The Freedom of Fewer Choices

How much do I love shopping at Trader Joe's? Sooooo much! There are too many reasons to list. Here are the top 3:

1. Every single time I've been there with Pia, one of the TJs "crew" has offered to help me take my groceries to the car and they've loaded up the trunk and whisked away my shopping cart before I've even gotten my wiggly babe into her car seat.

2. Black bean and cheese tacquitos. Chocolate honey mints. Reduced Guilt Chunky Guacamole.

3. A break from the Decision Fatigue of every other grocery store in town. When I want to buy, say, cereal, there are roughly a dozen options from which to choose. Pasta sauce? Eight options. Pickles? Spears, slices, or whole. Ketchup? One option: ketchup. I can be in and out of TJs with (usually, almost) everything I need for the week in 30 minutes, AND stick to a list and budget.

Bonus: The store is not jam-packed with displays and aisles. It feels open, navigable, and easy. You could fit the entire store into the Halloween Candy section of Target.

Does Trader Joe's have everything I could ever need for a recipe? No. But by narrowing our ingredient options, we've actually gotten more creative in the kitchen, and we are able to go to Whole Paycheck less frequently, which saves us a whole lot of money. And time. Shopping at TJs is efficient, cost-effective, and delicious.

I am pining for the day that our home will be conscientiously curated to contain only those Useful, Beautiful things that Spark Joy, like the Joy that is sparked by finding Gluten Free Candy Cane Joe Joes.

Like my favorite grocery store, I've found that my house is much tidier, more efficient, and happier to live in when I have fewer options. This is and has been an ongoing process, but every little step I have taken in the direction of Fewer has been rewarding so far.

Exhibit A:

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to apply the now-famous Marie Kondo lessons of Tidying Up to my closet. I haven't actually read her book (who has time to read entire books during baby naps??), but I have read a couple of reviews and articles about her New York Times bestseller, and concluded that I had gleaned enough to take a stab at purging my closet of anything that didn't Spark Joy.

I took every item of clothing out of my closet, laid them all on my bed, then picked each item up and held it in my hands before deciding its fate. I made four piles:

• Sparks Joy AND it currently fits!
• Sparks Joy but doesn't fit my new, plush, post-baby body
• No Joy here, but I've barely worn it, so I'll try to consign it
• No Joy, but it's in good shape, so I'll donate it

No surprise, most of what Sparked Joy and Fits consisted of cardigans and a couple of forgiving dresses and skirts. I'm still about 15 pounds from my pre-baby weight, so I'm going to remain hopeful that some of those Joy-sparking clothes with buttons and darts and zippers will fit again. I didn't part with them; I put them in a plastic tub in the storage closet. Here's what was left:

Disregard the upper-right piles - they are Les's pants!

I've been operating from this wardrobe of roughly 30 items + basics like tank tops, t-shirts, leggings, etc, for three weeks now, and I love it. When I rush to the closet in the morning to get ready for work, I know that everything in front of me fits, flatters (reasonably well), and makes me happy when I wear it. Soon I will add the winter sweaters that spark joy, but those are still packed away for now.

Gone are the sentimental items, the stash of overly-fussy wedding guest dresses from the season of my life when I attended 10 weddings every summer, and anything that I really wanted to like and wear but never or very rarely did. As I hear Kondo's book suggests, I thanked the items I discarded for their service or for their part in a previous season of my life, and stacked them neatly for re-homing.

Last year, I had a 40-Item Wardrobe for a season, and that was totally painless. Maternity clothes created their own capsule-wardrobe-by-default, and I did just fine for more than 6 months. I know I can live and work and play and go to church with a limited but versatile mix of clothes, but I still want More and New and Better and Different all the time. That's the part I can't quite seem to wrangle. And I do not promise that I will never buy any more clothes. No. But anything new must be versatile enough that I can wear it for at least two out of three main fashion venues: Regular Life, Work, Church. And, thanks to Ms. Kondo, it'll have to Spark Joy as well.

All You Need is Less

The world is shredding my heart these days. I look around at our comfortable life and our comfortable faith in our comfortable part of the world, and I feel really uncomfortable. And I want to feel that way for as long as it takes for us to make real changes and take real action, rather than just cry a few tears and heave a big sigh and then sink right back into our easy chairs with a tub of ice cream for a nice, brain-numbing Netflix binge.

