD3k4bfgNU/s320/20161108_0947281_resized.jpg" width="180" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">----</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Louise Jeter's (my mom, Lillie's grandma) perspective, as stated in a family e-mail:</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"The night before election day, Emily called to tell me she had kind-of been uncomfortable all day and had cleaned her house and put-up her Christmas tree and decorations. She called again at 2:15 a.m. to tell me her water had broken. So I went to take care of Emma and Milton while she and Darren went to deliver sweet Lillie Mae. Amanda stepped-up, took the day off, did a little running around and then took the kiddos so I could go to my post. Got there about noon. Emma and Milton spent the night with me for two or three nights/days and then returned home. The family history discovery day was that Saturday [I told Emily six months ago NOT to have the baby that week!]; it was done before noon so really not too much of an interruption."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
<b><i>Random tidbits and facts, for the record:</i></b></span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I had a 1st degree tear. Heals a lot faster than a 3rd degree tear, I'll tell you that.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I could not have done it without Darren. Despite our differing motivational approaches, he was a rock--my rock, and his involvement with this labor was his best performance yet. We truly brought this baby into the world as a team. I love him. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My post partum nurses weren't my favorite. They didn't have much bedside manner, and I felt like an annoying burden every time I needed to speak with them. And they made me take almost the two full bags of Pitocin...ugh. I never had to do that before.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Post partum was really hard because I declined Motrin. It disagrees with my Ulcerative Colitis, so I took the best Tylenol products they had to offer. Let's just say that Motrin works better. But I didn't have any UC flare-ups, so the extra pain I felt was worth it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nothing in the world can replace the feelings I felt watching Emma and Milton meet their baby sister. Nothing. </span></li>
</ul>
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src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ6gss-TnV7O4jzmAG13rIEiZ7motfB5xfMf2l2zjMHOdCgITRk4E8k6V0dvmRYLCcc2Mt4cX7WciU4t-2CO5kQOWJG-5dKv-lQtHCPflXar4puIoHUVbSmCjJaDWdzN9Er-E92s3HY9U/s320/20161108_190524.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd7Jqfn9fPy2f_lXdKDZ0uRj14PgsFmVJcmAEc1bqV2wdrl78_wHMda6itmY0yA0_xAUcoJ2IExQQ0SP_E5kHhjjoSVbThRcf1Whi5A_2y0DDcL04nI7yiNTUzEpz1So8ALP_9I52G5Q/s1600/20161108_183106.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd7Jqfn9fPy2f_lXdKDZ0uRj14PgsFmVJcmAEc1bqV2wdrl78_wHMda6itmY0yA0_xAUcoJ2IExQQ0SP_E5kHhjjoSVbThRcf1Whi5A_2y0DDcL04nI7yiNTUzEpz1So8ALP_9I52G5Q/s320/20161108_183106.jpg" width="180" /></a><a 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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The proud papa shared our happy news with the world.</span></td></tr>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-55005299777898176772017-01-06T09:37:00.002-06:002017-01-06T09:37:56.944-06:00New baby!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35rkhokRXoyj4rd7GpaZjtPRAEgtp7kFAEF7MLsBcbQVeo6QtFJiP5TMgv1r8QPg12yXzdzI9l2wVemWljVaFoFRZ0IMeMOmcbLu1bPYnha_DskfOcNoUM6DzA6oy1-dGuMGf_dq0DHc/s1600/20161108_110131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35rkhokRXoyj4rd7GpaZjtPRAEgtp7kFAEF7MLsBcbQVeo6QtFJiP5TMgv1r8QPg12yXzdzI9l2wVemWljVaFoFRZ0IMeMOmcbLu1bPYnha_DskfOcNoUM6DzA6oy1-dGuMGf_dq0DHc/s320/20161108_110131.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
We welcomed a new baby in the first part of November! She's a couple of months old now, and plumping up daily. We adore our Lillie.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-19500519526893181442016-05-08T23:12:00.003-05:002016-05-08T23:12:43.187-05:00The One Where I Bare My Soul<div class="MsoNormal">
In honor of Mother’s Day, I have decided to bare my soul.
This is a difficult subject, and I usually only speak about it with certain
people. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Women are expected to be and do so much. That expectation
can be crippling for some, which is one of the reasons I wanted to write this. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you learn nothing else, I hope you learn that there is
always more to the story. Always more to the woman. There is ALWAYS something
you don’t know. It is unfair to judge when you don’t know all of the facts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am so guilty of this. I accuse and excuse for different
people and myself all day long, but the reality is that anytime people make a
judgment about me, I want to stand up and yell that they don’t know enough to
say anything. By the same token, I need to keep my thoughts kind and my trap
shut, because I am just as ignorant of the personal details of their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe we should talk more. Not so we can more appropriately
judge with adequate information, but so we can be more compassionate. More
information should mean more understanding, because we’ve all been in a dark
place at different times. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This post focuses on my experiences with anxiety. Sure, it
sounds like a made up condition… but it isn’t. If it isn’t something you
experience, I hope it helps you to think of the people you know who may
struggle. If it is something you experience, I hope it helps you feel more
normal and less alone. No matter who you are, I hope it inspires some sense of
self-love. We are all amazing humans. <o:p></o:p></div>
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-----------------------------------------------<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve always been a touch skeptical about the effectiveness
of drugs, and no, it has nothing to do with Big Pharma conspiracies. It’s more
of a shaky disbelief that something as simple as a liquid dose, pill, or tablet
can address symptoms of illness. Witchcraft, the lot of it. Of course, I was
raised by my mother, whose basic philosophy entailed the notion that medicine
only gets involved if an ailment can’t be cured with water, sleep, or a solid
threat against our lives and privileges. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Several years ago, I was introduced to Attention Deficit
Hyperactivity Disorder. It was not the first time I had heard of it, obviously,
but it was the first time I got a <i>real</i>
look at a <i>real</i> condition. I felt so
much compassion, which contrasted entirely with my so-called previous
experience: the “over-diagnosed” kids at school who proudly declared themselves
victims who could not help themselves. I hated those kids. As an adult, I can look
back and see kids who sincerely could not help themselves, and I’m not only
referring to the symptoms of their conditions. How on earth is a child supposed
to cope maturely with a mental illness, especially in the face of adolescent
scrutiny? I guess we all wished we could blame ourselves on something. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, the symptoms of ADD and ADHD resonated with me.
Honestly, it made me emotional as I researched. I began to wonder if maybe I
had an undiagnosed disorder, so I made an appointment to discuss it with my
doctor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The appointment was less than satisfactory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It would seem that my age, gender, and circumstances in life
ruled out the likelihood that I was being serious. My doctor, who I’m sure
meant well, basically told me that a lot of college kids like me wanted to get
their hands of ADHD drugs for heightened performance. I protested that I was
not one of those kids, but he was firm. Instead, he diagnosed me with “anxiety”
and sent me home with a prescription for an anti-anxiety pill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, please. You can’t seriously think I’m delusional, doc.
