There's a lot of frustration that comes after having a baby.
I'm not even talking about the taking-care-of-a-newborn part (though, to be fair, babe #3 has shown to be ridiculously easy, so I could be ignoring that frustration because I'm fortunate enough to not have any right now). Personally, as I've experienced with each kid, my baby is born-- and I can't remember life without them. This is wonderful, fulfilling, and warms my being in every way-- except for when I look in the mirror.
You see, when you feel like your baby has been with you forever, you forget that you gave birth four weeks ago, and you need to give yourself time to let your body heal, recover, and restore-- and instead, you look at the sagging stomach, the loose skin, and hear the angry voice in your head telling you that looking six months pregnant is only adorable if you're actually pregnant.
Okay, maybe not "you," necessarily. Me. I. I do all those things, say all those things, hate myself for all those things.
And it's ridiculous. I just had a baby! Not even a month ago. And while I've been exercising for two weeks now, most people actually give their bodies the full six weeks after before starting to work out again, and I'm jumping the gun on fitness and expectations. It's hard to ignore the whispers of the old eating disorder in my head, telling me how my worth is determined by numbers-- on the scale, on the tag inside my clothing, of compliments about how people "can't believe!" I just had a baby.
So how do I ignore them? The whispers, that is. It'd be easy to let them fester. Looking at any magazine at the grocery store, I read promises of tips to "Get toned for summer!", "Get that slammin' beach bod!", all while ranking celebrities based entirely on how they look in a swimsuit, whether they're "deathly thin!" or have "cellulite?!?!!!". Women in power are not celebrated for their decisions or their accomplishments-- instead, there is a commentary on their hair style, what shoes they chose to wore, or if they've gained a few pounds. There is so much pressure on women to appear-- and how they appear seems to speak more loudly than who they are.
To silence the whispers, I instead choose to BE. I'm a mom. A wife. A runner. A social worker. A cook. I clean, I read, I lift weights. I love music, and dancing with my kids in my living room. I love learning about dinosaurs with my almost-three-year-old. I eat the way I eat and exercise, not to appear a certain way, but to improve my chances of being able to do the things I love for a little bit longer. I do it because it feels good when I do, and feels crappy when I don't. I do it because it's healthy, and my body deserves to be treated well.
I was laying on the floor next to babe #3 when my almost-three-year-old sat on my legs. He pulled my shirt up to expose my belly-- my stretch marked, saggy, squishy belly-- and started to mold it in his hands like playdough. My instinctual reaction was to cover my stomach, to hide away the part of me that makes the whispers louder, when my almost-three-year-old stopped and said, "Mommy, (babe #3) was in your belly. And (my eighteen month old) was in your belly. And I was in your belly. We all lived in your belly."
A thought crossed my mind. If a magical fairy elf or whatever floated down and said, "With a wave of this wand, I can make your stomach back to what it was. I can make it so you can have children without the stress it puts on your body. Never again will you have to worry about a pooch, stretched out skin, or awkward muffin tops when trying to put pants on." Eagerly, I'd want to accept-- but she'd continue-- "You will have three children-- but not these three. You won't have these children."
The whispers went away, for that moment. Instead, I felt immense gratitude for the opportunity to be. To be Mom to three precious little boys.
My tensed muscles relaxed. I smiled at him, and said, "Yup. You all lived in my belly. Aren't I so lucky?"
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Stabby.
The elliptical and a pretty rockin' playlist have been my daily dose of therapy lately. Kansas is many things, and one of those things is certainly predictable. Just when the weather feels lovely, pleasant, ideal-- you can guarantee that it will only last a few days before the next extreme comes out to play. Spring? Autumn? Around here, those seasons are limited to a week between freakishly freezing cold to unbearably sticky hot. So when I start to get back into running, it's too hot to go later than 6 a.m. And with a newborn who hasn't quite figured out the sleeping-at-nighttime thing, 6 a.m. and I aren't exactly speaking.
And being just shy of four weeks post partum, my hips could use a little more transitioning.
So the elliptical is my friend.
