My Greatest Indulgence

When I was considering whether or not to have a third child, I viewed it as a bit presumptuous.  Like asking for too much.  I already had two amazing, healthy children that I loved more than anything - was it too bold to ask for one more?  Was I being too indulgent?

I didn't think that way when considering my first two kids.  I supposed that's because I always knew I would have two children - for no real reason, really, other than the fact that that is what I just always viewed as "normal."   Considering a third seemed like a grand deviation - a rejection of the nuclear 2 sibling family with which I was brought up in, and with what I had always envisioned for myself.

But then there's that saying that every woman knows when her quiver is full, and part of me knew that mine just wasn't.  Ultimately there came a time, when my second was around 2 years old, that I felt ready.  I knew someone was missing.  I just didn't know that that person would be a blonde haired, blue eyed boy named Colin.  Who just turned 2 years old.

From the moment I set my eyes on him, I knew that I had not in fact been presumptuous.  This baby was not asking for too much.  He was not just a bonus.  He was his own person, meant to be my child.  I knew upon meeting him that my life would never again be complete without him, and that he filled a huge gaping hole that I never even knew existed.

Hanging out with him these past two years has been one of the greatest experiences of my life.

It's been an experience distinct from my years as a mother prior to him arriving.  The fact is, I'm a different mom to Colin than I was to his older brothers - in good and bad ways.  Like the quintessential third child, I don't take as many pictures, I have yet to complete his baby book, and I really couldn't tell you when he got his first tooth or took his first step.  But in a weird way, this is refreshing - I don't do these things because I've learned the important lesson that memorializing a moment isn't as important as experiencing it.  And so instead of documenting his days, I enjoy his days - present in each one, having also learned the lesson that time goes by painfully fast.  

I am incredibly laid back, sometimes to a fault.  I don't sweat it if Colin doesn't eat his vegetables or misses a nap, and when he takes a tumble I don't gasp in panic.  He can eat dirt or sand or paper products without me being overly concerned.  When I picked him up from the gym childcare last week, I didn't lose my shit when I realized he was drinking a bottle of someone else's breast milk. And if he wakes up in the middle of the night, I don't freak out about bringing him to our bed and creating bad habits.  I relish the time I get to rock him to sleep, for I know our time for this is short.

Colin doesn't get as much attention as his older brothers did at his age, but as a result he is incredibly independent.  He roams freely throughout the house, and at times I actually can't find him (something that would have made me pass out with my first child).  Generally I find him playing with trains in the basement, trying on his brothers' clothing, or in his room, reading a book.

Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography

Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography

Of course, I do harbor some third child guilt.  When we have mornings free, I tend to go to the gym and put him in the childcare, rather than take him to the park.  His life revolves around our lives - hanging out during the older boys' activities, or tagging along with me on errands - rather than the reverse, as it had been particularly with my first born.  The fact that his birthday blog post is three weeks late is indicative of how his needs tend to take the backseat to the demands of his grade school brothers, and my hectic life.

For his birthday a few weeks ago, I decided to make the day all about him.  After we dropped his brothers off at school, we went to Turtle Park - a park I used to take my oldest to almost daily when he was a toddler.  I don't think Colin had ever been there before.

We had a wonderful day- just him and I.

A few days later, we had a birthday party.  It was smaller than the 2nd birthday parties we had for his two older brothers - by this time, we had learned our lesson regarding 2 year old birthday parties (because what 2 year old has friends and what 2 year old is ever going to remember?).  But in many ways, it was more special.  We celebrated with cousins and aunts and uncles and close friends.  We celebrated Colin.

As a parent I still haven't figured out how much of my kids' personalities are nature or nurture, but all I can say is that this boy is the happiest kid I have ever met.  He is always smiling, always giggling, always enjoying life.  I mean, the kid cracks up laughing every time he sees a bird.  Every. single. time.

The notion that we might have stopped at 2 seems inconceivable, and would have been tragic. Because this boy brings joy to anyone and everyone around him.  Especially me.

Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography

I am head over heels in love with this third baby of mine - this baby we never thought we would have, but were destined to.  I can't wait to see who he's going to be.

