About to be tested

My mom is in town, so now comes the part where Jenny and I compete for her time. Except I'm not going to compete, I'm just going to let her win while being sure to text my mother every time the Tiny Dark Lord giggles. As if the double rainbows and the parting of the clouds and the singing of the angels aren't clue enough.


She's here because my sister Spitfire is about to leave us. Next Wednesday we will drop her off at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. She's going to serve in the Independence, Missouri mission and will be gone for 18 months. We're all really excited for her, except I may have made the mistake of watching Winter's Bone and then went into a full-on panic-fueled rant about how my baby sister is not allowed to go among a bunch of meth cookers who will chop her up and feed her to their hogs and how I should show her the movie just so she knows that if she ends up anywhere that looks anything like that she should run as fast as her pantyhose-chafed legs will take her. (And yes, she has to wear pantyhose. The Church may have changed its dress code for sister missionaries, but her mission president did not. Too bad for her.)

Tonight we're going to have a last Girl's Night Hurrah downtown. We're having dinner at Cafe Trio, staying at the Little America, sleeping in and shopping in the morning, and then having a big family lunch. Spitfire will speak in her ward on Sunday in L**** so we're going to go to that. But in the meantime I'll be spending about 24 hours away from my baby and am already wondering if this will be a big mistake and I'll spend the whole time rocking in a corner while my mom and sisters try to force feed me Valium from street dealers.

Seriously, who can stay away from this?

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The Book Thief

Last Saturday my sister and I and a couple of her book club friends met up at the Provo City Library to see Markus Zusak speak. Is there anyone out there who hasn't read The Book Thief yet? Because if so, there is probably a jagged, Book Thief-sized hole in your soul. Please fill it. No pressure.



We were so excited to hear him, and he did a great job. He was funny, self-deprecating, and a good storyteller. Plus he seemed really excited and touched to see such a big, appreciative group (500 people) who wanted to hear what he had to say. I took some notes, of course, because I am a big nerd.

And did I mention that he is young? And Australian? And kind of cute? Not that I'm saying that here, just, you know. Some might.


Here are his words on writing:

Bad things happen in life, but it's okay because you get your best stories out of it.

1. Mind your own life. Writing what you know is important. He said that for The Book Thief, the seeds of the story were planted by hearing his parents' stories of their own World War II experiences in Austria. Those stories were important to him and he wanted to write and expand them.

2. Do the simple things well. You don't have to be a genius to be a good writer. The small details are what make your story believable, so get them right.

3. It's the unusual or the unexpected that gets the biggest reaction. He said, "I don't have a great imagination, I just have a lot of problems." It's while trying to solve these problems in your writing that you hit on the good, unusual, unexpected things. That's how he came up with the idea of Death as the narrator.

4. Rewriting makes good writing. He did about 150-200 edits on the beginning chapters of The Book Thief. (Note: Just hearing that made my eye twitch.)

Then he opened it up for questions.

Q: In The Book Thief, why were there so many spoilers, like all the premonitions about which characters were going to die?

A: There were lots of reasons.
1. Because Death is a different sort of narrator, he wanted Death to tell the story a little bit to the left or right of the way we would tell it.
2. He wanted to see if he could get people to keep reading once he's already blown the mystery.
3. He wanted to prepare the reader (and himself) for the bad stuff. It didn't work. We were all a mess at the end.
4. One sentence (the premonition about ---------'s death) just came to him as a voice in his head, so he just went with it. You listen to that voice or instinct.

He thought The Book Thief would definitely be his least successful book, so he wrote it exactly the way he wanted to do it.

Q: How do you deal with writer's block while trying to create something that's engaging?

A: He says that he feels a lot of people get stuck when life happens and writing (understandably) moves down on the priority list. But writing has to be #1 or #2 on your priority list. You have to spend time with it. You have to be patient. You will fail over and over again and have problems, but getting around those problems is what gives you your content. If you knew your book would never get published, would you still want to work on it?

Q: As aspiring writers, we are told we will have to be able to "kill our babies." How do you know when it's time and you need to just chuck something that isn't working?

A: He thinks he may not be the best person to ask about this. For him, if a story isn't working, he looks to see if he can take what is good and move it into something new or different. The answer might just be to cobble your best ideas together, or to move it a little to the left or the right. Don't kill anything off completely if there's something good there.

When he finished speaking, he went into the other room to get ready for the book signing. We'd all been assigned to groups of 25 and we were to be called up in order. They gave very strict instructions about not bringing more than 2 books to be signed & not holding up the line by asking him to pose for pictures. They had this down to a science.

