The Psychic

"Oh my God!" my husband yelled.  In the split second before my head continued at 45 miles an hour into the back of my husbands seat, I saw bright head-lights and then heard the seemingly deafening sound of metal and glass crashing.  Then it was quiet, a few moments of weird quietness before the kids starting crying and my husband started yelling to us, "Is everyone ok!?!?!" My eyes drifted to the rear-view mirror and I locked eyes with myself.  "No! I'm not ok! I need to go to the hospital!" My husband and James looked at me.  James immediately started dialing 911 and I looked one last time at the blood running down my face and the grotesque lump that was growing at a weird rate on my left temple. 

Neighbors around the accident came running out to help.  A women with a pretty and pleasant face (so pleasant, that concern didn't quite look right on it) appeared and opened my door urging me to get out of the car.  I couldn't.  I just couldn't move.  The pain was crazy.  And when I say crazy, it was the worst pain I have every felt.  This is coming from someone who has had med-free child birth, 2 C-section recoveries and fought gall-bladder attacks for 5 years. The pain paralyzed me with fear and I was shaking all over.   The pleasant women stayed with me until the EMT's arrived and had me in the truck.  While we waited, she talked to me like we were meeting for coffee... how many kids did I have? Ages? Schools? Etc.  I don't like small talk, and it seemed weird and foggy at the time.  I wasn't even sure she was real, like, who has small talk with someone with a busted, bleeding face? But now I figure that she was just trying to keep me coherent and calm.

In the Ambulance the 2 EMT's were like good-cop and bad-cop.  Good cop was a handsome black man, with kind eyes and long pretty dread-locks pulled back from his face, bad-cop was an angry white women with short blonde hair.  Good-cop hovered over me and asked me questions and then bad cop wanted to insert a heploc.   I told her "no", that I hated needles and IV's.  She was adamant that I get one.  I asked if we could just wait until we got to the hospital and see if I needed one or not. We went back and forth.  Good-cop followed her with his eyes while he gently wiped the blood out of my eye. She was getting annoyed, I was getting nauseous... she won.

When we got to the ER and they got me out of the truck and handed me off to the hospital staff, I quietly, through the pain and nausea said, "Thanks guys." Bad-cop smiled and said, "Your welcome." All was forgiven.

A month and a half later, I followed Warren out the kitchen side door into the brilliant summer sunshine and I immediately flinched.  I am currently doing concussion therapy 4 times a week and sunshine is like battery on my eyes.  The air was cool for mid-July and it felt good. Warren, with his closely cropped, platinum blonde summer hair and deep brown tan (I mean honestly, the kid couldn't be any blonder or any tanner), raced to the front of the house where our neighbor Ben was having a yard sale.  Warren loves yard sales.  He had a Ziploc sandwich bag full of change and he quickly buzzed from table to table like a little honey bee.  I paged through a thick book of herbs and asked how much it was when I noticed the big sign, "Psychic Readings $10"

Ben's girlfriend sat in front of the sign in a red sundress across from an empty chair. I don't know if it was the wad of bills stuck in her bra-strap, or the boldness of anyone with wild ginger curls and milky white skin to wear red, but I plopped myself down in the empty chair and asked, "So how does this work?" "Well" She began, "I am going to ask you to close you eyes and I will have you picture certain things in your mind and then ask questions about it."  "Ok, Let's do it.", I was game.

"Okay", she began, "Close your eyes.  Now imagine you're walking down a road..." Immediately into my dark mind, a road appeared.  It was a dirt "wagon-wheel" road surrounded by meadow.  "Are you with anyone or are you alone?" I'm alone. My hand reached out and I let the tall grass tickle my open palm.  Insects buzzed, and although it was sunny, I could look everywhere clearly.  The road was relatively straight but went up and down in little hills every now and then, but nothing so big that I couldn't see over it and into the distance beyond.

"Now imagine you are walking along this road and you come across a key. Where is the key? What does it look like? I find a key.  It's a boring brassy little house key just floating in midair, kind of Harry Potter-ish. "What do you do with it?"  I immediately reach out and take it my hand. I see it in my palm and put it in my pocket.

"Now keep walking.  Next you come across a cup.  What does it look like? What's inside of it? What do you do with it?"  I keep walking and come across a glass of water.  The glass is crystal clear, cleaner than any glass my family has ever owned.  The water sparkles in the sunshine. I am suddenly very thirsty and want to pick it up and drink it.

"Now you come across a tree. Describe the tree." My tree appears along the road.  It's alone and beautiful.  Like a pretty story book tree with hole in it.  The wood is rough and grayish and the leaves a brilliant green.  I stop and look at it. I like the contrast of the rough bark against the smooth leaves.  I let my hand touch the rough bark and I briefly let a leaf slide between my fingers, but I don't dare take it. I hate pulling leaves off of trees. Then I keep walking.

"Next you come across a wall.  The wall goes as a high as you can see and stretches across to the right and left completely. A giant stone wall appears. Even though it is looming and infinite, it doesn't feel foreboding.   I know the stone is cool without even touching it, but I do.  I feel the cool grey stones and let my fingers curl into the mortar between them. I look up into the nothingness. "What do you do?" I decide to walk alongside the wall, letting my left hand drift and drag along it.  "But what if you can't find an end? What then?" I stop.  I decide to turn around and find the path and head back the way I came.

So, what becomes of all of this?  Well, the road has been my view of life so far, the key is how I perceive the future, the cup is my definition of love and relationships (both romantic and friendly), the tree is how I view sex and attraction, and the wall... the wall is death. She explains all of this to me and goes over what my answers mean. I actually really enjoyed it.  It didn't seem as much psychic as psychological.  I asked her what she did as her day job. "I'm an insurance agent" Is that what you've always done? "No, I majored in psychology."

Two themes seemed to stick out the most, simplicity and transparency. She talked about how much I hate being lied to.  And yeah, everyone hates being lied to, but basically once I label someone as a liar they are as good as dead.  I told her that there was no big lie told in my life but I did hate liars, and I had literally just been lied to that week. Nothing big. I mean, A friend showed a picture I posted on FB to someone.  It was basically a picture of this other mom on the team being a finish judge in a skimpy bikini top and little cut-off jean shorts and drinking beer on the job.  I know, I know... classy! It was a distance shot, so you couldn't see her face.  She literally looked like a random wax figure of Barbie's older sister.

After the picture was shown, I was technically criminally assaulted by a 6ft tall Amazon women (I'm 5"3, I literally look like a hobbit next to her).  She was in my face, tripping over Brody in his stroller and I was flooded with the smell of Corona while she screamed, "I'm going to fuck you up!" and that I should, "watch my back." (it turned out that Barbie's sister was so drunk she had to leave her car there. Who get's wasted at a children's swim meet? I mean, I know they're boring and all, but just bring a book or something) And then I asked my friend straight-out if she showed the picture and she answered "no" when she really had. This was like a back-stabber friend type lie.  Those feel like you are just driving along in your car, and someone makes a random left hand turn into you and you plow right into them.  It's all so very unexpected and you sit there for a minute in a dizzy fog thinking, "Did that just happen?".

I didn't want to be driven anywhere after the accident.  I was scared to be a passenger.  Once or twice I got so scared and anxious I cried.  It was easier to be the driver, but even that was hard.  I forced myself to be a passenger though.  I couldn't let my anxiety grow and get out of control, so I immediately started "flooding" myself.  It worked pretty well.  My anxiety reached it's peak a few times and then came back down and It started to get easier. 

I have a pretty strong internal locus of control, and that was shaken up a bit by the fact that you can't control what other people do and therefor your destiny isn't completely within your control.  Like, for reals! There was nothing we could have done to prevent that accident.  And there's nothing you can do to prevent some people from turning on you.  If they are gonna turn they just will, whether they are making a left turn or making a lie.

So, I'll just continue to walk my simple path with the small hills, key in my pocket, and looking for a drink of crystal clear water in a clean glass cup.

Flags Flapping

Two monks were arguing about a flag.  "The flag is flapping," said one. "No," said the other, "the wind is flapping." The argument went back and forth.  The Master happened to be passing by.  He told them:  "Not the wind, not the flag; your minds are flapping."

"Let me hold the baby for you while you do your homework.". I looked up from reading this little metaphor in my textbook.  My mom was standing over me, hands outstretched. "Sure. Thanks!"
I said as she was already lifting a smiley Brody off my lap. It was more of a statement than a question anyway.  Gosh that question.  I had first heard it 16 years ago, when I was finishing high school with a new baby. "Let me hold the baby for you while you do your homework." My mom had said it many times. It made me smile to hear it again at 34.

