Stairs Are Not Your Friend

A little author's note: This little essay is really just one more version of what I seem to write over and over. So, yes, I know I have said these things. I just can't help it that they keep coming up. And, in case you wonder, everyone written about here had the chance to see it all and approve of it being online.

Recently, I got the worst text I have ever received:

I need your prayers right now. Coming home from work because Barbara had to call 911 because David fell. I have no idea any of the details but I did hear him screaming in the background.

My dear, dear friend (like, getting-my-children-if-I-die, basically-named-my-son-after-her “dear”), Brenna, had to write this. David slipped on the stairs while she was at work, and he was at home alone with their two girls. A couple of hours later we learned that he had fractured some ribs and punctured a lung. He received a chest-tube while awake, and then spent 5 days in the highest trauma-level hospital in our area feeling constantly nauseous. Brenna was several weeks pregnant at the time.

From the moment the text dinged, I was sick with worry. Obviously, my concern for David was great, and I was afraid of what the stress of it all could mean for Brenna and her fragile baby. Thankfully, it didn't take too long for the doctors to conclude that the pneumothorax was David's only big problem, but I was scared I may receive another text about some complication. The whole first night, I barely slept, and when I did I had nightmares involving the word “pneumothorax” and flashes from old memories.

Around 4am, I awoke to feed my baby and realized suddenly why this all was tormenting me so. Beyond all the obvious concerns for my friends and their children, this accident struck a deep, tender nerve. It was the stairs. He fell down the stairs. I shook my husband awake, “Rib, Rib! He fell down the stairs. It happened to him too! This is all freaking me out so bad because of the stair thing.” “Yeah,” he answered. “I know. I figured that was pretty obvious.” “Thanks for filling me in,” I thought.

As a child, I was very brave. Very little scared me (except for E.T., but...). I could run and leap and try just about anything. Now, as an adult, I'm afraid of stairs and risk-taking in general. The accident that ended my ballet life happened on a set of stairs. A mistake was made by someone else, and I fell down scenery stairs. “Off” is more accurate than “down.” My invincible youth came to a quick close. Vulnerability arrived, or, rather, was revealed. And then came the pain. Pain that was life-altering, devastating, and yet uncovered a profound strength that I didn't know I had.

As soon as I knew David would be ok, that his injuries were not going to kill him, I kept thinking over and over, “He's going to be a much more interesting, rich person now. His compassion and empathy will expand so much!” “Jealous” is definitely the wrong word, but a certain wistfulness came over me. A kind of deep longing for him to have great results, the kind of results that I have received from all the physical pain I have survived. At the same time, I was thoroughly sad for him and Brenna. Injury had touched them. It got in to their lives. New vulnerabilities were exposed, and new needs for protection would take up places in their minds, their preoccupations. Yes, Pain can be an insightful instructor. In a heart ruled by God's love, on guard for bitterness, it can teach essential, enlightening things. But, the lessons aren't cheap.

I hope and pray that David's pains and fall will not cost him too much (medical bills aside!). I hope his trip down the stairs proves to have been only a misdemeanor offense. For me, the fall turned out to be a shocking robbery. Grand Theft Auto. A homicidal home invasion. There are things I had before that are gone forever, unless God chooses to restore them to me in Glory. Sometimes, I really question whether what I have gained for now is worth all the losses. But, even the deficiencies teach me.

Even before I fell down the stairs, I had formed some positive associations with physical pain. I know what dancers, athletes, know about pain: it can have it's rewards. Muscle aches lead to strength and flexibility. Blisters lead to callouses. Bruised nails get tough. Stress fractures make thicker bones. Exhaustion develops endurance. Practice makes perfect. And, oh! It feels so, so good to be perfect, to do it how you know it can and should be done! My pains as a dancer had their purpose, and that purpose was beautiful and gave me pleasure like I have not know since. If the pain had made me give up, I would never have lived the joy of the results.

