Gingersnap, the Entrance

Sunday, January 30th began like every other Sunday does in our home. We are gentle in our waking on Sunday mornings...the children emerge from their rooms on a natural schedule, rather than being rousted. Mass isn't until 11:00, and we leave here at 10:00 to get there in time to calm ourselves and prepare our hearts.

Somewhere around 7:45 or so, My Darling and the Squash begin making the pancakes. Squash pulls his youth chair over to the counter near the stove. My Darling hauls out the cast iron griddle, which takes up two burners on the gas stove. They mix the pancake batter in the old Tupperware pitcher, and joust just the littlest bit with their spatulas--"tings" Squash calls them, because "ting" is the sound they make when their flat blades collide. He helps Daddy to flip the pancakes on the griddle, and then flop them into the stoneware bowl from which they are served at the table.

That Sunday, I was feeling a bit nauseous, and couldn't eat even a bite of the delicious pancakes. I think Squash was a little sad about it, but he was cheerful nonetheless.

As I dressed for Mass, I was just not feeling quite right--a little off, but not enough to make me think I shouldn't go to Mass, for Pete's sake. Mass is the one time I get out of the house these days, and I wasn't going to miss it for the world!! The drive in was mostly uneventful--My Darling took us past the scene of the Great Truck Roll, and we could clearly see the imprint of the truck door and window, and we could see the place where the mirror would have been...

I was very uncomfortable all during Mass. I could not concentrate very well, and I could not sit still. Things were beginning to happen, and I knew I was in early labor. I rejoiced, thinking, "All of the saints and angels are here, and I get to begin the joyous work of meeting my baby here at Mass!!!!" What an incredible blessing!!

I had to get up and move a little bit. I used the ladies' room, and then stood in the back of the nave, just swaying from side to side...just a little, subtle dance that I was sure no one could possibly notice.

That's not really how it works though, is it? In a parish with so many large families, there is always someone who knows. And in our parish, there are midwives, doulas, and Mamas of Many--and their husbands, who have watched their wives go into the beginning dances of labor. It nearly surprised me when, after Mass, my dear friend who is Mama of Eight asked me, "You're in labor, aren't you?" Actually, she didn't really ask me, so much as she made a statement of observation. I said, "I am totally in labor!" We grinned about it, and as she hugged me, she said, "My husband pegged that about five minutes into Mass."

So much for subtlety!

We intended to shop for groceries after Mass, but I informed My Darling that we had better reconsider. It took him forever to head for the parking lot to drive the van up to the door--the parking lot, being a block away, was not in the cards for me. The entire ride home, I found myself having to very quietly vocalise through each contraction, and the timing of them and the intensifying of them told me that this was true labor, that it was moving along very well, and that it would likely be just as wonderful and enjoyable as my labor with the Cuppie had been.

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When we got home, I went upstairs and spent some time dancing around in the bedroom...swaying, rocking, lunging--just as I had done on Thursday. After a fashion, I thought, "I'd better get a little rest. I'll lie down for a bit, and then I'll fill the tub," which was, after all, where Gingersnap was going to be born.

I did lie down for a bit, and since I hadn't really felt a ton of movement through the morning, I poked and prodded my belly a little bit. I talked to my baby, saying, "I get to meet you today! I finally get to see your sweet little face!" I was a little gun-shy about it, since Chris' comfort level for a home birth is normally 36 weeks 4 days, and at that point I was only 36 weeks 3 days...but I knew she wouldn't split hairs over it.

As I was going in to fill the tub, I felt a big thudding movement from the baby--and that was the beginning of the drastic change in my labor.

I filled the tub and got into the deliciously warm water. Good thing, too, because the contractions changed and became more intense...and began to radiate way more into my back than they had initially.

I suppose it was around 2 or 3 in the afternoon when that happened--I don't really know, because though I'm sure I glanced at the clock as I passed it, there isn't a clock in the bathroom, and that's where I remained for most of the labor at that point. My Darling came and went between me in the bathroom and the kiddos downstairs. I had no idea what they were up to, but he let them know what was going on, and they seemed to be just as good as gold. Don't know what they had for supper, or what movie they watched...don't know what time the boys went to bed--the girls stayed up for the duration.

What I do know is that by the time My Darling called the midwives and they arrived, it was about 6:30 in the evening. They were cold and so comforted by our heated tiles in the bathroom! They brought in their equipment and put things where they needed them to be. They began chatting with My Darling a bit....

.......and my labor slowed tremendously. I moved between the tub and the loo, and really thought it was *time*--but when Chris checked me, I was only at 2 cm.

I was so frustrated. It was about 10:00 in the evening, and this had officially become my longest labor...and I was only at a 2?

I sat on the edge of the bed and cried...and breathed through a few contractions. They were really spaced out though. Chris said to lie down and get some rest...maybe things would pick up again in the morning.

The midwives left.

I tried to lie down, and got gobsmacked by a contraction. And another one. And another one. And good grief did they hurt in my back!!

I got into the bathroom as quickly as I could, but had two contractions between the bed and the tub. By the time I got into the water and had it warmed up again, the contractions were like sledge hammers smashing against my spine.

So much for the peaceful, enjoyable labor I had envisioned. This was serious work, and having had two back labors before, I knew it wasn't going to be any easier until it was time to push.

With each contraction, I would squat and lean forward and grab onto the water spout. I sang a very loud song of opening, and tried desperately to focus on anything. After a few contractions like that, I began hanging onto My Darling's hand with each pain. I squeezed the very lifeblood from two or three of his fingers...I figured it was the least he could do. ;)

At one point, during a break between the pains, I slept. Actually, I slept what felt like a good bit between each of them, though My Darling says I only had about 30 seconds between the end of one and the beginning of the next. But at this particular point, Our Lady came to me. She said to me in the most beautiful voice, "Look there...do you see my beloved Son? Do you see His suffering? I am bringing you to Him, to His cross. Be there with him in your suffering and know that He suffers with you, for you. I will remain here with you." I have never experienced anything like this in my life....and I will never forget it. No song could ever be as sweet as her voice was. It was like the scent of heaven, but in a sound...and to even try to explain it with words makes it sound coarse and jagged.

I was also beginning to see, in the tile on the wall, the face of a lion. The face was gentle, but strong, with an open mouth and eyes. Something in my spirit said, "As with the Lion of Judah..." and I began to think, "I can roar my baby out like a lion." I really needed to--the pains were so incredible, so powerful, so much bigger than anything I had ever experienced, I could not help but roar.

My Darling called Chris to come back at around 1:00 in the morning. My labor had begun 13 hours earlier, and I was lost trying to get from one pain to the next. My Darling held the phone out as I roared through yet another contraction, and Chris said, "Tell her she needs to calm down...I'm on my way!"

This time when the midwives came, my labor did not slow. When Chris checked me, she let me know that I was at 6 to 7 cm, with a bulging bag of waters. It wasn't too long after that that I needed to give a push...and the bag burst. It was such a strange sensation, one that I could never adequately describe. It felt like a balloon bursting in my lungs, or something near to that. There were about 2 or 3 contractions after that during which I felt relatively little pain--Gingersnap's little head was descending from where it had been floating in her watery world...and when it finished descending, the pain came right back again.

The time came to help her to leave her little warm home and come into our big, open world...there was no position I could find that felt good or right. The world was entirely pain. Everything was pain. I could not believe the amount of pain I was in. It felt like my body was being torched with a fire that burned but did not consume. An unbelievable amount of pain which I never imagined existed was now banging against my back. I kept trying to see Our Lady and her beloved Son, and it was all I could do to keep that vision in my mind's eye.

I begged for an epidural. My Darling said, "I left the stuff for that at the shop..." I implored them to just knock me out. One of the midwives said, "I don't think that's a service we offer..."

Well, then, somebody get this baby out, because I can't!!!

Finally, Chris suggested that I stand. I did, and I leaned over her shoulders and gave a mighty push to help my baby's head come forth. Chris had me lower back into the water, and as I did, there was my sweet little Gingersnap. She was looking right up into my eyes, which is, of course, why my back had felt during my entire labor exactly like forty-two legions of soldiers were marching up and down my back, as though it were a battlefield, and stabbing their spears into my spine with every step.

2:34 in the morning, January 31st, thanks be to God!!

She was so tiny--and I was so surprised that she was a girl! I really thought there was a little boy in there!

Oh, she was so beautiful, and so very, very tiny...I could barely feel the weight of her.

Reepicheep and Frog and Cuppie came up from the downstairs to see...I believe Reepicheep was the one to cut Gingersnap's umbilical cord, which had a true knot in it. By the time I was ready to get out of the tub, Frog was holding Cuppie, and My Darling was tucking Squash back into his bed (he and Pickle had made a cameo appearance to lay eyes on their baby sister) or something--so Reepicheep was the first one to hold my little Gingersnap for a minute.

The midwives got me and Gingersnap tucked into the bed for a little while so that they could clean up the bathroom, get my herbal bath ready for me, and prepare for the newborn exam. As I soaked in the tub, Chris readied to measure and weigh my little Gingersnap. I had already guessed that she wouldn't even come near six pounds. But she was pretty long--I couldn't wager a guess at how long she was. Chris measured her, and scrunched up her face--"That can't be right!" she said. She measured again, and looked at me with a puzzled expression. "Twenty inches long?!" she exclaimed. That's my longest baby yet! "Maybe she'll surprise us with her weight, too," Chris said.

Five pounds, four ounces. Tall and thin!!

She scored well on her apgars, 9 and 10 I think.

She nursed beautifully, and pooped even before the midwives left.

By 5:30, we were all tucked into our respective beds, my girls finally collapsing into their beds, although I'm fairly certain Reepicheep didn't sleep until late that afternoon.

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Everything went very well...until Thursday, when I began to feel so low I could have crawled underneath a snake's belly wearing a top hat. Every single muscle in my body was doing it's dead level best to remind me what I had done on Monday. My back and my legs were in a screaming match, and the rest of me felt like so much jello.

Thursday night, I was beginning to notice a twinge in my side. It seemed to come on with the after pains, which were pretty substantial, but not unendurable. But by Friday mid-morning, this twinge had begun to hurt. By lunch time, it had begun to throb. And by early afternoon, it was getting so severe that I was getting a little scared about it. I began to feel feverish, and my gut told me that this was something substantially wrong.

I called My Darling to come home. He did come just as soon as he was able, and by the time he got home, I could not stand up on my own. I couldn't straighten out, couldn't lower my right knee from my chest. We got Gingersnap dressed, and My Darling brought me pants and socks.

We headed out to the hospital just like that.

Gingersnap, the Overture...

I know this is a long time coming. I just feel like every time I sit down to think about my little Gingersnap's birth story, someone needs me, someone climbs on me, someone wants to nurse, someone needs a referee...but that's just life in a big family.

So it happens that I am curled up on the couch with some Norah Jones soothing me with her sultry voice, Gingersnap snuggled in and sleeping deeply, and the house is sweetly quiet. I'm tired, but I need to get this written...

