Three Dollars.

So I had retired this blog. But yesterday on Facebook I read the letter posted above by a news station in Fargo. It reads:

Happy Halloween and Happy Holidays, Neighbor!

You are probably wondering why your child has this note; have you ever heard the saying "It takes a village to raise a child?" I am disappointed in "the village" of Fargo Moorhead, West Fargo. 

Your child is, in my opinion, moderately obese and should not be consuming sugar and treats to the extent of some children this Halloween season. 

My hope is that you will step up as a parent and ration candy this Halloween and not allow your child to continue these unhealthy eating habits.

Thank You.

Reading this, my heart broken into a million little pieces of disgust and rage. Sure, childhood obesity is a problem in America. So is bullying. So is, perhaps, a general forgetfulness that yes, it DOES take a village. But a village of what? Cruelty and judgement? Name calling? Non-constructive criticism? I don't know about you, but I want my children to grow up in a village full of love. Wisdom. Nurturing. Kindness. Peace. Understanding. Respect. Education. Sharing. Progressive forward motion. There are lots of options for addressing social problems in a constructive manner. Sending snarky letters home with Trick or Treaters just isn't one of them.

At first I decided I would combat this woman's bitter assault on children and their parents by sending home a Halloween letter of my own. But, meh. A waste of paper, kinda weird?, and probably not the big hitter that is really needed to demonstrate that KINDNESS can outweigh cruelty ANY TIME WE CHOOSE. Because collectively, it is that simple.

The number three seems to be my number today. Today is my birthday. I'm 33 years old. I have three children. And today I'm donating three dollars.

I don't have a lot of extra money right now. I'd love to donate much more. But perhaps if we all band together, if we all donate three dollars, we can make a difference. One dollar will go to a charity fighting bullying. One will go to a charity fighting hunger. Another will go to a charity fighting the effects of childhood obesity. Because that bitter, unkind, judgmental letter? Almost - almost - almost has a point. But it gets SO very inextricably lost in the cruel uselessness of the delivery. The author of this letter doesn't care about children. She doesn't care about the village. She is a bully. She is using concern for children as a thinly veiled excuse to be viciously mean to those around her. But if we have concerns about our society, if we want to make an impact, if we are concerned about the myriad issues plaguing our society and the lack of a "village"...let's put our money where our mouths are. Let's be a village of goodness.

Join me. Share this post. Donate three dollars.

Kindness can outweigh cruelty ANY TIME WE CHOOSE.

(Click the links below to donate. Any amount of your choosing).


Donate to help end bullying: "I Choose" Campaign

Donate to help end hunger: Share Our Strength - No Kid Hungry

Donate to help improve problems associated with childhood obesity: American Diabetes Association

The End. Kind of.

Hi friends. This mama is tired. She is exhausted. And so she's going to put chapter one to bed.

I'm starting chapter two. http://biglovetinykitchen.wordpress.com/

I have no business retiring this blog to start another. I've been a terrible blogger. I don't follow ANY blogging rules. I never post. I've left huge gaps in time and information. And then I've been all "HEY I'M HERE AND HERE'S WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION!"

And so it goes.

Catch you in chapter two.

XOXOXOXO

Drops in the bucket

A couple of years ago, I hopped into the Facebook controversy over breastfeeding with this post and this followup. I haven't been so involved in the continuing controversy in the last eighteen months. I weaned the boys, got busy with our growing family, had a little PPD inspired nervous breakdown, and healed marvelously and beautifully. And so it goes.

Last night, I got an email from a researcher named Caroline Jack at Cornell University. She is working on a research project that "looks at how social media affect the ways we make sense of contentious social and political issues, and how the policies set by social networking sites may influence the conversations that individuals and communities can have about those issues" (to quote directly from her email, because I certainly can't paraphrase this concisely). As part of this research, she's interviewing people who were involved in the Facebook controversy over breastfeeding. She asked me for an interview, and I excitedly said yes. (We're finalizing a date in August).


And then I started reminiscing. It was so exciting to be involved in the Facebook breastfeeding debate. It felt important. Relevant. It might have been a small drop in the bucket of all that needs to change in our society, but damn...it was something. It felt hopeful. I believed. 


I believed that if we all kept trying, we could make a difference. I believed that we could educate our communities, convert our neighbors, and gain some true publicity to get the word out there. And through all of this, I believed that the world would be a little bit better.


So it's two years later. I haven't posted any breastfeeding pictures of Anwen and I, and I'm not up on the current state of Facebook with breastfeeding. The reality is, breastfeeding, in many ways, is simply one of many aspects of life that we can look at to see how women are being treated/perceived/censored (controlled) -- by society as a whole.  We live in a world that is not equal. It's not equal if you're a woman, if you're gay, if you're part of a racial minority...I could go on and on. I fear that we're often lured into believing that things are better. That we're not still living under the heavy thumb of patriarchy. Wake up. The truth is ugly.


But back to breasts and Facebook for a moment. In the spirit of the second of my above mentioned posts, I did a quick search on Facebook...I typed the word "boobs" into the search bar. I immediately was presented with four different apps, all creatively named "boobs" with a combined 39,000 monthly users. The first app listed included the description, "send a pair of boobs to your friends! Some are hot, some are NOT!" So then I searched four more terms for breasts. Here are the images that immediately popped up:

                     

As recently as February, Facebook had this to say about pictures of "nude" breasts: 

When it comes to uploaded photos on Facebook, the vast majority of breastfeeding photos comply with our Statement of Rights and Responsibilities, which closely mirrors the policy that governs broadcast television, and which places limitations on nudity due to the presence of minors on our site. On some occasions, breastfeeding photos contain nudity – for example an exposed breast that is not being used for feeding – and therefore violate our terms. When such photos are reported to us and are found to violate our policies, the person who posted the photo is contacted, and the photos are removed. Our policies strive to fit the needs of a diverse community while respecting everyone¹s interest in sharing content that is important to them, including experiences related to breastfeeding.

There are tens of thousands of fans of these pages. Pages that are heralded by pictures of hyper-sexualized and often disfigured breasts. Apparently, this content is considered within the realm of appropriateness for "minors on (Facebook's) site." I mean, it took me, a thirty one year old mother of three, less than five minutes to pull up these images. Certainly a tech savvy thirteen year old is equally capable, no?

I'm not pointing this out to be the boob police. I'm not posting these images for anyone's entertainment. I'm not making a judgement on what is or is not appropriate content for thirteen year olds. I'm trying to bring attention to the fact that breastfeeding is the tip of the iceberg.  In at least half of these pictures, the women shown have no face. No head. They are pieces of meat. In the vast majority of images, the bodies have been cut off. In most cases, the breasts have been altered, either on the screen or in the flesh, or both.