There are a lot of ways to move from sugarshocked immobility to meaningful action. Give, pray, and get involved with organizations who know the issues well and can connect you with volunteer opportunities. (We've had terrific experiences with World Relief and Exodus, so if you're looking for an endorsement of a refugee-serving organization, check out either of them. Two thumbs way up).

Every time I think the plight of so many in the world, I feel newly convicted to pursue minimalism. And then I see something pretty or fun or on sale in my new, softer size and I buy it anyway. Just like a diet, my minimalism always starts tomorrow.

What does a new pair of jeans have to do with compassion? Let's set aside compassion-related environmental and labor issues that come into play when I buy buy buy anything and everything I want, and think more broadly about how Stuff can clog up our hearts and lives.

Les and I have been talking about how our Stuff and our Love of Stuff gets in the way of living the life we want, and feel convicted about living. Here are some ways:

• Clutter in our home makes us self-conscious about hosting and hospitality. (Well, clutter, and our Ornery Chihuahua-based home security system). Fewer possessions = less clean up when you want to invite someone into your home. We could just get over our hangups about what our home looks like and what our Fur Baby acts like, and we want to do that, too, but fewer piles would go a long way towards a more hospitable house.
• Money we spend on Stuff prevents us from being as generous as we say we want to be.
• Our Things are distractions. We'd rather be comfy in our home, doing our own thing, than out loving our neighbors. We do need time at home to recharge and relax as a family. Balance is important. We're in a slow, "home base" season with a new baby. But eventually, we need to get back out into Community and not just cling to our creature comforts like Pia clings to her lovey.
• Stuff takes up space. Duh. But seriously. Do we have room to host a Safe Families child, or will our guest room be full of boxes of crap for all eternity? Will we be tempted to upgrade to a bigger house when Pia is older because we don't have room to contain all our family's possessions? Will our cars deteriorate faster because we have to park them outside all winter because our garage is being used as an attached Stuff Storage Unit?
• Stuff takes up time. What are my plans for the weekend, every weekend, lately? Cleaning out the box-filled guest room, organizing our one small storage space, purging unneeded stuff from the garage... cleaning, organizing, tossing. Not my idea of a particularly fun time. Clutter hangs over us in our free time. And every time I have to rearrange a kitchen cabinet when I unload the dishwasher, I fantasize about donating half of the contents of our cupboards, and having clear, usable counter space. In my fantasy, a clean, spare kitchen makes it easier to cook and clean and entertain. 
• Stuff Begets Stuff. Did you know there's actually name for the fact that buying a new dress often leads to buying new shoes and a necklace to match? It's called the Diderot Effect, and it played out in frustrating fashion in my life last week. I bought a new (Target clearance section) watch because our office building has NO clocks, and I feel rude checking my phone all the time in meetings. The watch didn't fit, so now I need to buy a little kit with tiny tools to take links out of the band so I can wear it. Grrrr. And the dress + shoes + necklace? Story of my shopping life. Pretty soon, you're over-consuming just to use the one thing you wanted to buy in the first place. Yuck.

There's a famous Bible story in which Jesus tells a wealthy man to sell all his possessions, give the money to the poor, and then come and follow him. It's a pretty famous story, usually called "The Rich Young Ruler". One could gloss over it and say "I'm not wealthy or powerful. This story has nothing to do with me". I remember several years ago when I read this story in The Message translation for the first time:

Mark 10:17-27 The Message 

To Enter God’s Kingdom

17 As he went out into the street, a man came running up, greeted him with great reverence, and asked, “Good Teacher, what must I do to get eternal life?”

18-19 Jesus said, “Why are you calling me good? No one is good, only God. You know the commandments: Don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t cheat, honor your father and mother.”

20 He said, “Teacher, I have—from my youth—kept them all!”

21 Jesus looked him hard in the eye—and loved him! He said, “There’s one thing left: Go sell whatever you own and give it to the poor. All your wealth will then be heavenly wealth. And come follow me.”

22 The man’s face clouded over. This was the last thing he expected to hear, and he walked off with a heavy heart. He was holding on tight to a lot of things, and not about to let go.

Did you catch that last line there? He was holding on tight to a lot of things, and not about about to let go. That's me! A punch in the gut.