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The week before Gingersnap was born was eventful. That Thursday, the 27th, I spent much of the day laboring quietly. While the little ones napped, I paced in the bedroom, rocked, danced, swayed, lunged, and just generally moved in whichever way felt the most natural with each wave that came. I didn't really think it would progress much that day, which is unusual for me. My more common response to obvious signs of early labor is, "YES!!! Come on home, Baby, we're gonna meet the next one!"

For some reason, that just didn't even occur to me on Thursday. Friday wasn't exactly the same--a bit of labor here and there through the day, but nothing remarkable. My Darling was, of course, going to work in the evening, which is the way of it on Fridays. He almost always calls me on his way home to see how the night has gone, and to let me know that he's on his way. The only time he doesn't call is when he's coming home earlier than either of us expected....then he just likes to walk in early and surprise me. I don't mind a bit.

But on Friday the 28th when he called me, and I said, "So how was your night?" he answered with, "Well....um.....I rolled the truck."

*jawdrop*

The scoop was that we had just received a couple of feet of new snow, and on that night it was snowing/sleeting/freezing raining/crapping from the sky. Well ok, it's February--we expect that. The county in which he was, where the restaurant is, uses a different mix of concrete and blacktop for their road surfaces than the county in which we live. They also treat their roads differently, and tend to use a lot more salt in crud weather like we were having. That's a good thing, for Pete's sake. So as he drove into our county of residence, My Darling did what he always does on cruddy roads: he waited until there weren't other cars on the road, and he checked to see how much traction he had, by way of letting the truck slow way down and then giving a light tap to the breaks.

It was a good thing he was going so slowly. The truck began to slide, and then to turn--he ended up facing the opposite direction in the opposite lane--almost a slow-motion half-donut-U-turn. The truck slid all the way over to the shoulder, where it stopped....but as it came to a stop, the wheels on the passenger side came up against the berm of snow left behind by the plow, and it was just enough to top the truck onto its side. My Darling said it all happened in such slow motion that he had time to hang on--he didn't end up with a single bruise, cut, or scratch--nothing, thanks be to God!! No windows were even so much as cracked. The bumper was dented, and the passenger mirror snapped off. I suppose that's to be expected, for having landed on its side in the ditch.

Well of course I completely freaked out. There was no way I would believe that he was fine, as he kept insisting. I could not see him with my eyes, so I could not believe that he was unscathed. A county sheriff had come to process the accident, and My Darling waited in the back of the cruiser for the wrecker to come haul the truck out of the snow. Even as he spoke with me from the warm shelter of the police car, I could not make myself believe that he was ok.

To make things worse--after the wrecker came to My Darling's rescue, they were only able to get about 5 miles down the road before the dispatcher contacted the driver of the wrecker to let him know he was needed urgently elsewhere...like on the Interstate. He had to drop My Darling off at a gas station on the highway--which was, of course, closed--and I had to venture out to pick My Darling up. The wrecker driver was needed for a 5-car accident...apparently, another car had slid off of the road (terribly common that night, sadly), and he was ok...until he got out of his car. And then he got hit by a car. And then other drivers smashed all around. I don't know how that man fared...but we definitely prayed for him.

The drive to the gas station to rescue My Darling takes, on a normal trip with clear, ice-free roads, takes about 5 minutes. But on that evening, it took about 15 minutes. It was horribly slick out there, and I was so incredibly happy to see My Darling that I practically vaulted out of the van to hug that boy's neck when I got to the gas station. He drove us home, and I was glad he did...I was shaking.

All the while, I had asked people for prayer for My Darling, and of course, got the comments saying, "Now don't you let him scare you into labor!" Being nearly 4 weeks ahead of my due date, I knew that some labor was normal for me, and I actually did expect to go early--but not that early!

Saturday was quiet. No labor to speak of...perhaps a few contractions here and there, but nothing significant. My Darling worked on the laundry room that day, and I stuck around the bedroom, napping, puttering, and just being near him in general.

Saturday night, I had a few stronger contractions, but again, nothing that made me think that true labor was imminent.

Aaaaaaaaaand then Sunday came.

The Story of My Snuggle Bug

I know it's been a while....."Circumstances alter cases," as Fr. Tim would say. It's been a flurry of activity around here, and no two ways about it. First the birth of my Sweet Little Pumpkin, then a death and funeral, then Thanksgiving, and here it's already Eleven Days Since My Snuggle Bug Arrived.

And so.....the story you've all been waiting for:

The Birth of my Little Pumpkin!

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Two weeks ago, I knew that labor was going. It was Sunday afternoon, and after Mass we made a stop to pick up a few last-minute items (new shoes for two of the kiddos, a couple of other things), and I Just Knew that we had to come home. It was the same feeling I had when labor began for the Pickle.

But it was not to be that day! Eventually things petered out, but not before we had our midwives, Chris and Billie, and Pumpkin's Godmother T. here with us. They all ended up spending the night with us and then going home Monday morning.....without having witnessed a birth.

Rats.

My Darling stayed home on Monday. I don't know what other choice he really had; neither of us had any sleep at all Sunday night, of course, so we two mostly rested on Monday. Nothing really happened labor-wise, but since Chris had brought the birth pool, I was able to spend some time just relaxing in the water. That was heavenly (!) and it allowed me to really relax my body, which I desperately needed to do.

Tuesday late afternoon we started up again. Not much really happened during the day, but that evening things got a little more active.

Until the pool broke.

(Well...sort of.) The pool itself is constructed of a rigid foam material, not unlike the mats you can buy for a layer of insulation between a sleeping bag and the cold ground. There is a vinyl liner that goes all the way around it like a sleeve--covers the bottom, comes up around the inside edges and to the floor on the outside like an apron. Then we put another layer of clear plastic inside it as Our Own Personal Liner. There's a rope that then goes around the edges to anchor the plastic and to put tension around the pool and hold it together. The only problem was.....the rope snapped.

Enter that fabulous layer of vinyl, which (along with me, CONTRACTING, for Pete's sake!) held the pool together while My Darling raced out to the garage to grab a nylon ratchet strap (like you use to hold down cargo on top of the car on a trailer) to put in the rope's stead. (Now mind you, we laugh hysterically when we think back about this or tell the tale to others...at the moment, I was panicking, I assure you! But it really was such a comedy of errors--I only wish we'd had a camera set up to take in this scene!)

That's all fine and good, you think, but not only did we realize then that the liner had a tear in it (which we discovered because My Darling's knees were then getting wet...but BEFORE the carpet got wet, thanks be to God!)--so then we had to empty the pool, re-line it with different plastic (and we were out of clear, so we had to use depressing black!) and then refill it--but it was also enough excitement, thankyouverymuch, that labor STOPPED.

S. T. O. P. P. E. D.

Rats again.

Only to pick up again Wednesday morning--and this time, it stuck around to see what was what!

At last!

And while I was rather certain that my water had broken on Sunday afternoon, there was no doubt at all on Wednesday morning at about 10:45. I felt the tell-tale pop, and that pretty well gave it away.

Enter labor. Took off it's coat. Stayed a while.

I must apologize in advance--if I heard this from someone else rather than having it happen to me, I'd feel cheated. But this really is what happened.

Labor was a joy! I had intense contractions, but not many contractions. They were just effective is all. And the surprise was that they didn't hurt. At. All. They were work, yes, but not painful in the least.

So I labored about it. We called the midwives and T., and my friend V. (who was to be my doula). T. and V. were delayed for various family reasons, and by the time they got there, I was at nearly done, for Pete's sake...and the contractions had been good, but I still had some work ahead of me to do. Chris suggested that I get onto my hands and knees with my rump up in the air and my face in the mattress. I did. The contractions STOPPED. So we waited a while, told some jokes, talked about the weather (balmy, at 41 degrees--compared to seventeen below zero when My Monkey was born!), and after a bit V. asked me if I wanted her to use some pressure points.

Hit me! I gave her my hand and she went to work. And it Worked! More contractions, more work, but still no pain. And there was time in between these contractions. At one point I said, "We have enough time in between these things to go out to eat!" (Even at a place with ssslllllllloooooooooooooooowwwwww service, like AppleBees!) We laughed. We joked some more.

Then Chris checked me. I had just a little way to go, but still with some hard work to get done.

At this point, it was about 5:00, and T. and V. Just Knew...and they took the kids and went to McDonald's.

Now the pain.

But it was only for 20 minutes, and then I was able to get into the water. I gave a couple of good pushes, and there was her head.....and it was that place that by all rights should burn like fire...and it didn't. I reached down and felt her silky little head, and I was just marveling at it! I could feel the top of her wrinkled up little forehead and the sweet softness of her brand new hair, and I just smiled and smiled and said, "Hello, Baby! I love you! You're so soft!" I couldn't have gotten the huge grin off of my face if you'd paid me!

And Chris said, "You know, you could push the rest of your baby out and actually hold him!" (Because this whole time, we were convinced [by heart rate numbers] that it was a boy!) And it was like I suddenly remembered that...Oh yeah, I'm here to do something, aren't I?! Well, so I did. I pushed the rest of her out with the next contraction (and as with the others, there were about 4 or 5 minutes between them!), and literally just as Chris was lifting my Little Pumpkin up out of the water and onto my chest, the kids walked in the door!

I just sat and loved on her for a few minutes and then T. said, "Well what do we have, for Pete's sake?!" I said, "I don't know, I haven't looked yet!"

And I looked......and she was Our Little Pumpkin! Our Snuggle Bug!! Her birth time was 5:57 PM...she weighed 7 pounds on the nose and was 20 1/2 inches tall.

Reepicheep cut the cord. Monkey kept gently saying (through his immense grin), "Pumpkin is here!" Pickle was quiet and looked away a lot. (Typical 10-year-old boy, I guess!) The Frog was enthralled, but quiet.

Physically, I've healed very well.

And I'm trying to let my heart immerse itself in the joy of this beautiful birth, while at the same time being so intensely sad for our very dear friends who very suddenly and unexpectedly lost their little seven-week-old baby boy just four short days after my Little Pumpkin was born. He was not sick; he was not injured--he just simply...stopped. This baby was the sixth child in their family, but the fourth little Saint in Heaven for them (they've suffered three miscarriages as well). Beginning tonight, our family (and several others) is praying a Rosary Novena with this dear family in mind, set to end on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

God has already allowed my Little Pumpkin to help begin healing the hearts of this dear couple. During the reception following his funeral Mass, they each held her--they asked to hold her. And God bless them, their faith is so strong that even Monsignor commented during the homily at the funeral that not once did he hear the questions that so many parents rightly ask, "Why us? Why our baby? Why our family? What kind of God does this?" No, their faith remains rock solid, because it is based on the Rock of Jesus Christ. They keep in mind that our children are not ours; they are His. It is a faith truly inspiring to all who know them, and it is a comfort to know that they have such solid ground. They will need it in the days and weeks to come.

Needless to say, it's been something of a roller coaster, both terrible and wonderful. I know full well that Satan does not want us to feel the joy of our blessings; rather he wants us to question our worthiness in God's eyes....and I do not intend to let him win. My humble prayer for myself is to stop allowing the fear of losing my own precious baby to override the joy of her birth.