What they did not count on, however, was Mr. Zusak. He is not a rush-through kind of guy, and was taking time to speak with people as they came through and personalize each inscription. While I'm sure this was mind-blowing for the people in the first group, after an hour or so we realized that this meant we were in for a long, long, loooong wait. So we settled in and waited.

Disaster struck when GH called me.

GH: Where are you?
Me: Waiting to get my book signed, it's taking a lot longer.
GH: The baby has been crying for the last hour.
Me: He WHAT???????

Here's the thing, and I will try to say this in code lest my beyond-superstitious spouse accuse me of tempting fate. The Tiny Dark Lord doesn't actually ***. I mean, yeah, if he's hungry or he's had a bad dream or there are sadistic nurses poking him with needles he'll let us know of his displeasure, but once we get the immediate need met he's okay. Heavens be praised, he wasn't c***cky, he hasn't been si*k yet, and he most definitely has n*v** just cr**d for no apparent reason.

Me: But---but--but--did you feed him?
GH: YES. I fed him.
Me: Is he tired?
GH: I'm sure, but he won't go to sleep.
Me: And you've changed his diaper.
GH: What do YOU think??

That's all I had. The only other option was that he was dying. I could hear his angry, angry cries through the phone.

Me: Well, I can't just leave yet. I'm the driver and we're all waiting to get our books signed. But I'm hoping it should be much longer and I'll come home just as soon as I can. Try taking him outside, or taking him for a drive!

GH hung up, hating me mightily.

So then we waited. And waited, and waited, and waited some more. And the longer we waited the more convinced I was that something dreadful was happening.

Me: Oh my gosh, what if GH shakes him? We never watched that video the hospital gave us about not shaking your baby! He could be shaking him!!

Jenny and the other seasoned moms tried gently to tell me that some babies just get overtired and cry. It's just what happens. There's really nothing to be done for it. And then they got to sit and listen to me fret until they probably wanted to knock me out with their books. I called GH--the baby was still crying. I hung up, feeling more and more anxious. We waited some more. I texted GH to see if he'd taken him on that car ride and if it had worked. No answer. They finally called our group number and we sprinted to the line, only to learn that there were still 80 people in front of us and it would likely take another hour before we got our books signed. It was after 9pm at that point, and it was here that I began my ever-so-attractive meltdown.

Jenny handed me her iPod. "Here, play Angry Birds." Because that's what you do with a child who is embarrassing you in public and saying things about wanting to hit Markus Suzak in the head with a chair.

Me: What if there's a hair wrapped around his toe? I just read about that. A baby had a hair wrapped around her toe and it turned black and they almost had to cut it off and if they'd waited one more hour she would have lost her toe!

Jenny: He doesn't have a hair wrapped around his toe. Your hair is 3 inches long, it can't wrap that many times.

Me: But what if he DOES??? What if his toe is already black? What if it has already fallen off and is just bobbing around in the foot of his sleeper???????

Jenny: Yeah, I'm done with this.

She went off to find someone to fix the situation. She explained to one of the People in Charge that she was stuck with an insane person who had a crying newborn at home and that we really, really, really needed to leave and could not wait anymore. The Person in Charge, who shall hereafter be known as Angel of Mercy, came over and said she could just take our books with our names, have Mr. Zusak sign them at the end, and then leave them at the reference desk for us. I almost collapsed in tears right there in the hallway, just before I recognized the Angel of Mercy as a librarian I actually know and have had Thai food with before. So I'm hoping she remembers that I am not always a foaming-at-the-mouth insane person.

We raced out of the building and into the car. I called GH to see what the situation was.

Me: We just left, I'm taking these girls home and then I'll be there. How is he?
GH: Oh, he's fine. I took him for a drive about 30 minutes ago. Fell asleep as soon as the car started moving.

On the one hand, that was very good to hear. On the other, a heads-up would have been nice. Then we could have skipped all the "blackened-toes-bobbing-around" discussion that is probably making it onto other people's blogs with the heading of "The Insane Freak at the Markus Zusak Signing."

But hey, all's well that ends well, right?

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Primary kids crack me up

(Of course, I might not be saying this in a few weeks when we have our big Mother's Day musical number. I might want to be committed after that. I'm pretty sure one of my Sunbeams will somehow end up at the pulpit demonstrating kung fu moves.)

The new gig is going decently well. I've only stepped on a child once, so that's something. All the songs and fingerplays from library story times are saving my trash because it's the only way I know to get their attention back on me once they go into rabid feral kitten mode.

It's funny to listen to them. So far nobody has told me shocking tidbits about their parents, thank heaven, but I did get this during Sharing Time (which is when all the kids are together singing & learning songs, before splitting up for their separate classes).

The song we were about to learn was about prophets, so the chorister started by asking some questions.

Chorister: How do we know what Heavenly Father wants us to do? Who tells us?