It's not about Facebook and breastfeeding. It's not solely about gender equality. It's about our world.

When I first posted on this two years ago, I posted all of the images I could find. There were four of them. Two years later, and in the same brief search, I found twenty-two. Twenty two images of somebody's daughter. Somebody's sister. Somebody's friend. I posted twenty two pictures of human beings, their bodies morphed and de-personalized, degraded.

In spite of all of this effort by tens of thousands, here we remain. Here we have progressed. 

My heart breaks. I brought children into this world. This world, where the KKK goes to court over their right to adopt a section of the highway. (Excuse me while I stop to vomit. Writing "KKK" and "their right" in the same sentence makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.) But children. My children. Your children. This is the future we offer them. Where the fucking KKK goes to court over a highway, and yet women have not been granted the legal protection to nourish their babies in the most accessible, simple and natural way they can. Where Chick Fil A throws homophobia around like a banner of patriotism for the first amendment, and yet thousands of people are dying at the hands of their own governments. Where a man walks into a movie theater and senselessly opens fire on innocent people, and yet money still wins out in the debate over gun control.

This is our world. This is what we have created. Our willingness to go along with it is our vote for things to stay the same. My heart breaks. I want more. I want better. I want to believe.

I want my children to grow up with hope.

I want my daughter to never know there was a time where she could have been an object. Where she could become a commodity for her breasts. I want my sons to never know a time where having a penis meant an automatic ownership. I want them all to know a world where we are born equal. Where good wins and where evil isn't worth it. Where they will have the opportunity to prove their excellence because of what they become, not what they are born with.

I want to believe.

And I'm terrified. I'm terrified that we're exhausted. I'm terrified that we're blind. I'm terrified that we're all too willing to turn our heads and look the other way. I'm terrified that we think this is good enough. Or that we think this is as good as it gets. I'm terrified...at the idea that we all think somebody else is going to fix it.

That "somebody else" ...? The one who's going to fix it?

Put the computer, the tablet, the phone...put it down. Go look in the mirror. 

It's you. 

It's me. 

It's all of us. And if we don't?

This is our world. 

Bonding.

I lied after the boys were born. I remember my mother asking me one day in the NICU, whether I felt the circumstances of their birth were impacting my bond with them. "Of course not." I believed myself. I loved them, and that meant everything. I had my babies. We were all, ultimately, going to be okay.

It is entirely possible to be blind to things sitting right in front of your face. My first impressions of Rhys: I would have known he was my baby in a lineup of a million others. And I felt like he didn't need me. My 5lb, 2oz preemie just seemed so strong. So independent. I kept this thought to myself. And refused to consider what it might mean. My first impression of Quin? Hardly exists. I don't remember the first time I saw him. Or held him. I remember laying alone in recovery, and the NICU doctor coming to explain to me that Quin was experiencing respiratory distress syndrome. In a haze of postpartum hormones and god only knows what drugs from the delivery, I couldn't register the seriousness of the conversation. I wavered between feeling giggly and overly, confidently relaxed. It will be okay. It will alllllll be okay.

I know that I held them for the first time the next day. I don't remember it. I don't know who I held first or what I said or who was there. I don't know how long I was with them. I desperately wanted to try breastfeeding and somehow convinced the nurses to let me try. What I remember from that is trying to hide from all present the fact that I kept passing out, or falling asleep. Slipping away.

My intentions were so good. My desires were so grand. The next year, two years, perhaps, revolved around one thing and one thing only. Survival in the best way we knew how. There was no time to think. To reflect. To mourn.

It wasn't what it was supposed to be. It became its own, as life does. We went with it. We survived.

But somewhere, hidden below the surface, I fell further and further into the rabbit hole. Things don't just fall away. I never had a chance to grieve the lost first moments of motherhood. We were okay. I had no right to be anything but grateful.

I wish I had seen Quin's face. I wish I could write out the emotions of the first time I cradled them in my arms. I wish I could describe to you the lioness inside of me who awakened to fight til the death for my vulnerable newborns. I don't have any of that to share with you. I don't have any of that to savor for myself.

And that is why I broke.

But this is our journey. It is not what I'd dreamed about. Our beginning has fractures. Holes. Heartbreak. And grief. Oh the grief. But it is our shared history. I don't know why. But it is ours. My boys and I. We are strong. Resilient. Enduring in our love. Forgiving. Letting go. Our roots begin with the understanding that we don't get to choose how it will be. Only how we grow from it.

Self.

I see a therapist weekly. We're doing EMDR therapy, working to process the trauma of the boys' birth. It is painful, incredible, and hella hard work. Lately I've taken to going out for a drink alone after my sessions. Until last week, I'd never been to a bar by myself before. I'd always thought it would be terrifying and lonely. It isn't. It is an incredible indulgence, to sit in the dark amongst strangers, sipping my drink, writing and reflecting and basking in a simple sense of myself. Suddenly lifted from the rhythm of my day to day life - existing independently yet wholly - as Kyle holds down the fort at home, handling dinner, baths, bed time. I'm within weeks of completing therapy, and this self indulgent little routine is like my capstone project. I've come this far. I'm going to finish strong as life transitions to a new adventure. I am celebrating my growth, my reclaimed sense of self, a thousand wisdoms that have awakened inside me. I exist. Not just as wife or as mother. I exist. A woman who can sit alone at a bar and flourish in her own company, knowing exactly who she's with.

Breathe. And then let go.

I've struggled with forgiveness. To be honest, I haven't understood it. Despite the desire, it has escaped me. It has seemed too great a gift to give to someone undeserving. I know that forgiving is supposed to help in healing. I always thought that was bullshit.

But suddenly, I get it.

I've talked about the last few months. Going crazy. I've alluded but never explained. Explanation? I was traumatized by the boys birth - more than I ever let on, and more than I could handle. It caught up with me. One simple reality. Their birth broke me. It broke my heart. My spirit. My resolve.

I tried so hard to compensate.

And couldn't.

And I'm okay.

Because I can break. I can break because I can heal. I can heal because I am strong. My strength isn't defined by determining the outcome. And that is a huge realization.

My strength is meeting the challenge. Letting go, and handling what comes next.

What has happened, all of the events that broke me, I forgive. They don't define me. Breaking doesn't define me. Surviving. Brushing myself off. Hugging my babies and moving forward. That defines me.

I get it.

Human.

It's been two months. Two months. Two months.

Two months that feel like two years.

Two decades.

In two months, I have transformed. I've peeled back the layers. I've felt. I've mourned.

Respectively: into a truer version of myself. Under which I hid. Love, fear, happiness, sadness, relief, pride, strength. My broken self.