Its placement in our home was determined based on my initial desire to watch Netflix while exercising. However, my brain has been programmed to use my sweat time as processing time, and I have yet to find a movie that can keep up with my thoughts. Instead, I blast some power music-- songs that go with how I'm feeling, and sweat out the icky stuff while I rock out.
While I was doing this last night, though, the icky stuff didn't leave. Instead, a thought traversed across my brain, and stopped right in the middle. It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't leave, and it made me angry. You see, for the past couple years, I've been dealing with a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that I won't go into detail about, but that stuff has resulted in a lot of angry miles run, a lot of tearful journaling, and far too many chocolate chips consumed (to the extent that my almost-three-year-old refers to chocolate chips as "mommy medicine"). One of the things that I've been dealing with that relates to the sticky thought, though, was that someone close to me touched my physically, repeatedly, in a way that made me very uncomfortable (Harassment? Assault? It's all too complicated to even label-- "inappropriate" is what I've landed on). A people pleaser at heart, I didn't speak up. In all the training and experiencing I have advocating for other people, helping them to find their voice, I was stifling mine and experiencing intense misery as a result. It got to where I was having a physically-ill response whenever I was around this person, and escalated to the point when I couldn't be quiet anymore. Finding my voice six months ago, I finally spoke up, and put a stop to what was happening. Unfortunately, it also resulted in a lot of people whom I thought cared about me calling me a liar.
Stress. Frustration. Recurrent trauma.
Anyway. I was processing a lot of what was going on while sweating stuff out, and something popped up-- Justice. What would justice look like? As I turned that over and over in my mind, my strides per minute increased, my feet stomped angrily, and my random air guitars became more intense. Because as I was mulling over this idea, I realized that there is no such thing in this situation-- no matter what happens, he will still have made me feel dirty, cheap, worthless, objectified, and nothing will undo that.
It made my heart ache. Not only for my pain, but also in thinking about anyone who had been raped, sexually assaulted, sexually harassed-- no matter what happened (and usually, nothing does in terms of consequences for the perpetrator's actions), it won't undo the icky feelings. Time, therapy, and processing can bring healing-- but nothing will rewind time and make that icky in that space of history go away.
My therapist is helping me to find my voice. For too long, I've sat with the idea that I can't tell someone they don't have the right to touch me if I don't want them to. I have to be polite, kind, respectful-- and that means letting other people do to me whatever they want. So I'm taking these feelings-- these stabby, angry, frustrated, unvalidated feelings-- and fueling the fire behind my voice.
And that voice is feeling pretty awesome lip syncing to Glee on the elliptical.
And being just shy of four weeks post partum, my hips could use a little more transitioning.
So the elliptical is my friend.
Its placement in our home was determined based on my initial desire to watch Netflix while exercising. However, my brain has been programmed to use my sweat time as processing time, and I have yet to find a movie that can keep up with my thoughts. Instead, I blast some power music-- songs that go with how I'm feeling, and sweat out the icky stuff while I rock out.
While I was doing this last night, though, the icky stuff didn't leave. Instead, a thought traversed across my brain, and stopped right in the middle. It wouldn't budge, it wouldn't leave, and it made me angry. You see, for the past couple years, I've been dealing with a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that I won't go into detail about, but that stuff has resulted in a lot of angry miles run, a lot of tearful journaling, and far too many chocolate chips consumed (to the extent that my almost-three-year-old refers to chocolate chips as "mommy medicine"). One of the things that I've been dealing with that relates to the sticky thought, though, was that someone close to me touched my physically, repeatedly, in a way that made me very uncomfortable (Harassment? Assault? It's all too complicated to even label-- "inappropriate" is what I've landed on). A people pleaser at heart, I didn't speak up. In all the training and experiencing I have advocating for other people, helping them to find their voice, I was stifling mine and experiencing intense misery as a result. It got to where I was having a physically-ill response whenever I was around this person, and escalated to the point when I couldn't be quiet anymore. Finding my voice six months ago, I finally spoke up, and put a stop to what was happening. Unfortunately, it also resulted in a lot of people whom I thought cared about me calling me a liar.
Stress. Frustration. Recurrent trauma.