Earnest little boy in my class, with a look of "Oh! I know this one!": THE ALIENS!!!

So there you go.

And because it's Thursday and overcast and we all deserve to see something criminally cute . . .



Check out the nerd-in-training!

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Another thing I failed at? Tummy time

The Tiny Dark Lord very much dislikes the tummy time, and so I dislike it too. I told myself that he spends enough time holding his head up in other positions and so maybe we could just count them as his muscle-building, flat-head-avoiding exercises. Yesterday, though, I got him on the floor. He was on a blanket, mind you, and not on the actual carpet. This is the original shag carpet from 1978 and I don't want to think about what lives in it. Also you get rug burns just from walking on it barefoot. It is awful stuff.

Anyway, on his tummy. Only this time, instead of drooling and snuffling onto the blanket for a few minutes before finally whining to be picked up, something different happened. He propped himself right up, stared me straight in the eye, opened his mouth and said, "Yeah, I'm done with this," and flipped himself over onto his back.

I was so excited that I got out the video camera and made him do it again. See if you can catch the moment when he spots the electronics.

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Hippie fail all over the place

I had such plans, friends. I was going to be a natural-childbirthing, public-breastfeeding, baby-wearing, cloth-diapering mom. Let's see how that's working out for me, shall we?

Natural Hypnobabies childbirth: I think we all remember how that worked out.

Breastfeeding: Turns out my boobs were not interested in playing and were going to send me off a cliff if I didn't leave them alone.

Co-sleeping: I wasn't going to have him in our bed, but his bassinet was going to be in our room for the first few months so that he could be comforted by our smell and our breathing and so I could attend to his every need. Yeah, that was over before we left the hospital. Turns out I cannot sleep in the same room as quite possibly the snuffliest baby in the world. I swear, truffle pigs could learn from him. Every three seconds I'd bolt upright, convinced by the noise that he was going to suffocate or, by the lack of noise, that he already had. Last time we tried bunking down together, at GH's parents' house, I ended up on the living room couch and GH retreated to the basement to sleep in his old room on his old (I'm sure spider-egg infested) bed. But at least we slept.

Baby-wearing: My elephant of a baby was too big for a newborn sling and once I got up the courage to try sticking him in this bad boy he hated it. Hay. ted. Have not given up entirely, just might need to wait until he's old enough to position a different way. And then prepare myself for the hate.

Cloth diapering: Was super-excited about this one. I may have failed at everything else, but at least I can still save the planet from non-biodegradable diapers. Borrowed my sister's Sunbabies diapers (the affordable ones made by Chinese toddlers--$5 per diaper rather than $15-$20 each like Fuzzibuns and bumGenius) to give it a go before purchasing. And look how adorable they are on him!


Washing them was no big deal, so I was feeling good about the whole thing. Until . . . he got a blister on his bottom. We took a break from the cloth while we went out of town, and then tried them again. This time? Two blisters. So clearly something about these diapers does not work with him. I think it's that the cotton fabric inside is kind of rough and bumpy & chafes him when it gets wet. But now they're on version 4.0 (with patterns! precious!!!) and Sunbabies lady says it's a new, softer microfleece on the inside. So I don't know if I should just go for it and hope for the best, pay more for a more expensive brand, or just stick to finding bargains on disposables and killing the earth again some more.

Am possibly going to stop having goals, because that just seems to be sending a signal to the universe that I am begging for a smack-down. In fact, I am going to stop even thinking about making my own baby food when the time comes, because I'm sure that's a one-way ticket to me just pouring nothing but straight pesticides and Gerber puffs down his throat. So I'll stop here.

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Maybe I shouldn't have jiggled him

Little Lord Voldemort laughed for the first time on Saturday. GH was doing a silly dance while we sang that "500 Miles" song. The baby laughed, and angels everywhere wept. So then of course we kept singing and dancing until the Tiny Dark Lord stopped laughing and just rolled his eyes at us because he was so very over it.



Yesterday we had no luck getting him to do it again, but this morning I got him in the right mood and pulled out all the stops! He laughed with delight at my contorted, insane-looking face, just like a precious little angel baby. Aaaaaand then he laughed and vomited at the same time, which sent a spray of white vomit right into my face.

Totally worth it, though.

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Not that I go around quoting Sheryl Crow a lot or anything

But she was the one who suggested that a change would do [one] good.

Went to L**** last weekend so that GH's family could worship at the feet of the Tiny Dark Lord. (Note: Does this make them Death Eaters? Discuss.) My s-in-law was in town as well with her baby, who is the smiliest, cutest chunk of a kid you ever did see. But because he was getting over an illness, the two boys didn't really get near each other. So I have no pictures of her kid fitting my kid's entire head in his mouth. Maybe next time.