Do I think we are all supposed to sell everything we own and give the money to the poor? No. But I do think we are called to let go of the things that we're clutching so tightly we can't take hold of Jesus, or stretch out our hands to help someone else. If we're using our hands to hold on tightly to our stuff, we can't very well be Jesus's hands in a hurting world.

There are a lot of reasons I would rather hold onto Stuff than to Jesus. For one thing, my stuff doesn't ask me to do hard things, or make hard choices, or love people. My stuff makes me comfortable. Jesus, if you take him very seriously, does the opposite. I want to project a certain version of myself to the world: a put-together, reasonably fashionable, interesting person who you should like/hire/show kindness to (or pity, depending on how much sleep I've had). My closet and my piles indicate that I think my stuff will present, or maybe even create, that likable, capable person. Somewhere I think I know that my actions and my character speak louder than the trendy necklace I picked up to go with that new shirtdress, but another part really believes that the necklace will help. Fashion is fun, and putting your best foot forward is important. Getting dressed in clothes that fit and make you feel great in the morning can be a sanity-preserving ritual. Some days, though, when I'm sputtering on 4 hours of broken sleep, I am reminded how little the looks matter when the inside is all crusty and gasping. My identity is not my reflection in the mirror. Jesus is enough. He has to be, because I sure am not, no matter how well-curated my outfit is.

Sometimes we hold onto things because they represent part of our identity, or our idealized identity. I am a writer, I should have a lot of books. People who are serious about their health have lots of workout clothes and cookbooks. I am creative, so I need a whole room full of craft supplies, just in case I ever decide to learn how to block print, silk screen, or use oil pastels. None of those things are wrong to buy and use. Hobbies are great! Supplies are necessary for good, creative work. But I have to ask myself: why am I holding on to *literally* boxes full of unused or once-read things? What pains me about letting go of them? They have become representations of pieces of myself that need shoring up. Maybe especially in this new-mommy stage of life. I DO WORK OUT! I DO COOK! I DO PAINT, SEW, and MAKE STUFF! I do. And honestly, I'll probably keep a lot of those items. But I'm trying to learn how to keep the things that add value, beauty, knowledge, and utility to my life and let go of the things that simply add to the pile of things that I keep as props for the character I'm trying to play for the world (or my ego).

We're making some de-stuffifying plans over here, and I'll try to write about our process as we go. I do not have it all figured out. We both loooooove us some Stuff, but we're trying to be more intentional about what we allow into our lives, and what needs to go.

I Marie Kondo-ed my closet this weekend, so that'll be the first project to share! Stay tuned.

Hi-ho, Hi-ho, It's Off to Work I Go

Fun Fact!
An extra-long ultra-thin maxi pad, such as the one I keep in my work bag In Case of Emergency, can be wedged into a nursing tank lengthwise to create a uni-boob style nursing pad if you forget to wear your nursing pads one day and you start leaking milk all over your shirt at work.

Not that I would know, personally... ahem...

The notes from my latest meeting with my boss are smeared in inky circles from the drops of milk that dribbled all over them when I set my breast pump hardware on my desk without clearing enough space. One quadrant of the cushion on the little side chair next to my desk is spattered with dark breast milk stains from that time I actually dropped the horn-shaped suction apparatus while pumping. I have a "Please Do Not Disturb" sign with a cartoon cow saying "Moo" taped to my office door. Yes, I am a Working Mother, and have the stains and pump-transport supplies to prove it.

I actually use the electric pump at work...

I've been back at work for two weeks now. I'm so sleep deprived, I have to binge-drink coffee to feel alert enough to see a task from start to finish. If it were acceptable office practice, I'd wear my sunglasses all day to protect my bloodshot eyes from the Sleep Deprivation hangover symptoms of light sensitivity and general fatigue. I drink a lot of water. I read my to-do list over and over while whispering a prayer that some project will leap from the page with a fully-formed idea attached to it. I'm pretty sure I would actually be good at my job and contribute something meaningful if my brain were functioning on all cylinders. I hold onto that hope as I plod through these days.