We all want to believe that we will not break. On some level we know it is possible and so we cloak those fears in terms like, "I can't imagine" and "god forbid." We don't look at it. At the possibility of our broken selves. What we would do. What we would say.

Yet breaking - the great possibility of it - exists for all of us.

I broke.

And I am okay.

Healing - the great possibility of it - exists for all of us.

No secrets.

I've been putting on a brave face. My "I'm proud of my journey to wellness face." My "I'm not ashamed" face. My "kicking postpartum depression's ass" face.

All of those faces are genuine.

But really, what choice do I have? Sit around feeling sad about all that's transpired? Feel embarrassed about my rather public (at least in my personal life) unraveling? I can't hide in my house forever, so I haven't hid in my house at all. I've gone to the grocery store. The playground with the kids. Boot camp. I've seen friends and neighbors, people who know a lot, people who know a little, people who know none of it. I've worn my brave face.

In a few weeks, I have some events to attend where I'll be seeing people I haven't seen for a while. People who might have talked to someone who talked to someone who...read my blog. Or talked to someone.

And though I've said and stand by the fact that I'm not ashamed, I am aware. Of what might be said when I get up to refresh my drink. Of nervous smiles greeting me hello. Of whispers. Of the awkwardness of the question, "It's been so long! How have you been?"

I am aware of judgement. Of ignorance. Of the fact that sometimes people get only half a story. Of the fact that stories often get very twisted.

The truth?

I'm scared. Because there's at least a tiny part of me that wants to cry all of the time. That wants to scream out an explanation and education to everyone who might have heard. That deep down, cringes as my imagination runs wild about what people might think. What they might say.

There are two sides to this coin. On one, I know the facts. I understand the statistics. I believe mental health is a spectrum and I'm suspicious of anyone who claims to permanently operate on the extreme end of healthy. But the other side is where ignorance lies. Where it's easy to pass judgement on a good day, even easier when it's a topic we don't understand or discuss openly.

I am getting well. I can't believe where I am now in comparison to where I was a month ago. Truly, I can't believe it. I've worked my ass off. I'm proud. Hopeful. Confident.

I'm also angry, sad, and self-conscious.

We don't get to pick our journey. Just how we handle ourselves as we travel.

This particular journey?  Effing blows. How I'm handling it? I'm doing my best.

And onward.

But I don't feel depressed.

It seemed to start in November. I thought it was PMS. For about a week, I felt full of rage, impatient, not myself. Then I got my period and things returned to normal. I felt happy. Thrilled to be home with the kids, finally having left my job. So excited about the coming holidays. Looking forward to my sister flying home from CA for an extended visit. Life was good. I had everything I've ever wanted. I certainly did not feel depressed. In December, the hormonal swing came on stronger and lasted longer. For two weeks, I felt like someone had taken over my body. She was a raging bitch. She was sarcastic with my children, short with my husband, full of rage and possessing zero patience. I hated her. My period came, and once again, I felt normal. Happy. But confused. And scared. Was this PMDD? I made an appt. to see my OB to go on birth control, thinking it would level out my hormones. The appt. was scheduled for February; her soonest opening. Until then, I'd ride it out.

In January, the crazy, rageful me came out stronger than ever. Kyle came home from work one day and I declared I was done. DONE. I shut myself in the bathroom and let him handle the kids...dinner, bedtime, all of it. I thought the bath would unwind me, help me relax. Instead, I lay in the warm water and was flooded by sudden and disturbing intrusive thoughts. It scared me. I scheduled an appointment with my PCP for the following morning.

And here's the sad reality. I recognized something was wrong. I took every step I knew to intervene, get myself back on track. It was too little, too late. The next month is a blur.

PCP prescribes Zoloft. Allergic reaction. PCP switches me to Paxil. I take it for several weeks, until it becomes apparent that Paxil and I do not get along. Instead of helping get my moods under control, it makes the instrusive thoughts much more vivid and tortourous. I start thinking of killing myself. Not because I want to die, but because I can't take the torture of my crazy mind any more. Terrified, I fess up to Kyle. I call Postpartum Support International. I get connected to a therapist who specializes in PPD. I see my OB and start on a hormone stabilizing birth control. My OB tells me to stop taking the Paxil, suspecting it's making my thoughts more vivid and violent. I stop cold turkey. Begin going through SSRI withdrawals. My anxiety goes through the roof. I constantly feel like I'm crawling out of my skin. For the first time since all of this started, I feel deeply depressed. I become totally overwhelmed by my life. My children. I throw myself into cleaning and baking. I steam mop my floors three times a day. I steam mop the toilets, the bathtubs, the counter tops. I vacuum constantly. My tiny kitchen is taken over by bubbling vats of sourdough starter. Anything I can do to escape the crazy. I'm too overwhelmed and anxious to be alone with the kids.  We set up a schedule of friends and family who come over every day to help me while Kyle is at work. While they're there, I wander my house in a frenzy, starting 100 projects and finishing none. I have some good days. Mostly I have bad days.

And then, I have "the day." Where my distorted thoughts stop feeling distorted and start sounding logical. Imagine you're walking across a bridge. You're just out for a walk, and the bridge is in front of you. Naturally, you start to cross it. And the next thing you know, instead of crossing it, you're standing on the edge. Your next step will be to jump. And what the fuck? You're just out for a walk. You don't want to die. This wasn't your plan. But here you are. Confused. Terrified.

It wasn't an actual bridge for me. What it was is deeply personal, deeply painful, and deeply sad. But as I stood on that metaphorical railing, I knew it was crazy. Crazy. I called for help. And with help, I climbed back down.

The next day I checked myself into a psych ward. It was the best thing I've ever done for myself.

In opposition to silence.

Last night, Kyle and I were curled up on the couch watching recorded sitcoms from the last few weeks. Trying to laugh. He got up to go get something and I hit pause. I sat curled up on the couch listening to the hum of the baby monitors. Anwen's white noise. The boys' lullabies. The same lullabies they've been listening to since they were only a few weeks old, the ones I downloaded one overwhelmed day when I needed a sensory grounding to motherhood. Their lullabies have become an integral part of my sense of self as a mother. Reminding me of that boundless love and entrancing magic of childhood. As I sat listening to those sweet songs softly muffled by the monitor, I saw the first true glimpse of my mothering self that I've seen in weeks. It was amazing. It made me cry.

***

I hadn't blogged much since the fall. Or since Anwen's birth. Or since...when? But suddenly, I had the urge to write. A little over a week ago I hopped back on the laptop and let it spill out. A confused, chaotic, terrifying attempt at finding my way through a mind that was suddenly foreign, with no idea how I'd gotten there, and no idea how to get out. At the urging of loved ones, I took the posts down. Lacking any context to my daily life, they were just plain scary. But then again, daily life had gotten pretty scary itself.