A snowstorm almost kept us from making the trip, which would have been tragic as I'm suffering from my yearly case of the Februaries. I knew that going someplace warm was out of the picture but by dang I could still go someplace else. My third reason for really, really needing to make this trip was so that I could go see the stylist who has been doing my hair for the last three years.

I told her what Sheryl Crow told me, and these were the results:



Fun, huh? I like it but I'm still getting used to it, and every time I walk past a reflective surface I jump because I think Bloody Mary is coming to get me.


You can see here how impressed the baby is by all of this. But I'm pretty sure he likes my hair too, because a few times he has looked at it and almost started laughing.

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The unabridged birth story, Part 3

So. Was resting blissfully with my Epidural of Love. Somewhere in there the shifts changed. Midwife B said goodbye and Midwife C showed up. I liked Midwife C. Unfortunately she had another patient turn up in labor at the hospital down the road, so she had to go there a couple of times. Of course that woman had her baby hours and hours before I did. Ho. Anyway, Midwife C checked on me during the Resting Time and had me roll over to my other side "to encourage the baby to keep turning the right way." (Translation: Your baby is totally posterior and none of us are going to tell you for some freaky reason.)

Around 2am the nurse examined me, said I was at a 10, and called the midwife to get the okay to start pushing. It was a very, very weird experience trying to push when I couldn't really feel what was happening. GH and the nurse held my legs while I pushed during contractions, and in between them GH would lie down on the fold-out couch. He either fell asleep there or was just playing dead, but he stopped getting up for the pushing and so I just rolled my eyes and shrugged and held on to my own dang leg myself. And yes, I am tattling on him to the Internet.

After delivering the other baby at the other hospital, Midwife C came back. While she was talking to the nurse I caught the words of "when the baby is posterior like this," which is when I pretty much levitated off the bed. "WHAT????? Did you just say he's posterior???" She affirmed this, and I wish now so very hard that I'd had enough energy and presence of mind to ask just when the [Jenny's Word] they'd been planning to share that little tidbit with me. (Note: This is why next time I will inform any and all care providers that if my baby even looks like he's thinking about heading sunny-side up they are to inform me immediately while there's still time to do something about it. If they fail in this respect I will bludgeon them to death with an IV pole or birthing stool or whatever is close at hand.)

So then came the fun game called Let's Try to Turn Your Baby Because It's Just Now Occurring To Us That Maybe We Should. Midwife C reached on up in there and tried to turn him while I pushed. We did this many, many times. He would turn 90 degrees, and then stubbornly spin back around. They called the clinic's on-call OB (who is supposedly a pro at turning babies) and asked if he could have a go. He showed up, introduced himself, and went to work. During all the fun, I had two thoughts.

Thought #1: I'm so glad I am somewhat numb for this.
Thought #2: I imagine there will come a day where I do NOT have 11 fingers crammed up my cervix, but I'm pretty sure I will always feel them there.

So. After a while of this, we got to have another Talk. Dr. P explained that he was not able to turn the baby. He would like to try using forceps to turn & deliver him, and he felt it had a very good chance of working--otherwise he wouldn't bring it up. But if we tried with the forceps and they did not work, then we would need to do a C-section immediately. If I would rather not try the forceps, then he recommended a C-section.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I could not believe that after all this work I was looking at a C-section. I asked if I couldn't just keep pushing. He said I definitely could keep pushing, but that I'd already pushed for 3 hours without much progress. For the forceps to work, I needed the strength to push, and if I pushed for 3 more hours and then tried the forceps I might be too tired to help, which would make a C-section necessary.

This was the low point. I felt so exhausted and demoralized. Where was my Easy, Comfortable Birth, huh? Because this? This was the exact opposite of those things! I asked everyone to give GH and me a minute alone to talk it over. We talked and had a prayer together and felt good about going ahead with the forceps. They brought in this whole yellow-coated team--new nurses, people to take care of the baby once he was out and people to rush us into the OR if he didn't come out. It was crazy. While the Dr was getting all prepped down there, he started telling one of the nurses about his visit to the Royal College of Obstetrics in London. (Me: Ooooh, London!) Only then I realized where he was going with his story when he got to the part about seeing a display case of primitive forceps, and how they were originally only intended to save the mother's life, not the baby's. I popped my head up and told him he was done telling that story because I was trying to get my Bubble of Peace going. He stopped telling it. (Humph.)