One of the HR team at my office asked me yesterday how my return to work has been so far. I looked at her with bleary eyes but a sincere smile and said "It would be going pretty well if I were not a half-dead zombie". She patted my arm, smiled warmly at me, and said "It is a lot of work to start a person." She then told me about her three kids, all teens now, and how she stayed home with them for a while before returning to the workforce. "It is hard either way" she said. "But either way, this tiny baby part is just one season. You'll sleep more eventually. Maybe not a full night, and maybe not soon, but more, and eventually".

More, and eventually.

That's what I have to go with today.

I have had a bit of an existential crisis about this return to work. I seriously considered staying home. It was more appealing than I anticipated. But I am fortunate in that my job is 12 minutes from home, and I only work 5 hour days. I'm gone for about 5.5 hours total, Monday - Friday, and for the other 18.5 hours of the day Baby Girl is more or less attached to my body. Even at night, her little co-sleeper bed is less than a foot from me and she's eating every two hours anyway, so we're not very separate even as we snooze. Not that I need to rationalize my decision to go back to work, but it does soothe the sting to remind myself that we're together for the vast majority of the day.

I will be honest. Honest. Those 5.5 hours have been good for my mental health, as exhausted as I am. I would be exhausted anyway, but at work, I get to be exhausted with hot coffee in my hands and program management puzzles to kick my weary brain into a different gear. I have to get up, get dressed, and leave the house every day. And when I come home, those 18.5 hours are sweet and I'm eager to resume them.

As many times as I've chastised people for doing this very thing, I have to admit it: I feel guilty for not feeling more guilty about going back to work.

Maybe my feelings will change as she gets older and I start to feel like I am missing things, or that she is missing me. Or as I get more sleep and have more energy to invest in her and the amazing wonderment that is Watching Your Baby Grow Into Herself. I don't know. I do know that I like my work, I like my colleagues, and I remember being good at it. I don't feel like it would be a huge sacrifice to give it up to stay home with Pia, but for now, it does feel like the right choice to work. I think she and I will both benefit from my time at the office. Our mornings and afternoons together have gotten sweeter, and she eats and naps like a champ for the babysitter - even better than she does for me. I guess she knows she's not getting any boob from the sitter, so she might as well drink up that bottle and go to sleep.

So for now, I'll keep rolling out of bed, getting myself dressed in actual clothes that came off of hangers, chugging coffee, pumping, and working on work stuff at an office. Because for now, being the best non-profit employee I can be is helping me be the best mommy that I can be. If it were not so, I would not be doing all those things.

Gotta go clean the pump supplies. Tomorrow morning will be here way too soon.

Living in the Gray: It's Hard to Have a Green Baby

See this cute baby? She's wearing disposable diapers. The cloth, washable nursing pads I bought to wear under my clothes are stacked neatly in a drawer somewhere, and I keep rushing back to Target to buy more of the single-use variety. We're finally going to try to use the pretty glass bottles I bought for her now that I'm back to work for real, but we've been using the plastic ones the NICU nurses gifted us for these first 3 months. A couple of her adorable outfits are made from organic cotton! Maybe 3 out of 100. And the organic cotton washable baby wipes I bought haven't been used yet either.

I guess you could say I had good intentions. I still have hope. When her diapers are less.... dramatic... we will use those washable wipes. When her little legs chunk up a bit more and she gains a few more pounds, we'll give cloth diapers another try. We rented the newborn size and she made so many messes, I figured we were breaking even on the Greeny Greatness by using a lot more water to do a lot more laundry. When my milk production gets a handle on itself, I'll brave the cotton nursing pads again. But not until I'm fairly confident I won't walk around looking like I've been hit by two well-aimed water balloons.

Her lotions and diaper creams and shampoos are all "natural" and fragrance/dye/petroleum/sulfate free. They weren't tested on animals. You could probably eat most of them. And a large percentage of our Baby Gear has been lent to us by amazing friends and family (especially Karlee - you ROCK!), so we didn't need to buy new, and will return items to the owners when Pia outgrows them. We've already handed down some of her newborn outfits to the next little baby.

I feel a sharp pang each time we haul a heavy, diaper-filled garbage bag out to the dumpster or tear open a new package of baby wipes. I've been wringing my hands about freezing and reheating breast milk in plastic of any kind. And I've wondered aloud whether all that non-organic cotton could really have any long term deleterious effects on our little MunchMunch (she chomps on her hands when she's hungry).