Happy 2nd birthday, my baby boy.

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Waiting for the Dime to Pass (Literally)

As a mom of three boys six and under, I am well aware that in some ways, I asked for it.  I asked for the stress and the chaos and the mess and the overwhelming noise and discord and pandemonium that is my life.

So I hate to complain, but I think that even the most stringent of observers would agree that the past seven days of my life have been a bit much.

It all started last Thursday, with this:

Well isn't that a weird thing on Colin's finger, I said to myself last Thursday while sitting at Starbucks with my one year old.  A first time mom may have panicked and run straight to the doctor, but I am seasoned.  Cool, calm, collected, and pretty sure that it was nothing that some anti-fungal cream from CVS wouldn't cure.

But in an abundance of caution, I did what any seasoned mother would do - I texted the picture to every medical professional I can call a friend or acquaintance.  The universal consensus, unfortunately, was that it was not something that would be cured by anti-fungal cream.  Instead, I needed to haul ass to the ER to get the infection drained and treated.

The Perpetual Baby Phase

For the past six and a half years, I have had a diaper in my purse.

Casey, my second child, was born before my first was potty trained.  Back then I had two different sized diapers in my purse.  

Colin, my third child, was born just as Casey was graduating to the potty, but I always had to be prepared.  So around that time I had two sized diapers in my purse too.  

Now my third is 19 months, Casey is 4, Braden (my first) is 6, and I have one size diaper that I carry around.

As the diaper quantity and sizes have shifted around in my purse over time, the majority of my friends have graduated from this stage.  They no longer carry around diapers in their purse.  They also don't cut up food in small pieces or carry around sippy cups.  They don't have to be home by noon for nap time, and scream bloody murder in the car to keep their toddler from falling asleep on the way home.  They don't have to worry about explosive diapers or sleep training or choking hazards, and all of their outlet covers have been removed from their home.  They, and their kids, have graduated to a different stage.  And I kind of want to join them.

The other day at our community pool I saw a mom I recognized from when my oldest was a baby. She was on a lounge chair, reading a book, while her son went off the diving board.  As I chased after Colin heading straight for the pool, and removed a rock from his mouth, I nearly cried.

I'm sick of the diapers.  I'm sick of the baby phase.  And I'm really, really tired.

I Suck as a Mom This Week

Huge mom fails this week.  And they both involve my children being in physical pain that was only exacerbated by me.

Mom Fail #1 - Braden

Braden is one of those kids that is in the nurse's office at school every day.  When he gets a minor scratch on his knee, he limps.  When he has a mosquito bite, he wails.

The kid cries wolf.  A lot.

So when the school nurse called me on Tuesday saying that Braden had been to see her saying his eye was hurting, I assumed it was just overplayed allergies.  I had little sympathy, and after all, this was not the first time I had gotten a call from the nurse.  I told her that if she thought he was okay, that he should go back to class.

When I picked him up after school later that afternoon, he was clutching his left eye.  He immediately got into the car and started crying.  His eye was red and puffy, but he does tend to get puffy eyes in allergy season.  I tried to calm him down saying it was okay, it was just allergies, and that I'd give him some allegra and eye drops when we got home.

But he kept crying.  And for some reason, I decided to go ahead and make an appointment with the ophthalmologist for the next day, thinking all the while that I was wasting my time and the doctor's time, because after all, it's just allergies.

But that mommy gut thing was telling me to do it.

To My Baby Boy, Before You Become an Asshole

Dear Baby Colin,

How can I express how precious you are at this stage in your life?  At nearly 18 months old, you are endearing, joyful, upbeat, appreciative, charming, playful, silly, easygoing, good humored, cuddly, loving, and a complete momma's boy.  You are, quite simply, irresistible.  To me and everyone around you.

Sure, you have your moments of crying and irrational tantruming.  But most of the time those are just because you want to be picked up and held.  And given that you're my last baby, I am happy to oblige.

I call you my angel baby.

Just last week when I referred to you as this, your daddy reminded me that I used to say the same things about both of your older brothers (now 4 and 6).

I laughed in his face, assuming he was kidding, until all at once it came flooding back to me.  I did refer to your brothers as my angel babies.  (I even have the blog post to prove it).