And then the pushing (and pulling) started. It couldn't have taken more than 5 or so minutes, but I wanted to tell them to stop because there was no way this was working, they were going to crack my pelvis open, and please just do the C-section. But I could hear them all, especially GH right next to me, telling me that I was doing it and that he was coming. So I believed GH and kept pushing. (He later told me that he was absolutely lying to me--he could see the sweat pouring down the Dr's face as he pulled and knew there was no way this baby was coming out. Thank heavens for lying.) I gave it everything I had during the next three pushes (while making some sounds that probably had nearby moose lifting their heads and wondering who the new girl was) and suddenly everyone was telling me that I'd done it and he was out. It was 5:10am, almost 24 hours since my water broke.

All I felt was relief, and I burst into tears. I lifted my head to try to see him, but I was flat on my back and the Dr had him down in his lap. I could see one little red foot up on the doctor's chest and that was it. All of our birth preferences were tossed out the window by this point and I was too spent to care. They were worried about his lungs because he wasn't crying so they cut the cord immediately and took him over to the "Mess with Baby" station in the corner. GH took pictures while they worked on him.


And he looked back over to me just as I started hemorrhaging. Lucky guy. They said they were going to take the baby to the nursery to keep working on him so they gave him to me for about 45 seconds. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he was the handsomest little stranger I'd ever seen. He didn't look familiar at all and he didn't feel like my baby.



Eventually he started crying hard enough to please them and so they kept him in the room. They weighed him and when I heard the words of "9 pounds, 2 ounces" I said my second swear, which I think offended one of the nurses. I finally got a few minutes of skin-to-skin contact (not quite the hour I'd requested) and tried to feed him.

I look pretty great here, don't I? This was actually the best picture of me. You won't be seeing any of the others. And I'd like to know why no one thought to do something about my matted, straight-up-sticking hair before all the picture taking. Worst. Bedhead. Ever. Looked like I'd been electrocuted and then exsanguinated. Would it have killed anybody to pat that mess down? Actually, you know what? Here. Check out the first family photo:

Right? Won't be getting that one framed any time soon. And this was after I cropped out my "covered with a paper towel but still very much a key player in the shot" business end. Somewhere in all of this the OB was stitching up my 3rd-degree tears, and he remarked to one of the nurses that it looked like a jigsaw puzzle down there. "Not sure which parts go where!" That was awesome to hear.

While I was getting my eleventy-million stitches, GH was busy falling in love with the baby. It didn't come as quickly for me, which was not something I'd expected. I'm sure this was in part to do with the traumatic birth & recovery and the accompanying physical/emotional/hormonal Perfect Crapstorm, but that's another story for another time. The good news is that I did fall madly in love with my sweet boy, and every day I am so grateful that I get to be his mother.

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The unabridged birth story, Part 2

We arrived at the American Fork Hospital and found that I was only dilated to a 3, but I had a Golden "Mah Waters Done Broke" Ticket so they moved us up to our labor & delivery room, which had a lovely view of the Mt. Timpanogos Temple.

We got settled and a nurse asked to put in a heplock, which I agreed to. But first I froke her out by mentioning my fear of needles. (In my defense, I tell all needle-wielders about my fear of needles, and I'm just asking that they warn me when I'm going to feel the pinch so that I don't jump 6 feet in the air at things like the alcohol swipe. And everybody else has kept their crap together. I'm just saying.) This nurse did something wacky and got blood everywhere. I was fine because I kept my head turned in the other direction and my eyes clamped shut while sending hypno-anesthesia to my arm (totally worked), but GH said that by the time she was finished it looked like a scene from Kill Bill in there.

Soon after, the on-call midwife (Midwife B) showed up and checked in with us. Now, a note about Midwife B. In the few times I'd seen her during my prenatal care, she was always professional, friendly, and treated me very well. But for some reason I never really clicked with her, so I was not thrilled that she was the one on call. I told myself though that this could be a good thing though because she was really familiar with Hypnobabies.

And speaking of Hypnobabies, I was listening to different tracks and keeping myself relaxed and using my hypnosis cues and just generally rocking that stuff. I wasn't feeling any pain, just pressure during the contractions. I spent a while on the birth ball, then hung out in the room's rocking chair, with GH next to me holding my hand. Midwife B came back to see how things were going.

Me: Great!

Midwife B: Yeah . . . that's kind of the problem.

She said that she would like to see my contractions picking up and becoming more regular. So she suggested a slight "whiff" of Pitocin to see if that would get things going, while reiterating that it would be a very, very small dose. I said okay, figuring that I could always tell them to turn it off if I hated it, and they got that set up. (Now I'm wondering why she didn't suggest that I walk around to see if I could get things moving. I of course didn't think of it myself, but wouldn't that have been an easy thing to try first?)