Anyway. I was processing a lot of what was going on while sweating stuff out, and something popped up-- Justice. What would justice look like? As I turned that over and over in my mind, my strides per minute increased, my feet stomped angrily, and my random air guitars became more intense. Because as I was mulling over this idea, I realized that there is no such thing in this situation-- no matter what happens, he will still have made me feel dirty, cheap, worthless, objectified, and nothing will undo that.
It made my heart ache. Not only for my pain, but also in thinking about anyone who had been raped, sexually assaulted, sexually harassed-- no matter what happened (and usually, nothing does in terms of consequences for the perpetrator's actions), it won't undo the icky feelings. Time, therapy, and processing can bring healing-- but nothing will rewind time and make that icky in that space of history go away.
My therapist is helping me to find my voice. For too long, I've sat with the idea that I can't tell someone they don't have the right to touch me if I don't want them to. I have to be polite, kind, respectful-- and that means letting other people do to me whatever they want. So I'm taking these feelings-- these stabby, angry, frustrated, unvalidated feelings-- and fueling the fire behind my voice.
And that voice is feeling pretty awesome lip syncing to Glee on the elliptical.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
REWARD: Missing Legs
After my first was born, I waited a week before I went running again. A month of bed rest about did me in, and I was eager to get back out on the pavement.
My first run was 20 minutes, and I went about a mile and a half (June in the Midwest is unforgiving with the heat).
With my second, my husband let slip to the midwife what I had done after the previous pregnancy, and she told me under NO uncertain terms am I to run prior to three weeks after the birth (something about hormones in the body or whatever). So I waited three weeks.
My second was a December baby, and waiting didn't seem that difficult. I thought it would be easy to follow the same guidelines this time around.
Nope.
Having a May baby means I mentally/emotionally/spiritually/anythingly cannot wait three weeks.
Thirteen days out? I'll just do yoga. That's no big deal, right? And it'll be good for working out the kinks that settled in during pregnancy and delivery. It's totally fine that it's P90X2 yoga, right?
Two weeks out. Yoga was nice, but I think I can do more. What P90X2 workout falls on Thursdays?
Fifteen days out. Since I did Yoga on Wednesday instead of Friday, I'll switch the days, but that would make today a rest day...
"I think I'm going to go running."
My husband: "Will you be less grumpy if you do?"
Bless him.
It was overcast. The air was a little thick from the previous night's rain, with a hint of a cool breeze. It was perfect and beautiful. My ipod was loaded with new songs, and I was dance-running on the rural roads near my house. The out and back was four miles, and I promised my husband I'd turn around when my body said I needed to quit. My brain was too elated with the run that I simply. Could. Not. Stop.
My pelvis and my brain were at odds with one another.
When I hit the stop sign that indicated I needed to turn around, my hip flexors seemed tight enough to be engraved. The two miles back home seemed long and difficult-- a far cry from the marathon training I was in the midst of when I got my positive pregnancy test.
I looked down at my ipod. Flipped it to a new song.
I dance-ran the whole way home.
It's good to be (on my way) back.
My first run was 20 minutes, and I went about a mile and a half (June in the Midwest is unforgiving with the heat).
With my second, my husband let slip to the midwife what I had done after the previous pregnancy, and she told me under NO uncertain terms am I to run prior to three weeks after the birth (something about hormones in the body or whatever). So I waited three weeks.
My second was a December baby, and waiting didn't seem that difficult. I thought it would be easy to follow the same guidelines this time around.
Nope.
Having a May baby means I mentally/emotionally/spiritually/anythingly cannot wait three weeks.
Thirteen days out? I'll just do yoga. That's no big deal, right? And it'll be good for working out the kinks that settled in during pregnancy and delivery. It's totally fine that it's P90X2 yoga, right?
Two weeks out. Yoga was nice, but I think I can do more. What P90X2 workout falls on Thursdays?
Fifteen days out. Since I did Yoga on Wednesday instead of Friday, I'll switch the days, but that would make today a rest day...
"I think I'm going to go running."
My husband: "Will you be less grumpy if you do?"
Bless him.