Somehow this new world of Mommahood has made me simultaneously MORE concerned about Creation Care and detoxification and motivated to keep everything green and simple and pure, and also LESS concerned. Or maybe I'm More Concerned but also So Tired I Don't Have Any Energy to Spare on Greenification. That could be. Maybe once Sweet P is sleeping for more than 3 hours at a stretch at night, I'll wake up one morning and purge all the disposables from our home and get to work on a big batch of homemade Butt Paste.

That may happen.

I did manage to whip up 2 gallons of Iced Coffee Concentrate this weekend:

Glass Jug, naturally. 

So there's hope. I can get around to fulfilling my Green Goals when I am motivated by crucial life-sustaining necessities. Like coffee.

Three Cheers for the NICU

In my last post, I summed up Olympia's dramatic entrance into the world and casually mentioned that she ended up in the NICU for a week. A bit of a cliff-hanger, I suppose, since I didn't say much about why she was there, how she is doing now, or how her stint in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit could be a blessing in disguise.

What follows next is a synopsis of why she was there and how she's doing now, since that isn't actually the most interesting part of the NICU story.

Remember how I lamented in the previous post that the neonatologist told me I wouldn't get to have immediate skin-to-skin contact, wouldn't get to breastfeed right away, and Les wouldn't get to cut the cord or let the cord pulse before clamping? That was because Pia had to go to the NICU immediately because the amniotic sac had meconium in it (infection risk - she needed antibiotics stat) and her heart rate was dipping way too low throughout labor and delivery. Not cool. It turns out we have my lazy placenta to blame. The OB said that he suspected I had "premature placental aging"; in other words, my placenta crapped out before Pia was ready to be born, so she wasn't getting all the nutrients and fluids she needed. I am VERY thankful that my midwife decided to err on the side of caution that day at my checkup, and that I had the ultrasound right away, and that everyone agreed to the Get the Baby Out Immediately plan. She was in distress. She was actually dehydrated when she was born, and her heart was struggling to regulate itself. So, she was shuttled over to the NICU right away to start her on monitors for her heart and oxygen levels, get some IV antibiotics, and get a feeding tube to help her get her fluid levels back up.

She had an ultrasound of her heart, and physiologically everything looked perfect. The pediatric cardiologist predicted correctly that her heart rate would stabilize once she was properly hydrated. I only had to bite my nails while staring at the dipping and bleeping heart monitor readout for a few days before the lovely squiggly line was totally in the "normal" range. I was breastfeeding in addition to the feeding tube, so you'd expect that she'd be going through diapers like they were going out of style, right? Wrong. She went into the NICU for her heart and hydration, but she got stuck in the NICU because she wasn't peeing. At all.

Call in the pediatric urologist, get an abdominal ultrasound, and start praying that her kidneys are working. Everything looked just fine, except for this mysterious little blip in her bladder, right where the bladder meets the urethra. The pediatric urologist called it "a bubble of tissue", and told us that these little blobs happen all the time, and usually don't cause any problems unless they are in the exact wrong spot like this one was. It was blocking her urine from passing from the bladder to the urethra and then out of her body. His suggestion was to put in a catheter and see if that would help get things going. They put in the catheter and immediately a large volume of concentrated urine came out. Good start, but she needed to be able to pee without a catheter. They removed the catheter the next morning and told us she had until 5pm that evening to pee on her own, or they would start talking about surgical procedures to correct the blip. If the urine was blocked for too long, it would start backing up into her kidneys and cause all kinds of problems. So we waited. And waited. And checked her diaper compulsively for hours. We took a break for a while and I went up to the guest room to rest between feedings, and sent a text to about 15 friends asking them to pray that Pia would pee. Weird prayer request, right? But when I arrived back in the NICU around 4:20pm, I saw the nurse standing over Pia's bed with a diaper in her hand and a big smile on her face: "She peed!!". I called Les, then texted my friends, then said a prayer of thanks and kissed my pee-soaked baby girl. She just had to keep up the wet diapers for 2 more days, and we could go home. Which she did, and we did. Follow up ultrasounds with the urologist showed that the blip had disappeared. He said "We don't know why the bubbles disappear on their own, but they do some times, and we just celebrate the good news". She's peeing like a champ now.