Don't get me wrong, I love your older brothers with all of my heart.  Unconditionally and completely. But they are not angels.

They are not angels at all.

In fact, a lot of the time they are assholes.

I would never call them that to their face, of course.  No, I try to be cool, calm, and collected at all times - with limited success.  But in my head, if I am being honest, I am often calling them assholes. Because at this age, they kind of are.

I can't imagine you ever turning into an asshole.  I mean, after all, you are an angel!  But as you begin to leave your babyhood and enter the era of toddlerhood, I have a few requests:

Explosive Poops on Planes (and Related Netflix Entertainment)

I feel like I could write a novel about diaper mishaps, but I don't.  Because it's disgusting and boring and who really wants to read that?

And yet, here I am about to write a blog post about an explosive poopy diaper.  But I must. Because my story must be told.

Our family went to the Cayman Islands last week - our fourth visit there.  It was awesome and beautiful and perhaps in the near future I will post pictures.  But the trip down there with three kids was a bit brutal.

In order to save a bit of money, we opted to take connecting flights from DC to the Caymans.  It sounded like a great idea a few months before whilst searching for the best fare, but I was cursing myself when we arrived late to the Miami airport and had to book it across the terminal to make it to our next flight.  We barely had time to do anything, but I told my husband we HAD to change my son Colin's diaper before we boarded the next plane.  Because really, where does one change a diaper on the plane?  In the minuscule, disgusting airplane bathroom?  I'm not quite sure logistically how that would work, and I didn't want to learn.

I took the older boys to grab a quick snack, while my husband changed Colin's diaper, in our reclined stroller.  We reunited in the boarding line, where my husband said to me:  You know in the Crocodile Hunter where the crocodiles would roll all over violently when threatened?  That's what Colin just did while I was changing his diaper.  

I had to laugh.  Better him than me.  At least it was done.

We boarded the plane, and I hunkered in with Colin on my lap, who was flying as a lap child.  Just as the plane was about to take off, I smelled something.  I reached at the back of his pants to look in his diaper, and there it was.  Explosive and yellow and mushy and about to go up his back.  And a bit of it got on my forefinger.

I calmly wiped my finger with a napkin and turned to my husband across the aisle and told him that Colin needed his diaper changed asap.  But of course, we had to wait for the plane to take off and for the fasten seat belt sign to be turned off which took, all in, around 20 minutes, all of which were spent with me delicately holding Colin in awkward positions so the poop would not squeeze out of his diaper and up his shirt.  I used this fact as leverage in convincing my husband to be the one to do the dirty deed.

The plane reached cruising altitude, my husband took Colin to the bathroom, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  As I did so, I must have wiped my brow with my hand, because I noticed that my finger had left something wet on my head.

Yes, it's what you are thinking.  Poop.  On my forehead.

I scrambled to find another napkin, a bit confused as to how poop got back on my finger, and thus, on my head.  As I did so, I saw it.

When the Baby Leaves Him

I've never completely understood the exact time frame of the baby terminology.  When does one go from newborn to infant to baby to toddler to child to kid?  At the beginning, people tend to use the labels interchangeably.  But as children grow older, the options for terminology dwindle.

My six year old and four year sons can hardly be considered babies or toddlers anymore - they are pretty set at the term child, or kid.  But when did that happen?  I assume there was a time that they were in "transition."  But right now when I look at them, I no longer see a baby.  In fact, when I see pictures of them as babies, it's hard for me to reconcile that they are the same person - that that baby I once held in my arms has morphed into something so different.

Colin turned 1 last week.

I still call him a baby.

He still has those adorable a baby thunder thighs, complete with symmetrical thigh wrinkles where the fat has buckled.  It is still hard to find his neck under his big baby head and pudgy cheeks.  He still smells like a baby and his hair is silky and smooth after a bath.  He babbles and coos and slobbers.  I still nurse him, and while doing so he likes to caress my cheek or poke my mouth.  He is still small enough that I can hold him comfortably on my hip for long periods of time, and he still falls asleep on my chest every other night or so.  And when I put him down to sleep and peer in his crib, he looks like the most peaceful sleeping baby.