It was overcast. The air was a little thick from the previous night's rain, with a hint of a cool breeze. It was perfect and beautiful. My ipod was loaded with new songs, and I was dance-running on the rural roads near my house. The out and back was four miles, and I promised my husband I'd turn around when my body said I needed to quit. My brain was too elated with the run that I simply. Could. Not. Stop.
My pelvis and my brain were at odds with one another.
When I hit the stop sign that indicated I needed to turn around, my hip flexors seemed tight enough to be engraved. The two miles back home seemed long and difficult-- a far cry from the marathon training I was in the midst of when I got my positive pregnancy test.
I looked down at my ipod. Flipped it to a new song.
It's good to be (on my way) back.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
My charm.
"Any contractions?" my husband asked. It was 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, May 16th, and I sighed, exasperated into the phone.
"Not a thing. This babe is never coming out." My due date was only just the day before, but having spent an entire day with early labor the previous Monday that resulted in me progressing to a 7, I was convinced that the baby would come ANY SECOND. The midwife assured me that because it was my third, and I was already progressed so far, my water could break any minute, and the baby would be coming immediately after. Tuesday, I'd called into work, certain I'd have a baby that day. A couple bouts of intense contractions later, resulting in our midwife coming Tuesday evening and the wee hours of Wednesday morning, resulted in me still being pregnant.
I was going to be pregnant forever.
I had spent Wednesday evening very tearful, frustrated with my body. I couldn't run. I couldn't play with my kids. I couldn't help around the house. I was exhausted, uncomfortable, and so close to having the baby-- and yet so far. My emotional health was depleted. There wasn't much left for me to hang onto.
I hung up with the husband and returned to my work. Orientation for the law students was the next week, and I needed to complete the powerpoint presentation I was convinced I'd still be pregnant for. Distracted by my enormousness, I texted a friend who was coming back into town that day from a two week trip-- one she'd left with the remark, "Don't have that baby until I get back!"
Me: You bewitched my uterus. Apparently this baby is waiting for you to return.
Her: That baby just already loves me!
Me: If I'm still pregnant tomorrow, will you go get a pedicure with me?
Her: Absolutely! And tell your uterus it has my permission to have that baby!
My brain was fried. No amount of focus could be squeezed from its cerebral folds. I looked around my office, saw the recently drained Nalgene bottle, and decided then was as good as time as any to go to the bathroom. I glanced at the clock-- 11:00 a.m.-- and waddled to the bathroom, contemplating what I was going to do with an hour left of work.
Sparing you all the details of my urination, I started to stand after doing my business, only to feel a *gush*. My heart skipped a beat-- was that my water? I looked down into the toilet-- the water was cloudy, not clear. When I stood up all the way, water was trickling down my leg.
My midwife's words were echoing through my head-- "Third baby." "Water breaks, he'll come right out!" "Scared I won't get to your house in time..."
HOLY CRAP. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY IN THE LAW SCHOOL BATHROOM.
Did I have time to wash my hands first? (Answer: Yes. Yes, and I did.)
I scurried back to my office (as much as I could, with his head now completely engaged and hurting me. A lot.), grabbed my bag, and locked up to head out. I called the husband, let him know what happened, and asked him to call the midwife. As I headed home, I called my boss to let her know that I'd left early, I wouldn't be in the next day, and that I had managed to not ruin my office chair (a grave concern for her). In the two times my water has broken outside of a hospital setting, I'd managed to have it break in the shower (my second babe), and now over a toilet. My amniotic sacs get the award for most-convenient-ruptures.
When I pulled into the driveway at home, I saw that the midwife had beaten me there. The husband was refilling the birthing tub (I glared at it-- it had better be the last time it was getting filled!), and the midwife was setting up my antibiotics. The husband then made us all some lunch, which I was able to consume without throwing up. This both delighted me and concerned me-- was this another false start? My water breaking meant that if my body didn't go into labor on its own, the clock was ticking, and I might have to go to the hospital. I'd had only a couple contractions, and nothing that indicated this was the real deal. What if my body doesn't--
OW.
Okay. Never mind. We're in business.