Whatever “anxiety” is, I guess you can take medicine for it. It sounded like a
load of garbage, but I gave it a chance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I began taking the medicine. I did notice that I was
emotionally calmer about the class I was taking at the time (a very intense
summer Pathophysiology course). However, the side effects of the drug were
terrible for me, so I quit taking it after a few weeks and rationalized that I
had coped for so long, I could just keep on the same way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I have been coping for years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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In the time since, my anxiety has intensified. Or maybe life
has intensified, and I am just better able to recognize the symptoms. Whatever
the case may be, it is particularly terrible during pregnancy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flashback: Late Summer, 2014. I am a stay-at-home-mom with a
16 month old daughter and a 1 year old puppy. I am expecting a baby, due
January 2015. Also, I am angry ALL. THE. TIME. Well, maybe not all the time,
but fits of uncontrollable rage were lurking around every corner. Who might you
guess received the brunt of my aggression? Yup. The poor dog. He was a big boy,
and I honestly probably never actually hurt him because I know I don’t hit very
hard. But ANY little thing he did… knock my baby over with his tail, chew a rag
to shreds, pee on the floor, hit the back door too much trying to tell me he
wanted back inside when I let him out… anything. I was furious. If he was
within range, I would smack his back near his tail. He was never aggressive in
return. He always just looked at me like I had hurt his feelings. I wonder now
if that look was also meant to say that he knew <i>I</i> was hurting. Dogs are intuitive like that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t long before I knew he couldn’t stay. He deserved a
home where his family would love him enough to treat him right. We were
struggling financially at the time (when aren’t we though? #moneyisstupid), so
it was fairly easy to play it off that we couldn’t afford to feed him anymore.
I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, admit to anyone that my main reason for rehoming him
was that I couldn’t control my temper, that his very presence stressed me out,
and that it felt good to hit him. I am not ashamed of finding him a loving new
home, but I miss him every single day. I’d like to apologize to him again for
being such a tyrant. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to present day: Late Spring, 2016. Again, I am
expecting a baby, this time in November. I have a beautiful 3 year old daughter
and a 16 month old son. And again, I am angry…so much of the time. I want so
badly to control it when it happens that my best attempts look like some manic
plea to myself to not be overwhelmed. My words make no sense. For example, I
could ask my daughter to do something and be met with a sassy, “No”. My
response will be to yell, like a crazy person, that she better do what I say.
Then, she’s in tears. I respond with a calmer voice asking her to do it again.
Then I yell. Then I apologize. Then I bite my tongue and try not to speak. And
then I yell again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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All while she’s just standing there and crying. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ask me if I think that’s healthy. Go ahead. Ask me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had my first prenatal appointment a couple of weeks ago
and made absolutely certain to ask if there were any options for treatment for
anxiety during pregnancy. I was afraid to come right out and ask for medicine,
because who wants to be <i>that</i> person?
Besides, I had already been shut down by one doctor who thought I was looking
for an easy hit. Blessed woman that she it, my doctor immediately asked me how
I was feeling, what my thoughts were about the causes of my anxiety, and proposed
a few different drug options. I took my first dose that night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was not expecting to notice a difference for at least 2-3
weeks. But then, I missed a dose. And then another. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two missed doses. That’s all it took for Armageddon to rain
down on my mind, my willpower, my soul, my children, my husband, and my home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew within 10 minutes of waking this past Monday that is
was going to be a very hard day. I could feel the little person who lives in my
mind trying so hard to grab the wheel and regain control. It was veering wildly
off course. My children ate their breakfast at the table (after getting yelled
at by me to “get out of my way”, “get out of the kitchen”, “hush already”, and
“quit whining”. I ate my breakfast on the kitchen floor, directly on the other
side of the wall from the table. I needed the space. And they seemed to know
it…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One child was extra hungry for attention in the form of
crying every. single. time. I left his presence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other child let me know
how much she cared by challenging my authority at every turn while
simultaneously insisting that I hold her and snuggle all day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know what makes me feel better! Accomplishment. So I
quickly tidied up the living room, wiped the table, swept, and stacked the overflowing
laundry baskets on the couch. It felt good to accomplish something, and I
mentally closed down my to-do list for the day since I had already exceeded
expectations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except my mind still didn’t have control of the wheel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I yelled at my kids all day. I forced my daughter down for a
nap with virtually zero affection. I was an angry robot with zero feeling. I
felt empty inside. The only emotion I felt was guilt for how I was treating my
kids every time they irritated me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pushed them out the door that afternoon for a quick trip
to the grocery store with my husband. I thought a little bit of time to myself
would reset the day. I even caught a little nap. SURELY I could enjoy the rest
of the day with my family… WRONG. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was losing my mind. Everything set me off. Everything that
needed to be done felt like an anvil settling deeper on whatever part of the
brain controls motivation. I could not function. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully, I was able to escape for the evening with a
friend and blow off some steam while we spoke about the many horrible things we
had been thinking all day long about our kids—the kinds of things you don’t
admit to thinking about if you don’t want CPS knocking on your door. She gets
me though. And I get her. We really don’t hate our kids. We love them too much,
and there doesn’t seem to be enough brain capacity to compute that into our
mental struggles. That’s my technical description, anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a glance, this is basically what it looks like for me
during any or all episodes:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Sudden rage</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Sudden emotional tantrums/mood swings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Lost sleep as I lay there agonizing over every
word spoken and every social exchange from the previous day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Difficulty counting my blessings or
acknowledging the good parts of life. My focus shifts heavily toward the
negative, and it is hard to reign it in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->A debilitating lack of motivation to accomplish
tasks around my house, run errands, or fulfill obligations<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->A severe dislike for answering the phone, making
phone calls, and often, returning texts. I will usually procrastinate until the
point is moot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Intense loneliness that leads me to wonder if
anyone actually likes me for who I am because I have a hard time being
completely myself when I’m with others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->A conflicting desire to simultaneously be social
and hide in my house and never see anyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Rabbit holes. My thoughts take worrisome
journeys they ought not to take, and the way back is long and trippy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am back on the medicine again. It doesn’t make life
perfect and rainbowy, but it establishes a basis of normal for me. It helps me
to not turn into a raging lunatic whenever anything amiss takes place. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning, my husband was
proposing a couple of different options for silencing our noisy and mischievous
son. His deadpan delivery was intended to be humorous, and before I even had
time to chuckle, the baby boy managed to reach his sister’s cup on the counter
and pour water all over his head, body, and the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed. And then I cleaned it up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did not yell. I did not cry. I did not hit the wall
because life is <i>so</i> unfair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I do not like to refer to anxiety as a mental illness. I know that it
technically is, but the stigma is still a thing, and I don’t like to label
myself as ill. I prefer to consider it an opportunity to improve my mental
health, which is something that everyone can do for themselves in some way or
another. It isn’t even that I don’t believe in invisible illnesses. Heaven
knows I have plenty of experience with Ulcerative Colitis. The only time anyone
knows I’m feeling bad with that is if they happen to be present when I run
through the house screaming, “I need to poop NOW!”. Lucky them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think my reluctance stems from coping without
self-awareness or help for so long. I can reflect on my life experiences and
identify red flags, but seriously, I just dealt with it. I thought it was just
my personality. Part of me still wants to just deal with it. I don’t want
people to think I am a hypochondriac. I don’t want people to think I’m a
whiner. I don’t want people to think I can’t deal with life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to not care what people think about me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t think for a moment that I don’t love myself. I adore
myself. But I am hard to live with, and sometimes I wish I could live in
someone else’s head for a while so that I could have better company up there.