My senior year of high school, I was accepted to study for the Summer at the School of American Ballet in New York City. This was a very big deal for me and for my small ballet company in the middle of (ballet-related) nowhere. I could not wait to see myself in the mirrors that so many of my idols had seen themselves in. I would squeal with delight at the thought of being in “George's School,” as my friends and I referred to it. I was obsessed with New York City Ballet. I saw going there to study as THE best thing that could have happened to me at age 16. I prepared for it like the rite of passage that it was. I thought everything through, including the fact that I would have to wear my pointe shoes for every class, for the whole class. This was new to me. It should not have been, but then my training had some gaps. On my own, I decided that I HAD to keep my pointe shoes on, no matter what. Back then, my options for shoes were limited to what I could afford to try and get my hands on via the internet. If I ordered something that didn't really work, I usually wore them anyway because they were all I had. The shoes I finally settled on, I knew later, did not fit me properly and weren't doing me any favors. This is part of why they hurt so badly. But, I kept those boots strapped to my feet as though my life depended on it, and my dancer life kind of did. I bled through the outside satin more than once, and I felt so badass it was ridiculous. I got blisters on top of blisters and bruises in my bruises. But, I did it. My feet did toughen up, and I learned that I could make it through more than I had thought. When I got to New York, one of the first things I did was figure out how to walk to the Freed store, and I, for the first time had a professional pointe shoe fitter help me find shoes that worked better than any I had ever tried, and they didn't hurt like the ones to which I was accustomed. Amazing. My suffering had been worth it.

My fall, though, had no apparent purpose. Immediately, there was no result but disaster, undoing. This pain was the bad kind, not a measured, wisely monitored means to an end. It was a car wreck. It scared the daylights out of me and kept me scared for a long, long time. I still do not like stairs, and I frequently ask Brendan to please walk in front of me and to not touch me while we are on a big staircase. I know what it is like to have your life changed by a fall down the stairs.

So, how did I get to a place where I could have the thought of being strangely excited for David? Not “happy for him” because that's just screwed up; however, “eager” applies. Surviving pain, emotional and physical, showed me so many new things about myself. They are not all good, by any means, but they definitely aren't all bad either. As for the bad ones, I'm working on them. “You can't change what you don't know,” and all that. The knowledge of what I can take, of what can be survived and endured, does encourage me daily.

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”

What?! Maybe. Sometimes it leaves you bed-ridden. I did not survive unscathed, and those wounds, though painful still, turn my attention outside of myself. They show me the need for others. When I am weak and bewildered, my family and friends are shown to be strong and sure. When I am without hope, they hope for me. And when they all inevitably fail me, God is there. And he is not the failsafe, not the back-up plan. He is the LORD, and all things are held together in him. He is the only thing that makes it OK to be in pain and hope for a lesson. With God, even bed-ridden can be a place of growth and value.

Whenever I try to sit and write about these things. I inevitably slant toward these neatly-tied ends. I have a few thoughts about that; the first, insecure thought being that I am coming off like some out-of-touch Pollyanna, an idiot in denial. As for how I appear: I suppose I cannot speak to that. While I don't think I am Pollyanna, I do acknowledge that I have an aversion to wallowing in bad memories for too long. I want to get out of the woods, so to speak, so that I won't be lost. I do not see much use in enduring pain, even the memory of pain, for the sake of proving I can. No, I've had way too much evidence in my life as a dancer, former-dancer, mom, and chronic-illness-sufferer that pain, if it ain't headed somewhere good, is best avoided! But, if it is thrust upon you, as a believer in God I can say, better milk it for all it can be worth! I have a longing to write about my short life as a dancer and what has transpired since it was taken from me. There are many reasons for this, but I think these strong beliefs about pain are at the bottom of it all. I just want it to all be worth as much as possible for anyone who cares to know!

Every Phase is Hard

FB, 11/16/2006: Jessica is not looking forward to dealing with her MGMT 403 professor

FB, 9/16/2013: My afternoon has basically been a frat party. 3 wild people in various states of undress are yelling incoherent things and cheering one another toward new heights of foolishness. They are playing some form of Limbo (the youngest chanting loudly: "HELLO- Candy-Go"). And a new cold bottle of beer was taken from the fridge, thrown into the living room, and exploded into a million sticky, little, fizzing pieces. Party on!!!

Facebook's new feature, On This Day, has come along just in time for me to begin writing these things down. In the isolation of modern motherhood, Facebook became a way I could reach out for a quick “I hear ya!” or “me too!” I spent, and still spend, time when I craft the occasional status update. Not only is it a little moment to be creative but also a chance to encourage and be encouraged in the strange land of Stay-at-Home-Parenting. I look forward to my little set of On This Day memories. The temporally striated posts give me a two-minute look back at my life phases from college through the past year. One thing is clear: all the phases are hard.