But there are signs.  Signs that the baby is leaving him.

Clinical Trials and Emotional Tribulations

For the past two weeks, I have been living, breathing, eating, sleeping, and existing in all things food allergies.

I don't know quite where to start.

I guess the beginning.

A little over a year ago I wrote a post about how my son, Casey had been diagnosed with a peanut allergy.  (He has a RAST score of over 100 - the highest you can get.)  I haven't really mentioned it since.  In part because it's not always on the forefront of my mind, and in part because I didn't think it's the kind of thing that people want to read about.

But it has become part of our daily lives and then some.

We've had meetings with his teachers and his camp counselors about how and when to use the epi-pen.  Every time he goes for a playdate, I have to have a discussion with the parents first.  Same goes for birthday parties, soccer classes, babysitters, and pretty much any time there is food and kids around.  I have written a detailed plan for all family members whose homes we visit, which includes where they need to place their nuts, what they need to do at a restaurant, and what the initial signs of an allergic reaction may be.  I have more epi-pens than I can count, stored in all sorts of places - both cars, the kitchen, the school, and in various baby sitters' purses.

Notwithstanding all this, Casey, had an allergic reaction to macaroni and cheese from the Cheesecake Factory back in July.  (There had been cross contamination with peanuts).  We had to use the epi-pen for the first time, right in the thigh.  Then we sat at the ER for four hours to be monitored.

It was at that point that I decided enough was enough.

Appreciating the Moment Isn't All it's Cracked Up to Be

Last week I found myself organizing photos.  I am old school when it comes to photos - I still have every single one printed out, and placed in a hard copy album.  I just don't like the idea of all of my memories floating around in cyberspace somewhere.  I like to be able to hold a tangible picture.

I've been a little busy lately, with a new baby and all, so I have been a bit delinquent with my photo upkeep.  Thus, last week's photo organization centered around last summer and early fall - eating lobster in Cape Cod, frolicking at the beach at the Jersey shore, being ridiculously pregnant at my sister's wedding, and then of course, the early days with baby Colin.

I generally do get sentimental when I go through pictures, but this picture his me like a ton of bricks and had me an emotional mess:

Please excuse my pale, decrepit appearance.  I had just pushed out an 8 pound baby and hadn't slept in two days.

I had to do a double take.

That baby in my lap there does not look like the baby sleeping in the room next to me right now. That baby in my lap there is a newborn, only two days old.   The baby in the next room is plump and filled out.  He started eating solids this weekend.  He rolls over and sleeps on his tummy (for 12 straight hours, I might add).  He smiles and laughs and even sits up by himself, for a few seconds at a time. The baby in the room next to me looks like this:

How did this happen?  In a mere five months?

Everyone talks about how time goes so fast.  When one has a baby, especially the first one, they are generally bombarded with the following advice:  Appreciate every moment - the time will fly! or Savor this time - it will be over before you know it! or It doesn't get any better than this!  Or some permutation.  Basically, this is the best time of your life and it will be over soon, so you better appreciate it every. single. second.

Still Not an Expert, the Third Time Around

I have found that since having my third child, I have been asked a lot of baby advice.  I am happy to share any expertise, but let me tell you, I don't remember much.  So when people ask me what a six month old's schedule should look like, my answer is usually:  "I have no idea.  Ask me when my baby turns six months!"

It's amazing how much we forget, and how little we know.

Case in point:  Our family recently took Colin on his first flight, to Disney World.  We packed all of the necessary items for our carry on (or so we thought).  Diapers?  Check.  Wipes?  Check. Pacifier?  Check.  That's really all we had.  I am breastfeeding, so the food is attached to me at all times.  I mean what else could we possibly need?

Note to all mothers with infants - never EVER leave the house without a spare set of baby clothes. And definitely, DEFINITELY don't get on an airplane without one.

He was sitting on my lap when I felt the explosive poop.  It immediately traveled north, up his back. I could feel the moisture on my hands as it spread onto his onesie.  I called for my husband, who brought over the wipes and a diaper cloth, which were no match for the spreading feces.  It was around that time we realized we had NO SPARE CLOTHES FOR THE BABY.  (We ended up keeping him in his soiled clothing, wrapping a diaper cloth around the outside so as not to cause those around us to gag at the sight, and buying him a Disney onesie immediately upon disembarking the plane).