***

It's hard to decide where to start in blogging about this now.  Do I go back to all the signs I missed over the last few years? Do I start with an explanation of postpartum depression and how truly serious and life threatening it can be? Do I start with my steady unraveling over the past few months? Do I start with my six day stint on a psych ward? Maybe with the journey ahead of me, the journey back to my true self?

***

None of that. I'm starting with an explanation that could be mistaken for a defense. Let me assure you, it is no defense, simply because I don't need one. I don't need to defend my sanity, my worth as a mother, or my decision to admit myself to a psychiatric ICU. It's not a defense because I feel nothing but proud of myself. For having the courage to be honest, to ask for help, and to set aside my pride to get the help I needed. I have a long way to go in healing. PPD isn't like the flu, over in a few miserable days. And especially when it's gone unchecked for as long as mine. Unchecked, unnoticed, accepted as part of motherhood. When your thoughts are distorted, it's hard to have insight to that fact. I'm starting with an explanation for anyone who is wondering why. Why I would choose to share this openly. Why I wouldn't edit out some of the more gasp-inducing details (psych ward!?!). My explanation is simple. PPD can be deadly. It's far more common than you think. And chances are, we all know somebody who will at some point suffer from it. Very likely in silence, or near silence. 

***

I'm sharing this because I'm here to write about it.  Because I felt safe enough to not be silent. 

Let's take a pro-longed commercial break.

My return to blogging was short lived. I'm taking a blog-vacation while I focus on becoming well.

I still encourage anyone who is struggling with or knows somebody who is struggling with PPD to reach out for help. These are great places to start: http://www.postpartum.net/Get-the-Facts.aspx and http://postpartumprogress.com/.

PPD is treatable and temporary. And far more common than most people think.

So I'm signing off for now...but not quietly.

A few thoughts to share before I'm back laughing about the time I went bat-shit crazy:

-Fuck stigma.
-Fuck ignorance.
-Fuck anyone who thinks this is my fault, that I brought this on myself, or that having PPD makes me any less of a mother. I'm a fantastic mother. I take amazing care of my kids. Their health, well-being, safety, and happiness are my first priority in life.
-If you're going through something similar to me, you're not alone, help is out there, and you can get better.

So with love and lots of F bombs, I'm off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of sanity.

(Saying fuck a lot feels cathartic, and pretty fucking awesome right now).

Beyond Attachment

When I was pregnant for the first time, I threw myself into preparing for motherhood. I researched gentle parenting techniques. Kyle and I prepared to rearrange our lives to accommodate and nurture our baby twins in the most loving way possible. I couldn't wait to change their tiny cloth diapers. I couldn't wait to snuggle them close to me in the Moby wrap. I felt peaceful in the idea that attachment parenting would provide us with the right tools to gently nurture our little family.

When the boys were born seven weeks early and whisked off to the NICU, our plans for the early days with our babies changed dramatically. Instead of taking a quiet few weeks together at home to bond, the boys were kept in plastic isolettes amidst the constantly chiming monitors. When I was discharged three days after my Cesarean, I was told to go home and visit the boys during the day, rather than staying with them in their room as I desperately wanted. Weak and overwhelmed, I agreed. I was petrified for my tiny babies alone in their fancy plastic bins. How would this time impact our bond?

Somehow, as time went on, in the blur of postpartum depression and sleep deprivation, I began to think of those first few weeks as my first transgression against attachment parenting. Every AP article I read talked about the shoulds and should nots. I should always respond to my babies' cries. Did they do that at 3 AM in the NICU? I should not allow my baby to spend hours a day laying alone in a plastic bin. Nothing addressed things not going according to plan. In whatever big or small way, I felt I had failed.

Fast forward several months. I persevered with attachment parenting, trying my best to live up to what were beginning to feel, at times, like pretty exacting standards. As time wore on, that early NICU experience started to feel like the first of many stumbling departures from AP. At nine months, there was sleep training - a desperate and heartbreaking solution to my extreme sleep deprivation from getting up to nurse the boys every two hours at night. Skip ahead a few more months. At some point I yelled for the first time. At some point, I swore. At some point, I tried time outs. In my head, all I could hear was "failure!" "Failure!" "Failure!"

Here's the thing. I think attachment parenting offers some wonderful tools. I believe the world would be a better place if more people adopted its principals. However.

I AM AN IMPERFECT HUMAN BEING. I am not always entirely zen. I am emotional, sensitive, and quick to react to my environment. No matter how hard I try, I can never be true to myself AND fit my circular body into a square shaped box. But it goes further than that, too.

I'm concerned about the ominously missing coverage of "what if" situations in AP literature. No parent is perfect all of the time. I'm wary of any parenting advice that quickly and harshly judges those who chose other paths, and I can't help but feel horrified by every AP article I've ever read that warns of the brain damage! and antisocial behaviors! suffered by non AP children.

As a feminist, I'm left feeling icky about the implications of AP on women. AP is child centered, but I'm not sure that it's family balanced. In college, I spent my senior year completing a capstone project on women and self-help culture. My overwhelming conclusion was that our society's plethora of self-help books and television, largely aimed at women, lead to the message that we're somehow not good enough as we are. Forget that we're all supposed to look like super models. We're also not centered enough on the inside. At some point, AP advice has started to feel the same way to me.  I need to be more patient. I need to do a better job of empathizing with my child. I need to be gentle and maintain my child's dignity when disciplining. If I do not do these things, I bear the weight of harming their very sense of self.

I offer these thoughts not to condemn AP or those who practice it. In most ways, I continue to parent in a very AP fashion. What I want is to be honest with myself about how and why I choose to parent. I want to challenge and examine it. AP is becoming increasingly popular. I suspect I'm not the only one who at times feels confused by a parenting style that centers around the gentle treatment of children yet leaves me feeling like my own sense of self has taken a beating. In the end, I pick and choose. More than anything, I strive to parent mindfully, in a way that is gentle for our entire family. As a mother, I know that I am not now and never will be perfect. I'm learning that this little fact isn't a failure on my part. In all reality, it's one of the best parts of this journey.

One bird. Six meals.

Soon, I'm going to post some thoughts on cost of living as it relates to motherhood and feminism. I realize that dropping a teaser like this at the beginning of a post is totally unfair. How will anyone enjoy their Thanksgiving while sitting in anxious anticipation of such juiciness? The short version goes like this: life is expensive. High cost of living limits parenting choices. Limited parenting choices equals less than ideal family situations. Bad for society. Saving money becomes tool of liberated women everywhere. Or something like that.