At my Bible study a few weeks ago, it was prayer request time. A new friend had that look like something big was on her mind but also like she might not want to say it. I hope I did what I did in a kind way, but it is always risky to try to draw someone out of her shell.

“How about you? You kinda look like you're sitting on something.”

She answered, “Umm, I'm just really tired and feel like I have no right to be, but I am.”

Collective “mm” sounds and subtle head nods went around. I couldn't leave it alone, though.

“I don't want to force you, but...”

“Oh, come on, Jessica. Yes, you do,” a friend interjected.

“Ha, well, it just seems like... well... what's that 'Don't deserve to' piece about?”

I was sitting there with Bran, and she knows I have the other three. I don't recall exactly, but I think I was soon to have my gallbladder surgery. Our hostess had 4 children. Other women had two or three. She is not a mom yet but works two jobs and had been doing a ton of weekend traveling for family events. Of course, she had every right to be tired! But, looking out at the room full of experiences she hadn't yet had, she felt ashamed of being worn out.

“I mean, I don't have anyone to take care of. I don't have a baby,” she said as she vaguely gestured in my direction.

“Ya know, I think every phase has felt hard. The exhaustion I feel now doesn't feel different to me than the exhaustion I felt before kids. It may have a different quality, but the effect on me is the same.”

The other ladies chimed in, and we all agreed that tough is tough, no matter what phase of life you are in. She absolutely deserved some grace and love for the difficulties she faces.

This little moment at Bible study really stuck with me. I think parents ARE crazy-tired. And it IS different than being tired from work because sleep-deprivation is just a special kind of torture. I laugh very hard at all the comedians' bits about how rough it is to have small children, and I do long for the days when simple pleasures like grocery shopping and long showers and great indulgences like sleeping for 8 solid hours were available to me. But, I don't long for hours behind a desk, dealing with group projects, being stuck in one building 40 hours a week, etc. Every phase is hard.

As parents we turn back and look at the D.I.N.K.S. and kids with jealousy from our high horses of Special Knowledge regarding the value of peeing with the door shut, staying in bed all night, and pursuing personal interests. We wish they knew how good they have it because we think that would cause the people around us to give us more credit for what we are going through. We feel our struggle is undervalued. But, I do remember the jealousy I had of parents, the jealousy I probably would have if I wasn't one. “They get to have the love of their children. They are doing something meaningful every moment! She doesn't have to put on day-time clothes. They are real grown-ups. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for that.”

The truth is: every phase is hard AND comes with unique perks and rich blessing. We should trade monologues. I should tell myself how fantastic parenting is more often than I let myself wallow in how hard it is. People without kids should feel totally free to enjoy their phase to the hilt! Take long showers! Peruse the grocery aisles until you really do find the very best mustard! Don't waste any time feeling guilty about not having kids to look after or being afraid that you won't be good enough once you do.

I got over being bitter towards the d.i.n.k.s. a couple of children ago, but I started looking ahead with some fear and some jealousy too. “Oh, to have kids who can all do {fill in the blank}. To be able to X and Y!” But, I see the moms of teenagers look at me with my baby's head nuzzled up under my chin. Their eyes tell a story of sweet memories and a new kind of Special Knowledge. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” they tell me. “It will go by too quick. Wait til you have teenagers...” I usually hate it when they say that. It feels so imprecatory! I am starting to get it, though. It DOES go by way too fast.

As I sit here, the list of stresses in my head include a husband being away on business for the next 36 hours (who's counting? ME), doing the dog's walk on my own somehow, dealing with Bran and his umpteenth snotty cold by myself all night, picking up and dropping off all my school kids at their 3 different places, and on and on. My phase is hard! When Ezra was a baby, I would give myself awards for leaving the house when he was 4 months old. This time? I have no choice! We have had days of being in and out of the car 9 times! NINE TIMES! “But,” I hear, “wait til you have teenagers!” Well, wait I will. And gladly.