I've been getting burn-out on motherhood lately. Not my own, just everyone else's.  Sometimes I just want to lock myself in my house, turn off all the social media, and relish in the crazy natural survival-ness that is my family. There is too much over-analyzing and second guessing and just pure agonizing out there.  A little bit of this is good and natural I think.  It keeps you on your toes in your vocation as Mother or Parent.  It's kind of Adlerian - Alfred Adler, one of the most important  psychodynamic theorists of our time believed that humans were motivated by inferiority.  He would have a field day with mothers today! But when it get's out of hand, it's just exhausting for you... and for me and I don't have time to be any extra exhausted.  I have survival exhaustion and I don't need any neurotic exhaustion.

There is also a lot of extremism out there and with it comes a lot of anger and depression.  A lot of words like this.... must, best, preferred. A lot of people standing around with different opinions of what makes the flag flap or what way to make it flap best. Or even just people wrestling with their own opinion and keeping up with it.  I actually had to take a break from some FB groups like this.

Now some of this comes from perspective that I have and I will share with you.  I have four flag poles in my front yard with 4 lovely, different and richly colored flags flapping at different speeds and with varying levels of ferocity.  The first pole was set up when I was 17 and James was born.  At that young age I hoisted his flag.  It was plainer than it is now and closer to the ground on the pole. I could only hoist it so far and as time went on the flag went higher and became more colorful.  Now there's only a little bit of line for me to hoist before it's all the way to the top.  But God is that flag colorful and flapping proudly and I often revel in it's beauty.

I can't believe how beautiful it is in fact! How could that be? I didn't spend a lot of time analyzing what was making the flag flap... I couldn't! My parent's had barely finished hoisting my own flag and yet there I was with a new flag of my own. I was very much in survival mode when James was born and I had a young, care-free mind.  I did the best I could at being a mother and a lot of that time was spent surviving and laughing.  Somehow this kid grew quite excellently in both body and mind.  I didn't stress much about what he ate, what he was learning, what he was watching, what his grades were.  I just didn't.  It wasn't because I didn't care.  I cared very much, but I was so young that I didn't know what little things to care about. I didn't know to stand there and wonder what was making the flag flap, it just was.  You know the old saying, "ignorance is bliss"? It's true.  I was offered the ability through my youth and ignorance to just experience how much flags color and flap on their own.  All I had to do was be there to hoist it and marvel at it.

Now that I'm a "normal" aged mother, I do pay more attention to more things because I know more.  But when I mess up, or life get's too busy to care about raw milk that week or washing cloth diapers, I just don't beat myself up about it.  Sometimes I may give the wrong explanation for something to a child or spend too much time on my phone that day, sometimes I let me kids eat birthday cake for breakfast and micro-waved chicken nuggets for lunch. Their rooms get messier than they should be and when I watch them play sports it's all taken with a grain of salt. But I care about everyone of these things.  I know it's not healthy to eat cake in the morning or pink sludge for lunch. I know it's good for kids to keep their space organized. 

It's just that, if I'm off on any of this and more, I know it will be ok. Theses flags are more amazing than we give them credit for.  I might be having a bad day, week, month, year.... I might stop caring about organic food in 2015 and care again 2016.  One kid might be in his crib at 4 months and then next might be co-sleeping to 4 years.  James was only breastfeed to 6 months, while Warren was allowed the opportunity to nurse until he was tugging on my shirt in the supermarket asking for "milky time".  A lot of the time I think about that first flag and tell myself, "It's ok.  You did it when you were 17 and knew nothing about what makes flags flap and at the end of the day, this one will be flapping too."

I was walking with a friend the other day.  She asked me, "How did you make the decision to go back to school with four kids?". I answered, "I don't know.  I just did it.  I've always been that way, ever since James.  When I was young and pregnant I said to myself, 'Ok. You are just going to do this.' and that's been my perspective for any major decisions.  I don't spend a lot of time analyzing and that probably drives my husband a little nuts, but if I stand there too long my mind will start flapping.".

Don't spend too much time wondering what's making your flags flap or your mind will start flapping. Don't wonder if your flag is flapping fast enough or if it seems too fast.  Make sure your worries and decisions are back dropped by a dose of wonder about the naturalness of flapping flags and let it BE a wonder.  You aren't supposed to be everything, know everything, decide everything, perfect everything, and try everything.  Marvel at the colors your flags become, let your heart beat to the natural rhythmic tempo of their flapping, and be waiting calmly, sometimes excitedly, sometimes with a drop reminiscent sadness, to hoist when needed.

When you pull up on that last little bit of line, and walk a little distance away you will want it to be a piece of living art, flapping organically, and you will want to say, "That is so cool.  I just love how it flaps."

The Confessional

Today I pulled the mini-van up to the Wendy's drive-thru window. The glass slid open and a women about the same age as I am appeared. "Hi Hon, you're total is $8.27.  Are you off from work today?"  I felt worried about my answer.  I defiantly didn't look like a woman on her lunch break.  My hair was doing some weird Jared Leto pony-bun thing and my sloppy t-shirt under my jacket was a dead give-away that I was not coming from, nor going to a paying job that day.  I am on my second week of classes and briefly thought about saying that I was a "graduate student" or that I am "working on my masters".  But who can take that seriously when Kids Place Live is playing in your mini-van.  No, I was just there because I am out of my tub of Wegman's organic spring mix salad and I really love Wendy's salads.  I was going to have a gem of a moment where two kids are asleep in the car and I was going to sit and eat my salad and listen to the radio.

My mom worked when I was a kid, and her mom before her, and the one before that was from "the old country" and probably racked up some good hours of farm work.  Why I couldn't get the tall beautiful model Eastern European genes instead of the short, strong, babushka wearing Eastern European genes is a crying shame.  But I certainly have a lot of natural energy passed down from those working women, and I am very thankful for that.

My maternal grandmother, Helen, left school after 9th grade to work.  She told me that she was tired of being poor and wanted "nice things".  She was a factory worker - silk mill and donut factory are two places that I know of.  My mother complains of being a chubby teenager because of all the donuts my grandmother would bring home. Helen got married at 18 to my first grandfather and had a toddler and a newborn when she lost him in WWII. She was then a young, single, working mother until she met my second grandfather several years later, got married, and had my two uncles.  Two husbands, four kids, ten grandkids, and fifteen great-grandkids later, Helen is now almost 91 and going quite strong for her nine decades of life.

My mother graduated high school and entered the "white-collar" world as a secretary where she met father when he came to fix her type-writer (I know, how cute is that?).  Mom and Dad married young at 20, and my father finished college with 3 young kids and went on to be a successful electrical engineer.  My mother had me later, at age 36, when my siblings were almost all teenagers.  She worked when I went to school.  I was then a "latch key" kid.  Came home, got my hidden key from the magnetic box my dad put on the water meter, and spent about 1-2 hours alone until my mom got home from work.  In the summers, she would drop me off at the pool for swim practice before 9 am with my cooler packed with lunch and I would stay all day there doing tennis lessons, swimming, and running around with other kids until 4:30 when she would pick me up.  Sound dangerous? No way! It was the 80's! Those were the best summers ever...

Anyway, I don't remember missing my mom.  Not because I didn't want her around, just because I was too busy having an awesome summer full of memories.  That's because I had a mom that left me every morning feeling so loved and cared for that all had to do was think about having fun.  And then she would pick me up and take me home and make sure I was fed and clean and rested for my next day of awesomeness. She loved me so much and I knew that.  It was a blanket of confidence that followed me my entire childhood, when she was home and when she wasn't.

I handed the woman a ten and answered, "No, I stay home with the kids". 
She raised her eyebrows, "Well, then you aren't off at all are you?" 
"No, I guess not" I answered with a meek smile.
"How old are your children?"
"16, 7, almost 3, and 5 months... all boys"
"Wow! I have two daughters 8 and 9.  They look like twins, you should see them! My oldest was in the NICU for a while and her sister caught up fast.  I also have a 4 month old son, I am so thankful for him because I lost twin boys in a still birth..."

She went on to tell me that her new baby was colicky.  He was colicky the minute she couldn't pump anymore and switched him to formula.  I felt like I was lost I time with this woman, telling me about her sweet little son.  She had slid open the doors to a mom to mom confessional with me and the working mom guilt oozed out of every pore of her being. The nervous way she fiddled and just wanted to talk about her kids for a few minutes. The earnest look in her eyes when she told me how thankful she was to have this little man to love.  And love she did. God, I could tell she loved her kids.

 I knew how much she agonized about leaving that baby to go to work.  I wanted to tell her that it would be ok, that if I could feel how much love she has in her heart, her kids could feel it 100 fold. I wanted to tell her that her yearning and second guessing and guilt was real and justified and that's what good moms do.  I wanted to tell her that her kids were going to grow up so loved and secure that they wouldn't ever remember missing her, they would just remember love and fun and mom coming home.  Because that's what kids remember and need and thrive on most, the feeling that their mother loves them.  Their mother loves them while they are the cashier at Wendy's for eight hour shifts or while they are just in the next room folding laundry.  Your kids will remember that you loved them. 