In the meantime, I'm taking frugality pretty seriously around here. I recently mentioned that I love cooking, and have been considering adding some food elements to my blog. There are lots of great cooking blogs, lots of great money saving blogs - and lots that cook while saving money and stomping on one foot and saving the earth. I'm not breaking out anything really novel here. BUT. I do cook while saving money, maximizing my time,  and entertaining three small people. Perhaps this will be in the very least entertaining.

So. Let's do this.

What we're cooking: Turkey. One bird. Six meals.

It's Thanksgiving week, which means turkey is on sale. Go buy a turkey. Unless you're a vegetarian. But otherwise. Really. Even if you're not hosting. Especially if you're not hosting. I bought a fresh ten pound turkey for eight dollars with a coupon and am using it as the base for six meals. 

Meal one: Turkey dinner. Roast your turkey. Eat. Enjoy.

Meal two: Salad with turkey. Make a salad. Top with cold leftover turkey. Throw on some craisins and goat cheese. Yum.

Meals three through five: Turkey pot pie. Here's where I actually give a recipe. One that I created myself, at that. Muster appropriate awe and proceed. 

Turkey Pot Pie

5 cups roasted turkey

3 carrots, roughly chopped

1 onion, chopped

3 stalks celery, roughly chopped

1/2 cup chopped mushrooms

Thyme
3 T cooking sherry

Salt and pepper

1/2 stick butter

3 T flour

2 cups chicken stock (or beef/vegetable)

1/2 cup half and half (or milk)

2 cups frozen vegetables of your choice - I used a mix of rutabaga, broccoli, and peas

3 ready-made pie crusts (or puff pastry sheets)

1 egg 

How to cook three turkey pot pies with three little people running around and constantly requesting help using the potty:

I try do most of my dinner cooking during the day so I have plenty of time and don't get frazzled if the time elapsed between chopping carrots and actually sauteing them takes forty-five minutes. I prepared this particular meal during pre-lunch play time, lunch itself, and then finished it up once I had everyone down for the post-lunch nap. Here's how I broke it down:

1. First I browned my vegetables. Chop and saute onions. Do this on low heat so that they don't burn while you're wiping somebody's nose. Cooking with toddlers and babies around requires slowing things down. It's noon, dinner's not til 6:30, we've got plenty of time. While the onions cook, chop your carrots, celery, and mushrooms. When the onions start to brown, add the vegetables you just chopped. Season with about a teaspoon of thyme and salt and pepper to taste. Saute until things get glossy and the vegetables soften and brown. Set aside. Be proactive, and set your frozen pie crusts out now to thaw. If you're using fresh pie crusts, congratulations.

2. Get that turkey meat. No knives here. Use your hands. If you're following my little plan (which is doubtful, but let's indulge in the idea for a minute), you've already had this bird for dinner twice. There should be plenty of meat left if you're feeding only a few substantial meat eaters (our toddlers are more of the vegetarian variety) but you're also probably at the point where you need to work for the meat that remains. Push up your sleeves and get to it. I was able to recover at least five cups of turkey. Chop it up. Dump it in a big bowl.

3. Make your sauce. I did this step while my kids were napping. It's not difficult, but it takes a minute of patience and a few more minutes of undivided-ish attention. Melt half a stick of butter over medium heat in a heavy pot. Add three tablespoons of flour. Whisk until uniform. Stir for a couple of minutes to toast the flour. SLOWLY add your stock, whisking constantly. As the sauce thickens, add a bit more, then a bit more. If you add it all at once, your sauce will be watery and you'll blame me for making up bad recipes that disappoint your entire family.  Once it's thickened and you've added your stock, add your half and half using the same method. Let this simmer while you add a teaspoon of thyme, salt and pepper to taste, and your cooking sherry. Give it a good stir and let it simmer for a minute before turning off the heat.

4. Combine the sauteed vegetables with your chopped turkey. Add frozen vegetables if you wish. I added them for some extra nutrition and substance, but I have mixed feelings about frozen vegetables. On a more food snobbish day, I would have skipped them and increased my sauteed mix. Go with whatever moves you. Pour the sauce over all of it. Mix well.

5. Assemble your pies. Lay out three pie plates. You don't have to grease them. Spread your turkey mix evenly in the plates. Roll a pie crust over the top of each one. Tuck the edges down and cinch if you wish. Get a knife. Makes slits in your crust so the steam can escape.

6. Freeze two pies. Wrap them well first. They'll keep in the freezer for at least a month.

7. The other pie is for dinner tonight. An hour before you want to eat: Heat your oven to 350. Brush the top of your crust with a lightly beaten egg. Pop that pie into the oven. Start checking around 30 minutes. I cooked mine for 45 - you're watching for a nicely browned crust and bubbly edges.

8. WAIT! You're not done! That's only five meals. I promised six. Before you clean up: grab that turkey carcass. Plop it into a large pot of water. Add an onion, chopped roughly, a few broken carrots and stalks of celery, and two bay leaves. Salt and pepper. Bring to a simmer. Simmer for several hours, until the liquid is cloudy and reduced by 1/3 to 1/2. Strain the liquid - now you have stock. Use it to make a turkey stew, or separate and freeze in 4 cup quantities, which is the same size as those boxes you buy at the store.

9. Okay, now you can break out the bon bons and relax. In all practicality, you just prepared 3-4 meals in about an hour's time, using refrigerator staples and leftovers. Plus, if you're lucky like me, your two year old twins are only half an hour into a THREE AND A HALF HOUR afternoon nap. Hooray momma.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Honey and water

It has been so, so long since I've written about my kids. Truly written about them. I feel panicked when I realize this. All of these moments, all of this time that just keeps plowing forward...it baffles me and breaks my heart. I am so overwhelmed by the everything-ness of them. Watching them grow is like trying to cup water in my hands - no matter how tightly I press my fingers together, it somehow still slips through and falls away.

I am sometimes guilty of rushing bedtime for the boys. That last leg of the day before becoming an adult again, anxious to savor the indulgent few quiet hours where nobody is pulling on me or asking for juice, where Kyle and I hungrily soak up every luxurious moment of just being. I do love our evenings. But. Toddlers, teetering on the edge of sleep, slow down to the pace of honey rather than water. At bedtime I can't help but give them a hundred kisses, all over their still-round faces, their downy skin and deliciously fat cheeks, their soft jaws and little rubber noses.

The boys are not babies any more. They are tiny people as certain and forceful as the tides. They have gentle souls that pour out into everything they do and touch. They are the best of friends. I am endlessly amazed by the extent to which they are entirely individual in their beings. Rhys is independent, deeply sensitive, and has a remarkable assuredness. He becomes fully immersed in his play and his curiosity of the world, making his way through tasks at a pace he refuses to alter for any agenda other than his own. This is one of my favorite things about him. Getting him dressed or walking up a flight of stairs could easily take ten minutes. He is unapologetically true to himself. He has an incredible imagination and a deep, nurturing love for his toys and the stories he invents for them. Tonight, he is sleeping with a tiny rubber frog nestled into an egg carton. This is very typical. In the mornings, he crawls into bed with me and pushes his face against mine. "I wuv you mama. I wuv you the moon and stars."