I'd been practicing Hypnobabies during my pregnancy, planning to use it while I was in labor. But these contractions didn't feel that bad. My first babe was induced with pitocin, and those contractions HURT. I was told that after pitocin contractions, natural labor felt like a walk in the park. Then I had my second babe, who was tangled up in his cord and caused me intense back labor for 18 hours. I wanted the pitocin contractions back. However, this third time around, these felt okay. Uncomfortable, increasingly hurty with each one, but not impossible. My midwife was absolutely amazing, and I adored her, and I preferred chatting with her over listening to Hypnobabies. Besides, plenty of time for that when transition came around, eh?
We hung out for a few hours. The husband put the kids down for a nap, and I labored in the tub. The midwife said she'd be calling her assistant soon (who had to trek from Topeka), which made me feel hopeful that things were moving along. Then, it happened-- transition.
"I'm going to put on my headphones now."
I finger dropped. I went to my safe place. I did all of the imagery and muscle relaxation I could muster. Then, the next contraction hit.
When it was over, I threw my iPod.
"Hypnobabies is stupid!"
The husband started gently stroking my hair. The midwife started rubbing an essential oil on my back that was HEAVENLY. As the babe moved down past my tail bone, my back muscles clenched up, and I felt completely defeated. This was supposed to be my easy labor, with no back labor! But when she rubbed the oil on me (and I'm definitely not on any essential oil bandwagon), my muscles relaxed enough for the pain to be tolerable.
"Uhh, you're not allowed to stop doing that. Ever."
As I continued to labor, the midwife told me her assistant, Kelly, would be coming soon, so not to be alarmed when she walked through my front door. Transition was on in full force, and I have no idea how my kids slept through my vocalization (the polite term for "yelling") in our tiny house, but they did. Just before 3:00, Kelly walked in, and in the middle of a contraction, I looked up, stopped yelling, and said, "Hi, Kelly!"-- then returned to yelling. Mama raised me right.
The contractions were getting to be pretty painful-- I think at one point I said I didn't want to do it anymore, but I'm happy to say that this time, I didn't ask for drugs. I evolved from the natural laborer who always begs for drugs, to the natural laborer who simply asks for a nap in the middle of transition. I'm pretty proud of that.
Then a contraction hit where my body could not find a tolerable position. It felt like a white, hot pain across my lower abdomen.
"Where does it hurt?" my midwife asked. When I showed her, she said, "Okay! I think you need to go to the bathroom."
If I weren't attempting to curl into the fetal position in the tub without drowning myself, I would have given her a very dirty look. We had talked earlier about how she tells women she thinks they need to go to the bathroom to manipulate them into changing positions when they aren't willing to.
"I'm not changing positions. I'm not moving."
"No, I think you need to empty your bladder!" she said, all too chipperly.
"FINE." I was less polite at this point. I was also pretty sure that having experienced contractions for several minutes now where I felt like pushing was my only way to get through them, my bladder was empty (and that water was probably gross).
I made it to the toilet before the next contraction hit. The husband sat in front of me.
"I don't want to do this again. This really hurts." The husband, who had been making jokes and checking Strava earlier in labor, just nodded. Good job, sir.
The next contraction, I knew he was coming. Feeling a bit of panic, though, I remembered when I was pushing on the toilet with my second babe, and the midwife (a different midwife) told me I had to move to the bed-- I couldn't have the baby on the toilet. Worried they'd make me move again, I resolved not to tell anyone there was a human being coming out of my vagina at that moment. They'd have to figure it out.
At this point, I went to some other place in my brain, because I don't really remember much of what happened. The husband had to tell me later. Apparently, I reached down, and the midwife said, "Can you feel him?" I apparently confirmed, and she said, "Just push him into your hand." The midwife grabbed one arm, Kelly the other, and they lifted me up. After the next contraction, his head was out. With the next, his body. The husband caught him.
My third, my charm, came wiggling out in the world just over the toilet-- which was fitting, since that was how labor started. He weighed 8 lbs, 6 oz, and was covered in vernix. When the vernix soaked into his skin, we could see that he was also born with a head full of hair.
I moved to the couch, snuggling his happy little body. After I was situated and cleaned up, both of my other boys woke up to meet their new baby brother. It worked out perfectly-- a four hour labor, and the other chitluns slept through half of it-- the hard half.