The contractions did start coming closer together and were stronger, but they were still ok and didn't seem like the scary "Pitocin contractions" I'd heard horror stories about. Around 6pm she checked me and announced that I was dilated to 8cm. GH and I gave each other a high-five. We are awesome at this! We but mostly me! I shall be ordering my post-birth dinner before the kitchens close! She stopped the Pitocin and said to let her know when I started feeling "pushy."

Except . . . the pushy feelings didn't come. Other, less encouraging feelings did. I hoped that all the pressure in my bottom and lower back meant something good, but I think it actually may have meant "Hey, this is the part where your baby decided to spin around and stick the back of his head into your spine, not that anyone is ever going to tell you that." I started mumbling things like "I can't do this anymore" and "I need something." Except they say that when you're in transition that's when you say stuff like that, right? This is just transition and it will all be over soon, right?

At some point in there the midwife checked me and I was still at an 8. She got the Pitocin running again because she said we needed to go ahead and get this done before I got too tired to push. You know, since I was actively trying to prolong the fun. She may have been right, but I still wanted to kick her in the face.

For a while I was lying on my side in bed while GH stroked my arm. He had been texting updates to our family, who were under strict orders not to call us. I could hear him texting during a strong contraction and the clicking sound sent me over the edge. In the voice of a fanged cobra, I hissed for him to stop it. He took that to mean "Stop. Texting. Forever." So for the next several hours of radio silence our family thought something terrible must have happened, but knew they weren't allowed to call to find out what it was. The midwife showed GH where to apply counter-pressure, and helped me get into a couple of different positions (including the one that caused me to say something I shall not repeat here but which gained me admission into my sister Jenny's "I Say [This Word] When I'm in Labor" Club). She also tried to re-adjust my fetal monitor during a contraction, at which point I may or may not have thrown an elbow at her stomach. I told you I didn't like her. GH said I was getting pretty mean by this point.

(Note here about Hypnobabies: I think it was helping me. It still felt like somebody was trying to drive a truck through my pelvis, but there was a BIG difference in how the contractions felt when I was under self-hypnosis and how they felt during the times when my concentration slipped and I started tensing up. Another benefit of it was that the time seemed to go by really quickly--I spent at least 4 hours doing the 8cm thing, but it didn't feel anywhere near that long.)

Then the midwife said we needed to talk. She said she was concerned because I was getting tired and we really needed to get this baby out.

Me: (No, let's keep him IN. Stupid.)

Midwife: "I'd like to talk about some possible options. One option would be what is called a therapeutic epidural."

(Oh well, if it's therapeutic . . . )

I opened my mouth to ask how a therapeutic epidural is different from a regular one, and she quickly asked, "Would you rather I not bring this up? I won't bring it up if you don't want me to." (In my birth preferences I asked that people not offer me pain medication unless I ask for it.)

Me: No no . . . you can talk about it. (Only polite to hear her out . . . )

She explained that she worried about how tired I was, and that an epidural would help me rest and get some strength back before the Time of Pushing.

Me: Okay fine.

Her: You're sure that's what you want?

Me: Oh yeah.

I don't know when/if I ever would have asked for something myself, but somehow her offering it felt like permission, and I took that to mean I'd done enough. Or, you know, maybe she was just tired of getting elbowed and hissed at. She went off to call the anesthesiologist, and I had GH read me the "Change of Plan" script. When he was finished, he got up to leave the room.

Me: Wait, where are you going?

GH: I need to go get some food and I need to call our families. They've been sitting at home for hours not knowing what's going on.

Me: Why don't they know what's going on?

GH: You told me to stop texting!

Me: I told you to stop texting during that contraction, not to stop texting all together!

GH: Well, they need an update and I need food. I'm starving.

Me: Um, people are about to put huge needles in my back, could you please just wait and help me until the epidural's done?

(Note: GH gets cranky when he's too hungry. And I get cranky when I'm in too much labor.) He sent our families an update and held my hand while the anesthesiologist placed the epidural. I looked down at his watch then and saw that it was almost 10:30pm. I couldn't believe it was really that late. No wonder he was starving.

Once the epidural took effect, they tucked me in so that I could rest for a little while. Before GH left to go find some food, I whispered "This epidural is the best thing ever." I was supposed to go to sleep, but I was so high on NotContractions that I called my mom and my sister to say hi. Then I rested.

Stay tuned for the third and final segment!

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The unabridged birth story, Part 1

Some of you may have read the Cliffs Notes Version and feel that's plenty for you. If so, you are free to skip this. But for those who love them a birthin' story, here it is. It's amazing how much I've already forgotten (or blocked out). So I'm referring to GH's account as well to make sure I get it right.

