A Birth Story (without the graphic details- you're welcome)

I know, I suck. But I think I get a break since new baby +toddler+ 9-going-on-30-and-therefore-knows-everything= Whack-a-doodle with little time!

So... birth story. I think mine is more of a mild warning in listening to your instincts and not the nice nurse on the phone telling you that you are probably not in labor. Because when you listen to the nice nurse, it is only the fact that you have some neighbors that don't think you're totally nuts that saves you from having your baby on your bathroom floor or by the side of the road.

I couldn't even tell you when my contractions started because they didn't feel like contractions. Or at least not what I remembered contractions to feel like. It was all below my belly button and in my lower back. I tried to explain to the nurse that they were coming at regular intervals and that my labor with my first was less than 4 hours. She said I could come in but she didn't think it was necessary until they were 5 minutes apart.

That's where I went stupid and said ok.

Then I lost my damn mind and told my husband that he could go in to work. Work which was at least 45 minutes away but would likely take more than an hour by the time I needed him.

In fact, he had just reached his shop when I called and told him to come home. Fast.

At 5:30, I called my neighbors to see if they could watch David since our original people weren't home and our backup wasn't answering her phone.

When she came over to get him, she took one look at him and said she was taking me to the hospital.

I knew I was in labor by then, though the contractions were all still very low. I could feel her kicking my ribs through the contractions. And what was once 7-15 minutes apart, was suddenly 2 minutes apart.

We had to hurry.

Joe, naturally, went to the main hospital instead of the birth center (which is in the next building). The same birth center we had David at. I'll chalk it up to his nervousness. At least this time he didn't run up and down the hallway completely confused and asking me if I was sure that my water ruptured as he did with David (I was standing in a puddle and water was still coming in spurts- did he really need to ask?).

By the time he got there it was 6:15. The nurse checked me, and despite knowing I was in labor I still expected to be sent home.

"OK, you're at 8 cm!"

I think I started to cry. I knew that meant no epidural. No pain relief. I'd waited to long. I'd ignored my instincts and now I was going to pay.

I have to admit that this time was not as bad as it was with Bre. At least this time there was a break between contractions. With Bre it was just one on top of the other and I felt like I couldn't breath.

I used the labor ball and my darling husband decided that this was the perfect time to take a picture and there is not enough money in the world for me to be willing to share that picture with you Internet. I would sooner shave my head with a dull razor.

They tried to give my an IV- 3 times- but it didn't work. Instead I got large black bruises that lasted 2 weeks.

The doctor finally came in and decided to break my water. She warned me that once she did it, my contractions would get stronger. I tried to warn her that the second she did it, this baby would be out.

And I was right. I don't think that the water was done gushing before the baby's head crowned. I remember a lot of people talking and someone telling me to listen to the doctor, but then everything got muffled and all I could do was push. Her shoulders got stuck and I think that was probably the worst of it. Bre (did I forget to tell you she was in the room? Well, she was. By choice) couldn't look anymore. She later told me it was "the grossest thing I've ever seen in my entire life!". I think we've successfully deterred her from having children for a very long time. I've always said that a great way to lower teen pregnancy rates is to let teens witness a meds-free birth.

She came out screaming and I started to shake. Uncontrollably shake. This maybe wouldn't have been too big a deal, but I needed stitches. It's very unpleasant to get stitches. More so, I think, when you're shaking.

This is when the nurse lost her mind and asked if I'd like to hold my baby.

Hold my baby?

Lady, I can't hold myself!

But it passed, and so did worst of the pain (thanks to a little friend I'll call Vicodin) and nothing else mattered.

Josie was here. And I could finally hold her.

She scowls like her dad when he's thinking. She has impossibly long fingers and toes. She snorts.

This time I managed to not mix up my motrin with the bottle of colace they give you. With David I took 6 colace before I realized that it wasn't my motrin. The recovery was different. I had been told that recovery after the 3rd baby is harder, but I didn't really think about it until I realized that I couldn't walk. It was 2 weeks (and several Vicodin later) before I could walk without pain.

But it's all worth it.

At last.....

And everything I ever thought I knew is forever changed..... again.

Miss Josephine Violet

August 10, 2007
7:20 am
7 lbs 12 oz 19 1/4"

Cha-ching!

There have been many times during my tenure as 'mom' that I have wondered if maybe my kids are more than just a little.... insane.

Yes, maybe it's not me. It's them. There is no other explanation for the things that they do and say except that they are crazy and they are taking me with them.

Like when Bre decided that our cat wanted blue oatmeal. Which she made in my kitchen towel drawer with peach oatmeal mix and blues clues applesauce. So much fun to clean that up.