Please pray, at this beginning of Advent, for all families who are suffering losses, that they may find hope in this beautiful time of year.

Pray also for the couples who want so much to bring children into the world and raise them up, and who find themselves in circumstances which make this dream difficult.

Pray for those who deny themselves of the warmth of the love of Christ, for whatever reason, that their hearts might be softened by the love of a Child.

And Rejoice! Praise the Lord that we have this lovely season of Advent to gladden our hearts as we anticipate the joy of The Birth!!

To Be Continued....

Well, I have a few minutes of quiet in the house. (It's rare, you know.) And since it's on the brain, and since there's a fan blowing near my chair, and since I have had a pesky cramp that makes me need to sit in a strange contortion, I will sit and recollect My Monkey's story. :) I'll warn you now--it's long...but (I think) well worth it.

Studious readers may recall that we carried the cross of infertility for four long years. We wanted another baby--just one more!--and it seemed like actually giving utterance to those words doomed us. We do know that we lost our first little Saint in February of 2002, which is about when we began trying. I wasn't in denial, per se, but I certainly wasn't where I am now in my faith. This means that that first loss was mostly swept under my heart's carpet, and only now am I able to reckon with it. It's made losing Gabriel that much more difficult, I think, knowing that we never chose a name for that child, nor did we actively seek out proper counsel for our hearts...I think, though, that it's never too late, thanks be to God.

So many other things happened during those years. I finally pushed for answers to my health issues, and in February 2004 (February is really a theme here...), I had surgery to remove adhesions caused by stage 3 endometriosis. It took me nearly a full year to really recover from the surgery, despite the 6 week optimistic prediction from the doctor. There are still things I'm dealing with today, like altered memory and poor word and name recall, and they stem from the anesthesia. It was about a year after my surgery that we were told we just weren't going to be able to have any more babies...and of course, this was devastating for us.

So we did what any sensible couple would do. We bought a puppy. Something little and warm for me to hold and dote on. Oh, I was convinced that this would help my poor heart to at least begin to heal from this news.

Ha! And Double Ha! HA!!

What I never could have known was just how God was going to use this time in my life to draw me closer to Him than I ever thought it was possible to be. When you think you're in control, and then you lose ALL control, there's something very freeing about just leaning back onto Him and letting Him have His way.

Well, that's what we did.

It was still tremendously difficult to know that there was no baby growing beneath my heart. Day one of every cycle was so hard for me that I would shut down completely, allowing no one in. I spent hours weeping, begging God, like an impudent child, to hear my desires, trying desperately to hear His answer on my heart, but never allowing His answer to be enough. My depression from this brought something like a famine into our marriage, and it was at the lowest point that I found His gentle hand, waiting to lift me up. Following my accident, my Darling and I began praying together, in a way that we never had before--openly, passionately, and directly from the heart. Really, this is something that many Catholics scoff at, likening it to something a little too charismatic to be "authentically Catholic". It's too bad that they see it that way, because it's truly amazing what can happen between two hearts when you lay them completely open at the feet of Jesus. We poured ourselves out in prayer with one another, asking God to heal the schism that we had allowed to form between us.

It wasn't too long after we began this journey together that we discovered that I was carrying our beautiful baby. God had indeed forgiven our sinfulness and rewarded our faithfulness, and continues to do so!

Because of my healing injuries, my pregnancy was very painful. Beginning at about 16 weeks, although the Nausea Bug and the Major had slacked off a little bit on their assaults, the loosening of the joints that happens with every pregnancy was exceptionally difficult this time around. I kept as active as I could, but it really slowed me down.

During the four years that I had to obsess over becoming a Mama again, I had researched my head off about what kind of birth I wanted. I knew I didn't want to go to the hospital again, but I wasn't sure what options that left me with. I mean, only hippies and weirdos and pioneer women actually have their babies at home, for Pete's sake, and heaven knows I'm none of those things. I had met a friend through the Pickle's swimming class, and she mentioned casually that she knew this midwife who delivered babies in this area. There's an Amish settlement just north of where we live, and the majority of her clientele, of course, stemmed from there. I'm not sure, but I think Julie found out about her through her chiropractor. I thought, Well Julie's not a hippie. A little weird, perhaps, but not much more than I am. And she's not a pioneer; she lives in a huge house and drives a minivan! I got Chris' number and gave her a call.

Our first meeting was all it took for My Darling to get on board fully with the idea of actually having our child born in our actual house. He had been a little leery of the whole thing, but after meeting Chris and hearing about her years of experience, he really settled into the understanding that it is safe, that birth is normal, that we would be fine, and that this was a good idea. We began putting together a Rubbermaid tub full of the things we needed to supply for our baby's arrival: a new shower curtain to put under the sheets on the bed--and the bed was the Hide-A-Bed of the love seat that had spent so many years in my Grandma's house. Red sheets, for that matter, so that even if there were stubborn stains, they would never show. A new aerobic ball, which we inflated about a month ahead of the birth. A package of absorbent pads. Olive oil. Alcohol and iodine. A brand new set of unimaginably soft towels, which we washed and dried and vacuum packed so we knew they would be ultra clean for our brand new baby.

At 28 weeks, we found out that the Monkey was frank breech--and that he was a boy. I went to the chiropractor regularly. She performed the Webster maneuver on me, and within a few adjustments, he was turned to head down. He stayed that way until he was out and dry. Good boy!

As our February (there's that theme again!) due date drew near, Chris began making her visits here, rather than having us drive to her place. The dogs got to know her, the kids got to know her, and she became familiar with our home. About three weeks before the Monkey's arrival, Chris brought the birth pool and we set it up. Considering the injury that my body was still trying to heal from, the pool was a huge blessing. My chiropractor actually came to my house a few times each week, adjusting me as I flopped over dozens of pillows. She would leave and I would immediately climb into the pool and allow the hot water to relax my cumbersome body.

When the time finally came, it was very late on a Friday night. My Darling arrived home from his second job, and I was hanging out in the water.....and The Pop came. It was shortly after midnight.

Now, I happen to have right here in my hands a Purple Folder. This Folder contains all of the information recorded by Chris, beginning with my first appointment (my blood pressure was low then, too!) and all the way up to her final postpartum visit. During labor, she took detailed notes, which are in the Purple Folder. I'll chronicle them along with my memories--her notes in italics, and my memories in plain font.

When Chris arrived, it was 1:45 AM. The temperature was fifteen degrees below zero, and the sky was clear. My water had broken at 12:15, and we had called her at 12:45. We had waited a little while to make sure that labor was really beginning. Sure enough, my contractions began; they were close, and good and strong. I got out of the water and sat on the big ball, which we covered with a nifty pad. When Chris came, she checked my belly through a contraction and listened to the Monkey's heart rate, and then she settled all of her equipment in a convenient place. She quietly retreated to the kitchen, leaving us in the living room to do whatever we needed to do. We had one lamp on through the whole night, and we listened to a CD that I had made weeks in advance and had listened to over and over....it's a great mix.

I was contracting every 3 minutes. The Monkey's heart rate was 130 and strong. At 2:08, I requested chicken soup, and My Darling got busy in the kitchen. The contractions made me hungry! At 2:20, Chris helped me out of the pool. My comment? "I feel like a queen!" At 2:32, my sister called from work. At that time, my sister worked nights in a factory, installing windows on skid steers. I have no idea what made her know that she could call at such an hour--she never had before (and hasn't since, thanks be to God!), and I hadn't called her to say that I was in labor. God bless her heart! We had a lovely conversation. Earlier in my pregnancy with the Monkey, one of her dogs had a litter of puppies, and she had called to say, "Wanna hear the ruckus?" This night, I told her, "I'll call you tomorrow so you can hear the ruckus..."

Chuck brought me the delicious soup that he had made the day before and then heated up for me. I ate it while sitting on the ball. 3:00 came. I mentioned that this was "the nicest labor I've ever had, so far. And if I thought he was low before, he's really low now." Contractions were two minutes apart and lasting 60 seconds. At 3:34 I thought I almost needed to push, but couldn't really tell...he was just reeeealllly low. My Darling wiped my face with a cloth, and we talked about how wonderful he is in labor. Chris said I'm lucky; that not every husband is like that. I said we could rent him out.

At 3:43, the song on the CD was one of my Dad's favorites--"God be in my head," arranged by John Rutter. At 3:50 I couldn't sit anymore.

My friend Sarah came at 3:55. She was going to take pictures. I remember Sarah telling me that this was an incredible experience for her. She's not been able to have her own children, and had never been present at a birth before. Though I was unaware, she became very emotional later on, but did such a beautiful job with the photos...they are such a treasure to us, as is our friendship.

At 4:25, Chris made me get out of the water. The Monkey was posterior, as the Pickle had been. She told me to get on my knees and elbows on the bed. I hated it. The contractions were very strong, and without the water, they hurt a lot. Since we didn't have a snorkel, I had to be on the bed. My Darling and I danced in the kitchen for a while. At 4:55, Chris encouraged me to lie down for a bit and try to relax. At 5:00, I said, "Oh what a good boy; I can feel him turning."

5:20--I went back to hands and knees to strengthen the contractions and draw them closer together...they had gone back to four minutes apart. At 5:39, I was back in the water. Chris' daughter and assistant midwife, Billie, arrived. Billie had attended another birth that night. We've met the sweet little girl who shares our Monkey's birthday...she's a gorgeous, plump little blonde-haired Amish baby.

I had wanted to push all along--his head was so low--and at 5:50, I was more determined sounding.

5:53--the Frog was up. My Darling said, "Your brother's going to come out soon." Pickle got up, to.

I asked My Darling, "Why did you give me such a big baby?" He responded, "He wasn't that big when I put him in there." :) Twerp.

At 6:00 I asked when I could push. Chris said, "When you get to ten." I asked, "When will that be?" My Darling's response: "After nine." Really a twerp.

Reepicheep came downstairs.

More time on my hands and knees. At 6:30, I was at seven centimeters. The kids were eating breakfast. My darling had called my friend Jenna; she arrived at 6:40.

I cried out to God, "Why are you testing me like this?" My Darling's answer: "Because He knows that you are strong enough." My favorite memory of this labor....I was weary, I was worn; I was on the edge of fear. My head was mashed into a pillow during contractions. My Darling was ever at my side. I squeezed his hand. He brushed the hair from my forehead. He kissed my cheek. He caressed my back. He whispered into my ear and encouraged me. He prayed for me. He sat with me. He was so everything for me at that point that if he had left my side, I think maybe I wouldn't have been able to breathe. I think we could never be closer...in those moments, our souls were speaking to one another. This was transition....and he was a prince.

At 6:50 I asked, "Please can I push now?" Chris said, "With the next one." "Oh, thank you," I said. I threw up--I always do at that point--and I knew I was getting so close. The Frog was with me now, too, with her icy cold hands on my hot, hot back. They felt so good.

The handwriting in The Folder changes now, from Chris' to Billie's.

6:55--I could feel him moving down. It was a relief and not a relief.