;) But that being said, I don’t believe in trading trials. My trials are mine,
and they are meant to help me grow into the daughter Heavenly Father wants me
to be. My best self will be achieved on the backs of these challenges, and I am
aiming high. <br />
<br />
My purpose for writing this was mostly therapeutic, however, I’m not convinced
there is enough conversation about this. For so long I excused my symptoms as
personality quirks and defects. I didn’t realize they could be helped. I most
definitely do not write to justify anything. I’m not even a little bit ashamed
of taking medicine. The word I would use is astonishment—it is hard to believe
the difference in my quality of life. Or maybe it’s a confession. This is why
I’m a horrible friend. But there I go justifying things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you suspect AT ALL that you are regularly experiencing
symptoms of anxiety, I encourage you to seek help. <br />
<br />
I read an interesting analogy the other day. Drugs for certain mental health
issues are frequently referred to by some naysayers as a “crutch” for the
patient. This implies that if the patient would just get it together, they
could learn to “walk” without it. The analogy basically states: “Would you
rather drag your leg through the dirt, bloody and broken, or would you accept
the help of a crutch?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The correct answer for me is: Yes. Yes I would. I need it so
that I can truly give every day my best shot. It certainly doesn’t turn me into
Mary Poppins (would that it could!), but if I am going to try to be my very
best self <i>for</i> myself—and for my
family—I have to accept the help being offered by my little, white, round,
crutch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little driver who lives in my head thanks me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“When He says to the poor in spirit, “Come unto me”, He
means He knows the way out and He knows the way up.”<br /> Jeffery R. Holland</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-63165133041768352102016-01-17T12:02:00.000-06:002016-01-17T12:02:05.529-06:00Save me1. My son turned ONE this past week. I thought Emma's first year flew by, but the speed of Milton's leaves her in the dust. I seriously thought I JUST had my second baby, but apparently I'm the mother of 1 1/2 toddlers*.<br /><br />
*Milt is so close to figuring out that walking thing. ;)<br />
<br />
2. Emma astounds me with her growth and development. She's so smart, hilarious, observant, and happy. Her vocabulary has increased dramatically in the last 6-7 months, and, let me tell you, it is SO wonderful to be able to communicate. She still lacks clarity a lot of the time, but I'll take hard-to-understand-speech over a crying tantrum any day. Her current favorite thing to say is, "I a pinsceth!" (princess) and, "Hewwo, Bawina" (ballerina...on a toy phone).<br />
<br />
3. On the subject of speech, we suspect that her hearing is an issue that needs to be addressed, so we were finally able to get into the audiologist her pedi referred us to for a hearing test. <br /><br />That woman.<br /><br />She was terrible.<br />
<br />
She threw out a bunch of medical language I didn't understand, which made me uncomfortable. I have a pretty decent understanding of human physiology, and I consider myself super teachable, but I don't appreciate when random terminology (such as that having to do with audiology equipment and technology) is thrown around without ANY explanation whatsoever. It almost sounded like she was trying to prove that she knew what she was talking about. Like, I would hope that she does, but, it's like Mama always said: If you have to tell everyone you're a lady, then you aren't."<br /><br />This here doc was trying way too hard to prove she had smarts. In my head I was basically this girl:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxsY9SAfL0uecrPJ0CmyPoqF_kLJYXJpqSHRbfZMktrU6x99nBhyphenhyphenGNy3Q2Ur7Tk3rTSypWK-LKCl4lcfk9E_ZxJ5kUl9ELJjn7uUf4JIfHdJYu2fQ5ZoC_xnRT4pgHi6ri5wPCi4EsjY/s1600/3c15c1e77704ac57d517fddc490dc6da.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYxsY9SAfL0uecrPJ0CmyPoqF_kLJYXJpqSHRbfZMktrU6x99nBhyphenhyphenGNy3Q2Ur7Tk3rTSypWK-LKCl4lcfk9E_ZxJ5kUl9ELJjn7uUf4JIfHdJYu2fQ5ZoC_xnRT4pgHi6ri5wPCi4EsjY/s320/3c15c1e77704ac57d517fddc490dc6da.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In other news, she was also very condescending to us, extremely disrespectful to Mr. Hottie, and terrible at engaging my uncooperative child.<br />
<br />
I knew Emma would put up a fight (she will protect her ears to the death!), but I hoped the doctor would have enough experience and tricks to help her feel at ease. Instead, she basically kept asking her to do stuff, and when Emma was obstinate, the woman would say, "Hello?", as though she wanted to know if someone was home.<br /><br />Rude.<br />
<br />
She wanted to hear Emma speak, and so she kept asking her to repeat words. That is not how Emma does things, and it has never been. She doesn't do tricks on command. So when the doc asked me how to get her to talk, I told her we needed to find an area with toys and just play for a few minutes--listen to her while she plays.<br />
<br />
Duh.<br />
<br />
That's what we did, and that's what worked.<br />
<br />I feel like that kind of practical knowledge should be at the forefront of her clinical practice if she's going to pretend to be a pediatric audiologist.<br />
<br />
I asked around and heard other horror stories from friends who have also taken their kids to see her.<br />
<br />
She may be great with adults for all I know, but she's muy terrible with children.<br />
<br />
4. I've been sick for a solid week. The kids caught it halfway through the week. We LOVE being sick.... not. Darren went to church without us this morning.<br />
<br />
I miss him.<br /><br />
Come and save me.<br />
<br />
XOXO<br />
<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-45037629042392554602015-10-01T00:19:00.001-05:002015-10-01T00:34:41.901-05:00I'm the mom of a boy<div class="MsoNormal">
I read a <a href="http://www.raisingarrows.net/2015/09/what-you-may-not-know-about-raising-boys/" target="_blank">blog article</a> this evening that highlighted some of