But then a car pulled up to the order point, our moment in time was abruptly broken, and she had to go back to work.  "Enjoy your day" she said, "You too." I replied.  The confessional window closed and I drove away.  I wish I could have said what I wanted to her, but nothing I say will make a good mom like that stop feeling guilty.  I was just glad I was able to let her talk about her kids for 5 minutes. And I know she'll clock out and rush home and squeeze that baby and try to soothe his colic, help her daughters with homework and dinner and put everyone to bed maybe a little bit later than she should just to spend a little extra time with them.  And her kids will wake up the next day cloaked in powerful, unconditional love that will last a lifetime. 

Dear good moms everywhere who are doing whatever with your life, Just remember that loving your kids is the most important thing.  Because when you do everything with love in your heart, you really are doing your best.  And that guilt you feel for whatever reason, that heartache is your love pushing against the boundaries of your heart, because no physical thing can really contain the love of a good mother.

My Village

I'm sitting alone in a movie theater.  Don't judge, it's been a long week.  I'm Ok with it. I'm introverted and there is probably no one better at going to the movies alone than an introvert.  Buy your ticket, sit in the dark theater, pull your snacks and cans of soda out of your big bag (that part's not introverted, just cheap), and relax and be entertained in a room full of people where everyone agrees that talking to each other is annoying.  Introvert paradise!  I did try to do the socially acceptable thing and get a friend to go but she, like my husband, was working.  James had a swim team party and he thought the first Hunger Games movie was boring anyway.  That's what I wanted to see, Catching Fire.  I've wanted to see it since November when in came out, but none of these dudes I live with have taken me. So, alone I went before it's out of theaters. 
 
The movie was entertaining enough that I almost didn't miss my husband... almost.  It's been an interesting week with him and I've poured myself into my little village of friends.  I have always thought that a group of friends like "sex in the city" would be super cool and fun.  But when you think about it, each one of those women are more extroverted and they thrive and do well in a group.  I have friends that I see one at a time, mostly.  Each one is a mirror of something like about myself or fills in something that's missing. So, this week I went around the village and knocked on doors and went in for a bit to decompress in different ways with each one.

 

 

The cans are back.  Earlier this week the dog was barking in the kitchen.  He barks sometimes throughout the day, like a "woof!" here and there, but this was real barking.  I went down to the kitchen and there he was, one eye on the back door and one eye looking down the hallway for me.   I slowed down as I approached and cautiously entered the kitchen and looked towards the back door.  There was a man on our porch.  His back was turned to the door and we was stooped over.  I went over with Pete (the dog) by my side, and opened the door but kept the glass storm door closed.  I rolled down the window a little and knocked to get the man's attention.  "Excuse me Sir?", I said.  He stood straight and turned.  I immediately saw that he was homeless.  He had multiple layers of worn clothing, no teeth, food smeared in his beard, and a filthy, rugged, red face from the -15 wind chill.  He was also holding a big empty dog food bag and had been filling it with the soda cans from our recycling bin. "I'm sorry, Mamn." He said, "Do you mind if I take your cans? I'm doing really bad right now and these will help a little."  "Sure." I said, "But next time could you wait until the cans are out at the curb instead of coming up on the property?  It makes the dog nervous and he doesn't like strangers."  That's a I lie.  I'm the one that doesn't like strangers... or small talk, or Wegman's shoppers... and between my pit bull and me, I'm the one more likely to bite.

 

 

He said that was no problem and I closed up everything and called my husband. "David!  I'm so sorry! A homeless man was on our porch and he took all your cans! I wasn't going to stop him.... Oh no! He's going down the back steps!  What should I do? Wait! Now he has two of your big black garbage bags of empty soda cans from below the porch!"  That homeless man had hit the jackpot at our house.  And then the longer I thought about it all, the angrier I got.  It was scary having a strange man on our porch.  And granted he was nice and polite, but he did help himself to bags of cans that I didn't authorize.  And I had asked him not to come on the property and instead he continued further onto our property to look around.  No, No, I wasn't angry at the homeless man.  I was getting angry at my husband! What if that man hadn't been nice? I mean, I am alone all day and he's attracting homeless people with his stupid can collecting!  And this can hording was supposed to stop.  He promised me he wouldn't bring home (he brings home cans from work!) or keep any more cans that would fit in one garbage bin.  If that bin got full he had to take the cans to the metal recycling place before he continued collecting more cans.  Well that promise went out the window a long time ago and now I'm scared our house has been marked. I mean, homeless people talk! What if that guy tells his friends about the aluminum at the end of the rainbow at 1289 Elm St.? (that's not our real address, don't try to find me)  And what if I have strangers on the property all the time, and what if cans aren't enough? What if they look in the windows!  And this guy, THIS GUY, had yelled at me for leaving an old wooden kitchen broom on the back porch.  He said that someone would steal it, and it would bring someone onto the property.  A BROOM! Gosh I was mad!

 

Later that night I picked up James from swimming.  I told him the story about the homeless man and when we got home he went to investigate.  "Mom, where did those chairs come from?"  "What chairs?"  "The chairs down by the basement door."  Oh no.  I went out and looked. There, by the basement door where 4 ugly kitchen table chairs.  I went back inside and called my husband.  "David, where did the chairs by the basement door come from?"  I could hear the change in his voice, it sounds like someone who knows they got caught. "I brought them home the other night.  Just look at them and give them a fair chance."  "Ok, But if I look at them, and I think they are ugly, can I put them out with the garbage?"  "I will get rid of them, but you can't get rid of them."  Do you see this hoarding logic?  Anyway, I agreed.  I didn't tell him that I already thought they were ugly.  Instead I decided to give them another shot in the morning, in the daylight.  Maybe my fairy godmother would come over night and change them into a magical horse drawn carriage and take me on a night out, and give me fabulous shoes and would baby-sit while I went and danced.  I don't need the prince part.  Despite all of this nonsense, I am happily married, and even the most happily married woman will tell you that one man is more than enough.  Plus, I already found my Prince Charming and he collects cans.

 

The next morning I went and looked again.  Still ugly.  If for some odd reason, I actually needed 4 kitchen chairs, these would never be it.  I knew I had to approach this delicately.  My husband is very protective of the treasure he finds.  "David"  I began calmly. "I did look at those chairs just now and I honestly think they are ugly. It would frustrate me if they stayed." KA-BOOM! My husband quickly threw up his offensive line. "Well, you know what frustrates ME?!? It frustrates me when the you don't pay bills on time! And it frustrates me when the house is a mess! And it frustrates me when..."  You get the point.  It didn't go well.

 

I left the house in a tearful huff and drove to my Catholic Mother's Group.  I was actually supposed to lead the group that morning in prayer and discussion.  I was coming off of that argument with my husband and that's all I could think of, so that was my topic.  I basically unloaded this frustration on them and wanted to know how they balance frustration like this with respect and love for their spouse.  Lillian said, that sometimes she thinks of the saying, "The greatest give of love is to lay down one's life for a friend."  And when she is having a disagreement with her husband she thinks of that and "lays it down", like lays down her own issue for her spouse.  Naomi offered that I could pray to St. Joseph and the Blessed Mother because they are truly experts at marriage and family, and I could ask them for help.  A lot of good advice was offered and I didn't feel so alone.  So, I texted my husband right then and there and told him to not worry about the cans or the chairs, it was all fine.  He txt's back, "What did you do with the bag of cans I brought home from work last night?"  OMG.  Can't he see that Jesus, Mary, Joseph and I are trying to forgive him!  I had a homeless man on our porch and that very night he brings home more cans! I shared the recent txt with the other woman. "Yeah... I'd say it's now time to put your foot down.", Naomi says.

 

Next, I went to visit Tracy.  I picked up Pizza and drove to her house.  It's the first time I'd seen her since before she had her baby on New Years Day.  The last time I saw her was she had been 39 weeks along and I met her at night in the Wegman's parking lot.  I stood there as she rolled up in her big dark SUV and I dealt her some herbal labor tea through her window in a paper bag. Now she met me on her drive-way and gave me a long hug that brought tears to my eyes.  Tracy is my good deed for 2013.  She was pregnant with her fifth baby and found herself with very limited birth options because of her pre-term classical (the King of all Scars, as I call it) C-section from her last pregnancy.  I "counseled" and "advised" her through out her pregnancy and brought her from -  I want a C-section, in a hospital, at full term... to having a water birth vbac with a midwife. I can't claim full credit, we can also thank the OB's and hospital for trying to box her into an undesirable corner instead of working with her wishes.  And It takes a special person to listen to what I did with my birth and go and consider it.  Her 9 lb vbac baby is a healthy little bundle and we sat and enjoyed lunch together.  She shared some intimate moments about her birth that brought tears to my eyes and it felt so good to sit and talk about babies being born.  It really cleared my mind and warmed my soul. 