6:57--I could feel him moving, still in my womb...I said, "I'm going to miss that." I remember feeling a little sad about this--I think somewhere in my heart I was convinced that this conception had been such a miracle that it would surely be our last. Of course He would never bless us like this again! Isn't it funny how no matter how much He lavishes His love and blessings on us, in our humanness, we still find ways to limit His grace?

6:58--I was on my side at the end of the bed. My Darling held my leg. There was a lip of cervix left, and Chris was holding it back...it burned like fire.

7:00--I pushed, but it didn't feel right. It hurt too much. Chris said, "Just try to rest and breathe through this one while I hold the cervix back." I held Jenna's hand and cried.

7:02--Another push. They told me they could see lots of hair.

7:05--I could feel him kicking, and My Darling said he could see him coming down. It really just felt wrong--there was some irresistible instinct to get into the water NOW and squat. I said something about it, and I think My Darling and Chris and Billie were moving to help me, but I did not wait. My Darling laughs to remember it, saying that I practically did a back flip to get there. All I knew was that my heart was in a panic and I moved quickly from the bed to the pool--they were only about three feet from one another.

7:06--I was in the water, in a full squat, pushing again. My girls were both there. My Darling was at my side. Jenna continued to hold my hand. Chris faced me, waiting.

7:07--I pushed HARD. I could feel him moving right past the Ring of Fire...and suddenly, his head was out. I remember Chris asking me to raise my hips a bit so that she could help his shoulders out.

7:08--I pushed again, once. He was born, up through the water, into my own hands. I brought him to my chest and began loving on him......

The cord was around his neck, twice. My instinct had been spot on. I should mention, of course, that Chris never once questioned or corrected me...she did not panic, she did not falter, she did not look surprised at anything. I cannot help but wonder what would have happened in a hospital--monitors would have gone nuts, nurses would have panicked. Forceps would have made an appearance. Voices would have become loud and forceful. Squatting would never have been an option, and definitely not a water birth. My baby's cord would have been clamped and cut, and he would have been immediately taken from me for assessment. Thank You, Jesus, for the wisdom You placed in our hearts...that our son was born gently, and was never separated from us, even for a moment.

7:09--The umbilical cord had completed its job and began to turn from deep blue to pale grey. The Monkey let out his first little cry, then settled in contentedly. Jenna said, "Hey, a baby, just in time for breakfast."

7:11--His heart rate was in the 120s. He was so calm...we two were just looking into one another's eyes, falling in love.

The kids all commented: Frog said, "He's the latest one of all of us!" (The big three all came before their due dates. Monkey came the day after his.) Pickle said, "My first brother!" (He didn't stick around for much of the birth, preferring to spend his time playing Legos. I think it's a boy thing. We have one picture that includes him...that's all the time he spent there!) Reepicheep said, "He's just a newborn!" (An astute observation for a just-turned-six-year-old!) They each kissed their new brother...and then Pickle disappeared back up to his room to play Legos again.

The handwriting in The Folder goes back to Chris'. Billie busied herself in the kitchen and bathroom. She laid out the supplies for the newborn exam on the kitchen table, and would later draw a hot bath for me. At some earlier point, Chris had put a cheesecloth-wrapped packet of herbs onto the stove to simmer, and they would be added to the bath.

7:15--The cord is cut by the Frog. The pictures show me relaxing in the birth pool, exhausted but happy...the Frog is glowing as she makes a life-long memory.

7:20--Into Daddy's arms in a warm towel. At some point, either Chris or Billie had put the new towels into the dryer to warm them up. When my arms began to get tired, I handed my beautiful son to Chris, who held a warm towel. She wrapped him and gave him directly to his Daddy.

7:37--Chris helped me out of the pool and onto an improvised birth chair. I sat with the Monkey and he nursed for the first time. Chris brought me Tylenol for the after pains--I hadn't delivered the placenta just yet, and the contractions began to build again.

7:45--I had some time alone with my little son. Chris and My Darling prepared a bowl of oatmeal for me...apparently, that's what I wanted. Also at this point, Jenna took the Pickle and the Reepicheep along with her, leaving me and My Darling and the Frog. It was so nice to have this done for us, so that we could rest and focus on the new wee one.

7:57--The placenta came. I love that there was no pulling, no rush to help it along. Chris knew that the best way to encourage it was for me to nurse my baby and let my body do its job.

8:10--My Darling began calling our families. I said, "The baby's busy; don't weigh him yet." He was nursing. This peeved some of our relatives, who were told, "We don't know how much he weighs yet. He's busy getting his breakfast." SO not mainstream medicine. I love it!

8:40--I got hot chocolate. Mmmmmmmm................

8:45--I was helped into the herbal bath by Billie, and the Monkey was given his newborn exam on the kitchen table by Chris, with My Darling and the Frog at his side. Monkey weighed in at 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and measured 22 inches long. Holy Moses!! If you're keeping track, that's a full 2+ pounds bigger than the Reepicheep had been, and bigger than either the Pickle or the Frog had been, too. Chris' assessment shows that he appeared to be a week overdue: he had firm ears, deep sole creases in his feet, peeling skin, and not a smidge of vernix.

9:15--I am tucked into bed with my baby. Chris had finished the newborn exam and given Monkey either to My Darling or the Frog. She went into the living room and cleaned everything up--she removed, I kid you not, everything and then made the bed. When we had made it up before the birth, we put a full set of sheets on, covered them with the shower curtain, then put the red sheets on top. Chris removed the red sheets and shower curtain, and changed the pillow cases. She tucked a couple of blankets in, and when I was done in the bath, she and Billie tucked me and the Monkey in snuggly. They cleaned up the bathroom and kitchen, and tossed in a load of laundry.

9:45--Chris and Billie were ready to go home.

I love having this Purple Folder. I love having the photos--they aren't graphic; they are respectful and modest, and wonderful. I used many of them together with some of the music from the CD I had made and put them together into a Power Point slide show. Monkey loves to watch it, and to listen to the music. He calls it "Baby Water". It's astounding to see his demeanor change when he watches the scenes surrounding the moments of his birth. He is immediately calm and glassy-eyed. He comments often, saying things like, "Here comes the baby. The baby doesn't cry. That's me. I'm looking at Mama. Now I'm getting Ohs." It's beautiful.....

I find that I am daydreaming often about how this next birth will go.....I never thought I would feel this way, full of anticipation and longing for birth. I never knew it could be like this, though, here in my home, with my family, with my friends, with such love surrounding every single aspect of it.

This time around, The Folder is blue.

And now for something not so different.

As opposed to something completely different.

I want t get the Reepicheep's birth story written before I completely lose my mind to the swirling whirling dervish of hormones. It's a delightful journey; slightly maddening at times, but otherwise quite enjoyable. At least, it's becoming so, thanks be to God. With this one, there have been many moments when I have questioned whether that would ever be the case.

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We began learning NFP when the Pickle was about 10 months old. God had really been working on our hearts, and had been putting us in places at times with people so that finally we began truly seeing Him at work. Man, was that awesome! It's so obvious to us at this point that I almost think we've become spoiled--we're nearly "used to" seeing the effect of His hand guiding us. At any rate, we began with the sympto-thermal method, and started charting immediately. It was also right about that time that we began praying on when we wanted to welcome another child into our family. We knew that we wanted them close together, and since the Frog was 25 months older than the Pickle, we knew that that particular age gap worked very well for us.

When the Pickle was 11 months old, we were looking over our chart and saw that the timing of my cycle was exactly right for us to try. We tried, we succeeded, and we began our journey to the Reepicheep!

The test (unnecessary, as we had waited 20 days and watched my higher temperature remain elevated--and so we knew we had conceived!) showed that we were indeed pregnant, and the Nausea Bug and his friend, Major Pukey, began their assaults about three weeks later. I remember two things vividly. First, there was the part where owing to a humongous bedroom in that apartment, our bed was about 50 feet from the place I really needed to be when I was in the middle of being slapped by the Major. This necessitated the use of a traveling bowl, with which I literally crawled from the bed to the bathroom. I pushed the bowl on the carpet right in front of me, and sometimes technically didn't really need to make it into the bathroom, except to dump and rinse the bowl.

The second thing that I remember is that at exactly 13 weeks and one day, the Nausea Bug packed his meager belongings and vacated the premises. And ever after, I felt fantastic! My sister and niece came to visit us in October that year, and I even have video of a late afternoon that we spent laughing riotously at the antics of my niece D and the Pickle, who were only 6 months apart in age (she having freshly turned one, and he being 19 months old), being goofy toddlers together. I continued to cantor through the third trimester, having no difficulty at all catching my breath. I walked a lot, spent time with family and friends, and felt generally great.

I loved that pregnancy so much that it made me want to have 12 children--but only if all of them were that easy!

Now, there was a little bump in the road. First off, my doctor (Doctor Pompous, who had attended the deliveries of both the Frog and the Pickle) began to seriously irritate me. The short of the long is that all through high school, I was a skinny-minny. I could not gain weight to save my life, let alone anyone else's. I ate like a trencherman, and I was active as all get-out, and I really just plain had a high metabolism. Please do not think that this meant I was blessed; far from it: I was teased mercilessly. One of my dearest friends in high school was rather overweight, and the two of us together must have received about 90% of the teasing from the entire student body (no pun intended)...no kidding. For me, it was just always that way. Except for my endometriosis, I was also generally a healthy person (not counting mono during my senior year). Beginning with very serious morning sickness (I think they call it hyperemesis gravidarium) with the Frog, and then also with the Pickle, I weighed a mere 127 pounds the night before I delivered the Frog. This is FANTASTIC, considering that at 20 weeks I weighed about 97 pounds because I literally kept nothing in me, due to the battles with the Major. It was awful. There were even occasions when I would lose the fluid being pushed in intravenously, for Pete's sake.

So at 20 weeks with the Reepicheep, I had already gained 15 pounds--a new record!--Dr. Pompous was not happy. He who had harped on me through my first two pregnancies for not gaining enough weight, who knew my history, who saw my struggles with the Bug and the Major, insisted that I had not gained enough! Can you even imagine??? I certainly couldn't.

He actually first "accused" me of having an eating disorder ("I don't want you to be another Karen Carpenter..."--he really said this!), and then he sent me to a dietitian. After looking over my history and the food diary that I had brought in with me, she couldn't figure out why I was there. In the background, Dr. Pompous (family doctor, you know) had also insisted that the Pickle was not growing the way he should be. News flash: if your child begins on the small side (but on the chart nonetheless) and grows along with the curve for his beginning size, he's probably okay. Also, using words that only Mama can understand (about 75%, anyway) and walking beginning at 14 months does not necessarily mean that he is developmentally delayed. It might just mean that he is a boy, and that he has an older sister who talks for him. But not in the Know-It-All-Eyes of Dr. Pompous! No, he sent us on a worthless visit to a pediatric specialist. He also could not figure out what the fuss was all about. After analyzing the hormonal output in the Pickle's pee, he said everything was absolutely normal. We might just have a smallish boy. NO!!!! To this day, he's a lightweight, but he's certainly healthy.