the uniquely <s>amazing</s> <s>horrible</s> 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.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CJy8IeeM7wPrLdnzmQeQQARkdvaVe4i5ky7EVYMa3aW55adV0I1twKtxIExgoK2di-hyS1sWQWRZSP-v349YD0eag206icj7cMPu5SNHj89PDCp4kCAdtiZyuTWygy7j996dOxVDItg/s1600/10476987_10153535308560809_4370689868377507996_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CJy8IeeM7wPrLdnzmQeQQARkdvaVe4i5ky7EVYMa3aW55adV0I1twKtxIExgoK2di-hyS1sWQWRZSP-v349YD0eag206icj7cMPu5SNHj89PDCp4kCAdtiZyuTWygy7j996dOxVDItg/s320/10476987_10153535308560809_4370689868377507996_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This boy has managed to acquire more injuries in his 8 ½ months
than Emma has in her entire 2 ½ years. <br />
<br />
I kid you not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <br />
<br />
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). <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*GASP!* <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. much. blood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(*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.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miraculously, he thought that was an awesome plan.<br />
<br />
It was a rough evening, but Tylenol and lots of nursing got us through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6B5LUOMnwcjdg7GKIjLkcfazmNfAry3NA34fKS71HNysc32qlhzV2afkUFnwN554XBC0kUycKKSxL8ggp4gkVjKgAkqYocenuuZNidgDqse8T7duVLvwmFBA-Zw24CJ1ClUqvPUAVkIY/s1600/12063536_10153784800375809_798449628389511536_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6B5LUOMnwcjdg7GKIjLkcfazmNfAry3NA34fKS71HNysc32qlhzV2afkUFnwN554XBC0kUycKKSxL8ggp4gkVjKgAkqYocenuuZNidgDqse8T7duVLvwmFBA-Zw24CJ1ClUqvPUAVkIY/s320/12063536_10153784800375809_798449628389511536_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">"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!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-19030970526460884602015-09-22T23:03:00.001-05:002015-09-22T23:03:09.487-05:00He wants to be held<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBgdSN-OJaSuJC3x0H-H_6cJ8M_Mnxiaxf42bknEatEQp4h3FXp9rzD1anle9_CZQDpaKit_7JKhrijuAY7Mog7WsfAh8HMFZQehFT3jGuMyssEZcuc5aAchFTObYao6BIpAysBKG5k4/s1600/11949355_10153720593755809_5416227544881256414_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBgdSN-OJaSuJC3x0H-H_6cJ8M_Mnxiaxf42bknEatEQp4h3FXp9rzD1anle9_CZQDpaKit_7JKhrijuAY7Mog7WsfAh8HMFZQehFT3jGuMyssEZcuc5aAchFTObYao6BIpAysBKG5k4/s320/11949355_10153720593755809_5416227544881256414_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I love my life. My husband. The little children we have created.<br /><br />We are so blessed.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />
<br />
I can handle that. I'm grateful for the opportunity.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-9684331260500489622015-06-08T23:53:00.002-05:002015-06-08T23:53:51.539-05:00Potty Talk<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This did not happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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: “<i>psssssssshh</i>”. I'm still not sure how that sound effect became a thing... <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey Emma, do you need to <i>pssssssshh</i> on the potty? Let Mommy know when you need to <i>psssssshh</i> on the potty, okay?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Pssssssshh</i> on
pah-ee? O-tay!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go ahead and <i>pssssssshh</i>
on the potty Emma, okay? You will get a sticker if you <i>psssssshh</i> on the potty!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yayyyyy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*15 minutes later*<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Emma, are you going to <i>psssssssshh</i>
on the potty? Because you need to get down if you aren’t ready to <i>psssssssshh</i> on the potty.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mommy, I <i>psssssshh</i>
on potty.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me check…no, you didn’t <i>pssssshh</i> on the potty. You can do it later though, okay? Remember,
if you need to <i>pssssssshh</i> on the
potty, come and tell Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“O-tay!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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
<strike>pee </strike><i>psssshh</i> and that my
daughter still isn’t potty trained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder how long she will be a Size 6?<o:p></o:p></div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-25477822696257069672015-04-20T23:50:00.000-05:002015-04-20T23:53:16.885-05:00Parenting EpiphaniesI 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 <strike>delightful</strike> <strike>demanding</strike> <strike>interesting</strike> ...interestingly delightful and demanding age. Everything is an extreme. Everything. She is never just happy or made. She is <strong>VERY</strong> happy or <strong>VERY</strong> 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. ;) <br />
<br />
That being said, I <strong><em><u>LOVE</u></em></strong> 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.<br />
<br />
1. Pictures speak to toddlers.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
Opportunity. Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-65805343948927765052015-03-02T22:59:00.000-06:002015-03-02T22:59:01.888-06:00Things I loveAs referenced in the previous post, I used to run a lot, then stopped, and now I am trying again.<br />
<br />
Things I love about returning from a daily run:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The sense of accomplishment</li>
<li>The post-run shower</li>
<li>The hurt-so-good soreness</li>
<li>Feeling skinny just because I did it (this one may be a tad psychological ;))</li>
<li>The way the skin on my face feels tight</li>
<li>The loose feeling I have in my lungs </li>
<li>Bragging to everyone in the house about how far I went</li>
<li>Getting to reflect on the thoughts I pondered and conversations I had with myself during my run</li>
<li>How soft my face feels (...I scrub my face HARD after runs)</li>
</ul>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-27288496454348044452015-03-02T22:50:00.002-06:002015-03-02T22:50:59.589-06:00Why I runEvery once in a while I become re-motivated to work out and get skinny. Every single time I fail.<br />
<br />
This time though? This time.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you about when I first became a runner...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