We have to give ourselves the grace we need for the difficulties of our phase. It really doesn't matter what other people are dealing with; their mastery of their circumstances doesn't need to make us feel shame for the measly mastery (or survival?) of our own. Nor does it matter if anyone really gets how hard you have it. (That one is hard for me to believe. I am preaching to myself here.) I want my focus to be on thanksgiving because I have the security of God's love, authorization to do my job well, and approval through his Son. Yes, I will probably be up half the night cuddling and nursing a little sweetie who doesn't feel well, and I need grace. I will need to be gentle and not expect too much from myself for the next couple of days. I also can choose to be so grateful that I get to love, hold, and raise this baby that I dreamed of and wanted so intensely and that my other babies did indeed grow, sleep through the night, and are able to get dropped off, and picked up, and dropped off, and picked up, and...

So, thanks, Facebook, for allowing me to look back at the Jeskies of the past. Do I chuckle a bit at complaints from my earlier selves? Yeah, a little, but I give them credit too because I hope that I'll be gracious to 2015 Jesky someday. I am happy for me for every rock show I attended, every paycheck I received, and every, oh! every long shower. 

May it never be said of me that I missed my chance to enjoy these children during this brief time that they are young because I was too busy making sure everyone knows that it's hard, but, Lord, give me the grace to admit when it is!

Oh! The Gall of It

Life is just so damn interesting, isn't it? We can get assurances from one another. We can plan. We can imagine and hope, but we just never really know what we're going to get- good and bad.

Back at the beginning of my life with Bran, when he was just a twinkle in MY eye (thank you very much), I knew I would need help. I knew I would need rest. I knew that I only would get by on a little help from my friends (and Riberas). I figured POTS might be a problem after delivery, but I was hoping it would stay away. Thankfully, I have not been symptomatic, and I'm now hoping it will not return. Ever. I planned, somewhat, for my potential neediness through the Summer. Things just never go how we plan, though. Death in the family took all my helpers away during the hardest days of my pregnancy. So much for all the long weekends at Grandma's that I had imagined. Thankfully, just when I thought I had reached the very, very end of my rope, God made a perfectly-timed delivery of Bran. The next two weeks passed mostly in bliss, and I had all the help I needed.

Then, I went to the emergency room with a two-and-a-half week old infant. Shortly after dinner one night, I was lying in my daughter's bed with her having a chat when I began to have intense pain in my upper abdomen and chest. This same thing had happened a few days prior, but it started to go away before I really started to freak out. This time, though, it was much worse and continued to worsen instead of fade. As a woman who has delivered four babies with no meds and a chronic pain syndrome, I am familiar with pain and know that I tolerate it well. This pain terrified me, and I started having POTS symptoms too - tachycardia, shortness of breath, tingling, sweating, and upset stomach. Of course, all these symptoms together could mean heart attack. Brendan got the big kids to bed, called a neighbor over, and got me and our crying, hungry infant into the car. I was afraid I would die.

Saying "chest pain" at the ER is a great way to be quickly given a bed. I don't want to describe the whole visit, all the diagnostic results, and the most embarrassing moment of my life, so I'll just cut to the chase: after tons of blood-work for the next two weeks, a CT scan, and multiple follow-up visits- it all came down to gallstones. Apparently, gallstones are one of the many, many things that baby-having increases your risk for that you don't know about until it happens to you. It took me 3 or 4 weeks to really figure out how to prevent the gallbladder attacks. I still get them, but I haven't had a very bad or long one for a couple of weeks now. I'm having surgery very soon to have my gallbladder removed.

See what I mean? You just can't plan for this stuff. My POTS hasn't been a problem at all, but I've been side-swiped by this gallbladder stuff and planning for a surgery within the first two months of my baby's life. Of course, this all got bad just as my relatives are returning to work for the school year. Other family stuff has kept us occupied as well. On one hand, we are doing really great when you compare the status of things now to the days of full-blown POTS, and Bran continues to be an easy, sweet baby. But, as my therapist pointed out, I'm not really getting to behave like a woman who just had a baby and needs help and time to rest. I feel like a Jekyll-Hyde mommy. Somedays, I'm so overjoyed with the absence of POTS that everything is roses. Then on the other days...