But I just couldn't take it anymore. I switched doctors. At 7 months pregnant, I entered a different practice (in the same hospital system) and began care under Dr. Wonderful! She was so different, it was like night and day. She was all about taking the time to listen, not make a person feel like an idiot, looking for alternative treatments for things when drugs were not warranted (YES! There are some doctors who will actually do this!), and refusing to become alarmed at things that were actually, well, normal.

There was a little discrepancy with my due date. Because we had charted, we knew when conception had occurred. Dr. Pompous had refused to hear me out on this one, telling me that just because some women think they have longer cycles sometimes doesn't mean that they do. (It does, actually, but not according to the Know-It-All-Mind of Dr. Pompous.) So his charted due date read December 14th, which was loosely according to my LMP. My charted due date, according to ovulation, for Pete's sake, was closer to November 25th. That's a big difference when you're talking about lungs and things. For the sake of being official, Dr. Wonderful went with the date recorded by Dr. Pompous in my medical chart, and kept the other date at hand as well for comparison.

I figured I was closer to being right on the date, when in the middle of November, my Grandma said to me, "Are you sure you're due in December? That baby looks awfully low....."

And so, on a particular Monday evening in late November, while I relaxed in the bathtub, I felt The Pop. My body had not been anywhere near as uncooperative as it had through the last two pregnancies (read: no bed rest because of the illicit preterm activities of my belly!), so I figured this was probably Really It.

I had learned with the Pickle that a precipitous labor with one baby does not always predict precipitous labor with the others (Remember? 3 hours, 43 minutes for the Frog, and 13 hours for the Pickle.), and so I figured I'd stick around home as long as I could. I wanted a nap, I wanted to eat, and we were only 7 blocks away from the hospital. (We moved from one apartment to the next when the Pickle was 1 month old, with a two month rest stop at my Grandma's....another story.) I finished my bath, had a delicious supper, and headed to bed for a nice, long nap.

I had one contraction. One. Weak. Ineffective. Contraction.

It got to be about 10:00, and I thought, "Well, I should call, I suppose." So I did. Ah, if I'd only have known what I know now.

Of course, the nurse that I spoke with said, "You'd better come in right away. You know, you're supposed to come in immediately if your water breaks." Her tone said, "You have absolutely no regard for the health of your baby, you ignorant peasant!"

So we called my dad to come over and sleep on the couch, and in we went. I was hooked up to the monitors, my vitals were taken, I was checked for dilation (and found to be the same 3 cm I'd been for a month), they used nitrizine paper to confirm that I was leaking amniotic fluid and not something else, and then we turned out the lights and attempted to sleep. I had refused an IV, because I wasn't dehydrated and had no intention of becoming so, and had already decided that I didn't want any medications again. Of course, things don't always go the way we plan.

The attempt at sleep was typical for a night in the hospital. My Darling slept very well, thankyouverymuch, on the comfortable pull-out sleeper sofa. I, on the other hand, was the usual guinea pig for the night-shift nurses. Every hour they had to hook me up for monitoring and vitals, which meant that the cold jelly splooshed onto my belly to check Reepicheep's heart rate, and the blood pressure machine strangled all traces of life from my arm. The entire night, my blood pressure was textbook-perfect, and I had not even one contraction.

It got to be about 6:00 AM on Tuesday, and Dr. Wonderful made an appearance. She's a farm girl, who cares for her horses and various other livestock before coming in for rounds and clinic, so I saw absolutely none of the attitude that Dr. Pompous had thrown at me (for daring to birth my babies on his day off!). She said, "Well....if you hadn't come in, I'd say, 'Let's just wait it out and see what happens.' But you're here, and there are policies [which I knew full well....rats....], and your body is doing absolutely nothing, and I can't let you eat until the baby is here, so how do you feel about pitocin?" I cried. I think she may have, too. But I knew she was right; it was either pitocin or a policy-forced C-section at the 11th hour (or in this case, the 23rd hour).

She was kind enough to wait on the order until I had showered, and My Darling had gotten something to eat down the hall. When I came out of the bathroom, I was hooked up to an IV drip and a monitor. Having never labored under these circumstances, it felt absolutely wrong to have to sit in the bed. The contractions started with a bang. They were hard and painful and unrelenting. I felt wildly out of control, which was completely new to me--even with the fast labor for the Frog, I had never felt this way. It was intense and frightening and overwhelming, with no opportunity to blow away the last contraction before the next one began. I started to hyperventilate because I couldn't catch my breath long enough to take a deep one. I was put on oxygen, and a nurse brought in a syringe full of something which was injected into my IV to "take the edge off." It didn't help; it just made me not care. It made it so that when I rolled from my back to my side, the lights on the ceiling tracked all blurry in my vision, as though I were drunk. It made it so that when Reep's heart rate crashed in that position, I didn't care, as they encouraged me to roll to the other side. Her heart rate stabilized.

It made me not care that My Darling, God bless his heart, was doing everything he could think of to help me...and it made me not care that he was as terrified as I was.

It made it so that I barely registered that Dr. Wonderful had finally come back, which must have meant that It Was Time.

It made it so that when my body and the monitor and my doctor encouraged me to push, I didn't want to.

But I did anyway. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I don't even know how long I had pushed, but I vaguely remember Dr. Wonderful supporting my body (rather than my needing stitches afterward) and saying, "We might need the vacuum on this one; she's just not bringing the baby down." Now THAT got my attention. I pushed one more time, and her head came. I pushed once more, and her body was out.

She was little and pink and perfect and clean (no vernix--which meant that--*surprise!*--my date was the correct one). My Darling and I had not wanted to know if this baby was a boy or a girl, and when our baby was born, HE was the one who told me, "We have a little girl!" She was born at 9:23 AM (not quite three hours, for those of you playing at home) and weighed in at a petite 6 pounds even.

The rest I remember clearly, but only because it's on video. The medication I had been given left me woozy, and the incredible intensity of my pitocin-induced labor left me so exhausted I could barely speak. They had also left Reepichep needing to have oxygen blown at her for a few minutes before she got the hang of breathing with those newfangled lung thingies.

I was out of the bed about an hour after the Reepicheep was born. I took a shower, had a lovely breakfast, and began really falling in love with our third baby.

On an interesting side note: You know how lots of parents ask their older children, "What shall we name the baby?" Well, we asked, and the Frog had long insisted that if the baby was a boy, we'd name him "Fourteen Plus Nine," and if the baby was a girl, we'd name her "Ten O'clock."

Reepicheep was born at nearly 10:00 on the 23rd...which is, of course, what fourteen and nine add up to be.

The next one

Things here are going swimmingly. It's hot.....blasted hot, as Fr. Tim would say if we were in Mitford. We finally broke down and picked up the air conditioners on Sunday (they're stored at the shop). Truth be told, I implored My Darling on Wednesday of last week to bring them home as the mercury hovered around the mid-90's, but he had so much going on that he just plain forgot. Thursday, he took the Pickle with him to work so that they could go to Mass together, and then again, he forgot. Friday he took the day off because he and the Pickle had a guys camping trip with their Father-Son group, so there was no chance until after Mass on Sunday. By that time, I was certain that my brain was at least well-done, and perhaps a little charred on one side, like a steak that had been set off to the side of the grill and forgotten. My Darling put the units in, one in the living room and one in our bedroom, and turned them on, and nearly immediately I began feeling like myself again, thanks be to God.

The fans are still doing their part as well, moving the air so well that the rest of the house receives benefit of the air conditioners, too.

Reepicheep has taught herself to rollerblade; apparently the romance of the new bike has worn off, and she wants to see how many more bandaids she can apply this summer.

Pickle and Monkey are playing Guy Stuff together (read: Legos and trains) on a nearly constant basis, retreating to the relative cool of their bedroom in the heat of the day.

Frog gets prettier and taller as the days get shorter, making me wonder where that particular train will ever stop. She has finally reached my height of 5'5" at 12 years old.....it's slightly disturbing. We're awfully glad we homeschool.........

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So I wrote about the Frog's birth story here, and now it's time for the Pickle.

Pickle was our early wedding gift to each other, you could say. Before our hearts were fully converted to God and His plan for our life, we were practically living in sin without actually cohabitating. It's certainly no secret; if you do the math, you'll come to the conclusion that since we were married in August of 1997, and Pickle was born in April of 1998, there could be just the slightest discrepancy there. I do, however, take comfort in the knowledge that by July (of '97), we were deep in the throes of wedding planning, for Pete's sake, so it's not as though it was a shotgun wedding by any stretch.

I also take great comfort in frequent confession. ;)

The beginning of my pregnancy with the Pickle was a very difficult time in our family. In July, my niece had been born into the arms of her Mama, my sister J, way too early, way too small, and already sleeping with Jesus. Thankfully, blessedly, J had a good priest who correctly counseled her to fully mourn her loss, including a full funeral Mass. Now, I certainly don't pretend that this made everything all better for my sister, but I do know that it was a good start to healing for many of us who shared even a small part in the loss of such a loved and wanted baby.

When we found out that the Pickle was on the way, it was about three days before our wedding. I had an inkling, with the way I was feeling, that something was going on, and when it was confirmed, it was a bit bittersweet. For one thing, we were not ready to welcome a child into our marriage, for Pete's sake. Had we known better, had we been taught, had we been better counseled, we would have been taking NFP classes. Our faith and our marriage would have benefited much earlier...but I digress. Thankfully, we do know better now, and through the marriage preparation ministry in our diocese, we are able to share with young, starry-eyed engaged couples our experiences, and hopefully they can benefit from what we have to say.

Another contributing factor in my pregnancy with the Pickle was what some people would call "survivor's guilt." I was feeling horribly guilty that I had already been blessed with one child unexpectedly (and I use that term lightly--unexpected implies something that you truly didn't expect--and when one engages in intimate activities with another, a new life should most certainly be expected each and every time, for Pete's sake! A word to the wise: if you are not ready to be a parent, then don't participate in the one activity that could very well make you one.), and was now the recipient of another unexpected blessing...and here was my sister, grieving the loss of a child for whom she had prayed, and whom she and her husband had tried unsuccessfully to conceive for nearly a year. Guilt is, perhaps, a feeble word for what I truly felt at the time.

Besides all that, we were newly married and I was horribly sick, yet again. The Nausea Bug and Major Pukey had held onto my address, knowing that I was a weak opponent in battle. Yet again, I was faced with an irritable uterus, tired from heaving so constantly, and a little too eager to be done.

Without too much more detail, I'll just say that it was during those months that we were led back to the Church. We met some wonderful friends, several of whom remain dear to us even ten years later. We were drawn onto the path that would lead us home in our faith, and the things we went through on the way made certain that what we would learn in the years ahead would find their mark in our hearts and souls, praise God.