These thoughts happened within the span of about 5 minutes, and, literally, from that moment on, I was not sad anymore.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Boom. Success. I rocked that half-marathon, and thought I was a runner for life.<br />
<br />
Wrong.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Flashback over. Back to the present.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I love my body enough to achieve the health and shape that I've always wanted.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
You know how with a lot of things in life you just <i>know</i>? 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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDOARu6iegGMyp442EUU4hGLrEwFpem_i0UAwirF1-kD0dfw2Rpx6w6LDCv4kXdXNmglMp_7otw9AV9mL5OMkcsnVxpddiQv-_tlIR1tMYFcEsu3FnkPFN1NVT2xl5EtqNcaA2Mmt_o8/s1600/54148_10150110262970809_3830364_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDOARu6iegGMyp442EUU4hGLrEwFpem_i0UAwirF1-kD0dfw2Rpx6w6LDCv4kXdXNmglMp_7otw9AV9mL5OMkcsnVxpddiQv-_tlIR1tMYFcEsu3FnkPFN1NVT2xl5EtqNcaA2Mmt_o8/s1600/54148_10150110262970809_3830364_o.jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used to be able to curl my legs up and fit in small spaces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfYg8h50pp0RlucX2qcgYslSuVCveEkNfQGbfq8aR8VPSs2HVc8LiiWORzlYgfc77xObF9aYo8qLJxFXVq6cHAjY9AZBV8nOV-H6edY2bDdEtjhpoPl_nGhWS2c90oAb56pfuU3t_M4k/s1600/60538_491648010808_3080688_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfYg8h50pp0RlucX2qcgYslSuVCveEkNfQGbfq8aR8VPSs2HVc8LiiWORzlYgfc77xObF9aYo8qLJxFXVq6cHAjY9AZBV8nOV-H6edY2bDdEtjhpoPl_nGhWS2c90oAb56pfuU3t_M4k/s1600/60538_491648010808_3080688_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't know I looked like that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqBiAwlmNIc5hFeWWssnEPqS3rFc6Xp_-z4N4PWyJIxORjkDUMPtyTvx_MOIt2HlkiS8aZ84Cu7L0xnTx7VbhaDulVNibJ_SOFKFBHuoX1WG5dNZcS-Ln05ptX1QulSkykl9vwb-0Ze4/s1600/60456_491648030808_2748071_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqBiAwlmNIc5hFeWWssnEPqS3rFc6Xp_-z4N4PWyJIxORjkDUMPtyTvx_MOIt2HlkiS8aZ84Cu7L0xnTx7VbhaDulVNibJ_SOFKFBHuoX1WG5dNZcS-Ln05ptX1QulSkykl9vwb-0Ze4/s1600/60456_491648030808_2748071_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't climb swing sets anymore, but I will soon! ;) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvckZD-5zPqt1FPs8XST0rXdPzOjCV7I-uDAZlWNPjRnA4NU_ugMUp2QHyco6b1eSDmUR7_kskKhFD0UyKXTCGfJvQ2NzzGm6tRT5LRY88-yKF7ddsNTiWA43E1ZgwoyPHYE4bwaY3QvA/s1600/1923239_82061565808_365861_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvckZD-5zPqt1FPs8XST0rXdPzOjCV7I-uDAZlWNPjRnA4NU_ugMUp2QHyco6b1eSDmUR7_kskKhFD0UyKXTCGfJvQ2NzzGm6tRT5LRY88-yKF7ddsNTiWA43E1ZgwoyPHYE4bwaY3QvA/s1600/1923239_82061565808_365861_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right after my first half-marathon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-rg6A39gJbzesTLv5C2iAIlqJlVRqitqa8-nzJINmDigKGGsBiMTHdYdoq0idDyEtl_w4PpLZAX5seFEriHeupR4Ly5aadqN6UYKqujnMMEhnpM_EPGbmES1Cm89OnSCUvssbaI6S0I/s1600/393957_10150611120200809_402865086_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-rg6A39gJbzesTLv5C2iAIlqJlVRqitqa8-nzJINmDigKGGsBiMTHdYdoq0idDyEtl_w4PpLZAX5seFEriHeupR4Ly5aadqN6UYKqujnMMEhnpM_EPGbmES1Cm89OnSCUvssbaI6S0I/s1600/393957_10150611120200809_402865086_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at that skinny bride-to-be!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2pkbCpb7nwLA62ThBec7VcTXIN1EOxhB6un9QGqfxy_puuv-Dq6eCTLCWe1cyoXzL_FdIW-k6aAX1A4QJ6WaMUbs5dpTHke9IW3BiYmia_wmKMv1WBGo3m8WvHB8cU8YhGEXR634W5A/s1600/1923474_68463300808_6085_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2pkbCpb7nwLA62ThBec7VcTXIN1EOxhB6un9QGqfxy_puuv-Dq6eCTLCWe1cyoXzL_FdIW-k6aAX1A4QJ6WaMUbs5dpTHke9IW3BiYmia_wmKMv1WBGo3m8WvHB8cU8YhGEXR634W5A/s1600/1923474_68463300808_6085_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had just returned from a 6 mile run. No biggie.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK47t1MMXZ4MCOGZ_B_BYudqcZjiVx_4LJNcWSrnPesVLgxZCeDWKaYpJjBbERL3QmDtpVrYxCs48qZjGuefQSTzbwypYkBks968acyrR7V_GjVA2eRuQEE-zGmj9MX1Z6tdbNS4uxiEM/s1600/10401185_69871395808_9720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK47t1MMXZ4MCOGZ_B_BYudqcZjiVx_4LJNcWSrnPesVLgxZCeDWKaYpJjBbERL3QmDtpVrYxCs48qZjGuefQSTzbwypYkBks968acyrR7V_GjVA2eRuQEE-zGmj9MX1Z6tdbNS4uxiEM/s1600/10401185_69871395808_9720_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I always dress really cute when I run...not.</td></tr>
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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!<br />
<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5149513623883758773.post-35086028107136134492015-02-25T00:49:00.002-06:002015-02-25T12:25:57.947-06:00A Birth Story for MiltonIt'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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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. </div>
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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). </div>
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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. </div>
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Side notes:</div>
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<li>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. </li>
<li>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.</li>
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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. </div>
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I finished out the week with on and off contractions that were incredibly exhausting and so very frustrating. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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I dropped her off at Ellen's house again, leaving behind the car seat. Just in case.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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Anyway.<br />
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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. <br />
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**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.**<br />
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What is it like to be admitted to give birth?<br />