The other thing I never imagined is that it would be September 15th, and my children are still not in school. "I just need to make it to September 9th," I would often think. "Then, I'll be able to have quiet time to rest and recover from all this craziness and get some rest before my surgery." I now have zero confidence that any of that will happen. BUT, I do have confidence that God will keep surprising me. Just as I cannot have predicted that I'd have a life-changing gallbladder problem for the first weeks of my new child's life or that I'd still have 4 children home most of the time, I cannot have predicted that my POTS would be so absent. I cannot have predicted that Bran would be born just when I knew I couldn't take it anymore. So, I wait with open hands. I try not to worry about general anesthesia being around the corner. I try to trust that my laparoscopic, day surgery will not be a big deal and that I'll recover quickly and well. I try to trust that Bran will do great on bottles. I trust that my extra days with my boys home will continue to bless me (and challenge me).

Life is not boring.

First Shopping Trip with 4

Yesterday I grocery shopped with my four children for the first time. I know that we moms post about this a lot, but I'm doing it again because it really is so frustrating. I live in a city that thinks it's really good at caring about people and giving respect to all people. I must not be a real person because I get blatant dirty looks when I'm in public with my kids. And yesterday, the kids were only operating at like a yellow threat alert level. I hope this is my fear projecting itself, but I feel that people's faces basically say, "well, you asked for it; and now we all get to be irritated, and you're responsible."

Children used to be considered an asset not a liability. Are they disruptive? Yes. You were too, I bet. Are they inconvenient? Heck yes! You were too; I'm certain. They are immature - at least they have a chronological excuse. 
But they grow. They will invent new technologies. They will find cures. They will love animals and the planet. They will vote and make decisions. They will love each other. IF I teach them. IF I love them and model for them.

The result of all the bad feelings I get when I go out to non-child-centric places is that I stop going. This is a problem! Sure, Amazon is convenient. So is InstaCart. I don't have to try taking kids to the library because I can request everything online, drive by, and pick up books we want. I love those services, and they are a great help to me. However, we already suck at actually being friendly and connecting with each other here in Seattle. Most of our major publications have published on the subject. The irritation we feel over each other (including my own at being shamed via the use of frowns and eyebrows) drives wedges deeper. And if I only ever take my kids to playgrounds or bouncy houses, they are deprived of the learning contexts that will help them mature into people who, I pray, by God's grace, are not completely inwardly focused and selfish. (So maybe they'll hold the door for those who need help, reach a jar from a high shelf, or help pick up the ten thousand gift cards that were knocked off the rack...)

So, my apologies, shoppers. I'm going to keep dragging myself out into the daylight with my brood. I am going to remind myself that I don't really know what others are thinking, and that I don't know why they are being so crabby. I will be ready to nicely, humbly apologize with and for my children when they are actually causing trouble. And I will do my best not to cry when you mumble under your breath. You better hope I don't because I've got a motley crew that don't like it much when people make the queen cry...

Bran Raphael

The first thing I'll say is that this is one very delightful baby. He has truly not cried for more than about 10 seconds at a time- and if he goes that long, that's his version of a real fit. Of course, he's only 39 weeks and 5 days, so it's a bit early to make any personality-type predictions, but I have my hopes. He weighed 7lbs 9oz, and was 19.5 inches long when he was born at 6:33pm on Wednesday, July 22nd.

It's hard to say when my labor with Bran truly began. I did my first nearly full night of early labor contractions on July 11th, and I did harbor some hope that he'd be born safely early on my birthday, the 12th. But, those contractions fizzled away, and we chalked it up to a change in the barometric pressure. About a week later, following acupuncture and Serafina's signature eggplant dish, I had another night like that. Again, fizzle. Now, I had set myself up from the beginning to expect Bran to be late, but these teaser sessions really started to make me long for him to come early- that and the fact that I really needed a break and knew I couldn't get that until he was born! Being so pregnant, with a baby that is so low, is exhausting already. Add the hottest summer on record for Seattle, swelling, and three big kids to entertain, and I was really getting worn out. In spite of those factors, though, I also had lots of nesting energy and in many, many ways felt more "normal" and better than I had throughout the pregnancy (and most of the last 2.5 years). My fear that I had had earlier in the third trimester that I wouldn't be able to manage labor and delivery with the fatigue and pain from POTS faded away as I kept making it pretty safely through very busy days of kid-wrangling and major cleaning projects.