Fast forward to April, where we find the Mama completing seven weeks of bed rest. I had again been treated to numerous trips to the local hospital, contracting away, but not actually going into meaningful labor. Finally we were to the point that I could be up and doing, and I was beyond ready to do so. On The Night In Question, we were in a neighboring town about 20 minutes from home, shopping for a tricycle for the Frog--the little red Radio Flyer that has been loved by children through the years, which makes appearances in almost every neighborhood around this great country. We ended up having to get a rain check, as the tremendous sale which we were taking advantage of had indeed been taken advantage of by dozens of other parents.

We spent some time browsing the store, while I happily contracted away, hoping that this time it wasn't a false alarm. As bedtime for the Frog neared, I began to know that this time was Different. It's funny--even with the Monkey being my fourth baby, it was hard to know the difference between contractions and CONTRACTIONS. You think you know, but then when you really know, You Really Know. Anyway, at about 7:00, I informed My Darling that perhaps it was time for us to complete our shopping adventure and head home, because I was about to be very busy.

He had no clue what I meant, not having been through this before.

I think he got the picture when all of a sudden his very pregnant wife, who had been smiling only a few moments earlier, suddenly began walking faster and faster toward the check-out line and then breezed past him and said, "HurryupI'llwaitforyouinthetruck!"

He hurried.

It's not as though I was in transition. I wasn't anywhere close. I just really needed to be at home and not walking around a store. I wanted to get the Frog in bed, and to call my dad so that he could come camp out on the couch and be there for the Frog when she woke up in the morning. I wanted to get into the shower and let the warm water soothe my aching back.

When we got home, I did all of those things, and while I was in the shower My Darling (bless his hard working heart) fell asleep.

Cardinal Sin Number One: Whilst thy wife labors to bring forth thy boy child, thou shalt not slumber. Neither shall thee rest thine eyes, though they be marred with gunk. Thou shalt kneel by her side, groaning with her in her pain, meekly waiting to serve her in ways which neither cause her consternation nor suffering, for it is thy fault which causes her pain.

I woke him up less than gently, and forced him to play cards with me until I couldn't sit anymore. We walked around our apartment, he drinking coffee, and me clutching anything I could reach on which to lean, and finally at about 1:30 AM we headed to the hospital.

Our nurse was amazing. My labor was much longer than it had been with the Frog (3 hours, 43 minutes for those of you keeping track at home), and it hurt so much I thought I would surely die. I had indicated that I really wanted to do things naturally, knowing that I had and therefore could, and knowing that I abhorred anything remotely needle-like coming anywhere near my body. Also, this hospital did not offer epidurals--only spinals--and I knew that I didn't want one of those. Tracy heard me--I mean, really heard me when I told her this. She didn't nod and smile and totally disregard our wishes, pushing me into things I didn't want. No, she encouraged and supported both me and My Darling, reminding me that this is what I was made to do, that my body was doing exactly what it was supposed to do to birth our son, and that I was getting closer with every contraction. She was fantastic. (At the time, though I didn't know it, she was also studying with Chris--our midwife!!--to become a nurse-midwife. No wonder she was so fabulous!)

The back labor was due to the Pickle's sunny-side up position, which meant that the back of his head made full-force contact with every single vertebrae in my back, and even some from people I've never met, just for good measure. I used the shower. I leaned over a ball (at which time I devised a clever new device: suction cup handles which could be attached to the floor so that the laboring Mama has something to hold onto, for Pete's sake, lest she be tossed like so much flotsam as her well-meaning husband applies the much heard about counter-pressure to her lower back!). I rocked on my hands and knees. Nothing would turn this boy.

When transition hit, I was sitting in the bathroom. I tend to labor there a lot, since it gives your body a great place to absolutely relax and open up the way it needs to. I was hot, and My Darling sat on a chair, facing me, applying washcloths soaked in ice water to my lower back which was screaming with each contraction. He was crooning soft words of encouragement and love to me in between contractions, as I rested my head on a pillow which was perched on his lap.

Now, I must bring to light Cardinal Sin Number Two: Thou shalt not utter words of obvious truth to thy wife whilst she labors to bring forth thy boy child. Nay, phrases containing words eluding to the changing colour of the hair of thy wife's head shall be as an abomination in her sight, and her teeth shall gnash at the flesh of thy arm.

It's true. He pointed out a white hair. I was in transition. Out of my mind with the pain in my back. I bit his arm. Hard. The bruise lasted about two weeks. Maybe even a month.

When I was near the end of transition, I was helped back to the bed. It was all the way across the desert--you know, the hospital room--and it took both My Darling and Tracy to get me there, and it involved three contractions. By the third one, I knew things were changing again. I got up onto the bed, and when Tracy told me I was finally complete, I was elated--and promptly threw up.

Now, Dr. Pompous, whose practice I've since left, finally made his appearance. It was about 6:45 on Friday morning--my second Friday birth in a row. Friday being his day off. The nerve. How dare I do this to him? He immediately informed Tracy that she had to break my bag of waters. Obviously, babies cannot be born with that intact. (At least I'm not bitter.) Since I didn't know better then, I could have cared less......until after this was done, I was pronounced to be not complete, but a mere eight centimeters. I promptly fired everyone in the room.

Thankfully, it only took one contraction to correct the situation, and I was told to begin pushing.

Oh, the back pain. It wasn't done. I gave one half-hearted attempt at pushing while sitting in the Doctor-Friendly position, and then informed him that this was Not Going To Work, and I turned to my left side. With my arms around his neck, my head in the crook of his right elbow, and my right knee in the crook of his left elbow, My Darling encouraged me as best he could. Now, as much as I love and admire him, and realizing that in this position, and with me pulling earnestly with each pushing effort I made, and minding the fact that he couldn't quite get his hands together to counter-balance the forces being applied to his body, he did it again.....

Cardinal Sin Number Three: Thou shalt be mindful that whilst thy wife groans in her pains to bring forth thy boy child, that thy pains are but a speck. Thou shalt not weep, nor shalt thou wail in thy sufferings, for thy weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth shall be as an abomination in her sight, and she shall seek to smite thee for it. Yea, thou shalt set thy suffering aside as an offering, seeking only to lessen her pains.

By the time the Pickle emerged, at 7:01 AM, weighing in at 6 pounds, 11 ounces, and measuring a petite 18 inches, I felt fantastic. Tylenol was all I needed to take the edge off what I felt. Even the after pains were tolerable with my friend Extra Strength. Total labor time: 13 hours.

My Darling, however, as a result of his efforts to assist me in mine, had ruined his back. He was stuck, bent at about an 80 degree angle, and no help for it. While he sat across the room from me, cradling our beautiful son in his strong arms, I put in a call to our chiropractor, Dr. K. She graciously agreed to meet him early at her office, and she did her very best to put him back together.

There was, however, nothing she could do for the bruise on his arm. :)

The Absolute Joy...

Friday evening turned out to be pretty amazing--on the heels of such a wonderful day that we had as a family on Thursday.

We shared a meal with our friends Jeff and Teresa on Friday night. It's awesome to visit with their family, to watch the kids play, to talk about everything and nothing, and just to have time with our friends. Even my Monkey talks about it--he loves to go play with their youngest, who is nearly the very same age as my Monkey. Watching the two of them play in their Twoness is often comical.

Well, as it turns out, it was my sweet friend Teresa whom God placed in my heart, with the command, "This dear lady is the one I have chosen as Godmother for your baby." And then, of course, as I said in my last post, He cemented my knowledge by reminding me of the words of His Mother, "Do whatever He tells you."

Asking Teresa if she would consent to be our child's Godmother was absolutely joyful--it was so right in our hearts the moment we knew, and she very graciously accepted. Of course, there were tears on both sides. How blessed we are to be surrounded by so many faithful, beautiful women that we needed to allow God to choose for us, and what an awesome thing to be so clear on what He wanted!

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We will get to go see Chris next week!

It seems like an "all of a sudden" thing, but I find myself resting my hand on the comfortable swell of my babyish belly. I find that when I climb into bed or go to be adjusted, I can no longer comfortably lie on my stomach. I find that in my quiet moments, I feel the life within me sending me signals in secret. I find myself increasingly daydreaming of birth, bonding, the soft velvetyness of a newly revealed cheek, the sweet scent of freshly born skin, and the first fragile moments of fuzzy eye contact....and I find that I cannot wait.

Although it's partly been done already, I feel absolutely compelled to begin sharing the true birth stories of my babies.

I shared much of what happened with my Frog a couple of posts ago, though it was a bit out of context.

The Frog (who came to this nickname because my dad saw her snuggled on my chest, wearing a pair of bright pink sweatpants...he called her The Little Pink Frog. She's been Frog ever since.) was my first baby...and I began my parenting life as a single mom.

When I learned I was pregnant with this beautiful girl, I was at once terrified, mortified, and amazed. I found myself having to make decisions--should I end this pregnancy and stay with a boyfriend who was kind of....drippy? Should I search for a loving family and place this baby through adoption? Should I defy my family (which I had been doing for years anyway) and carry myself proudly and keep this child?

The first "choice" really wasn't a choice at all, I knew in my heart. Even though I didn't know through experience or education that life is a miracle, and is chosen by God Himself, I knew that abortion was something akin to evil incarnate.

The second choice became null and void in my heart after about 5 minutes; the thought of carrying a baby for nearly a year and then not being able to raise my own child was more than I could bear. I was already, knowingly, losing a relationship I wrongly thought would be The One...the last thing I wanted was to lose this relationship, too. So as loving and inspiring as adoption is, it just wasn't something I could bring myself to choose.

So I carried my baby through horrendous "morning sickness" (ach....what a crap name!), even finding at times that sips of water would send me into convulsive bouts of dry heaves. I was ordered to quit my jobs (I held 3 at the time), meaning that I also had to move back home to my parents' from the room I was renting. Although it was tense with my dad, it did eventually turn out to be a blessing.

As the weeks progressed, I asked a friend of mine to go through Lamaze classes with me and be my labor coach. She was happy to be included, and filled her role cheerfully.

My doctor, who tended to pounce on paper cuts as though they needed eighty-four stitches, insisted that I do literally nothing but eat, even forbidding me to expend the calories it took to climb the stairs more than once or twice a week. So there I was, stuck on the couch in my parents' living room. I ate Oreos with peanut butter (mmmmmmmmmm.......dangerous!), drank half & half with instant breakfast mixed in, mashed potatoes and gravy--anything fattening and yummy I could get my hands on. (This turned out to be anything my mom would get for me...)

I went to my appointments dutifully, was poked and prodded in The Normal, Clinical Way, and ended up in preterm labor in January. Since the Frog wasn't due until March, this was not The Way It Was Supposed To Happen. I was hospitalized for two weeks, put on intravenous medicine, and nearly ambulanced to a larger hospital...they squashed that because of a blizzard, thanks be to God, and I finally ended up at home with multiple prescriptions. I had terbutiline and nifedipine to stop contractions. I had prednisone to hasten the maturing of the Frog's lungs. I had Seconal (yes, you read that right) because the combination of the drugs I was on made me unable to sleep, even though I was as exhausted as a lumberjack, for Pete's sake. I had antibiotics, antifungals to counter the antibiotics, and could barely walk because the combination of it all made me so loopy they could have named a roller coaster after me.