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Gross. It's gross.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNK8ps34ck50ROal5hx4wHo1Zk2bYp-ndc5FtewwavRl27-buVLP_11owYTUgkqkvsVoGwKv9BCChURHNHnXaw4pQt1oskZ7WR1xleXkz3Tke0PD1mfaNFM9aP5NzBuAEKbdsrD0i_MI/s1600/111foley+bulb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNK8ps34ck50ROal5hx4wHo1Zk2bYp-ndc5FtewwavRl27-buVLP_11owYTUgkqkvsVoGwKv9BCChURHNHnXaw4pQt1oskZ7WR1xleXkz3Tke0PD1mfaNFM9aP5NzBuAEKbdsrD0i_MI/s1600/111foley+bulb.jpg" /></a>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Approximately 4 hours and lots of contractions later, my water broke.<br />
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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.<br />
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The dam had broken.<br />
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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."<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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No, I'm not a drug addict.<br />
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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.<br />
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On second thought, I believe I will take a shot of that Demerol.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I'm not paralyzed, but I'm sure I just barely missed that boat.<br />
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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.<br />
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SWEET RELIEF.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIp0VPIrj3lVU_CYlUmaK4QO8Nnd4i66jLA-wHfNjN89pbmsAHvwGtf6EOk3f1qe3UK8691wVHme23jDyRzrvrFqaolFw1okhFbZSLjSn2V_1sGofkT1eOWIgZU77Z8WTeF7tdnqfReI/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-24-1+(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIp0VPIrj3lVU_CYlUmaK4QO8Nnd4i66jLA-wHfNjN89pbmsAHvwGtf6EOk3f1qe3UK8691wVHme23jDyRzrvrFqaolFw1okhFbZSLjSn2V_1sGofkT1eOWIgZU77Z8WTeF7tdnqfReI/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-24-1+(2).png" height="264" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0TOZEd8jMnigNq0r9Bh0MLcHhPqYwsosezxUOli9tMY1Fi9s9XsZt8FoTOtk5hC_9HABNX_64h3xAyaezH5Ha-o10Qid-3DSNYubQ5Vt-oKrDF3h8NW-VOEOewLQotl7KkWiDICxk6c/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-06-1+(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0TOZEd8jMnigNq0r9Bh0MLcHhPqYwsosezxUOli9tMY1Fi9s9XsZt8FoTOtk5hC_9HABNX_64h3xAyaezH5Ha-o10Qid-3DSNYubQ5Vt-oKrDF3h8NW-VOEOewLQotl7KkWiDICxk6c/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-06-1+(2).png" height="320" width="245" /></a></div>
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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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
My "nausea" became a full-blown sense of mad pressure in my gut and pelvis. No pain (thankfully), but plenty of pressure.<br />
<br />
The nurse left to call my doctor and gather supplies. It was then that I sounded a different alarm.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Moving on.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
Done. No way this girl is heading to the OR for an unnecessarily necessary C-section.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiOKUi1AxM-kyClf4L0ywitsKXumrG8z6Q6jmOFGTDD6AAiwVJXB-lhF5WHbDz3aSN1Tgrdy11QB_MPlQbHb_sg90M3v1gSgSmw1zdZmWEtLFDuDtSjQ0xQNFqolIXD1KlTEcylHCWsw/s1600/20150114_103450-1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiOKUi1AxM-kyClf4L0ywitsKXumrG8z6Q6jmOFGTDD6AAiwVJXB-lhF5WHbDz3aSN1Tgrdy11QB_MPlQbHb_sg90M3v1gSgSmw1zdZmWEtLFDuDtSjQ0xQNFqolIXD1KlTEcylHCWsw/s1600/20150114_103450-1-1.jpg" height="320" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deep breath face</td></tr>
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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.<br />
<br />
It's hard to hold a deep breath when my emotional side is trying to strangle me.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"It's a boy!"<br />
<br />
Oh, the pride on Darren's face. He had a boy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0m9bBq3iz-lC3Cdg5blh-1CntqK9qN1h5PIk4IbeguMJlfxAsp4ahyAmVHZP8R0qssdcvMmL6Dgq7c5p9iXxMNpE83d0eNtv294c5dDN0dml7wnAICLWxU1f1tRJuWWtjkrrCa7K4r_I/s1600/20150114_103525-1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0m9bBq3iz-lC3Cdg5blh-1CntqK9qN1h5PIk4IbeguMJlfxAsp4ahyAmVHZP8R0qssdcvMmL6Dgq7c5p9iXxMNpE83d0eNtv294c5dDN0dml7wnAICLWxU1f1tRJuWWtjkrrCa7K4r_I/s1600/20150114_103525-1-1.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy's first look</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQ4lwuEGPX7RaIh3T_we7iKjc0HKJ3UW8dtr2s66ZL_2vJC0XEyebiB9KtIYo4iPdLtDA1mUKRsZHJxNV3vC2Srfge9_rd8UYhbX5DHwIJe9zNizd2sTW0El2jWbmPvhnqt_mdrNiWY0/s1600/20150114_103523-2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQ4lwuEGPX7RaIh3T_we7iKjc0HKJ3UW8dtr2s66ZL_2vJC0XEyebiB9KtIYo4iPdLtDA1mUKRsZHJxNV3vC2Srfge9_rd8UYhbX5DHwIJe9zNizd2sTW0El2jWbmPvhnqt_mdrNiWY0/s1600/20150114_103523-2-1.jpg" height="153" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama's first look</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnPY_YSVwMMg-1Ga1vs_PQ5RPiwbUtSFvJlwgDqeMkk-qNMOM3kY0iJtPwI22PPaY9joRVsncdqTetpfEgvujDD7rWZ8lZmVb32CHVyde1Z_MVSVKRsTacefcNPKjHHKoLmnra8sibO4/s1600/10926440_10153146893620809_5296908423661854475_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnPY_YSVwMMg-1Ga1vs_PQ5RPiwbUtSFvJlwgDqeMkk-qNMOM3kY0iJtPwI22PPaY9joRVsncdqTetpfEgvujDD7rWZ8lZmVb32CHVyde1Z_MVSVKRsTacefcNPKjHHKoLmnra8sibO4/s1600/10926440_10153146893620809_5296908423661854475_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My heart could burst</td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGMA57KomJkiiInQL1qq-kJ8tfGjuEtf5EKsZ102lpLSgvDG1rzgNBw2n0CwvVL-zs1chQbrnV-ro3sYZvsCdPihiB5UW75kH8ODVbtBwVD23-Z4nKeh0KpyFwWtzdw0O8BXZCQ_t2wA/s1600/10931243_10153146891915809_8213057725594664059_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGMA57KomJkiiInQL1qq-kJ8tfGjuEtf5EKsZ102lpLSgvDG1rzgNBw2n0CwvVL-zs1chQbrnV-ro3sYZvsCdPihiB5UW75kH8ODVbtBwVD23-Z4nKeh0KpyFwWtzdw0O8BXZCQ_t2wA/s1600/10931243_10153146891915809_8213057725594664059_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before I knew she was going to stuff him into my gown</td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSNMXtQtbhDbogRfVNAS_Dz-sIJ2kcYxyKYA3maueA3zC7b95j7ECSHj63S1eOjjmWSklviMF_pFiIc_t4uSF-Lm7RtJtzXaZCpk0Y_jK0nByynEoV0kD5hw-XdOMfoWtfQejbL2RVIw/s1600/960198_10153146892195809_8338615040790081596_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSNMXtQtbhDbogRfVNAS_Dz-sIJ2kcYxyKYA3maueA3zC7b95j7ECSHj63S1eOjjmWSklviMF_pFiIc_t4uSF-Lm7RtJtzXaZCpk0Y_jK0nByynEoV0kD5hw-XdOMfoWtfQejbL2RVIw/s1600/960198_10153146892195809_8338615040790081596_n.jpg" height="194" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After he'd been cleaned up a bit</td></tr>