On Tuesday morning this past week, I took my kids to see a $1 movie at the Regal Cinema. You should totally check that out if it's available in your town. As we chuckled at Peabody and Sherman, with my big girl in my lap, I started noticing a lot of what I figured were just Braxton-Hicks. But, they were a little different that the usual. I didn't pay much attention. After the movie, we headed to PCC to grab a few things we needed and pick a lunch. The kids weren't any more crazy than usual (I don't think), but for some reason they really drove me to the brink! I lectured the whole way home about how they need to try on purpose to be more calm and how stress over their disobedience was not going to help me get their brother out! I got ALL worked up as the afternoon wore on and wound up having a major emotional meltdown. I convinced myself once and for all that the stress of not resting and not being at peace with these wild people around all the time was going to surely delay my labor and leave me pregnant until 42+ weeks. Then that thought just made me cry and cry and cry. I cried out loud to my God, "please, help me!"

Eventually, I calmed down and got busy doing some cleaning and laundry. While I worked, I realized my contractions were seeming consistent again. "Oh, great" I thought. "Another night of teasing to keep me awake is probably coming." Still, I got a little excited and started timing them. 8-10 minutes apart. When Brendan got home and we were having dinner, the got a little closer together. I got very excited and then felt like maybe my big breakdown earlier had been the result of good flood of labor hormones. We went to the playground after dinner, and the kids played with Brendan while I did laps around the park. I enjoyed discovering the paths through the little wood behind our community center and had my first sour-but-almost-there blackberries of the season. My contractions jumped to 4-5 minutes apart, and I let Brenna know that something may be starting. These contractions didn't hurt enough yet. When I got home, we got the kids to bed, and my contractions continued. I took a shower and drank a ton of water, and they just kept coming, but still didn't hurt. At 10, I decided to let my midwives know that they should probably get some sleep. Cindie was out of town, right at the beginning of a 2 day trip, so I would be working with Stephanie. I was sad for Cindie to not get to be with us, but I was also looking forward to having Stephanie as I really like her and have worked with her with my doula clients before. Right after I talked to Stephanie, I had a small gush of amniotic fluid. I let myself get excited. The contractions did feel a bit stronger, but they still didn't hurt. That was bothering me.

Brenna, Elisabeth and Stephanie all arrived shortly after my little fluid gush. We figured that if my water broke I'd probably have a baby in a few hours. Around that time, something weird happened. I got this flood of fear that felt very physical. My mood went from excited to somber and unsure very quickly, and I started to shiver. Labor hormones can definitely cause shivering, but the fear was strange. I laid down to deal with it. Eventually, the sensation faded, and the shakes lightened up. It left me feeling tired, though, and my contractions spaced out a bit. We decided to all try to get some rest. The three ladies went to chat in my living room for a while and eventually, very adorably, all slept slumber party style on the fluffy rug. I was having too many contractions to get much sleep and kept waking up every 10 or 15 minutes with a flood of confused thoughts. Brendan was supportive, but I eventually quit bothering him as it was late, and I knew he would need the sleep he was able to get.

At 2:30 in the morning, I got up to pee. While sitting there, I felt what I thought was a big kick from Bran and heard a popping sound. Nothing happened until I stood up to get back in bed, and when I did a lot of fluid came pouring out. I had a lot of bloody show as well. I got excited again! "Ok! Let's do this. Bring on the painful contractions! They'll probably start any minute." Well. They didn't. I finally fell asleep around 5am with the thought that when the sun came up I could eat and start walking and maybe get the labor re-started. I woke up at 6:30, and I was having almost no contractions. I sent everyone home. We had a talk about how most women get into labor within 24 hours of the rupture of membranes and how that would probably happen with me. I felt ok about it all. I was excited that, now, no matter what, I'd be meeting Bran soon. But, I also was tired and discouraged and starting to think through what I would do if my labor didn't start. The thought of winding up at the hospital was depressing.