The midwife checked to see how I did with delivery, and announced that I had two tiny paper cut tears that didn't even need stitches. My heart smiled-- Three weeks until I could run again!
This all happened sixteen days ago-- May 16th-- and I still cannot get enough snuggles with this boy. Love. Him.
We rock at making little boys.
"Not a thing. This babe is never coming out." My due date was only just the day before, but having spent an entire day with early labor the previous Monday that resulted in me progressing to a 7, I was convinced that the baby would come ANY SECOND. The midwife assured me that because it was my third, and I was already progressed so far, my water could break any minute, and the baby would be coming immediately after. Tuesday, I'd called into work, certain I'd have a baby that day. A couple bouts of intense contractions later, resulting in our midwife coming Tuesday evening and the wee hours of Wednesday morning, resulted in me still being pregnant.
I was going to be pregnant forever.
I had spent Wednesday evening very tearful, frustrated with my body. I couldn't run. I couldn't play with my kids. I couldn't help around the house. I was exhausted, uncomfortable, and so close to having the baby-- and yet so far. My emotional health was depleted. There wasn't much left for me to hang onto.
I hung up with the husband and returned to my work. Orientation for the law students was the next week, and I needed to complete the powerpoint presentation I was convinced I'd still be pregnant for. Distracted by my enormousness, I texted a friend who was coming back into town that day from a two week trip-- one she'd left with the remark, "Don't have that baby until I get back!"
Me: You bewitched my uterus. Apparently this baby is waiting for you to return.
Her: That baby just already loves me!
Me: If I'm still pregnant tomorrow, will you go get a pedicure with me?
Her: Absolutely! And tell your uterus it has my permission to have that baby!
My brain was fried. No amount of focus could be squeezed from its cerebral folds. I looked around my office, saw the recently drained Nalgene bottle, and decided then was as good as time as any to go to the bathroom. I glanced at the clock-- 11:00 a.m.-- and waddled to the bathroom, contemplating what I was going to do with an hour left of work.
Sparing you all the details of my urination, I started to stand after doing my business, only to feel a *gush*. My heart skipped a beat-- was that my water? I looked down into the toilet-- the water was cloudy, not clear. When I stood up all the way, water was trickling down my leg.
My midwife's words were echoing through my head-- "Third baby." "Water breaks, he'll come right out!" "Scared I won't get to your house in time..."
HOLY CRAP. I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY IN THE LAW SCHOOL BATHROOM.
Did I have time to wash my hands first? (Answer: Yes. Yes, and I did.)
I scurried back to my office (as much as I could, with his head now completely engaged and hurting me. A lot.), grabbed my bag, and locked up to head out. I called the husband, let him know what happened, and asked him to call the midwife. As I headed home, I called my boss to let her know that I'd left early, I wouldn't be in the next day, and that I had managed to not ruin my office chair (a grave concern for her). In the two times my water has broken outside of a hospital setting, I'd managed to have it break in the shower (my second babe), and now over a toilet. My amniotic sacs get the award for most-convenient-ruptures.
When I pulled into the driveway at home, I saw that the midwife had beaten me there. The husband was refilling the birthing tub (I glared at it-- it had better be the last time it was getting filled!), and the midwife was setting up my antibiotics. The husband then made us all some lunch, which I was able to consume without throwing up. This both delighted me and concerned me-- was this another false start? My water breaking meant that if my body didn't go into labor on its own, the clock was ticking, and I might have to go to the hospital. I'd had only a couple contractions, and nothing that indicated this was the real deal. What if my body doesn't--
OW.
Okay. Never mind. We're in business.
I'd been practicing Hypnobabies during my pregnancy, planning to use it while I was in labor. But these contractions didn't feel that bad. My first babe was induced with pitocin, and those contractions HURT. I was told that after pitocin contractions, natural labor felt like a walk in the park. Then I had my second babe, who was tangled up in his cord and caused me intense back labor for 18 hours. I wanted the pitocin contractions back. However, this third time around, these felt okay. Uncomfortable, increasingly hurty with each one, but not impossible. My midwife was absolutely amazing, and I adored her, and I preferred chatting with her over listening to Hypnobabies. Besides, plenty of time for that when transition came around, eh?