 

Then, I had to meet my friend Lori at Warren's school for pick-up time.  She is St. Lori to me.  Her son, Charlie, and Warren are in the same the class and it seems like they are becoming best friends.  Lori is such a good baker.  I brought baked goods home from her house once, and my husband told Warren, "You have to always be friends with Charlie." Warren asks why. "Because this is the best icing I've ever tasted."  Lori was babysitting Warren and David for me while I went to James's swim meet.  And let me tell you, anyone who would babysit those two, is a true friend indeed!  We packed them into her car and she waved me goodbye, "Have fun living the life with one child!" Little baby Brody and I went to James's swim meet.  It was so nice.  I watched races I would have never gotten too before.  I mentally critiqued starts and turns (I was a swimmer all the way through college) and even watched the men's and women's 500 free. It was such a treat. Thank God for Lori, it's good to have a friend who is empathetic enough to take your kids so that doing something is just a little more pleasant.

 

The next day, I went to my friend Michele's house for a play date.  It's supposed to be a play date for our 2 and 3 yr olds, but mostly we just drink coffee, bullshit, and referee two year old fights over toys.  It started to snow that morning and Michele doesn't like snow driving.  I said I would come to her and when I got there I told her, "Your 're going to see me today whether you like it or not!" I needed some more friend therapy. Now I can really talk about anything with Michele.  She is also smart as a whip and kind of cutthroat in her discernment of my issues. We talked about our Christmases and family issues.  She's the one, unfortunately for her, that I unload all my extended family agony on.  Michele is a hard-ass with this stuff and gives me a hard-ass perspective, which I do enjoy.  I left feeling more confident and tough.

 

Fast forward to the day after the movie... I met with Sara, Sara from A Special Purpose, she took me out for dinner for my birthday and we laughed about how odd numbers always sound older than even numbers... like 33 sounds so much older than 32, you know what I mean.  I turned 34 this year so it doesn't sound THAT much older than 33, right?  I was happy to have someone to laugh with.  My husband didn't have a lot of time to celebrate with me other than a kiss on the cheek before he left for work.  He went to a game and then worked all weekend.  It left no time to spend with me, hence me alone in a movie theater on a Sunday afternoon. I talked to Sara about my feelings surrounding some recent events.  Sara has such a soft, good heart.  Her perspective towards goodness in people was inspiring.  On the way out Sara noticed that the place was having a DJ contest that Friday and she signed up.  She got in and I was totally stoked to see her compete.

 

During the week, I thought of things Sara had said and reached out to try to make things better with some issues.  It didn't work out and by Friday night I ended up covered in word vomit.  Word vomit is what people spew all over you when they are so angry that they don't even make sense and are literally just out to hurt you.  I got word vomit via text.  Buckets and buckets of nasty, smelly word vomit.  I actually even have an email inbox folder where I send emails that I am fairly sure contain word vomit.  I don't even open them. I mean, I used to open them and then hated spending a week cleaning the vomit off of my clothes out of my hair.  Now I just send them right to the "word vomit" folder. 

 

It was about an hour before I was supposed to leave to see Sara DJ when I got vomited on.  I skimmed the txt's, trying not to take them to heart. A lot of it was about this blog.  People really do not like blogs!  Most of it was so ridiculous, it was easy to joke in my head.  Some of it was purposefully hurtful and most of it was so crazy, it didn't even warrant a response.  It's like a person with anger management problems calling you crazy, and you're like how could I possible spend time proving that I'm not crazy to a angry, crazed person?  They are just going to get angrier and crazier. 

 

I unhooked the baby from my boob and handed him to my husband.  Then I quickly combed my hair and threw on a black shirt and jeans (you can't go wrong with black, right? Especially if you have no time for make-up!) I left to see Sara covered in word vomit.  I didn't burden her with helping me clean it all off.  It was her night and I was there to support her.  Another friend, Carrie, came too and we enjoyed some beers and danced and laughed a lot.  I was still getting a few crazed text messages.  The last one told me that if I even showed up in certain places that the sender would "personally escort me out".  Carrie asked me what my phone was blowing up about and I shared the message with her.  Carrie looked thoughtful for a moment and then grinned, "You know?" she said, "That's actually really nice, that she will personally escort you!" I choked on my beer mid-swallow.  Carrie continued, "I mean instead of calling the police or grabbing a baseball bat, I think that's really nice!"  I barely could set my beer down before my knees got weak from laughing, "That is really nice, isn't it?". The stink of the word vomit started to dissipate into the night.

 

Thank God for all these great friends that I have made.  And thank God the can man always ends up being my Fairy Godmother and watches the kids for me so I can get out.  Sitting alone in a movie theater is great every so often, but sometimes, it's good to let others into your space to give you a new, different energy.  Because when you are alone in a movie theater, this definitely doesn't happen, and you'd be sorry to miss it... 

 

The Snow Day

2013 was quite a year! If you have been following my little stories you know that I was very busy and life was all over the place.  I had two great triumphs.  I navigated the wierd waters of family court with my oldest son and Boo Radley has disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as he came.  Maybe he left Judy Scheindlin at home to flat iron her hair and met with a real attorney who told him it was a lost cause, or maybe he's run across my blog and become seriously embarassed.  I don't know.  Either of those situations would be deliciously fun. On the other end of the spectrum, I had my 4th little boy in 2013.  That was quite a journey as I searched for and found the best birth for him and myself. I found a great midwife and was able to have "my painfull vaginal birth" as my wry friend Lynsey calls it.  My husband now transforms into the Incredible Hulk of homebirth/midwifery advocacy at the drop of the word "hospital", "intervention", or "risky".  Watch out!

 

So, 2013 was very busy, and from time to time I felt like I wasn't doing enough with my kids.  I'm with them all day, but I don't feel like I'm filling up an adventure book with them.  And I'm busy with dumb stuff too, boring stuff, day to day stuff.  I mean I just feel busy, but not really.  I tell people I feel like I do everything and nothing. It's like you do stuff all day but really get nowhere.  It's just shit you have to do, busy-work... drive the kids everywhere, laundry, dishes, pick-up toys, cook meals, and when the day is over, you don't really feel like you've accomplished anything, but yet, you were busy all day!

 

And now with this new baby, who is nursing and growing like a champ thank you very much, I sit and nurse.  If you have ever nursed a young baby, you know what I mean.  You are held hostage a lot of the day in cars, restaurants, your house, wherever just sitting and nursing.  It takes me 2 times, 3 times as long to get anything done or go anywhere.  As convenient as whipping your boob out at your baby's whim is, you do have to spend time doing it.

 

So, I've been feeling like a totally un-fun mom alot.  I just feel like I don't have enough adventures and projects and events with my older kids, and it bums me out. It's too much mundane, everyday busy work around here.  And it's cold here where we live so it's a lot of in house play and mess in the winter.  I hear a lot of, "Mommy, play with me!" "Mommy can you help me with this?" "Mommy, can you do this with me?" And I wish I would or could indulge them more. I wish I could take them on fun trips and activities more. Just be fun more and make amazing memories!

 

Then, there's the larger family factor and the fact that I am keenly aware that if I had less kids there would be less mess, less to do, and more time to spend with and amongst less kids. I would probably know more stuff and be on top of them more.  For example, Brody had his four month well visit this month.  The doctor asked me questions...

"Has he rolled over?"

Jeeze, I don't know?

"How often does he nurse and for how long?"

Do normal people really keep track of that?

 "Are you doing tummy time?"

Oh, crap, I totally forgot about that.

"What time does he go down at night?"

Um. After the others go to bed, so anytime between 8-11.

She eyes me up, "And... Are you nursing him to sleep?"

You bet'cha.

 

The doctor smiles at me, amused.  I say, "I know I look like the worst mom you've seen all day."  "No" she replies, "You have four kids.  I'm just impressed you are even coming for well visits." Even the doctor's expectations of me have dropped.

 

After the appointment, I drove another 20 miles on top of the 20 miles I already drive to this doctor.  I of course have to drive to find a doctor who will put up with all my quirky health stuff.  When I showed up a few months ago with my new baby and happily handed over notes from my midwife on his farmhouse birth and proudly wrote "vaginal" on the line where birth type is asked, the doctor came in, grinned at me and said, "Homebirth vbac after two sections? You are a brave one!" You better believe it buddy, and the actual birth was the easy part! But anyway, then I drove another 20 miles south to the only Walmart I could find that carried Zoomer the robot dog in stock.  I breathed a sigh of relief at the "in store pick-up" desk as zoomer made his way into my hands and then darted out of the store and headed the 40 miles home.

 

I ran around doing a lot of Christmas prep all December.  But in doing so, I felt like even more of a schlub of a mother.  I realize that I was preparing for my children to have another amazing Christmas, and amazing memories of that day, but in the mean time I wished we were making more meaningful memories EVERY day.