After everyone left, I cried for a while to Brendan. The thought that really made me cry most was the concern that I'd done something wrong- like maybe I'd jumped the gun or like I shouldn't have gone walking or shouldn't have had acupuncture 5 days before, or, or, or... Brendan shut all that down for me very quickly, firmly, and kindly which was exactly what I wanted and needed. Texting with my mom helped too (and continued to be helpful to me throughout the day). I knew she was praying along with my friends who knew the situation and our family. The kids and dog got picked up by Brendan's parents, and that was a relief. I was sad, though, that Bran hadn't just come in the night to surprise them first thing in the morning. Oh well. I knew that having them all squared-away would help me to focus and allow Brendan to give me the attention and affection I'd be needing. We slept for a while then.

I felt better when I woke up. I was ready to get dressed and attempt to go walking and try (for the fourth time now) to get through some (Stupid, frustrating!!!!) early labor on my way to some real-deal labor that I hoped and prayed would come on its own. We did pray often, and I felt every time like God was answering us with new information (like when my water leaked the first time, and then later popped big), with encouragement (like my mom's prayers and texts), and with new strength. We went walking around Matthews beach and then our little Meadowbrook Pond. Contractions did pick up, and I felt somewhat encouraged. I was leaking lots of fluid, and that was not fun (though I did find it funny every time when I told myself that Bran was peeing my pants...) We went to have our non-stress test with Stephanie then.

I'd never had an NST before, so that was fun and interesting somewhat. I did have one big-ish contraction that made me feel like maybe we were getting closer. Bran's heart rate took some deeper dips during that one, but he bounced back like he should; and everything else looked great. Stephanie did say that she'd like to be with us as soon as the contractions really did get serious so that she could keep good watch on his heart rate.

When we got home, I ate a good snack and we watched some Jim Gaffigan. Humor is your friend at times like these. My contractions got much stronger, and I finally got really excited. Brenna came back over, and by then I think they were about 5 minutes apart, maybe less, and were increasing in intensity. We called Stephanie to let her know, and I called her again in a 1/2 hour to say I wanted her to come over. I had that thought in my head about keeping Bran safe, which was good because otherwise I may not have had her come so soon. Brenna arrived at 4:30, and Stephanie was there by 5:30. By the time Stephanie arrived, I was needing Brendan to help me deal with the contractions. I alternated between sitting on my ball, kneeling at my bedside over a pillow, and sitting on the toilet. Elisabeth came sometime around all this too and started her photo-documenting.

I eventually landed backwards on the toilet and was planning to stay there for a while. Stephanie got started on placing my IV port for the saline we planned to deliver after the birth to help give me a boost in dealing with my POTS. She did a fine job, of course, but it's never fun to have that kind of distraction when you are dealing with such intense contractions. At the same time, I could feel that my blood was pooling in my legs a bit from how I was sitting. Once she finished the IV, I announced that I was dizzy, and they helped me get to the bed to lie down. Brenna massaged my leg to get the blood flowing again, and that felt great. Brendan started using a cold rag on my neck and back. The next contraction was officially one of the most painful of my entire childbearing career, and I had the thought, "oh, man. I hope I don't have to deal with these for long!" At nearly the same moment, I realized that I could push a bit, and it felt better! "I'm pushing!"

I felt Bran move down and out of my uterus. It was a very cool feeling, and I quickly started to feel the stingy, stretchy feeling of a baby's head about to crown. I did not have to push very many times. Everyone was very encouraging. We had planned to try to have me do my own catch, and I felt somewhat able to look down, feel him with my hands, and at least imagine pulling him up on my own. Once his head was visible, I had to actively try to not push him out right away. I panted to try to give myself time to stretch out and think a little bit about how and if I'd be able to get him. Stephanie was wonderful about listening to me and giving encouragement. I kept saying, "help! help!" not in a scared way, but in a "I need you to tell me what to do" way. Once his head was out, I did more panting, and we saw that his cord was around his neck. No big deal usually. It did frustrate my catching plans. Once I pushed his shoulders out she had to get him untangled because the cord was around three times! By the time she got him free (about 2 seconds that felt like forever to me!) I pretty much tore him from her hands! I was ecstatic and screamed, "I did it! I did it! I had another baby!" And I wasn't just referring to the birth, but to our entire journey of deciding to have Bran. I felt so full of confidence in God's love for all of us, and I thanked him. I had very minimal blood loss, and my POTS symptoms have not returned. I'm pretty amazed by it all.