Ahhh, the yellow poop stain.  This outfit was subsequently thrown in the trash.

All of this to say that even us experienced moms falter.  We certainly make mistakes, and we definitely don't have all of the answers.  In fact, we still have a lot of questions.

A recent article by OTC Safety highlights some of the most common questions parents ask pediatricians.  And I have to say, even with baby #3, I continue to ask these questions myself:

- In what circumstances should I give my child a pain reliever, and how can I make sure I administer the proper dose?  (Quick answer - Read the package label very carefully, base dosage on weight (not age), and if your child is younger than three months and has a fever of 100.5, consult a doctor).

- Should I give my child a daily multivitamin? (Quick answer - Yes, if your child is a picky eater, a vegetarian, or has allergies - but consult a physician first.)

- How should I treat my child's cut and how do I know if he needs stitches?  (Quick answer - apply direct pressure, clean the wound, and use an antibiotic ointment.  Do NOT use rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, iodine, or Mercurochrome on the wound.  If the cut is deep, have the cut evaluated by a doctor.  And if you end up in the ER, try not to nearly faint like I did.)

- What is the best way to treat diaper rash?  (Quick answer - use an ointment, change diapers frequently, put diapers on loosely, and consider changing diaper brands).

For more detailed answers, you can view the article by clicking here.

I'll add one additional question and answer of my own:

- What should one bring on the plane when flying with an infant?  (Quick answer - diapers, wipes, AND A SPARE SET OF BABY CLOTHES).

Two Steps Back

When I left my job and started this blog, I was in some ways very lost.  I knew I had made the right decision for my family, but I wondered if I would ever work again.  For money, that is.  I wondered if I was "worth" it anymore - whether anyone would want to pay me again, given that I wasn't willing to devote my life to a career.  Would anyone want to pay a stay at home mom, who wanted to continue to stay at home?  

Slowly but surely, I did find paid work.  And it felt GREAT.  It wasn't even about the money, really. It was about a sense of pride that I was forging my own path, and making things work for me.  The fact is, working at a law firm does tend to make you feel powerless - powerless over your time, your priorities, and your career trajectory.  This new sense of control over my life was refreshing and, for lack of a better word, empowering.  

I stated off tutoring.  Then I lucked into some fairly well paid freelance work for a law firm. Then I joined forces with Montage Legal Group and continued to freelance and head up the group's DC efforts.  Then I started teaching an online legal course at a local university.  At the same time, my blog was becoming somewhat successful.  My readership was increasing, I was making a little (emphasize little) bit of money from it, and I was even getting media opportunities, like appearing on Huffington Post Live.

Things were happening.  And I was feeling more confident than ever.  

Then things got a bit derailed, most specifically, by this: 

Reclaiming the Night

Three months ago I said hello to my newborn, and goodbye to my evenings.

I cherish my evenings.  On hard days, it is always a countdown until the kids' bedtime at 8pm. After 8pm, my time is my own again.  For 2-3 hours, I can do whatever I want.  I can have a nice big glass of wine.  I can watch trashy shows.  I can clean or email or read or make phone calls all without children tugging at my legs.  It is glorious.  It's my only true "me" time, and I cherish it.

Alas, I lost it on November 13, 2013, when my third son was born.

Newborns take all of your energy, that's for sure.  They are an immense amount of work (particularly on top of two other rambunctious boys).  But during the day, it is much easier to handle.  Because I'm used to being busy during the day.  It's normal to be busy during the day.  But newborns are on an around the clock schedule.  And once my third baby entered this world, an all too familiar feeling descended upon me.

I started dreading the nights.

Learning Him

When I gave birth to my third son, Colin, on November 13th, he came out a stranger.  Sure, there was an instant love and familiarity, but I still didn't know him.  Would he be calm, or high strung? Laid back, or fussy?  A good or bad sleeper?  A good or bad eater?  Serious or silly?