 

Then it snowed.  We had our first snow of the 2013-2014 winter season and the kids all had off from school. James went out to shovel and along with our house he shovels for our neighbors, Ed and John.  Ed is recovering from cancer.  When James was younger he used to pay James to do it, just so the kid could make a few bucks.  Now Ed really needs the help because he's tired alot and John... well, I'll let Ed say it - "Shoveling's not John's thing.  He's better at staying inside making sandwiches."

 

James finishes shoveling and comes inside.  A few hours later, there is a knock at the kitchen door.  I see that it's Ed and feel immediately embarassed.  It's past noon and my kids are still in pajamas.  The kitchen is a wreck and I mean a real wreck.  Not the kind of wreck when you show up at someone's house and they say, "I'm so sorry my kitchen is so messy!" And you're like, "Really? This is messy?" And you fight the urge to grab a gleaming hanging frying pan and smack them.  No, if you came to my kitchen on any regular day, and I said, "I'm sorry my kitchen is so messy!"  You'd be like, "Are you all ok in here?"

 

So, there's Ed, smiling at me in his familiar way thru the kitchen door window.  I know he's come fresh from his own beautiful kitchen.  I know it's georgous.  Their whole house is beautiful with impeciable furnishings and perfect paint colors. I have often gazed enviously at their kitchen through their window, espcially at night when their perfect orangey-brown paint looks the best and the copper back-splash shines. They do such a good job, Ed and John.  In fact I'm pretty sure their cat, Mickey, is better cared for than any of my four children.

 

I let Ed in and he's immediately stormed by my bad-mannered dog and excited little boys yelling, "Ed! Ed!" Like they haven't had human contact in years.  David immediately tries to show Ed all of his Buzz Lightyear gear and Warren wants too see his huge cancer surgery scar again. Ed patiently humors them and I start the appologizing, "Ed, I'm so sorry this house is such a wreck.  They all have off from school and the kitchen get's crazy from them in here all day."  Ed rises from his knees where he had dropped to be eye level with my busy-body two year old. His eyes survey the room briefly and I see something in his face that I can't quite make out.  Then he looks at me and smiles again, "This place is great.  It reminds me of my kitchen when I was a kid.  You are probablly making lots of memories here."  Ed says good bye to the kids and I, and leaves James's snow shoveling money on the counter.  I close the door behind him and watch his slim figure walk back to his house where John probablly has sandwhiches waiting for him in their beautiful kitchen.

 

Have you seen "Up!"? The movie with Mr. Fredrickson, Russel, and the floating house?  Mr. Fredrickson is so upset with himself because he feels like he didn't give his wife, Ellie, any adventures before she died. Then, while he's trying to float a whole house to South America to make it up to her, Ellie's "Adventure Book" falls out of the closet and hits him on the head and in it he's surprised to see that she filled it with pictures of the two of them doing ordinary, quiet things. At the end she's written him a note that says, "Thanks for the adventure!"  Then there's another scene where Russel talks about missing his dad and that he really liked when the two of them would sit and eat ice-cream and watch cars.  Russell finishes, "I know it sounds boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most!"

 

I'm pretty sure that Ed looked around my kitchen that day and saw all the boring stuff and ordinary things he cherished doing in his childhood home.  And I think that if he hadn't made it through his fight with cancer, and John opened a closet one day and an Adventure Book fell on his head, it would have been full of messy childhood kitchens, and eating really great sandwhiches with John.    

 

One day my kids will laugh about how we spent Brody's first Christmas at a Chinese Buffet and how funny that was. And remember the gingerbread cookies mommy let us "paint" with colored icing every year?  Remember the awesome summers at the pool when Mom would grill hotdogs and Dad would meet us after work. And remember playing lazer tag in the house with dad and our silly dog getting upset? Remember all the milkshakes mommy made?  All our trips to Cold-Stone with Dad? Our 2 for 20 family dinners at Applebees? Remember when we drove to Disney and our weeks at Delaware beaches? Remember when Mom used to let us "clean" the windows and the ugly seasonal window stickers she always let us put up?

 

Gosh there will be a lot to remember. I hope one day these boys will look around someone's messy kitchen, or be so lucky to have one of their own, and remember their frazzled mother making sloppy milkshakes and leaving out a messy blender and ice-cream all over the counter to help them start water color paintings.  No need to fly a house to South America my friends, you could fill up a whole book with ordinary things done in love and when you got to the end, you'd feel like your life had been a real adventure.

 

 

 

A Very Scarey Halloween

The other night I pulled the minivan up to the Starbucks drive-thru window.  Crap. I couldn't find my wallet. "Hi!" I said to the 20-something "barista" at the window. "I can't find my wallet and no one is behind me so I'm going to get out and look around the van." "Oh... ok." She said in that dull, nasaly voice that so many young women are afflicted with.  My kids were fighting in the van and the noise was permeating the tranquil setting of 6:30 pm Starbucks through the window.  It was like a scream-o punk garage band had taken up residence outside and was overtaking the softly played indie rock.  She closed the window.  I got out, and after a few minutes found it on the floor by the new baby's car seat and close to the sliding van door. I got back in my seat and the woman asked, "So, where was it?" She was actually interested about where this lady had left her wallet.  I told her. "Oh, that's scarey." she said.  "That's how I roll." I replied.

I internally rolled my eyes as I drove away.  I misplace my wallet on average about once a week.  I say "misplace" because my husband says "lose" and I argue with him that when you lose something, it's no longer in your possession.  I say misplace because it's always in my car, or diaper bag, or closet, so it's never really lost, just misplaced.  Sometimes I don't bother looking for it because it's useless untill it just turns up.  But, I needed it at Starbucks.  I was in serioius need of caffeine to get me through the evening, so I had to look.  The next day was going to be craaaazy.  It was October 31st and Warren's school Halloween party and parade, plus a boyscout activity at night.  As "class mom", I was supposed to be there.  I was in charge of the story, game prizes, and a snack.  But, I couldn't be at the party.  I had to replace it with something equally stressfull...

Halloween morning I found myself wandering around a college campus. My big purse was filled with a notebook, folders, and pens instead of diapers and toys.  My overly responsible teenager had printed out a campus map for me, bless his heart, it was exceedingly usefull. I knew he pictured me taking too much time to calmly apply mascara in the car and then running around campus in a frantic spree trying to find the building and room I was supposed to be in. 

I found the buildling and ran into what happened to be a department professor who walked with me to the room.  I was so proud to be 10 min early untill I saw the whole room was filled with overly prompt people.  I was one of the last ones to arrive and took one of the last seats in the back.  The department professors introduced themselves and I eagerly paid attention for the ones who would be teaching in my field of study.  Every professor I run into seems to have an intimidating resume... Phd's, journal publications, books, research projects, national association of overly educated people membership, etc... This crew was no different.  My attention was briefly caught by the UPS man outside.  He was wearing a rainbow clown wig and clown nose for Halloween.  I suddenly wished I was interviewing for clown school and not graduate school.

Next we were broken into small groups by program and taken into small rooms to do group interviews.  I HATE group interviews.  When you are alone being interviewed you don't know if other people did better or worse, but in a group you stress about everyone elses answers and get annoyed at the people who try too hard to be memorable.  The first question was, "Why did you choose a Masters in Mental Health Counseling?" 2 or 3 people talked about already working in the mental health field.  One girl, fresh out of college, had a very dreamy general answer about helping people.  I talked about wanting to work with women with birth trauma and other women's related trauma... sexual assult, abuse, post-abortion, adoption, miscarriage, or stillbirth.  Then the man across from me answered.  He talked about being in Afganistan and seeing his friends die.  The man's eyes whelled up as he talked about wanting to help military people cope with PTSD.  Then, even worse, next to him was a tall, beautifull gay woman in men's wear.  I kid you not when I say that she could be a model.  She starts talking about her interest in the LGBT community and would like to dedicate her counseling to guiding people through their sexuality and issues realting to it.

Sigh.  I have no hope.  Later, when telling these answers to my husband, he said, "Your's is the best."
  "Mine is the best ?!?! I can't compete against crying army man who wants to help with PSTD or beautiful lesbian who wants to help the LGBT community!!  I'm SAHM lady! I can't compete."
 "No, no."  He replies, "Those other answers are so cliche." 
"But David, the Army man CRIED!" 
James cuts in, "Are these people trying to be counselors or do they need counseling?"
 Hmmmmmm... good question, because the interview goes on...

I realize I am also in a room with 2 recovered addicts and some very angry hospital workers who take turns making small, thinly veiled jabs at my answers. 
Question: "Why did you choose this Univeristy?" 
My answer:  "Well, to be honest, you offered my program of interest and I have 4 four kids, so I need something close and affordable."
 Hospital worker #1 begins her answer:  "Well, I'm not here for convienience. Although that can be a factor for some people..."
Question: Many of you probably work full time.  How do you plan on handeling this?
 My Answer:  "Well, I am currently a SAHM, which probablly has good and bad points for going back to school, but I definately think that if i'm going back to school, now is the time to do it.  Because then, when my kids don't need me as much, I can begin a career that I am interested in."