(December 1st, the Estimated Due Date)

On December 1st I had an appointment at the clinic. The midwife (whom we will refer to as Midwife A) examined me and said that I was dilated to about 2.5 cms, the baby was right down where he needed to be, and that things were looking "ripe" down there. She guessed I would go into labor in the next couple of days. And then, as we were finishing up, she said something that would turn out to be important later.

Midwife A: By the way, I don't believe your baby . . . will be a small baby.

Me: Wait, what?

(Note: This is the first time anyone had ever made mention of the baby's potential size.)

Midwife A: Yeah, you're pretty much all baby in there. I'm guessing 8.5 pounds, maybe more.

Me: Huh. That's . . . interesting. (And also insane. All the babies in my family and GH's family were average sized, so I didn't see where 8+ pounds would be coming from. Sure, I'd been eating my (considerable) weight in Baby Bel cheese and Ramen noodles in the last little while, but what of it?)

About 36 hours later, when I was at the hospital trying to push out said baby, Midwife C and the labor & delivery nurse made their own guesses at around 7 or 7.5 pounds.

Me: Yeah, that's what I'm thinking too. But you know what's funny? Midwife A checked me and said he was going to be huge. Funny, right?

Them, exchanging a look: Midwife A said that? She's . . . usually pretty good at this kind of thing. But still, you never know til they're out!

(Which I now know was their way of saying, "In that case, you're screwed. Good luck giving birth to a Mini Cooper, sweetie!")

On December 2nd, I woke up at 5am to go to the bathroom. I'd been invited to go to the Festival of Trees with GH's Mom and sisters. While in the bathroom, I pondered whether all that driving and walking would be a good idea..

Turns out that decision was to be made for me, because as I got back in bed and started drifting back to sleep my water most definitely broke. I jumped out of bed and made it to the bathroom as fast as a legged-manatee-on-land can move, trailing water all the way. "GH GH GH, water-breaking water-breaking!" It didn't all come at once, so I had to run back to the bathroom a few more times over the next couple of hours.

Aside from the water breaking and the "Oh my gosh that's what a mucus plug looks like? Eeyeeww," not much else happened. I got back in bed and hung out there for the next hour or so, feeling a couple of very mild contractions, then called Midwife A. Because my water had broken, she said I should head to the hospital around noon unless things picked up before then. (Note: Next time if this happens I'll ignore that and stay home until I'm in actual labor, while of course being careful not to do anything risky.)

That morning we had breakfast, finished packing for the hospital, and just hung out. I asked GH to give me a blessing, which was really nice. I listened to my Hypnobabies mp3s and timed the contractions a few times, which were about 10 minutes apart and didn't feel like very much at all. (My thoughts then: "Wow, I must be SUPER GOOD at Hypnobabies! What if they're like this the whole time???" Secret Note From the Future: They won't be.)

Around 1pm, with me still not feeling very labor-y, we loaded up the car with our bags, pillows, CD player, video camera, digital camera, iPods, birth ball, curling iron, bathing suits, sleep mask, (yes, I was possibly mistaking the hospital for a cruise liner) and about 8 million other things. It was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-skied day, which I felt boded well. And then we were off to have us a baby!

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Do you really love the lamp, or are you just saying it because you saw it?

Little Lord Voldemort is now officially a smiler. He smiles. And I'm pretty sure that every time he does it a baby unicorn learns to fly, it's just that precious. I swear my favorite sight on this earth is his little baby gumline. Heaven help us all when he starts laughing, because I just don't know how we'll deal with it.

So life right now is pretty much a nonstop quest for said smiles. And since Voldy loves me, and he loves GH, we get lots of them. Turns out, though, that the Dark Lord also loves the floor lamp next to the couch, because he gave it a grin so big yesterday that it almost split his face open. (Note: this was possibly a bigger smile than I've ever received. Not that I'm jealous or anything. I'm sure the floor lamp needed two bags of blood after giving birth to the baby too. Oh wait . . . )


He also loves the pharmacy bag containing my birth control, because he smiled real big at it too. (I'm with him there, though. I too have a deep love for my birth control.)

The reason I don't have much by way of physical evidence of these smiles is because he won't do it for the camera. Or for the Flip video camera. He could be just beaming and cooing away, but when you get one of those tiny electronic things anywhere within his line of sight . . . FWOOMP. Shut down.

Yesterday we were hanging out on the floor, with little Voldy telling me all about his day and everything, when I got the brilliant idea to have GH get out the video camera and film so that the baby couldn't see him. Because then, see, he would keep smiling and we'd get our footage.

See if you can spot the moment when THAT plan failed.




(onesie from Cafepress)

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Just strangle me with the string already

Even with Tivo, I swear I have seen the commercials for that new No Strings Attached movie approximately eleventy billion times. And really? I could do without them.