I couldn't tell you the date of the first time I went in, thinking I was in Real Labor, only to be sent home. I think the total trips made was something like 7 or 8 though.

The night before the Frog was born, I Was Sure It Was The Real Thing, so I called my friend, and in we went. It was about 8:30. The nurses all knew me by this point, and it's quite possible that eye rolling occurred, though not in my presence. I laid on the bed and dutifully contracted, hooked up to the monitors and happily downing ice. At 11:30, I was checked for the fourteenth time, and the nurse said, "I'm sorry, dearie, but you are not showing any change. You're still just a little less than one. We're going to have to send you home."

My tears would not sway this woman's harsh words of judgement (!!), this declaration of Failure upon me, the Poor, Pitiful, Pregnant One, Destined To Be Pregnant For All Eternity. You who have gone this route, who have traveled this gestational trail with me, you know exactly what I'm talking about. There comes a point, no matter how desperate you were to conceive, no matter how much you loved being pregnant, that you are convinced that your case is going to make the Guinness Book of World Records: "Woman, 85 years old, still pregnant. Fetus estimated to be 64 years old, receiving medicare benefits and comfortable, with no plans to vacate the premises." We all think it. Admit it.

Well, I did cry. I sniffled. I honked into a Kleenex or 9. And my friend told me, "Look, you're just tired. Go home, take a shower. Go to bed. Sleep well. Wake up and have a baby."

So I did.

When I woke up the next morning, it was still dark. I think it was about 4:50 or so. I had to pee, but the floor was reeeeeeeeeally cold, so I waited. Again, you know what I mean. You wait and wait until you really have to go--what, to claim your bonus and make it worth the trip? So I laid there, wondering what the day would hold. I felt a light contraction go down my belly and around to my back, but I (ignorantly) ignored it, knowing that my body was as in to teasing me as that nurse had been.

Then it popped.

It was just the smallest feeling of a partially-deflated balloon popping, somewhere inside--maybe near a hip or something. But there it was. Since I had paid very close attention in the childbirth education class, I knew that there was no way this could be my water breaking, since it didn't trickle, and it didn't gush. So obviously, the baby just had hiccups....and was only going to hiccup once.

I got up to pee finally, at exactly 5:00 (because I remember actually looking at the kitchen clock--a habit I still have when I'm up in the middle of the night). I sat there, and sat there, and sat there, and I remember thinking, "Man, I haven't peed this much in months!" when I realized that there wasn't really the relieving sensation one gets when............Holy Smokes, This Might Really Be It!!!!

Sidebar: This was in the Dark Ages, before cell phones. We often used the house phone as an intercom, calling our own phone number, hanging up as soon as the busy signal started, letting it ring until someone somewhere else in the house answered, and then talking to them. Novelty stuff as a kid turned useful as adults.

Back to it: I called my mom, who was still sound asleep, and told her, "I think my water just broke. I should probably go in to the hospital and see what's going on." She asked me if she had time for a shower, and I said, "Of course! It just happened, and I'm totally fine. We have hours. Take your time."

Of course we had hours. "First labors," our Lamaze teacher told us confidently, "take ten to twelve hours on average. Your doctor will not let you labor for more than twenty-four hours from the time your water has broken." This translated to me as, "Your baby will come after suppertime tonight."

The problem was, now that I had told Mom to take her time, these contraction things were kind of coming quickly. Like, four minutes apart quickly. And they were strong. And they were lasting like 90 seconds.

For those of you unaware, that's heavy-duty labor stuff. For those of you aware, yes, they came on that suddenly, for Pete's sake.

By the time Mom came downstairs, I could no longer talk or walk through the contractions. I could barely stand--I had to lean on the back of a chair or on the kitchen table to support the weight of my belly and body. Walking out to the car was a trick--in the snow, on a narrow path, trying to lean on my mom and hold onto a bath towel. I had to sit on the towel in the car, see, to protect the leather seats. The leather seats of the Mustang convertible. They tend to ride a little low, being sporty-type cars. It's a special experience to lower a laboring body into a car in the first place, but sit it a mere 7 inches from the pavement, and it's something that could be shown at Cirque de Soleil for an added charge.

My parents' house is only 5 blocks from the local hospital, but my mother refuses to drive on the main street, which would have eliminated the five stop signs between her house and the hospital. Another special moment in time.

When we (finally) reached our destination, I was wheel chaired into L&D, breathing and panting the whole while, with the nurse rolling her eyes. I could practically hear them tossing around, like when you do the marbles-in-paint exercise in elementary school. But when said nurse examined me to see if any real progress was occurring, she prounced me a generous 5-6 centimeters.

I was elated, but too busy to think much about it. My mother was in shock. The nurse called my doctor. My mom called my friend. She ran a daycare in her home and had to call her parents to have them take their kids to their back-up sitters. This took a while--while we had arrived at 5:45, and my mom called her at about 6:00, my friend didn't make it to the hospital until about 7:30. This is all in the A.M.

I asked for something to help with pain. I was denied--"You're not in time for that. We can't give you anything at this point." WHAT?! Who wanted to do THIS with NOTHING??

I labored a lot in the bathroom, and after my friend had been with me for about 25 minutes, was brought back to the bed to be checked again, and was already complete. I threw up. It was 8:00.

I don't remember pushing. I was too tired. I remember sleeping between pushing contractions, but being surface-aware of the chatter going on around me. I remember that my dad came in after dropping my younger brother off at school, at about 8:15 or so, thinking he would have a nice visit with a heavily medicated daughter, and have lunch with me. Well, he was right about the lunch part--more like a champagne brunch though.

I am told that I made the profound observation, "It was much easier getting this baby in here than getting it out!" which made everyone laugh hysterically. I do remember thinking, "Why the heck is everyone laughing at me?"

I vaguely remember my doctor mentioning that he was going to give me an episiotomy (not that I needed one--he was big into cutting things that shouldn't be cut), but I was so sleepy he could have given me an appendectomy and I likely wouldn't have noticed.

My Frog was born on a Friday at 8:43 A.M., 3 hours and 43 minutes after my water broke. She measured 6 pounds, 14 ounces, and 18 1/2 inches tall. I was euphoric, and amazed at how good I felt (nevermind the stitches, please). No one had told me about the adrenaline rush that comes right after birth.

She was beautiful and healthy and pink and absolutely wonderful. Some of the lovely details of my dad being there with us are in the aforementioned post; do read it if you'd like.

I did go into shock briefly that afternoon--I was in the shower, and the nurse came to check on me when my mom said I'd been in there for 20 minutes. Since I have ridiculously low blood pressure, shock is a side effect of birth that is almost inescapable for me. I was stabilized quickly though, and it didn't seem to have too terrible of an effect on me bonding with the Frog.

We went home on Sunday afternoon, and when she was 3 months old, we moved into our own apartment....

I can't believe it's been more than 12 years that I've been a Mama. It gets better every day. I am so blessed.......

Forgiveness through the Generations

Apparently, the Nausea Bug and his henchman, Major Pukey, have not taken up residence under my bay window with the bumblebees, as I previously thought. See, my bay window is on the south side of my house, and the Bug and the Major have moved north. WAY north. Sing that Johnny Horton song with me--you know it--"NORTH! To Alaska, go North, the rush is on..." It seems these two twerps of impish proportion have chosen a cooler climate than the HuMidwest offers in the summertime, and they have invaded the home (and indeed the pregnant body) of my dear friend Megan.

The poor dear.

Megan is a treasure of a friend with a kind spirit, who shares with me a love of Mitford. We often discuss meeting at Happy Endings or the Irish Shop (unless it's winter, in which case it's the Irish Woolen Shop) and then stopping by Cynthia's Little Yellow House for tea. She is also the loving Mama of two boisterous sons, and she is expecting her third not too long after my Bean is due. She called me this morning, sounding rather battle-weary, and, indeed, defeated. "Go ahead and moan and whine to me," I said to her, "because I Actually Get It." She said, "I know you do," and began to wail piteously. If arms could stretch the nearly four thousand miles which separate us, I would issue an immediate hug, complete with a glass of cold water, kleenex, and a cold wash cloth.

So, with no further ado:

ATTENTION, NAUSEA BUG AND MAJOR PUKEY: You have exactly three days to pack your pitiful bags and plunge your ridiculous selves into the Bering Sea. Do not stop for sight seeing adventures. Do not attempt to take a position on a crab fishing vessel. They would merely laugh at you anyway. Just leave. Do not continue to harass my dear friend. She is a meek and humble soul who is not deserving of your putrid company. You are as unwelcome as a fake Irish cousin, who indeed empties the cupboards in seconds flat, refuses to eat flesh foods except on Sundays, overstays generously given welcome, and then turns out to not even be Irish, for Pete's sake. Your bags must be packed immediately, you wretched twerps. If you refuse to leave, more drastic measure will have to be taken. I am only giving you three days so that I have ample time to conjure an idea of what those drastic measures will be. Now off with you both!

There. That should fix them. It would probably be easier just to evict them along with the bumblebees, but we'll see how we do.

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I must continue about my dad, because it's not fair to leave him at the end of my last entry. It's only fair to warn you, dear reader, that this is a long entry because I don't know how to break it up...so I won't.

I must also mention that at the point that I was pregnant with my Frog, I was very close to my mom. At the time, I had no idea why C. had such a disdain for her, and I didn't really get the whole picture until my dad's illness. That will come in a later entry. But it's important to know now that once I moved home, I became nearly completely reliant on my mom. She served me very well during my bed rest, fixing my meals, taking me to appointments, making sure I had the medications I needed (and there were plenty of them, owing to pre-term labor which lasted from January until the birth of the Frog in March), and pretty much tolerating my taking over of the living room.

Understanding what took place between me and my dad will also mean that I get to tell the gist of my Frog's birth story. :) I've been wanting to do this.

After many false alarms, lots of pre-term labor, and general misery, I finally went into actual labor with my Frog. I had been in the night before, getting to the hospital at about 8:30 and being sent home (again) at about 11:30. The hospital was only about 5 blocks away from my parents' house, so when my water broke that morning at almost exactly 5:00, it didn't really trigger anything but excitement for me. No panic, no worrying--after all, labor for first babies takes 8-12 hours, and sometimes even longer. Since I had taken Lamaze classes, I now knew everything there was to know, and I had everything thoroughly under control. (Please kindly stifle your laughter.)

I got up to pee, having been awake with that particular urge for about 15 minutes already anyway, and also called my mom (remember dialing your own phone number and then hanging up to make the phone ring, and then talking to someone in your own house on your own phone? We did it all the time, since I was downstairs and Mom was upstairs.) to let her know that we would probably have to go to the hospital at some point that morning, and would she mind thinking about coming downstairs? She asked if she had time to take a shower, and of course, I said, "Take all the time you need. It's not like the baby's coming until suppertime, anyway."

Famous last words.