Hosptal Worker #2 Answer: "Well, I have kids, but I can't afford to be home with them, so this will be a struggle for me..."

Then, out of left field, beautiful lesbian in men's wear comes to my rescue.  "I am currently at home with our two small children, while my fiance is the bread-winner. My staying home is definately a sacrifice for us financially and is what I consider, our luxury, while others enjoy different luxuries..."  I almost winked and did the friendly gun finger motion at her.

But the interview left me feeling a little shaken and kind of un-confident, which is a feeling I don't feel often.  Not because I'm this super confident women, but because I'm an introvert and don't usually put myself out on display.  I'm super comfortable in my own mind and with my own thoughts.  But not so comfortable being open with strangers in person.  On the way home the "baby anxiety" set in and I started to wonder if I'm doing this too soon anyway.  I mean Brody is only 2 1/2 months old, maybe I should just wait for next year.

I didn't have too much time to dwell on it all, I had to grab the little two from my mom and rush off to make it to Warren's Halloween parade at school.  I got there and listened to a mom friend talk about how Halloween is the worst day of her life.  She has four kids in school and Halloween means getting 4 kids in and out of costumes at various times for various school parties, also making or getting snacks and volunteer time in at everyones events.  I'm pretty sure I got pale just listening to her.  How was I going to handle all of this?

Then while leaving the parade, I ran into another friend who asked how my interview went.  I told her basically everything that I told you.  But then, I started to tell her more about why I was doing it.  How I feel the pain of women I meet, and want to help them.  I know what it's like to feel pain and not be taken seriously.  I know someone who told my husband that I need to "stop being a victim."  Honestly, I'm only the tip of the iceberg.  I see women sobbing about their c-sections.  That their body is broken, that they can't connect with the baby, that every year on their child's birthday, instead of feeling joy they have panic attacks.  Fortunately my husband get's it.  But when it came to birth issues, very few people got it.  I get it, and I want to be a real resource for women with birth trauma and other traumas.

And this mom friend, who is in a counseling field herself, and has had a section, a vbac, and some angel babies waiting for her in heaven, loved it.  And it all reminded me that I need to do something that I'm passionate about.  I'm passionate about being a SAHM and when that's over, I need to keep being passionate because I am a terrible worker bee.  Sometimes passion is scarey and thats ok. Loosing my wallet doesn't scare me but my own passion does. 

Later that night, I took Warren trick-or-treating through a local college campus. On one dormitory floor, the stale smell of booze and beer hit us like a brick wall.  One happy child said, "It smells like candy in here!"  Warren responds in his blase fashion, "That's not candy, it's liqour."  Now, THAT'S scarey.

There and Back Again

The Hopeless Wanderer




I almost wrote a "retraction piece"a few months ago.  I giggle typing that, like my writing is some important article in The Times.  I wrote my vbac blog post,  Intellect and Eve, feeling very strong and empowered.  Then something happened.  My op report came in on my previous sections and in the large print it said "primary classical"  in the small print, it dictated almost every move the delivering doctor made, which was basically this... "low transverse cut was made with a knife, then a low vertical cut was made which was extended superiorly with the bandage scissors." WTF.  He basically cut across my uterus (normal) then when he couldn't get Warren out (which I've been told multiple times now by multiple birth professionals, is idiotic) He cut upward from the middle of the horizontal line.  When that still didn't work, he extended the cut... how much is in question, but he labeled it "classical" and that's where my hopes and dreams seemed to die.


My doctor (one of two in the most VBAC friendly practice in my area) said, "so we won't be talking about vbac's anymore".  Then she went back to looking at her stupid lap-top and was talking to me about other things which I barely heard until she said this, "I'd like to deliver at 36 weeks."  Alarms went off in my head. Uh, no.  I had already been through this... I had fought and clawed for 38 weeks with my third (post special scar baby) and no one was ripping this kid out of my womb at 36 weeks.  I said, "Dr. G-C, 36 weeks really makes me uncomfortable.  That is just way too early for me.  Even my baby sectioned at 38 weeks ended up in the NICU for a week because he wasn't ready."   She suddenly looked up from her lap-top as if remembering that there was an actual person there and said, "Well, we will play it by ear and see if we can get you to 38."

I went to my car, called my husband and cried again.  Then I told myself to get rid of Eve and use some intellect.  I kept telling myself that all week.  But something weird was happening.  My intellect kept telling me to listen to Eve.  By the end of one week I had decided that I wasn't going to schedule a section.  I would wait for labor, labor at home as long as possible and then go in and either have a section (if that's what I felt was needed) or have my husband block the door and VBAC this kid.  I almost wanted the hospital to get rowdy, call the police, call social services... I wanted to fight them all.  Fight them for every women like me and take all their big insurance checks.

I told my husband what I was thinking.  "Ok." he said, "But, I thought you wanted to do some research on your scar before making this decision.  You know... get your old scar ultra-sound, talk to the perinatoligist that told you that your scar was strong and thick, see if he knows if it really is a classical."
 "You know what?," I answered, "I don't even think I care what kind of scar I have or how long it is." 
"Oh, I didn't know you felt that way about it."
"I didn't either."
Then, I thought I lost him.  I thought my partner in crime had jumped on his horse and high-tailed it out of there.

But when he came home that night (or the next, or the one after that... he works so much I don't know when I see him).  He was still on board.  He is such a all-star. He still got it, got me, got the importance of all of this.

The next thing I did was tell a few (a very, very few) number of friends my plans.  One of them, told me about her homebirth midwife, Laurice, and that I should meet with her. And we did.  Outside her office David and I once again got into a domestic disturbance over my terrible parallel parking but inside he was again my champion.  I remember listening to him speak to the midwife thinking, "Didn't we almost have the police called on us over my parking spot?".  But regardless I just didn't click with Laurice and when it came down to it, she just didn't seem supportive of a homebirth with me.  Instead she kept steering me towards an OB she works with, Dr. K, and kept telling me that my C-section would go best with him.  In my head, I wanted to scream, "I'm not looking for a good C-section surgeon!  All of these clowns are proficient with a knife! I am looking for someone who is not scared of BIRTH!" And so we left, with the name of a new OB and not much else. 

I did go meet with Dr. K, and he (as I suspected) was not vbac supportive for me, but I wasn't vbac supportive for him either.  He was completely weird and I wouldn't trust him with a vaginal swab.  But, the guy did say he was comfortable waiting until labor to do the C-section, which is all I really needed from a doctor at that point anyway.  Since I was going to labor at home as long as possible and try to show up at the hospital so far along that either 1) they would just let me proceed with a vbac or 2) I would have to fight but it wouldn't be as long of a fight.  A doctor who would wait until labor provided me with the opportunity to try this as opposed to the ones who would schedule waaaaaay before labor had a chance to begin.

I shared my plans on a FB support group that I belong to.  It's called "special scars - special women".  It's basically a group of C-section moms who have weird scars on their uteruses which gives insurance companies and hospitals and excuse to phase them out of the medical model for vbac'ing.  There something life-changing happened. I was starting to ask the group about "unassisted birth".  You see, if I was going to labor at home, what if I did so well the baby just came out? But before I could completely fall down that vortex, Sarah, a member from Indiana, contacted me and told me that she knew of a highly experienced homebirth midwife that had done vbac's on all kind of scars.  She was not located in my city, however, but I was still interested.  Sarah gave me her name and number and I was excited to call her and scared at the same time.  Hearing "no" so often was not a fun thing.

But I called.  The next morning around 10 am, with shaky hands and a shaky voice, I called the number.  The phone rang... "Hello, this is Anne!" a voice said.  I was a little shocked to be immediately in contact and it derailed my thought process a bit.  "Uhh hh, Hi! My name is Leah..." I began.  I felt like I was sending out a signal, like - "Help me Obi One Kanobi, your my only hope!." Then the words started to come.  I told her that I was looking for someone to help me birth and I had three things against me.  #1 I was already 32 weeks pregnant, due August 1st, and she may not be able to fit me into her calendar.  Her answer - Let me check my schedule... Ok, we are busy but we can make it work. #2 I am in a different city and I don't know if it is too far away? Her answer - We have some options that you could stay in to birth #3 Ok, This is the tricky one that has thrown me out of every place possible... I have had one vaginal birth and 2 C-sections.  One of the sections is a t-scar with a possible classical extension.  Would you be willing to work with that?  I just need someone who can see that I can do this and help me do it. Her answer, and one of the most important answers of my life - There is a lot of fear surrounding vbac's, but when I started delivering babies, classical section vbac's were all I saw.  I have a lot of experience and we fully believe in the body's ability to heal...