My first awareness that such a film existed was in a theater where I saw one of those life-sized cardboard cutouts of the movie poster.


My response: "Wait, what??? Natalie Portman? And Ashton Kutcher? Are you kidding me? Natalie Portman who gets nominated for acting awards and does ballet and is multilingual and went to Harvard? Natalie Portman is in a stupid sex comedy with Ashton Where's My Car Kutcher??? Ugh. That is so disappointing. I think my brain is leaking out my ears right now."

GH: "Uhhhhh . . . . "

Yeah, he didn't seem to react quite so unfavorably to the poster. Wonder why that is. . . . And now he doesn't get to watch any of the eleventy billion commercials either, because I'm always there, huffing like a water buffalo and fast-forwarding through them.

Blah.

So, to take my mind off stupid movies who shove their commercials in my face all. the. time, here instead are pictures of a baby so precious that he craps rainbows. (And occasionally some other stuff up to his armpits but we won't get into that here because this is about the cuteness.)




(precious monkey hat made by Jeri)

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Hang on to your ovaries, people

I'm serious, are you containing them? Because what I'm about to show you makes ME want to go get pregnant, which . . . is really saying something. And then I shake my head like a poodle who has accidentally inhaled chemicals.

Okay, then.





(Scrolling . . . )

I KNOW!!!!

I made most of this hat (Candy Cane by Susan B. Anderson) in November, but then finished it speedy-quick the morning of the Dark Lord's newborn photo session. (A girl from my ward offered to come over and do them for free because she needs newborns for her photography portfolio. And I was like, "Hey, I've got a newborn." Of course, then Christmas happened, so I'm not sure when I'll ever get to see said pictures.)

This is what baby and I did this morning instead of going to church. I did watch Music and the Spoken Word on television though, and put a roast in the crockpot, so I like to think I've still earned some Faithful Mormon Points for the day.

Don't forget about Downton Abbey tonight!

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Proof that he's my child

(You know, in case the part where he exploded out of my body with the help of some salad tongs wasn't enough for me.)

It has been hard to get a handle on the Tiny Dark Lord's features. Some people say he resembles the Precii, but I'm not sure I see it. There are times when he makes these serious little faces that remind me of GH's nephew. His long fingers and insanely long, could-wrap-around-tree-branches toes definitely come from GH. And, with my luck, he will probably have brown hair and hazel eyes like his Dad.

But.

BUT.

We have discovered something important.

Behold, The Eyebrow.


I could not be more proud. And yeah, it's fine if you can't tell because his eyebrows are pretty much invisible, but I promise he's doing it. Others can bear witness. Cannot wait to be on the receiving end of that look when he's a teenager. Because yeah, I will probably feel like killing him where he stands, but there will also be pride.

Just to prove that we're a little ways off from there, though, he obliged me with a couple of cute faces. Enjoy.





And now I'm off for my 6-week checkup to see if I will ever be able to walk like a normal(ish) person again after said salad tongs incident. Wish me luck!

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This is looking really good.

Every time he eats, I'm pretty sure the baby is imagining that he's weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.





He's not happy unless he's got his hands in his face. This is why he will be wearing sock mittens until kindergarten. I figure it's better than facial scarring and an eye patch. (Not as cool, mind you, but still better.)

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Good Enough--It's the new Perfect!

One blog I enjoy reading is French Press Knits, written by the girl who created the pattern for those amazing felted slippers that I made and then bragged about. We were pregnant at the same time and she had her (adorable) baby a week before I had mine.

Only, I think she might possibly have super powers, since she seems to have spent the time since the birth of her child whipping up these tiny, precious knitted things for her baby to wear. I have not done as well with the knitting. None of Voldy's projects are finished. The one thing I did complete (remember the hat?) I misplaced during the move so he never got to wear it. This was awesome of me. My mom, at my urging, brought me the yarn to make something for her that should be very simple and easy and fast. In 3 weeks I've gotten as far as the gauge swatch and that's it. It taunts me from where it lives on the living room floor, next to the couch. I don't know how this woman does it. It's not like I even have a difficult baby, but the most I can generally get done in a day is a shower. Possibly with a teeth-brushing if I remember.

I decided, though, that it was time to do a photoshoot, unfinished objects be darned. (Heh. Darned. Just realized what I did there.) So I grabbed the baby sweater I made for my nephew Hudson (now on loan from same) and stuffed my little guy into it. It's kind of a belly shirt on him and his 11-pound-ness, but he still looked precious.

Except I didn't time it well, and as soon as I got out the camera he started fussing. Which is why the sequence of photos goes like this:

Cranky face
Face with Pacifier in it
Pacifier Face with Drooping Lids
Asleep

But behold--still precious and darling. In something I knitted. So there you have it.

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