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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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxxGZ5fcBwZiP9cqsCDDYvpIiATC3UQc2abP1K6Ge3UXT6yM5ahzP6ugKvduBrtY29quf2wuHxS_KMX6TvzFw4PL3ds_qw0BcJdd5YVxjLUVKrj7Wcqs9tmsRHBXuuNRmu3rTveyNylc/s1600/10926221_10153146894290809_7460125764241436213_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQxxGZ5fcBwZiP9cqsCDDYvpIiATC3UQc2abP1K6Ge3UXT6yM5ahzP6ugKvduBrtY29quf2wuHxS_KMX6TvzFw4PL3ds_qw0BcJdd5YVxjLUVKrj7Wcqs9tmsRHBXuuNRmu3rTveyNylc/s1600/10926221_10153146894290809_7460125764241436213_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Dr. L</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTQm0L9WVdPvJn9JMIhAM7IH2bXZv3NssgMKXs5jC638PsPPhPgJaDyMr_XbqHhTAytHP81kSyg2IDo903vwlK4CTSKAOHI7tHKNSQHrtDZpg7lwPP1eNaDqX-1QOVmfCceIN38FSr4g/s1600/1461430_10153145336690809_5260132273715557631_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTQm0L9WVdPvJn9JMIhAM7IH2bXZv3NssgMKXs5jC638PsPPhPgJaDyMr_XbqHhTAytHP81kSyg2IDo903vwlK4CTSKAOHI7tHKNSQHrtDZpg7lwPP1eNaDqX-1QOVmfCceIN38FSr4g/s1600/1461430_10153145336690809_5260132273715557631_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chelsea was so great</td></tr>
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He measured in at 7 lbs 8 oz and 20.5 inches long. He was born at 10:37 AM.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASfTLtU-2TRLhYcvy1KGdE8s74XcXLabSd_NTDPgx-qI1Ta2sptzs1ysUHVqVPVTCrnAct8X6ZQdC70ACXq5J5PFXpxodw__iHQHSW1nR2O9cIBEYk1PG-yPl_zfaKZuQEa45n_I9y7U/s1600/20150114_105020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASfTLtU-2TRLhYcvy1KGdE8s74XcXLabSd_NTDPgx-qI1Ta2sptzs1ysUHVqVPVTCrnAct8X6ZQdC70ACXq5J5PFXpxodw__iHQHSW1nR2O9cIBEYk1PG-yPl_zfaKZuQEa45n_I9y7U/s1600/20150114_105020.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPWlcMug1COc2mFjt55qblXn_blqANAg06V5Hlqasb7LWBPs70bF7WKGdb3HBi89pZ2BgXp5vp28oQhK7tSon89a7v_Md-r1sTjo7UTNovKIUZpBxA4RyW-90m1Gx5f-qb4My-LZ5TYk/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-30-50-1+(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPWlcMug1COc2mFjt55qblXn_blqANAg06V5Hlqasb7LWBPs70bF7WKGdb3HBi89pZ2BgXp5vp28oQhK7tSon89a7v_Md-r1sTjo7UTNovKIUZpBxA4RyW-90m1Gx5f-qb4My-LZ5TYk/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-30-50-1+(2).png" height="400" width="233" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJ3dQ7-6OVpvHQFL-JTK-wB1c52l7LopRQD3VB1Zdi8oTUA_SqCGAKQ5EIIe3hsdKq0tCyF8VcPAfvx4JWdLF0Gju8J3_ojIci4K2imzLFJCO7sHM_vSwNPW21jCKFMUsV7-xZjtOIFs/s1600/20150114_104935-1+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJ3dQ7-6OVpvHQFL-JTK-wB1c52l7LopRQD3VB1Zdi8oTUA_SqCGAKQ5EIIe3hsdKq0tCyF8VcPAfvx4JWdLF0Gju8J3_ojIci4K2imzLFJCO7sHM_vSwNPW21jCKFMUsV7-xZjtOIFs/s1600/20150114_104935-1+(1).jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtgcgSpfrl_N2LcHtq5HHEHRE1j-7RSxg2w4KDmPnv8qeTMslk8cozSM7Zo4cYzhRIRtxwxKloGNcuBDiBlTFCatixDLb8ec2zQvlsdqiaM_A4CaS7FVksBlofvcPWBezyd2Gp67C9Cw/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-30-53-1+(3).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtgcgSpfrl_N2LcHtq5HHEHRE1j-7RSxg2w4KDmPnv8qeTMslk8cozSM7Zo4cYzhRIRtxwxKloGNcuBDiBlTFCatixDLb8ec2zQvlsdqiaM_A4CaS7FVksBlofvcPWBezyd2Gp67C9Cw/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-30-53-1+(3).png" height="138" width="200" /></a><br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNzMoF38K3hTGhQKj668XRYKt0Lc8aLrOJRX6cuj3o9McnXqxa8Za1uWa80ibAJl4ISz9_cBNWsxG5SV-H4AVkb4SNVanj0OmmsWUGqtHRUoEpkpncRs_LDFDt-eSPAzEvbCH3gvvh-w/s1600/10690152_10153146900355809_591546804359586310_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNzMoF38K3hTGhQKj668XRYKt0Lc8aLrOJRX6cuj3o9McnXqxa8Za1uWa80ibAJl4ISz9_cBNWsxG5SV-H4AVkb4SNVanj0OmmsWUGqtHRUoEpkpncRs_LDFDt-eSPAzEvbCH3gvvh-w/s1600/10690152_10153146900355809_591546804359586310_n.jpg" height="320" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting his Grandma for the first time</td></tr>
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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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The remainder of our hospital stay was much more pleasant than the first time around in a lot of ways. Knowledge is power, right?<br />
<ul>
<li>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. </li>
<li>I brought yoga pants. Jammies and sweatpants are way too easy to sweat in. Mucho uncomfortable. </li>
<li>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.</li>
<li>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.</li>
<li>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 </li>
</ul>
<div>
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. </div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Milton is so loved.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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Here are a few pictures for your viewing pleasure:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayvbhrUTGTV4-VBPeitcsTBjdXvGT8XuVdr7OgvsB3NNb8FzenozaBbsDnDOQVKvOY7nEQL_s7qvM-0VR_ewGBEWzRVSW91D2fak7U-SiiGkBIL6lOsZDOsBgNsSX90FobONS5jvlUhc/s1600/1511905_10153146892420809_5953336595663840614_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayvbhrUTGTV4-VBPeitcsTBjdXvGT8XuVdr7OgvsB3NNb8FzenozaBbsDnDOQVKvOY7nEQL_s7qvM-0VR_ewGBEWzRVSW91D2fak7U-SiiGkBIL6lOsZDOsBgNsSX90FobONS5jvlUhc/s1600/1511905_10153146892420809_5953336595663840614_n.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First pic with Mommy and Daddy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJjpgU6gFuOgofjBSsTlmQLv2BgwUXIX5A38agF-uqyVvm9Gks44N7DDxFK3_Fdw9FZ-zfZApPsqCHEUGx5dTjfTUxg5VHBTjbfUiUApYcIQ9XF1Jw23TsI4LS1BdqyjqMe56LPTPvng/s1600/1512758_10153145336620809_3962300036963305319_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJjpgU6gFuOgofjBSsTlmQLv2BgwUXIX5A38agF-uqyVvm9Gks44N7DDxFK3_Fdw9FZ-zfZApPsqCHEUGx5dTjfTUxg5VHBTjbfUiUApYcIQ9XF1Jw23TsI4LS1BdqyjqMe56LPTPvng/s1600/1512758_10153145336620809_3962300036963305319_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Panda is always there when you need her</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3d1Bt77IUWVxfP3Hj1rGo34j_0AxT1_nYJGiXdPA3I8uTaSWD06WwliSOZn6bFXpuFhjx6i5Y8WFfDDH3LLxVZD3WKuhKYZQp00yj0bnNqchHumm-PBAe8TCeuJIFw59xLtKPPvh3Dc/s1600/1908495_10153146895605809_5601006059730318635_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3d1Bt77IUWVxfP3Hj1rGo34j_0AxT1_nYJGiXdPA3I8uTaSWD06WwliSOZn6bFXpuFhjx6i5Y8WFfDDH3LLxVZD3WKuhKYZQp00yj0bnNqchHumm-PBAe8TCeuJIFw59xLtKPPvh3Dc/s1600/1908495_10153146895605809_5601006059730318635_n.