Quin is funny, charming, and empathetic. He is boldly inquisitive and is the child who just last week, while in line at the fabric store, turned to me while pointing at the woman behind us to ask, "why she got purple hair?"  He loves music and dancing and piggy backs. His laugh is infectious and wild. He is a dutiful helper, and will often slip out the back door while telling me, "stay there. I be right back. I just getting a log for the fire." He'll then pull on Kyle's size 14 sandals and venture naked into the cold November air to pull a log half his size off  the wood pile. My efforts to stop this are entirely futile, so I've given up. I cannot keep clothes on him for more than twenty minutes at a time. His propensity for empathy and thoughtfulness are moving. Rhys was feeling sad at bedtime tonight. While I rubbed his back, Quin climbed out of bed but quickly returned, carrying a stuffed musical giraffe. He pulled the string. "I play music for Rhys," he explained, "and now he will not be sad."

Anwen's name means beautiful and pure; she is both of those things. She is an easy baby, full of joy and mischief. She loves her brothers and has every intention of keeping up with them. She has a head full of fuzzy wisps and big round eyes with heavy lashes and a beautifully bowed little mouth. Her birth and early infancy helped to bring me back from the trauma and sadness that surrounded the early days with the boys. She has renewed my faith in myself as a mother to a young infant by helping me to feel calm and confident, just as my pregnancy with her renewed my faith in my body's ability to nurture life. She is the answer to questions I hadn't yet acknowledged asking.

These first days since I've left my job have been bliss. The pace of our life has slowed to a crawl. I just feel happy. And peaceful. Incredibly, foolishly lucky. Every day. I feel like I'm looking at my children for the first time in months. I have nowhere to rush off to. No conference call. No email I need to get to. I'm just here. With them. I never expected motherhood to be a forceful lesson in mindfulness. It doesn't have to be. But what a tragedy to not allow it to be.

Home

So I mentioned I left my job. Life had gotten so chaotic. I stopped being the mother I know I can be. We all have days when we're 'less than' mothers. Less than we know we could be. Less than we know we should be. Less than we'd hoped and dreamed of being. It's normal. But my 'less than' days were becoming my norm.  Something had to give.

We'd wanted me to stay home from the time the boys were born. But god. Life is expensive. So I went back to work. The first six months I was back at work were completely heartbreaking. I hated leaving them. At first I just worked a little. A small position. Eighteen hours. Mostly from home. I got used to it, and it was okay. Within a year, I somehow found myself back in my old position, except instead of doing the job in forty hours, I was trying to cram it into twenty five. It was stressful. I was struggling to maintain balance, but we made it work. Then Anwen was born. My game changer. I had a three month maternity leave. It was Spring and beautiful, and although I was adjusting to three under three, life was peaceful. Near the end of my three months, I started to panic. I didn't want to go back. Anwen wouldn't take a bottle, and I didn't want to leave her. When the day came for me to return, I brought her with me. I promised I'd work to get her to take a bottle. Week after week, she refused, and week after week I showed up at work with my baby wrapped cozily on my chest.  When Anwen was five months old, my boss asked me to bump my hours up to thirty per week. I was falling behind. I felt like a 'less than' mother at home and a 'less than' employee at work. Somewhere in between ear infections and twin two year old's who loved to murmur "I wuv you" in my ear, I had lost my passion for the work I was being paid to do. But I was scared to leave. I said yes to the thirty hours. It was the best mistake I've ever made.

For two months, I struggled to work thirty hours a week. My employers were so flexible with me. I was lucky. Although I worked mostly from home, I went in to the office about once a week. Each time, I'd show up with Anwen, who by now was crawling and making her presence known with loud exclamations of "AHHH!" throughout the day. I'd work at home at night when the kids were sleeping. During nap times. Our home life became total chaos. My time home with the kids was spent trying to frantically play catch up. Instead of playing with the boys, I was stripping beds and throwing in loads of laundry. Folding baskets full of clean clothes that had become wrinkled from sitting ignored for days, while the boys sat and watched tv. I was miserable and bitter. I resented everything.

Finally, it was clear Anwen couldn't come in to the office with me any more. She'd outstayed her welcome. I knew this day would come, but I had made no arrangements. She still wouldn't take a bottle. I had no desire to put her in any form of child care.

In the background, Kyle and I had been planning and restructuring our finances. For two and a half years, we chipped away at getting things in order. We sat down and looked at the numbers. It would be tight, but we thought we could make it work.

I gave my notice. Two and a half weeks.

Our house was a revolving door of sickness for those last eighteen days, culminating with my catching pneumonia just in time for my last week. I missed more than half the week, sick at home, feeling depressed and feverish. My last day came. I hobbled into the office, wearing a sick and cranky Anwen. It was completely anti-climatic, overshadowed by my seventh day of totally untreated pneumonia. (Which in itself could be another post entirely, but I'll spare you. Let's just say two doctors who told me "Just a cold!" three days apart were quite off the mark.)

That was Thursday.

Today it's Monday. My system is heavy with antibiotics for which I couldn't be more grateful. But more than that, the relief has set in. I've never felt more complete. I have over ten loads of laundry to fold. Several projects...several...waiting to be finished. All in good time. I took the kids to a nearby park with my mother. We had a picnic lunch. We played on the playground. It was the happiest I've felt since my last days of maternity leave. We came home and I tucked my sleepy boys into their beds. I picked up some toys.
I'm happy. I'm so, so happy.

I'm home.

And about those changes...

I've had thoughts of starting a new blog. The idea of a clean slate, a fresh format, incorporating fancy new features...all are appealing to me. But this jumbled mess of my history from the last four years has me kind of attached. A lot has happened on this blog.

I read other blogs and am inspired by the focus. The clarity. The soundness and consistency of voice. My blog has none of these things. It is what I am from day to day. It is my evolution, and I'm not ready to let it go. I'm still evolving.

I'm going to meet myself half way, though. I won't abandon ship here, but I am going to try and spruce it up a bit. A little clarity of voice would be helpful. And features...I'm going to try some. There are things I want to weigh in on and examine, conversations I want to add my voice to. Parenting choices and style are a big one.  As a feminist, I'm offended by and concerned about much of the parenting advice and philosophy that is becoming predominant. So much of it seems to come with the underlying assertion that relying on one's inner voice and wisdom isn't enough...that we need to read philosophical books on children to understand the beings we have created. Regardless of one's personal parenting decisions, I think any philosophy that praises its followers and condemns others is cause for concern. I'm going to begin blogging somewhat regularly on my own evolution as a parent and how I'm sorting through the rhetoric to find what feels right for our family.