Then she started to tell me more about herself and I suddenly felt like she was reassuring me instead of me trying to reassure every other doctor or midwife I had met.  On the phone she exuded confidence without sounding rash or cocky.  She told me that she new her limitations and that we would know if something wasn't going right.  My biggest impression from her on the phone... no fear.

She made a consultation appointment for me the following week.  We hung up, some tears of relief rolled down my cheeks, and I called my husband.  He was busy at work but excited for us.  I told him my appointment was next Wednesday at 3, and would he be able to come?  He said absolutely and I knew we were finally on our way somewhere.

June 5, 2013 - Meeting The Midwife



Wednesday, we packed the kids in the car, except for James because he had final exams, and started the trip to Anne.  It took us about 1.5 hours with some traffic.  Not too bad.  We pulled into the parking lot at Anne's office and to my kid's delight, an Amish horse and buggy pulled right in.  We all got out of the car and walked up the path.  I noticed the Amish and Mennonite husbands sitting outside or sleeping in cars, so I told my husband to wait outside with the kids while I checked in.  I went inside and there were 2 or 3 Amish women already waiting.  I checked in with the women at the desk.  She said that they were running behind so I went back outside and told my husband to keep playing with the kids and I'd call him in when Anne was ready for us. 

Back inside and looking around the waiting room, I was fascinated by the posters about natural herbs and cloth diapers.  There was antique wooden furniture and pictures of happy little Amish kids.  There was also a collection of antique medical equipment.  As I looked around, I locked eyes with an Amish women about my age.  She was pretty and plain, and as she smiled a shy but warm smile at me, her peaches and cream complexion was completely broken by a set of horrible teeth.  But there we were smiling at each other, crossing the boundaries of community and culture, looking into each other's eyes and being present with each other.  We were both there for some undeniable commonalities: our births, our babies, and our womanhood.

The woman behind the desk, and the other women working there were not plain people.  They did, for the most part, have an earthiness about them that I found fun.  Then Anne came out and I almost fell off my chair.  The women looked like an attorney... stylish clothing, smart glasses.  She's going to have a damn lap-top, I thought.  I called my husband and kids in and we went back to an "exam room" that was more like a living room with a random exam table against one wall.  There were really cool wooden toys that my kids immediately took to, and in the world of angry birds and Nintendo DS, this amazed me.  My husband, Anne, and another midwife, Greta all took chairs while I sat center stage on the table.

They sat expectantly, allowing me to speak first.  I told them my birth history, I told them the ease of James's vaginal birth and also the realized disappointment of it.  That the doctor was irritated with a teenage girl giving birth, that they just railroaded me into meds, and at the end had no patience or input for my pain or inexperience during pushing and cut a nasty episiotomy to get him out faster.  Then came Warren and David's births, the cesarean sections. The breech they wouldn't let me birth and cut a T scar when he was so descended he got stuck in the section.  Then the rcs I had when I thought I had no option.  The nicu stays, the sick newborns struggling to nurse, my own sadness and anger over it all.  The midwives listened and understood, and when I said I could do it they believed me and easily took me on as a patient.

We left Anne's office and before we even got to the car the tears were coming agian.  David pulled me into his arms and said, "I know, I know, she was awesome."

June - August 2013 - The Waiting

I had prenatal appointments with Anne every two weeks at this point.  I loved driving down to see her and the other midwives and assistants.  It was such a comforting, calm place and I would leave feeling more and more normal and confident every time.  Anne would often ask me, "How are you feeling about your vbac?" I told her honestly, "I feel... comfortable." I wasn't overly confident but I didn't have much fear, I honestly just felt comfortable, like everything fit.  Anne said that that was a perfect feeling.

At the end of June, we went to the beach for a week and Anne gave me a bunch of books to read from her library.  I loved them.  I sat on the beach in the early mornings reading about greek Chronos and Kairos, staring at the open ocean and feeling the timelessness of my baby in my womb.



on the beach...

When we got home, it was early July and I was 36 weeks pregnant, the time I would have been sectioned.  It was such a scary thought.  I realized that I thought sectioning at 36 weeks sounded crazier and more dangerous than driving 1.5 hrs to deliver with a midwife. I felt strong and very much at peace.

The weeks went on and I kept busy with regular appointments with Anne and weekly appointments with a prenatal chiropractor.  I also kept busy with my kids... swimming, parks, movies, whatever I could do.  I had been seeing a close "shadow care" OB for emergency convenience and dropped him at 38 weeks feeling he was just an annoyance. 

40 weeks came and went, and I started to get the annoying post-date comments and questions.  David got a txt from his sister (childless of course) asking what was up with me and informing him that inductions are supposed to happen at 41 weeks.  Oi Vey! If you are going to spout off where you don't belong at least have the correct info.  I mean even Kate Middleton had just gone a week late in her very famous pregnancy.  I saw Anne for a regular appointment at 40 weeks 3 days.  I told her about all the stupid comments and questions. She casually and happily said, "You go as long as it takes!"  I smiled at her.

August 12th - The Birthday

At 1 am, at 41 weeks and 1 day, I woke up with a contraction.  David was next to me in bed watching TV and after the second contraction, I let him know that it might be time.  We timed contractions for an hour and they were 10 min apart and about 50 seconds long.  I called Anne around 2 am, and she told us to start heading down.  I took a quick shower while David packed the car, then we woke up James and told him we were leaving.  We gave him instructions to call his grandparents in the morning to come get him and his brothers.  Then we headed out. 

We passed the hospital that I would have delivered at only 3 blocks from our house.  David joked sarcastically, "There's the hospital! We could just pull in. It would be a lot easier!"  I laughed, "It might be closer, but it's definately not easier!".  We grinned at each other and the big bright hospital faded in the distance.

On the way down we stopped at Walmart for snacks and drinks so we arrived at our place around 5 am.  There we were met by Tessa, one of the midwife apprentices, she showed us to our room and helped me unpack. She listened to the baby and checked my cervix.  Baby sounded happy but my cervix was too high to even feel! Tessa emphasized to me that I was very soft and that was good.

Tessa told us to try and get some sleep, so David and I climbed into bed. I couldn't sleep well through the contractions so I got up and sat on the sofa.  Tessa sat with me and kept me company while David caught some zzzzz's.  As time past she noticed that my contractions were getting tougher for me and spaced closer together, so she started to rub my back during them.  Around 10 am she checked me again and told me again that I was very soft, but didn't offer a dilation number.  I knew that must mean I wasn't very dilated but they only wanted to offer me positive information unless I asked for more, which I didn't. I wasn't at a hospital, so I wasn't worried about being on anyone's timeline.  As long as the baby and I were doing well, I knew they would allow my body to do what it needed.

Around the same time as my 2nd cervical check, David woke up and took over rubbing my back during contractions which were becoming increasingly more painful and closer together.  I tried a couple of positions to labor in which definitely helped keep my mind sane.  At one point I was laboring laying down on my left side because I was tired from little sleep.  Tessa checked his heart rate (which she was doing every 30 min at this point) and said it sounded a little slow and that he probably didn't like the position I was in.  So she got me up and sitting on a birthing ball.  His heart beat immediately went back up. "Amazing", I thought.  What if I was in a hospital, lying there with an epidural and his heart beat dropped?  No one would causally say, "Oh, jeeze, he's not digging this laying down stuff you're doing.  Let's get up and get on a ball."  They can't get you up on a damn ball or really up at all!  What would they be left to do but start talking about sections!

At noon I told David to go out and get some lunch.  He was reluctant but I told him better now than later.  He left and by that time Greta (Anne's 2nd in command) was there.  She had brought in another mother in labor.  That mom was put in a room somewhere upstairs but they told me that she was Amish, having her first baby, and the baby was breech. I thought about this mystery woman many times during my labor, like a kindred soul.  After all, my first section, and special scar section, was a breech baby.

Of course, as soon as David left, my labor felt even worse... then around 1 pm Greta checked me.  Again I wasn't offered a number but only given encouraging facts.  She suggested I get into the birthing tub to help with my labor as it may give me a chance to rest.  I said sure and Tessa filled up the tub.  As I was undressing I heard Greta tell Tessa that I was dilated 1/2 cm. Got that? After 12 solid hours of labor I was only 1/2 cm.  But, for some reason I didn't care, I just got in the tub.  I ended up hating the birthing tub.  This was so weird because for years I have been jealous of women who have been able to use them.  Plus I was a swimmer! This should have totally been my thing.  But it wasn't... I was uncomfortable and for some reason my labor pains felt worse.  David was back and he tried to help me thru it in the tub, but it was awkward.  Suddenly I was moaning with the pain.  Up until that point I had been a quiet laborer... just breathing away thru my contractions.  Now I was moaning and groaning.  Then I started to throw-up.  David, with his lightning fast reflexes grabbed a trash can and held it for me.  I puked, and the midwives said I should be checked again.  I wasn't excited to be checked.  I knew that throwing up was a sign of transition, but I was only a 1/2 cm last time and I didn't think there was anyway I could be transitioning.