I had no idea.  And it is that unknown that I think makes the first weeks of the newborn period so scary.

On my first day home alone with Colin, I was petrified.  You would think the third time around that I would avoid the whole oh my god, don't leave me alone with the baby, I don't know what I'm doing anxiety, but alas, it gets me every time.  I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get him to sleep.  That I wouldn't know what to do to soothe him if he started crying.  That he and I would both be miserable, and exhausted.

I'm not going to lie, those first few weeks were rough.  But then, slowly but surely, I started to learn about my precious son.

Get Me to the Six Week Mark, Please.

When Casey, my middle child, was five weeks old, he came down with a fever.  This may sound like no big deal, but it ended up being a HUGE deal.  A call to our pediatrician resulted in an ER visit, and a subsequent hospital stay.  I  learned that it is standard procedure that anytime an infant younger than six weeks has a fever, it's an automatic hospital stay, which involves a spinal tap and IV antibiotics. Basically, they have to make sure it's not something really bad (like meningitis) until they know it's not.

It wasn't.  After three days, we left with a diagnosis of (drumroll)..... rhinovirus.  Aka, the common cold.  The diagnosis was an anti-climactic end to three very exhausting, traumatic days.

This time around, I want to avoid that at all costs.  Colin is four weeks today, meaning I have two more weeks to avoid illness resulting in a hospital stay.  This may seem straightforward.  Keep him away from crowds, sick people, etc., and be religious about washing hands.  But with a three year old and a five year old in the house, all bets are off.  

The odds aren't in my favor.  'Tis the season for coughs and colds. They are everywhere.  And given that, what are the chances that my two kids won't bring something home?  And if and when they do, how effective to you think the "wash your hands" mantra will be?  Ha!  They'll be sneezing and coughing and wiping their snot all around the house.  And don't even get me started on the stomach flu. I don't even want to consider that as a possibility, so I won't.  

Needless to say, I have been a bit OCD with monitoring illness in my house.  I have used the thermometer with both kids more often than I care to admit.  I analyze every sneeze, every cough, and hand sanitizer graces every room.  So far so good.

But I can't keep my baby in a bubble.  So all I ask for is two weeks more of health.  Just two weeks. Is that too much to ask ?

Wish me luck.  

  

And in return, I will wish you all illness-free holidays!  But in case you aren't so lucky, here are some helpful tips from OTC Safety regarding over the counter medicines for your little ones:

- Remember that you should never give cough/cold medicine to children under 4.  

- If you give infant acetaminophen, be sure to check the concentration - the makers of infant acetaminophen have changed the medicine from a highly concentrated dose to a less concentrated dose (80mg/0.8 mL to 160mg/mL).  During this transition, old medicines could still be on store shelves, so be sure to read the label carefully.
- You can alternate between acetaminophen and ibuprofen every 3-4 hours.
- Only use the measuring device that comes with the medicine.
- Always store your medicine up and away (and make sure all of your visitors do the same!).

Disclosure: I received compensation for this post as part of the CHPA OTC Safety Ambassador Program.  All the opinions reflected here are my own.  

The Highs and Lows of the Newborn Phase

I've done this whole newborn thing twice before, you know.  You would think I would be prepared - that I would know exactly what to expect, and exactly what I am doing.

Not so.

I had forgotten.  About the highs.  About the lows.  So here they are:

The Highs

The biggest high is that I am completely in love with this boy.

I could stare at him all day (and in fact, I do spend an inordinate amount of time staring at him).  I love his faces - his pooping face, his involuntary smiling face, his sleepy face, his stretching face, and any other type of face he happens to make.  I love watching him on the changing pad scrunching up his little body and looking at his little frog legs.  I love feeding him and all the funny sounds that he makes. I love having him fall asleep on my chest and feeling his breath against my body and just keeping him there for a while. I love his smell and his eyes and his cheeks and basically every single last thing about him.

I just love this little boy.

In other good news, I have lost 25 pounds.