I'll be reintroducing the cast of characters that make up my family...somewhere in the craziness I stopped capturing the growth and craziness of our joint life together. I miss that.

I'm toying with the possibility of introducing some posts on cooking. I love to cook and love to read about cooking. If I can find a way to harmonize with some posts on what I'm whipping up, I will.

Also in consideration...some posts on thriftiness. I began couponing (don't gag yet) a couple of months ago to try and save some money so that my staying home with the kids would be more affordable. In no way do I ever want to become a couponing blog, (though there are some fantastic ones out there) but I do think there is space to highlight the fact that couponing and living a holistic lifestyle are not mutually exclusive.

I definitely plan to work in ongoing posts on mastering the art of domestic goddess-hood. Leaving my seven year career in non-profits, I am coming home with a lot of skills that I plan to maintain and keep entirely relevant in the homestead. I'm a kick-ass planner and an even more kick-ass time manager. Life with three little ones may be chaotic, but it doesn't mean I can't implement some crazy underlying organizational structure to help keep the peace. I know what I'm talking about...at least a little bit. In the past two years and ten months since I became a mother, I've spent seven months exclusively at home (maternity leaves), and the remainder as a working mom, working between eighteen and thirty hours a week, most of those hours from home. Balancing chaos has become an art form in our house.

So we'll see how this all unfolds, It will be a growing process as I figure out what works and what doesn't...at home and for my blog.

I hope you'll still follow along. (And comment, to let me know what is working and what is painfully boring!)

There's Gonna Be Some Changes Made.

I quit my job.

My last day is Thursday.

Life was too chaotic. I was unhappy.

Three beautiful babies, a kick-ass husband, and I was unhappy. Stretched far too thin for far too long.

My writing is rusty, and terribly neglected.

That had best change, because I think I'm going to have a lot to write about on this next leg of my journey, where I throw myself into the role of domestic goddess.

Except instead of wearing heels and an apron, I'll probably be in sweats and a nursing tank. With spaghetti sauce in my hair.

I can't wait.

It's a good thing I'm not famous with swarms of zealous paparazzi around me. (But also, it's a little bit too bad that I'm not, because I really think Jennifer Aniston and I would get along swimmingly and might look really cute having our picture taken together poolside in a very luxurious location sipping extremely sophisticated beverages.)

Because if I were famous, these events would have been widely publicized.

Scenario 1. Zumba.
I went to Zumba class.  By myself.  Apparently, I am no longer a 19 year old cheerleader who can shake my sugar 'til the sun goes down.  Apparently, in fact, I am 30, and eleven weeks postpartum, and I do not know how to Zumba.  I tried following the woman in front of me.  If you've ever been to an organized exercise class, you KNOW this woman.  The over-zealous, takes it all too serious, where does she buy spandex in that color? one.  She looked like she was strapped onto the back of a cracked out bumble-bee trying to whip it into submission while simultaneously gyrating her hips with reckless and wild abandon.

So I settle for quick glimpses of the instructor through the sea of hip-shaking, booty-wagging, breast-shimmying women, and end up following about six beats behind everyone else, turning right when they're turning left, shaking when they're shimmying, honking when they're tonking, and gyrating when they're...oh whoops...cooling down.  I was far too confused to work up any form of sweat, but at one point I accidentally started lactating and that was exciting.  Everyone else's shirt was damp in all those exercise-appropriate areas, but I seemed to be the only one with large wet nipple stains.

And although most days I'm seven to fourteen percent disappointed that I'm not crazy famous with swarms of paparazzi, this was one day where I thanked my lucky heavens that no cameras were in pursuit.  TMZ would have squashed my entire career in thirty four recorded seconds of rhythm-less, lactational gyrations.  Then I would have to stage a divorce from Kyle and go on the Millionaire Matchmaker in a last-ditch attempt to resurrect my celebrity and make a quirky yet alluringly sexy appearance as the Millionaire-ess and Patti and I would have it set up ahead of time that Kyle would be one of the potential suitors, and we'd re-marry in a very publicized and lavish affair with Rhys and Quin and Anwen in our wedding and suddenly I'd be America's darling once again.

But it seems like a lot of work to go through for one lousy Zumba class.

***

Scenario 2: Where I pump gas in my bathing suit.
Most people would have made some serious mental notations about no longer being a nineteen year old cheerleader after the Zumba incident.  Ironically, the last time I was in a bathing suit at a gas station, I WAS a nineteen year old cheerleader, trying to raise money for my team by parading around half naked like a prostitute washing cars at the local Citgo station.

So how, and why, was it that I, at eleven weeks postpartum, found myself in my bathing suit pumping gas?  On a very busy road in a very busy town, mind you?  With three children in my car?

Let's just say that this was far less intentional than my college days, and came about through the perfect storm of a gas light, a screaming newborn in the back seat, and a day at the beach that left us all exhausted and sandy.  And my pants conveniently tucked into our massive beach bag which was tucked under our massive stroller in the back of my Forester.  When I realized that accessing my pants would require me to get out of the car and dig through all our gear in my swim-ready state, I decided it would be easier and less embarrassing to just pump in my ruffle-butt tankini.

You're welcome, City of Portsmouth.  Your teen pregnancy rate just went down by 28 percent.

***

But in closing, let me make one thing clear.  I WILL learn how to Zumba.  I will gyrate my way to EXTREME SEXINESS, and then?  Once I've accomplished that?  I will head straight for the nearest gas station and pump gas in my string bikini while slowly shaking my long golden locks of hair like one of the poor role models in a beer commercial.  And then teenagers everywhere will think that pregnancy is a good idea because LOOK AT HER!  it most definitely does not ruin your body forever.

A postpartum montage of sexiness.

You're out in public, a few weeks after having your third baby in less than three years.  Feeling slightly exhausted, slightly frumpy, and just a teensy, weensy bit hormonal.  But you notice several passers-by checking out your robustly perky breasts, and for just a moment you mentally shout out "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAH!  YOU'VE STILL GOT IT, YOU SEXY BITCH!"

A moment later, you feel a sticky warmth against your belly.  You look down, only to be overtaken by the horrendous realization that while your cleavage might be swell, those passers-by were more likely checking out the massive and rapidly growing milk stains running down the front of your shirt and pooling attractively in your postpartum pooch.