Now it was 2pm and when Greta pulled her fingers out of me she said, "You are 5-6 cm".  My spirits totally lifted.  Literally 40 min after I had heard that I was 1/2 cm, I was 5-6! I was getting somewhere!   And that somewhere started to come fast.  Suddenly over the next hour my labor was out of control, and at one point blood leaked down my leg sending my husband into a panic.  He yelled for Tessa.  She came and calmly told us it was just "bloody show" and that because I was a vbac we should expect to see a bit more blood that usual.  Again, in some small sane part of my brain, I remembered women who had attempted vbac's in hospitals and had ended up with repeat sections because nurses and doctors has scared them saying that there was "too much blood coming out of them." I was so glad I was where I was.
The contractions were coming fast and crazy hard.  I preferred sitting on the birth ball and around 3:15, during a contraction my body pushed a little and it felt a little good.  I told David, "Tell Tessa I'm feeling 'pushy'".  He went and got her. She asked, "Are you feeling like you want to push?"  I said, "I did push a little during that last one and I think that's what I want to do now."  I can't say that I felt a strong urge to push, like you hear about... it was more like that my body just started showing me that that was what was supposed to happen.

Tessa asked me an amazing question.  "How did you picture yourself giving birth?" I knew the answer like I knew my name.  I had dreamed it, envisioned it, even drawn it.  The answer had been with me a long time.  It was in the dead stare I gave doctors, it was in my anger that I lashed like a whip at unsupportive people, it stared at me in the bright lights of the OR rooms, it surrounded me in the nicu, it lived in the happy heart of my young self, and it came with me when I was born.  The answer had been waiting a long time.

 I answered, "Squatting with my husband supporting me"  "Ok, let's get you going with that."  She said.  Now, somewhere during the last hour, Ally, another apprentice midwife had arrived. Tessa turned to Ally and said, "Call Anne and tell her she's ready".  Ally made the call and then assisted Tessa with positioning David and I for pushing.  I asked Tessa, "What do I do? Do I push now?"  She said, "If that's what you feel like you should do."  "Ok, I said." 

During my first push, Tessa felt my cervix and said "You are at 10 and baby is right there."   I barely cared what they were saying at this point.  I felt like my body was on auto-pilot and was just following along.  I kept pushing with the contractions and moaning.  The midwives kept trying to redirect my moaning to low sounds and I tried the best I could with that.  I honestly didn't feel like I was pushing very much, but they kept telling me how awesome I was doing, and that baby was moving down.  I remember pushing with James (my oldest child)  and how hard I worked, but I was in a hospital, pushing on my back with an epidural.  I think squatting and being so aware of my body and the pain made all the difference. 

David was awesome during this.  At first I was holding onto his waist and my knees were digging into his calves as I pushed.  He joked, "We don't need a hospital to birth but we might end up there later after she breaks my legs!"  Anne saved David by walking into the room with her "birthing stool".  It looks like a little foot stool with a padded toilette seat shaped sitting thing on top.  I got down on it and it was immediately relieving to most of my body and I could push in a squatting position without loosing my legs. David was behind me with a pillow that I could lean back into and he rubbed my arms and back as needed. 

I kept pushing with the contractions and I was getting better at it.  I could feel my moaning connect to the push and the efficiency of it all.  My water still hadn't broke and Tessa told my that my sack was really tough but then suddenly during a push I felt it break and the fluid came out.  It was a little green, but I was expecting that with a 41 + weeker. Tessa asked Ally to get a mirror and I knew that was a good sign.  After the next pushing session they put the mirror under me and angled it up.  "Look at your babies head" Tessa said.  David and I looked and there it was... a dark head of hair.  That was it, that's all I needed.  The next contraction started and I connected my moan with my push and suddenly I felt him slide out.  Everything next was a whirlwind.  Tessa caught him and Ally and Anne were telling me "He's here! He's here! Look at your baby! You did it!"  They put him right into my arms and I was crying with joy and amazement.  David cried along with me.  I kept telling Brody (my new baby boy) how beautiful he was and telling everyone else, "I can't believe I did it!"  The midwives kept saying things like, "You did amazing! You trusted your body and your body knew what to do." I did, didn't I? I thought.

Brody born at 3:37 pm and over 5 weeks past his would-be csection date immediately started sucking at the skin on my breast so I redirected him to my nipple and there, with his cord still attached and connected to his placenta, he latched on an nursed.  It was surreal.  I was still in shock that was sitting there, still on the birthing stool, baby in arms still connected to my body, no IV's in my arm, no drugs in body, no wounds to be stitched up.  The midwives looked so happy for me and yet so calm at the same time. It was like I was at the end of what they knew I could do all along and were happy to see me realize it. 

I had been on the birthing stool for a while at that point and the midwives wanted to get me off and in bed. The had been working with me trying to pass the placenta but I was having a hard time finding the energy.  The cord had stopped pulsing so they clamped it and had David cut it.  I gave the baby to him while the midwives helped me up and into bed.  There Anne and Tessa sat and worked with me on the placenta while Ally did Brody's newborn exam on the bed right next to me.  His first apgar score was a 9, literally the healthiest newborn I had ever birthed and his newborn exam showed him to be in perfect condition.  Then they put him on the scale and did his measurements.  He weighed in at 8 lbs, 10 ounces, 21 inches long and head circumference was 14.25 inches.  Again another amazement!  My vba2c baby was my biggest baby in every way and I didn't even tear my perineum pushing him out!

They gave the baby back to me and left us to bond.  So, we nursed and had skin to skin and happily chatted with the very proud new Dad.  I was so nice not to have nurses running in and out.  No one was trying to take my baby to a nursery or for baths or whatever unnecessary nonsense.   My new little Brody and I just laid in bed, both naked and sweaty and a little dirty and just smelled each other, listened to each other, and became secure that our bond would continue outside the womb. 



Skin to skin...

The midwives did come in every so often to check my uterus, bleeding, and blood pressure.  All was normal and by 7 pm we were "discharged" and moved to a Bed and Breakfast down the road.  The plan was to stay the night because Anne wanted us around at least 24 hours so that she could check me and the baby the next day before we made the trip home.  Plus we needed to do the state "newborn blood screen" and I am Rh- so we needed to wait for the baby's cord blood sample to come back from the lab. 

The B&B we stayed in was great.  The owners daughter had worked for Anne and came back when it was time to birth her first child. Betty, the owner, swears her daughter would have had a section in the hospital because her daughter's long labor would have been labeled as "failure to progress".  I feel like everywhere I turn I run into someone who is eager to tell me that they had been victimized by or saved from a bad hospital birth experience.  I know I am sadly not alone and that the overwhelming support I get comes from places of enlightenment instead of the fear and ignorance I get from detractors.  My husband sent out a birth announcement email to people that night in the B&B and along with some "Congrats!", got responses like, "You are lucky." (as in you are lucky to be alive) and "Glad the baby is ok." (have you ever said that to someone who just had a good birth and a healthy baby?) and some usual dramatic nonsense involving dead grandmothers that often get's thrown around.  I don't know what disappoints dead grandmothers more - natural vaginal birth or grandkids throwing their name in people's faces every time there's an issue. 

Breakfast!

The next morning Betty brought us homemade, organic, farm fresh breakfast and I ate like a champ. Anne came in the late afternoon to do our check-ups.  Brody and I are were both doing excellent and the only bad news I got was that Brody is A+ blood type and I had to get that damn Rhogam shot. After 13 hrs. of natural labor and delivery, I closed my eyes and whimpered like a little girl while the Rhogam shot was administered.  Then 27 hours after giving birth, we hugged and kissed our birth savior Anne, got in the mini-van and headed home.

Besides the midwives and attendants, there are a lot of people to thank on this journey. Some, I've known for years and some I have just met in this pregnancy.  Some people I was in regular contact with and others were a kind, informative soul in passing.  You all know who you are and I thank you deeply and with much love.  I would like to give a special shout out to my parents for their support and understanding of my birth choices even if they were a little worried and for always being willing to watch my kids during appointments 1.5 hrs away with Anne and for keeping them while I delivered.  I also want to thank the "Special Scars - Special Women" organization and the women in the support group.  I honestly would not have done this without all of their collective knowledge and support.  I thank my kids for just being themselves and my oldest, James, for trusting his parents and helping with the little ones. 

But mostly, I would like to thank my husband, David.  He was my rock, my research assistant, my mouth piece when I didn't know the words, my protector, my birth partner, and my biggest supporter.  You are a man that is one in a million and I am happy and proud to call you mine. 

I wish the world happy and safe birthing, after all - "Childbirth should be your greatest achievement not your greatest fear." (Jane Weideman)