We hung out for a few hours. The husband put the kids down for a nap, and I labored in the tub. The midwife said she'd be calling her assistant soon (who had to trek from Topeka), which made me feel hopeful that things were moving along. Then, it happened-- transition.
"I'm going to put on my headphones now."
I finger dropped. I went to my safe place. I did all of the imagery and muscle relaxation I could muster. Then, the next contraction hit.
When it was over, I threw my iPod.
"Hypnobabies is stupid!"
The husband started gently stroking my hair. The midwife started rubbing an essential oil on my back that was HEAVENLY. As the babe moved down past my tail bone, my back muscles clenched up, and I felt completely defeated. This was supposed to be my easy labor, with no back labor! But when she rubbed the oil on me (and I'm definitely not on any essential oil bandwagon), my muscles relaxed enough for the pain to be tolerable.
"Uhh, you're not allowed to stop doing that. Ever."
As I continued to labor, the midwife told me her assistant, Kelly, would be coming soon, so not to be alarmed when she walked through my front door. Transition was on in full force, and I have no idea how my kids slept through my vocalization (the polite term for "yelling") in our tiny house, but they did. Just before 3:00, Kelly walked in, and in the middle of a contraction, I looked up, stopped yelling, and said, "Hi, Kelly!"-- then returned to yelling. Mama raised me right.
The contractions were getting to be pretty painful-- I think at one point I said I didn't want to do it anymore, but I'm happy to say that this time, I didn't ask for drugs. I evolved from the natural laborer who always begs for drugs, to the natural laborer who simply asks for a nap in the middle of transition. I'm pretty proud of that.
Then a contraction hit where my body could not find a tolerable position. It felt like a white, hot pain across my lower abdomen.
"Where does it hurt?" my midwife asked. When I showed her, she said, "Okay! I think you need to go to the bathroom."
If I weren't attempting to curl into the fetal position in the tub without drowning myself, I would have given her a very dirty look. We had talked earlier about how she tells women she thinks they need to go to the bathroom to manipulate them into changing positions when they aren't willing to.
"I'm not changing positions. I'm not moving."
"No, I think you need to empty your bladder!" she said, all too chipperly.
"FINE." I was less polite at this point. I was also pretty sure that having experienced contractions for several minutes now where I felt like pushing was my only way to get through them, my bladder was empty (and that water was probably gross).
I made it to the toilet before the next contraction hit. The husband sat in front of me.
"I don't want to do this again. This really hurts." The husband, who had been making jokes and checking Strava earlier in labor, just nodded. Good job, sir.
The next contraction, I knew he was coming. Feeling a bit of panic, though, I remembered when I was pushing on the toilet with my second babe, and the midwife (a different midwife) told me I had to move to the bed-- I couldn't have the baby on the toilet. Worried they'd make me move again, I resolved not to tell anyone there was a human being coming out of my vagina at that moment. They'd have to figure it out.
At this point, I went to some other place in my brain, because I don't really remember much of what happened. The husband had to tell me later. Apparently, I reached down, and the midwife said, "Can you feel him?" I apparently confirmed, and she said, "Just push him into your hand." The midwife grabbed one arm, Kelly the other, and they lifted me up. After the next contraction, his head was out. With the next, his body. The husband caught him.
My third, my charm, came wiggling out in the world just over the toilet-- which was fitting, since that was how labor started. He weighed 8 lbs, 6 oz, and was covered in vernix. When the vernix soaked into his skin, we could see that he was also born with a head full of hair.
I moved to the couch, snuggling his happy little body. After I was situated and cleaned up, both of my other boys woke up to meet their new baby brother. It worked out perfectly-- a four hour labor, and the other chitluns slept through half of it-- the hard half.
The midwife checked to see how I did with delivery, and announced that I had two tiny paper cut tears that didn't even need stitches. My heart smiled-- Three weeks until I could run again!
This all happened sixteen days ago-- May 16th-- and I still cannot get enough snuggles with this boy. Love. Him.
We rock at making little boys.
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