***

Grocery store.  You've brought along your 16 year old mother's helper, because for the love of god, you learned your lesson the last time you tried to navigate the grocery store as the solo adult responsible for ensuring that nobody was left in the cereal aisle and now you're fairly certain that the store management is considering banning you for life.  So now you've brought reinforcements, and the travelling shit-show circus you run with has made it into the produce aisle.  You have two overflowing carts and the kale keeps falling on the floor and suddenly you've got company in the form of a creepishly swanky thirty-something.  He circles, and then circles again, and just as you're about to let loose on him a small tirade to the likes of FOR GOODNESS SAKE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO WAVE MY WEDDING BAND IN YOUR FACE YOU CREEPY PRICK...you're saved by the realization that the wagon he's circling belongs not to you, but to the sitter.  And then he's asking her out in an eerily "To Catch a Predator" sort of way, and you casually fluff your sensibly short mom-hair and shoot him a look that he TOTALLY will know means, "I FIT THIS ASS INTO SIZE FOUR JEANS THIS MORNING AFTER KNOCKING OUT A BABY SEVEN WEEKS AGO, YOU SICK PEDOPHILE."

***

So you decide that an upcoming wedding will be your chance to get your swagger back.  You order a flirty little number online and buy some killer heels.  You buy spanx.  Gulp.  Cringe.  Spanx.

You try it all on.  You smile.  Hoooooooo yeah.

You slink down the hall to the kitchen to show your husband.  You spin around and ask, totally casually, "do you think this outfit will be okay for the wedding?"

You await and envision his response.  "WOW."  "You're stunning."  "HEY SEXY MAMA!"  "HOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAH!"

He cocks his head to the side.  "Yeah.  That should work."  He turns back around to the sink.  

He will spend the next six weeks wondering why the OB suddenly "called" to advise that things are not healing well from the birth and will probably take at least another month or two.

***

You develop a new mantra, to cover all your bases:

I will embrace my maternal womanhood!  Hoooooo yeah!

I will age gracefully and no matter how tempting, I will not bleach my hair, tuck my tummy, or resort to pink lip gloss!  Hooooooooo yeah!

I will have my ass inappropriately pinched by a stranger at least once more in my life, even if I have to pay somebody to do it!  Hooooooooo yeah!

I will not say "Hoooooooooooooooo yeah!" out loud even though I use it in my writing to emphasize points, because it makes me sound like I'm seventy!  Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo yeah!

So many moments.  Pivotal moments, ordinary moments, moments that linger forever, and those that go by all too fast.

My pregnancy with Anwen was a series of interwoven moments I may have hoped for but never expected to have...learning I was unexpectedly pregnant, allowing myself to trust in my body's ability to carry a pregnancy to term, approaching labor and attempting a VBAC...

...Overcoming obstacles (breech presentation, going past my due date, heart decelerations) and succeeding at a VBAC.

Succeeding at a VBAC.

***

I woke up a week after my due date with a nagging feeling.  I hadn't felt Anwen move much (at all?) over night.  I tried to get her to move.  I drank orange juice, pushed on my belly, changed positions again and again.  Nothing.  Flashbacks to Rhys and Quin's birth started running through my mind.  We called the midwife, and her instructions were simple: "get here now."

At the hospital, we were relieved.  They found the baby's heartbeat.  They checked my fluid levels.  Everything looked good.  Except.  The baby was having some heart decelerations after contractions.  The midwife was afraid she wouldn't tolerate labor.  They couldn't let me go home, at 41 weeks pregnant, knowing I was having contractions, with a baby whose heart rate was dipping.  They could fit us in for a c-section at 3:00pm.

I cried.

I called our doula.  Instead of attending the birth, would she be willing to instead provide postpartum support?  She would.

The doctor came in.  She confirmed what the midwife had told us: a c-section was likely.  

But.

Would we like to try a trial of labor?  We'd be on a short leash - IV, constant monitoring, and a first class ticket to the OR at the first sign of distress - but she was willing to let us try a pitocin induction.

A window of opportunity.  

They started my pitocin around noon.  Early labor was lovely.  My pitocin dose was low (2 milliunits) and the contractions were bearable.  Kyle and I walked around the unit, we had tea, we listened to music.  (Live harp music, at that, from a musical therapist visiting the unit!)

At four the OB came in to check my progress.  A centimeter and a half.  We discussed having her break my water.  It would allow my body to kick in to help, and I was already on a time frame because of the induced VBAC.  I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Water broken.  Contractions coming in waves.  I felt suddenly disorganized and panicked.  Pain.  Relief.  Pain. Relief.  But instead of feeling like a rhythmic pattern, my contractions felt tangled up with each other, with my mind.  Kyle brought me a hot pack for my back.  Helped me get into a more comfortable position.  I regained composure, found a rhythm.

I lose track of time.

Pitocin up to six.  Want hot water.  Into the tub.  In a rhythm.  Waves of pain.  Relief.  Laughing.  Pain building.  Cresting.  Dissipating.  Hot water is amazing.  Again and again.  

The pauses between the waves get shorter and shorter.  Contractions build, peak, and dissipate...and build, peak, and dissipate.  Relief slips through my fingers before I can grasp it.  I feel panicked.  I had planned not to use any medical pain relief.  I also had planned not to use a medical induction.

"I want to talk about pain meds."  As I'd requested months earlier, Kyle and my doula try to talk me out of it. The doctor checks me.  I feel like I'm in transition, and yet I know, I KNOW, that I am nowhere near that point.  I tell Kyle and our doula, "if I'm seven centimeters I'll go on without meds".  I say seven.  I mean eight or nine.

The doctor checks me.  Almost three centimeters.  I am not discouraged.  I am relieved.  "Get me an epidural."  It's all I can say, again and again, until I'm laying in bed savoring sweet relief.  

Two hours later.  4 centimeters.  Okay.  It's okay.  I'm not in pain.

Two more hours pass.  It's time to push.  

At first I can't feel when to push.  The nurse has to cue me.  But then I can tell.  I'm not in pain.  But I can tell.  

I push for an hour.  The baby's heart rate starts getting low towards the end.  Into the sixties.  The midwife talks about the vacuum.  It doesn't scare me, just motivates.  We don't end up needing the vacuum.  Kyle is by my side, holding my hand.  We are doing this.  We are in the hospital, we've been induced, I have an epidural, but we are doing this!  The lights are dim.  We are surrounded by flameless candles and beautiful music.  The doctor is in the room next door, so we're back with the midwife.  Does Kyle want to help deliver the baby?

And then she's out.  Anwen.  She's tiny and warm and wet.  She has an amazing strong cry.  She's crawling up my belly and all I can see are her beautiful big eyes - blue and deep and so, so new.  She has matted dark hair and I'm already in love.

(Photos by Allison Connor, our wonderful doula)