Or when she thought she'd make pancakes. On my floor.

Did you know that bisquick, juice and glue is really nasty?

So far, David's adventures in the manic arena have been pretty much limited to the odd comment or face.

Or... they had been.

The other morning, after being poked in the head for the millionth time, I turned on cartoons and drifted back to sleep. He still has not learned that 6 am is not a good time to poke mommy in the back of the head. He has learned that doing so will buy him an hour of early morning cartoons and the fun of stuffing things up my nose as I snore.

When I gave up for the morning an hour later he was just laying there, smiling and clearly pleased with himself.

Normally, this would have sent the alarm bells a-ringing but my brain is not firing on all cylinders lately.

I suggested a diaper change, normal routine.

And he said 'No'.

Huh? He never says no! Well, he says no but not to the first morning diaper change.

He continued to smile at me.

"Wanna' shake my booty!"

Um... oookkkaaayyy.

Go on and shake it then little dude.

And that's when I heard it.

That strange little noise clinking around as he shook as hard as he could, grinning like a fool and watching me.

The hell? What! Is! That!!???!!!

He shook his butt a little harder and started laughing like a lunatic.

I grabbed him to change his diaper and see just what he'd been up to and he dissolved into hysterical laughter.

I don't know what exactly I was expecting to find. There have been plenty of surprises in the diaper arena during the last 2 and half years- none of them particularly pleasant.

But never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to find the pile of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies that were pooled out of there.

Dude! My son poops money!! I have the human change machine!

Ok, so really he had just dumped the contents of a change jar in there but it was nice to dream for a moment. It's much nicer to think that he could poop money then what actually comes out of there.

And as I looked over at my darling son, still grinning like a fool, he informed me that "I have butt money mama!"

And I'm the crazy one??

Bitchy-pants

Being pregnant for this long has given me a nasty and rather surprising case of Tourettes which, so much fun when you have a 2 year old who repeats everything he hears.
No one wants to be anywhere near me right now and I can't say that I blame them. I'm finding myself mouthing off to anyone who annoys me. Like the couple at the grocery store last week who felt it was their duty to comment on how awful it was that the woman who just left had 5 young children and how they hoped she ran a daycare. I suggested they run after her because I'm sure she would be happy to accept their opinions on her uterus and reproductive abilities. After all, that's every one's business. Right?
Or the clerk who couldn't believe that I didn't want to know if we were having a boy or a girl. And just wouldn't leave it the hell alone. Or the people who keep calling me to ask if I've 'popped' yet.
Popped?
What the hell? When did I become a balloon?
I hate being cranky. I hate that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut. I hate that the slightest thing can set me off lately.
I hate feeling like I'm somebody else.

*******

On a lighter note......

When we were kids, my stepmom would always ask if we heard the ducks go by every time we passed gas. Recently, when David heard his dad rip one, he asked "Who's in your butt daddy?" with just the most shocked look on his face. So I told him it was just ducks and didn't think anything more of it.

Now every time he toots, he announces to every one that he has ducks in his butt.

It's gotten us some strange looks and a few laughs.

Freak.

Today was such a beautiful day I couldn't wait to take the kids to the park. A few hours of reading and peace for me, a few hours of running and screaming for them. I settled into the nook of a big shady tree and cracked open my book, occasionally peeking over its' pages to check on the kids.

For awhile, it was all perfectly normal. They ran and chased each other and dug into the wood chips under the play equipment. They made up games and spun tales with other kids.

And then I heard the dialogue in my head and realized that as far as I've come from my hermit-like tendencies on the outside, I'm still that shy kid who fears rejection. Even if it's not me that faces exclusion.

I watched my 2 year old approach some boys who seemed to about 4 or 5. They were playing in the wood chips and David just sat right beside them and began digging with them and talking to them. At first they just stared at him and I found myself silently pleading with them to like him, to include him, please, please like him. In a few minutes they were smiling at him and going along with whatever game he had invented.

I realize that I do that a lot.
With David and Breanna. Silently pleading with the other kids to please like them, please include them, please want to be their friend! It's always silent (thankfully!), I don't want to be that mom. But I wonder if they know anyway. I wonder if they see my desperation for them to have friends, lots of friends, the thing I never had but always wanted and I wonder what it says to them.

I know that not everyone they meet will include them, will claim them as one of theirs. I hope that my desperation won't hurt them more when they are rejected.

I wonder what it's like to watch your kids play and just be kids and not worry about whether or not they'll turn out like you. And fervently hope that they'll be a far better version.