The Lows

Okay, now that I have painted a pretty, romantic picture, let me be real about the lows: The newborn phase is its own unique form of hell.  For the following reasons:

Two Kind of Crazy, Out of Character, Things I Did

I would not describe myself as a naturalist, holistic, granola type of person.  I do buy organic food when I can, but I still take my kids to McDonalds.  I recycle, but I don't really think about my carbon footprint. I'm into vitamins and homeopathic remedies, but I'm ready and willing to go to hard core meds when necessary.  I'm just kind of plain vanilla average in this regard.

But last week, I did some out of character things: 

1) I did a natural (as in, no epidural) birth.

I don't know why, but having a natural birth always appealed to me.  Perhaps because of a fear of sticking a needle in my spine, or a fear of escalating interventions that would lead to a c-section. But really, it just always felt, for lack of a better word, natural to me.  As in, we women are meant to birth babies.  It's how nature made us.  So why not do it the way nature intended?  

When I was pregnant with Braden, my first child, I took a Bradley natural birthing class.  My husband and I went once a week and learned about birthing positions, relaxation methods, etc. But halfway through the class I ended up on bed rest, having been diagnosed with placenta previa.  For this condition, I would have to have a c-section.  I was disappointed, but resigned myself to my fate, and stopped attending the Bradley classes.  Lo and behold, a week before my scheduled c-section date, my placenta moved, and I was cleared for a vaginal delivery.  By that point, I was so out of shape and in such shock that I didn't have the energy for a natural birth.  I did try, but after a pitocin drip and 5 hours of labor, I asked for an epidural.  

For the birth of Casey, my second child, I again wanted to attempt a natural birth.  I reviewed my Bradley class materials, and took a "Comfort Measures" class at the hospital.  When I went into labor and arrived at the hospital, I told the nurses that I was going to go epidural free.  I labored for a few hours, until it started to hurt - I mean, really hurt.  Just like in the movies, I recanted my prior request and begged for the epidural.  I was 8 centimeters dilated by the time I got it.  I was almost there, but the pain (and temptation) was too much.

Lets talk about pain for a second.  In my normal, non-laboring mind, my reasoning went like this: Sure, it's going to hurt.  Really bad.  But it's temporary.  It will only last a finite amount of time.  And if I can just take it, for a little bit, it will be over!  How bad can it really be?  

Lets repeat that:  How bad can it really be?  

Introducing

On November 13, at 9:46am, Colin Samuel made his appearance:

It took 15 hours of labor with the world's greatest doula, three attempts at an IV (and a near fainting incident), a pitocin drip, the breaking of my water, and a NATURAL childbirth (holy crap, that was wild), and he came out in three pushes.

Colin cried.  I cried.  My husband cried.  No matter how prepared you are, or how much you know that a baby is coming, there's something so amazing and awe-inspiring about that moment when you see that baby for the first time.

And just like that, he's here.  As if he always was.  We spent one night in the hospital, and came home, and then it all began.  The feedings, the diaper changes, the sleepless nights...  I had honestly forgotten how hard this newborn phase is, and Colin's second night with us was a stark reminder.  It is HARD, simple as that. But it's worth it, a thousand times over.

Physically, I am doing great.  Which is a good thing, because with three kids, there isn't really an alternative. Mentally, I am doing okay.  After one rough day, I started my meds almost immediately, and they seem to be working (with the help of placental encapsulation - more on that some other time).  Now I just need to break out that UV Happy Lamp I bought a couple of years ago.  If anything is going to get me over the next couple of months, it's going to be the damn darkness.

But overall, I am happy.  Blissfully happy at times, in fact.  Because in the midst of the sleep deprivation and aching lower back and general shock at how my life has changed, it all just feels right. It's exactly how it's supposed to be.

I spent so much time in my young adult life planning and micromanaging everything.  I had distinct desires in terms of when I would get married, how many children I wanted, when I wanted to have them, whether they would be a boy or a girl, etc.  In truth, none of it has turned out as I planned. But what is so amazing is that my feeble mind could never have imagined it turning out like it has - turning out so good, so perfect, so much better than I could ever have known.

My family is exactly as it should be.  I just know it.  And these three boys....  they are my everything.  They are incredible, amazing, more than anything I could ever have asked for or expected.

I am so blessed, lucky, fortunate, call it whatever you want.  I am complete.