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emma's first look</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxvjAkG4XtLDmwnrKOKaGAi08cJbCo3Z3AeMM3Z0NltlAWaSSPpbNQSt5kQfEWPvLUXOZ2cAG5CBxdNA8R9ZtNBngi2u4QFmJrlRmBFszKXb0JyDc_5K7ZxVoBm86qHcuHusxqOn_XbA/s1600/10406842_10153148710860809_1224934999350992988_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxvjAkG4XtLDmwnrKOKaGAi08cJbCo3Z3AeMM3Z0NltlAWaSSPpbNQSt5kQfEWPvLUXOZ2cAG5CBxdNA8R9ZtNBngi2u4QFmJrlRmBFszKXb0JyDc_5K7ZxVoBm86qHcuHusxqOn_XbA/s1600/10406842_10153148710860809_1224934999350992988_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She couldn't have been more excited for Daddy to finally be home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2H853Y2YVuaMvKMTa1tC3Zl135aVchv2XrDnu98Jb2jO-7tX5HCTNXS3io4YIH8uVx-Ayku6jt9WwqvcEzzxa4-nlr2woKlTm7olxkAydT042kcigFO8C2Hy3NvzSEv7gkIIkUpuKpQw/s1600/10410358_10153148367720809_4965171497238686994_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2H853Y2YVuaMvKMTa1tC3Zl135aVchv2XrDnu98Jb2jO-7tX5HCTNXS3io4YIH8uVx-Ayku6jt9WwqvcEzzxa4-nlr2woKlTm7olxkAydT042kcigFO8C2Hy3NvzSEv7gkIIkUpuKpQw/s1600/10410358_10153148367720809_4965171497238686994_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While we were waiting to be discharged</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZF4_cDuvbT26LKrcGwyj-lw2MtjxMFaWXNF1xAsA8qC88RkD_mK9fBs3GBDRRRrviiYh0nGo3Yt6L94ch58LCkf8SStot9ZMkjk5Vvnt_u27mGY9KqnRKyajFMwB2ahFhfslxgUAPBMU/s1600/10525642_10153145231440809_1283989547901125855_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZF4_cDuvbT26LKrcGwyj-lw2MtjxMFaWXNF1xAsA8qC88RkD_mK9fBs3GBDRRRrviiYh0nGo3Yt6L94ch58LCkf8SStot9ZMkjk5Vvnt_u27mGY9KqnRKyajFMwB2ahFhfslxgUAPBMU/s1600/10525642_10153145231440809_1283989547901125855_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful boy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_itKyXDWsRmq2-9u9lPi0m2belZ4DlILRYS0Xb-9g8wdK1L_MMj-YfnNYWjn_OSa4igzNrkwiRCSVjXOb91wWmBmzmfzDZ98nCFFrwLULakGK64LnU9pBSVosK_8huViDnyWvPYCdgk/s1600/10896438_10153145337290809_807473487539492096_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_itKyXDWsRmq2-9u9lPi0m2belZ4DlILRYS0Xb-9g8wdK1L_MMj-YfnNYWjn_OSa4igzNrkwiRCSVjXOb91wWmBmzmfzDZ98nCFFrwLULakGK64LnU9pBSVosK_8huViDnyWvPYCdgk/s1600/10896438_10153145337290809_807473487539492096_o.jpg" height="280" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skin to skin with Mama</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh-ufiyJQvVwSvDnoDCNgRGrFhnTdXDudEZDn9NOdvT8XmLcjpiG_b-mZMoj55lLa0SfnRqDFC1Cnd7rkhFl-G1gMsrmgmHp2KN-f-3vfG6zhv3QnP5iTadi-tFrKc1c5lilBW1eKSZc/s1600/10896984_10153146896795809_4702113695380141931_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyh-ufiyJQvVwSvDnoDCNgRGrFhnTdXDudEZDn9NOdvT8XmLcjpiG_b-mZMoj55lLa0SfnRqDFC1Cnd7rkhFl-G1gMsrmgmHp2KN-f-3vfG6zhv3QnP5iTadi-tFrKc1c5lilBW1eKSZc/s1600/10896984_10153146896795809_4702113695380141931_n.jpg" height="310" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That expression says SO much</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPNZWlDYtHvc8gqGCKHrCaco8cHPs2skVBz_xipl_onZUi0uHO1xlD8_SDaZUrKrg9RrINp67TcQEhFzYRp14ut8rHXbIey71MCFtRLSm4WrKdotHDZH0k3Gb1TRqqJK3H1cihKl8658/s1600/10923728_10153144283055809_42232965735242494_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPNZWlDYtHvc8gqGCKHrCaco8cHPs2skVBz_xipl_onZUi0uHO1xlD8_SDaZUrKrg9RrINp67TcQEhFzYRp14ut8rHXbIey71MCFtRLSm4WrKdotHDZH0k3Gb1TRqqJK3H1cihKl8658/s1600/10923728_10153144283055809_42232965735242494_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, World. I'm your newest member.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9-HsT5YBXbdrXRqk7HLw5KeKO7ZKKl2Q6VMmVfDfiqlnB6DBeoGvzfcZjXclD7U6eYcZk8dp20zbT7uciefO_EI-uUCIFtPGDfFnBAPj6eCMqvNJs8GZcFJC3O6jzZZ4CxyE7Sulqkk/s1600/10931239_10153146900830809_2163658711506404186_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9-HsT5YBXbdrXRqk7HLw5KeKO7ZKKl2Q6VMmVfDfiqlnB6DBeoGvzfcZjXclD7U6eYcZk8dp20zbT7uciefO_EI-uUCIFtPGDfFnBAPj6eCMqvNJs8GZcFJC3O6jzZZ4CxyE7Sulqkk/s1600/10931239_10153146900830809_2163658711506404186_n.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8rdjXWDk97sHwC88fTbRInxTELaPXKs1YF4ZIqbbvzqvFuA6c_2RSedA_gk25hnPJxRI5G7oaWjJzVlwPCqRYCtjKSOyLgOdV3iYnx5NLUH_i4aVfrgOkLXwxHc0HRH7nOzEZUvgIJM/s1600/10940471_10153146894865809_8650419957441113536_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8rdjXWDk97sHwC88fTbRInxTELaPXKs1YF4ZIqbbvzqvFuA6c_2RSedA_gk25hnPJxRI5G7oaWjJzVlwPCqRYCtjKSOyLgOdV3iYnx5NLUH_i4aVfrgOkLXwxHc0HRH7nOzEZUvgIJM/s1600/10940471_10153146894865809_8650419957441113536_n.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smooching on my sweet boy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tsZaopDrjXMtXH5Q82ub_8itG5ay9O1nxIBPPOrodWSPJnMh3GRGwxlVgJpjDVKXsLHehw2tlaDSAF35i3XJ9YCKtvXNWKjIKLZwbYCBQmlxBK1O5D0WKbL3EeIt78zhtG9CDLMtIiY/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-54-1+(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tsZaopDrjXMtXH5Q82ub_8itG5ay9O1nxIBPPOrodWSPJnMh3GRGwxlVgJpjDVKXsLHehw2tlaDSAF35i3XJ9YCKtvXNWKjIKLZwbYCBQmlxBK1O5D0WKbL3EeIt78zhtG9CDLMtIiY/s1600/Screenshot_2015-02-23-23-28-54-1+(2).png" height="320" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original update to my family</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv65LO4xlyiAuuu57Tk3Rw1u8gHxB-6uya4BRdk37n02n4cOCz6Jgm4HVJwKBfPwRfg6XhkSCiXmlX3y80jY5oqQxjOdVb0YZl2n8b-tiDnJAgADy4Khfh-cea83SgWjtMTR-2bU6lKWg/s1600/10940578_10153148714660809_3069216358012177598_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv65LO4xlyiAuuu57Tk3Rw1u8gHxB-6uya4BRdk37n02n4cOCz6Jgm4HVJwKBfPwRfg6XhkSCiXmlX3y80jY5oqQxjOdVb0YZl2n8b-tiDnJAgADy4Khfh-cea83SgWjtMTR-2bU6lKWg/s1600/10940578_10153148714660809_3069216358012177598_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading home<br />
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</tbody></table>
</div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15952068486334925191noreply@blogger.com0