In the 20 minutes it took my mom to shower and come down the stairs, my labor had progressed from mild contractions to intense I-can't-stand-up-through-them contractions. We walked out to the car (a Mustang convertible--try getting in and out of one of those in heavy labor!), me with a bath towel to sit on so I didn't mess up the leather seats with amniotic fluid, for Pete's sake, and my mom helping me walk in between the contractions.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was found to be at 5-6 cm and progressing so rapidly that there wasn't even time to fill out paperwork. My mom called my friend M. who was to be my labor coach, and I think she arrived somewhere around 7 or 7:30-ish--just in time for the last bit of transition.

My dad came in at about 8:05. I had been pushing for 5 minutes already.

I remember one of the nurses saying, "Your dad is here. Would you like him to come into the room?" I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of, "I don't care who comes in, just get this baby out of me."

My dad's memory later was that on the way down the hall, it sounded like a crowd at a baseball game--everyone was cheering and shouting at me to PUSH!! My memory is thinking, "Why the heck is everyone yelling at me? All I want to DO is push!!"

The Frog, fat, pink and healthy, made her entrance into the world of air breathers at 8:43 A.M. That would be three hours, forty-three minutes, for those of you keeping track.

Eight to twelve hours, my foot.

When the Frog was handed to me for the first time, my parents (who had taken their places in the corner on the hide-a-bed) came over to see their first grandchild. My mom declared her "very pretty" (which she was), and my dad couldn't even speak.

No one had prepared me for those first few moments. I guess, though, that that first time, for those first moments, there is no real way to be prepared. The rush of love, the intense desire to weep and laugh at the same time, the overwhelming feelings of fear and elation--those were a lot to take in, to be sure. And on top of that, I began to shake uncontrollably. It's normal, I guess, when your body goes through that much in such a short amount of time. But my instinct was to hand my baby to someone who was not shaking, someone who's hands were steady and safe, someone who would love her just as much as I did and who would feel that same need to protect her.

So, naturally, I handed her to my dad.

It turned out to be the best thing I ever did in my entire life, ever.

My dad, as I said earlier, was not able to speak at first. His eyes teared up, and he brought his granddaughter closer to his face. He smiled at her, rubbed her nose with his, and said, "Well hello there, Little K.J." His voice was thick with emotion, and he was smiling so big it practically took over his ears.

While the doctor finished with me, my dad walked into the nursery with the Frog for her exam, never leaving her side, and taking the only pictures I have of those first few moments of her life.

From that morning until his death, my dad and the Frog were inseparable. He held and rocked her when she had colic. He cared for her when I worked long hours at a restaurant. We moved out, the Frog and I, when she was almost three months old, to an apartment about two blocks down the street from my parents' house. This suited my dad just fine--he could take a walk, get a little exercise, and come see the Frog anytime he wanted. He would come for breakfast, sharing oatmeal with her when she was old enough to eat it. He would come take her to his house for lunch, giving her the opportunity to mess around in the flower beds and strawberry patch. She swam in the wading pool on his patio, learned to chop vegetables for soup, gained an appreciation for the music I had grown up with, watched him practice conducting (and even had a little baton to use herself), and grew and flourished in his nurturing love for her. When she learned to talk, she called him Papa. It was the same name we had called him when we were little.

They would take walks on the riverbank, take pictures of the bachelor's buttons and poppies in his garden, read stories, eat liver sausage sandwiches, and talk in the alley with the neighbors. They loved each other dearly, and the best part of it was seeing my dad have the chance to love his granddaughter as fiercely as he had loved me when I was little. I learned to love him again through her, too.

My Darling and I, though we had spent lots of time together up to this point, hadn't had any one-on-one dates until the Frog was about 2 months old. We never did have very many--we came to love one another no matter who was near or what we did. Usually we were with my family or his, and almost always, we had the Frog with us. In April of 1997, My Darling asked my dad if they could speak alone regarding me. I don't think my dad knew that anyone still did that, and I doubt he required it, but it surely impressed him. They talked. With brandy. My dad shared things with My Darling (and likely vice-versa) that I will never hear, and that's OK with me. Some things shared between men should stay between men. Suffice it to say, my dad gave My Darling permission to marry Yours Truly, and, just as importantly, to be the official Daddy to the Frog.

In August of that same year, when the Frog was about 18 months old, my dad walked me down the aisle with tears in his eyes, and My Darling and I were married in the Church. And about 2 years later (after the birth of the Pickle, and while I was pregnant with the Reepicheep), My Darling adopted the Frog as his daughter. This provided another opportunity for my dad to become incredibly emotional, and gave him yet another reason to love My Darling.

When Reepicheep was exactly two weeks old, and quite unexpectedly, my dad collapsed while directing the community chorus in rehearsal of Handel's Messiah (First Part). Preliminary examinations had him diagnosed with necrotic pneumonia--meaning he had had it for a long time. About a week later, the biopsy of lung tissue revealed the real culprit--my dad had lung cancer. That diagnosis came about 10 days before Christmas, 1999. Further scans showed the cancer to be inoperable; it was encompassing his trachea and vena cava. The only hope was chemo and radiation. He was up for it, but he was also 75 years old.

I remember that one of the first things I did was to call my friend, My Darling's cousin, J.L. Her mother had died in 1998. Though she was suffering from scleroderma, her death was still a shock when it came. No one expected it to be so sudden, so soon. I told her my dad's diagnosis, and asked her, "If you knew your mom was going to die when she did, what would you have done differently?" She said she would have talked more with her about the things that really matter. She would have spent time with her Just To Spend Time With Her, not just because there was something going on. And she would have told her I Love You one last time...and said goodbye. J.L. celebrated her birthday with her parents on September 13th. Her mom died only a few days later.

I'm so glad we had that conversation. It enabled me to really talk more with my dad about important things, and to tell him I loved him and that I forgave him. I got to tell him that I loved seeing him with the Frog, and he thanked me for the gift of her. Though there will probably always be things to wish I'd had a chance to say better, at least I had a chance to tell him those things, and to say goodbye.

His chemo began in January. It was as awful as chemo always is, robbing him of strength, energy, appetite, and it meant that his study was turned into his bedroom. My brothers cleared everything out, making room for the double bed, a headboard (custom-made by my Darling, complete with outlet and light switch for a reading lamp), a couple of bookshelves to hold medications and various supplies, and the rocking chair.

When my dad came home from the hospital, he was a completely different man. We had seen him change so much with the birth of the Frog, and subsequent grandchildren softened him even more. I think we kids saw a side of our dad that we needed to see. I know I did. Cancer softened him in a different way. It brought out his faith. I saw my dad, who's spoken prayers consisted only of "Bless us, oh Lord..."--at least where we could hear him--begin to ask for prayer. We had a Mass said in the study for him (he was Episcopalian...long story). The priest from our local church came to anoint him.

Many pastors from other churches in town came to pray with him. His profession had been building and tuning pipe organs, so he knew a good many clergy from many different denominations. Over the course of the next six months, people he had known for years, decades, came from all over the country to visit with him.

His radiation treatments began on Ash Wednesday. He looked forward to seeing the wonderful staff at the center, and wore the same yellow chamois shirt every day to his therapy sessions. Though initial scans didn't show great progress, he continued with the radiation, with either My Darling or my sister C., home from Kansas, driving him the 35 minutes to the radiotherapy center and then home again. The Frog went along often, charming the staff, collecting stickers, and providing about as much medicine as any other treatment had. She called the radiation machine the "Sunshine Machine," understanding that the way it worked was to give Papa as much sunshine in three minutes as she could get in a year.

He weakened further, despite efforts with Ensure, juice made from fresh, raw fruits and vegetables, and apple juice from the pharmacy that looked like boxes of Juicy Juice, but packed three hundred calories. The radiation, because of the location of the tumor, had burned his esophagus so much that he could no longer eat the things he loved. His diet consisted largely of yogurt (which he and the Frog called Yogur-Tea) and canned peaches.

Home health nurses had been making regular appearances, along with companions who would stay with him when we couldn't, and people who brought in meals and helped with household tasks. Soon, though, the term was no longer "home health," but "hospice." Scans showed that the radiation had not been successful, and that the tumor was growing rather than shrinking. The radiation was slated to end on Good Friday.

My dad did get to come to the performance of the Messiah that spring. (Sidenote: Yes, I know. Spring is the time for the Second Part, with the Hallelujah Chorus and all that, but to state it plainly, my dad just liked the First Part better, so that's what we did.) His fine friend of nearly 30 years had agreed to both conduct and play harpsichord--one that my dad had built. We had a lovely orchestra, and two of my brothers and I were in the chorus. It was as fine a performance as any I've heard or been part of. And it pleased my dad.

On Sunday, July 16th, 2000, I received word just before the beginning of Mass (I was supposed to cantor) that I should go home to my dad. Word came via a man who had been my dad's surgeon and friend, and who had gone to great lengths to lead my dad to Jesus through prayer. He found a replacement for me sitting in the congregation and drove me to my parents' house.

All that day we gathered around my dad and helped him begin to die. We fed him for the last time that day--he never asked for food after that afternoon. We gave him his medications for pain or anxiety whenever he indicated he was in need. We reminded him who we were when he would wake from his naps. We helped him to the toilet. We calmed his fears. We rubbed his legs and feet, stroked his hair, and loved on him the best we knew how. This was the most love I'd ever seen happen in my family--all the love we never showed our whole lives, and there it was for my dad when he was on his way Home.

He would begin praying, "Our Father..." and we would take over. My sister and I prayed Rosaries together. We didn't know about the Chaplet of Divine Mercy--I have no doubt we would have prayed that, too. When he spoke in those strange and fearful phrases before death, my sister crooned to him and answered him in soothing words, "You did everything you were supposed to do. We all have exactly what we need to keep going. We'll take care of Mom. It's OK for you to follow Jesus. We'll be right behind you..."

He slept fitfully that night, with the Frog sleeping on the couch near his chair, and woke a few times Monday morning. That afternoon, a hospital bed was brought in for his comfort. It was set up in the living room. By Monday evening, he was slipping away. He didn't wake much at all on Tuesday. One or two of us was always with him though, making sure he had anything he needed.

Wednesday morning, at about 5:00, the phone at our apartment rang. "Come home," said my brother. "His breathing is different, and we don't think it'll be long." The Frog and the Pickle had spent the night at my in-laws' house, so we grabbed the 8-month-old Reepicheep and drove the six blocks to my parents' house. We all sat around the bed. We took turns listening to his heart, because he only breathed about once every 8 or 9 minutes. We all knew this was an electrical impulse from his brain--that he had gone. His heart stayed strong though, and we marveled at this. My brothers, all three, worked together to stop the oxygen machine that had been helping our dad for the past six months: one unplugged the machine, one turned it off, and one removed the cannula from him. None could see the others, so my sister counted to three and they each did their jobs at the same time. Still, his heart kept beating.

Eventually, my exhausted brothers and sister, My Darling, and I chose to lie down. My sister and one brother went upstairs, one brother was on the couch, one in Pop's chair, and My Darling and I were on the bed in the study. Mom went out for a cigarette. It was about 9:00. The hospice nurse came in at 9:10, and took his vitals. My dad's heart beat once or twice, then stopped.

She timed his death at 9:15, Wednesday, July 19th, 2000.