Bran and I instantly bonded, and I have fully enjoyed him ever since. There could be so much more written into this story about my emotions, prayers, wonderful friends and theological ponderings during these days of his birth. I'd also love to write a bit about what the last few days have been like (chronic illness and learning how to care for myself have done me some big favors!), but I'm down to one hand typing now as I nurse my sweet baby. All of us here love him madly, and I look forward to eventually introducing him. For now, I'm guarding every moment and enjoying him as fully as I can. I want my memories of these days to run long and deep.

What's This Little Boy Made of?

Top Ten Cravings

10. Cucumbers
9. Gummy Bears (Specifically, THESE)
8. Banana Splits
7. Potato Chips/Tater Tots/Curly Fries
6. Fat Slice of Chocolate Cake, preferably cold
5. Smoked Salmon
4. Bacon
3. Bahn Mi
2. Passion Fruit Slush Boba Tea with Boba and Popping Mango Boba
1. California Roll

Got to say: The cravings have been pretty fun this time around. I mean, look at that list. 4 of those are desserts! I don't usually love dessert (though, I have always loved gummy bears and chocolate cake). Banana Split?? SO weird. I would never pick that normally. Bubble Tea and California Roll have been the two most consistent desires throughout, hence their placements as #2 and #1. I could go for each of those right now...

The List Project

I have an idea.

For my friends and clients, I usually recommend planning some fun diversions for the last few weeks of pregnancy. It can get so hard to keep waiting on that labor to start when you are so. done. being. pregnant. Especially if you are post-40wks. I am not there yet, but I know that this baby will be here SOON (In the next 4-6 weeks, to be quasi-exact. The way time flies around here, that's not long at all). Unfortunately (or maybe it's a blessing? Hard to tell sometimes...), I don't have much need of planning diversions because as a mother of three in the middle of summer, my calendar is ridiculously full. Day camps, VBS, midwife and doctor appointments, final projects before baby, birthday parties, work BBQs, and on and on. "Take it easy," people say. Whatever. It's not possible. There are too many (very young) people here for me to actually take it easy, but I do try to do my best to rest as I can. Sadly, the haircuts, pedicures, baby-book shopping, beach afternoons, etc, that I usually suggest as fun diversions for my clients aren't really an option around here. When I do get time to try to schedule activities alone, I need to be responsible, lie down, and put my feet up. This isn't a complaint. My job is very difficult right now, but (when I'm not throwing a giant emotional fit) I'm very thankful for my life full of very young people.

So, my idea: mark the remaining weeks with an easy project I can look forward to doing each week from my bed like making top ten lists (or top five, or two... I get tired, y'all).

This week I have a pair of lists as I find myself thinking of these things a lot lately.

Top 6 Things I Love About Not Having A Baby

6. No diaper changing

5. Everyone dresses themselves.

4. No need for naps. This one took me some time to appreciate. At first, I missed having the kids nap, but then it showed itself as a huge plus. We can do whatever we need to do without fear of needing to hurry home before somebody starts to lose it. (Ha! actually, I'm the somebody now...) It's great because places are really pretty empty during naptime, and I'm not such a fan of humans these days. They wear me out.

3. Everyone knows how to go potty. Do they always do a great job with all the hygiene stuff? Not great every time, but usually they just need reminders.

2. People can make their own beds, start their own laundry, put away their own laundry, and even prepare and feed themselves simple snacks and breakfasts!

1. Everyone can use their words. True: they often use them to argue and hurt each other and me. Also True: they make amazing observations, encourage each other and me, express love very, very often to each other and me, display faith and hope, tell me their needs and fears, and explain themselves.

Top 6 Reasons I Can't Wait to Have a Baby

6. He is tiny

5. He doesn't need to be told to go potty

4. He needs to take lots of naps

3. He needs me to dress him every time.

2. He needs me me to feed him with food that doesn't require any dishes or ingredients from the store, and he (HOPEFULLY) will love it and not complain about the taste or lack of variety!

1. He doesn't use words, but he can express faith, trust, peacefulness, love, fear, and needs to us through his often adorable, sometimes maddening cries, looks, little baby body language, and nuzzling snuggles.

Soon I will enjoy the best (and, yeah, yeah, the worst...) of BOTH these lists!