I went into the hospital on Tuesday afternoon, April 14, and did not leave - didn't step outside or breathe fresh air or feel the sun on my face - for 7 days. I was discharged from the post-partum recovery room a couple of days after the birth, but was moved to a boarding room so I could stay close to Olympia and continue to breastfeed for as long as she was there. How awesome is that? All I had to do was rest, eat, and come down to the NICU every 3 hours to feed my baby girl. Not that it was easy to get any rest, but I tried. Sounds pretty stressful, right? In some ways, it was. But that week also turned out to be a big basket of blessings.

NICU Blessing #1 - I had been so worried about how I would recover from the birth and care for a newborn, especially since Les only got 2 days off from work. Even though it was stressful to have a baby in the NICU, she was certainly NOT the sickest baby in that room. I knew she was getting excellent care. I got to shuffle back and forth between her bed and my bed, and let the nurses work their magic. I didn't have to do much infant care beyond feeding and snuggling and kissing her. I barely even had to take care of myself. The nurses even encouraged me to use the breast pump every day so I could sleep through one night feeding and get uninterrupted sleep. I would not have gotten that at home. We weren't terribly worried about her long-term health once we knew she was stable, so having all that extra help, especially 24-7 lactation support, was a huge blessing.

NICU Blessing #2 - There was one big emotional landmine I had been dancing around since I found out I was pregnant: the gaping black hole of sadness that my mom would not be with me in my first days as a new mom threatened to swallow me whole. I could not (still cannot, if I am honest) process the fact that my parents, especially my mother, would never meet or hold or kiss or swaddle my baby girl. I dreamed about my mom at least once a week throughout my entire pregnancy. As my due date drew closer, I tried to remind myself to redirect my sadness to ask my mom to pray for me and for a safe delivery and for our baby. Most of the time, though, I just cried when I thought of her.

Nothing ever could or ever would replace my mom's presence or her hug or her voice or her crazy love. But I was surrounded by amazing Mom Understudies at the hospital. My labor and delivery nurses were incredible: encouraging, warm, funny, empathic, and professional enough to help me stay focused. The nurses who cared for me in the recovery room truly went above and beyond. One of them even continued to care for me for about 6 hours after I was officially discharged because my boarding room wasn't ready yet. And the NICU nurses, especially one named Lana, wrapped me up in a big blanket of MomCare, and I credit them with easing my aching heart during that first week of mommahood. I joked that I wanted Lana to adopt me, in that way that one jokes when one is totally serious. She did a lot of the things I had dreamed about my mom doing with me: showing me how to care for my baby, helping me take care of myself, laughing with me, hugging me, encouraging me, and reassuring me at every step. In a room full of very sick babies, she made me feel like Olympia and I were the only people in the NICU. My mom was not physically with me, but I believe she helped arrange for a God-sent nurse to be there when she could not.

NICU Blessing #3 - Having a baby in the NICU is stressful. However, if you are me, it is also a bit of a medical-anxiety-reducing Win. Believe it or not, my anxiety is much better now that it used to be, but my anxiety around all things Health and Medicine is still pretty high. One of my new mom fears was that we'd bring home a perfect-looking baby and have no idea that her body was silently doing something insidious, and we would be clueless until something terrible or tragic occurred. Not the healthiest thought pattern, I know. But I'm just telling it like it is. I know that we have little to no control over her health or whatever may or may not be going on in her body, but the paranoid new mom part of me is admittedly grateful that she had an echo cardiogram, a bunch of blood tests, and an abdominal ultrasound before she left the hospital. I know those tests do not guarantee her health or safety, but I feel better knowing that some experts took a good look at her insides before she came home with us. So, thank you, NICU, for feeding into and then allaying this angst-ridden mom's new baby health fears.

Our sweet babe is home with us now, eating nonstop, gaining weight and length, and making up for all those dry diapers by becoming a peeing and pooping machine. I am incredibly grateful for the care we received, for all the friends and family who visited us and prayed with us and for us, and that Pia is healthy and appears to be completely recovered from her grueling first week. Her vacuum-coned head is even nice and round.

Happy and Healthy

I went into the hospital for an ultrasound on April 14 on a chilly spring day, blissfully unaware of what was about to shake down. Les drove our little family home from the hospital a week later, and when we turned the corner onto our street, I gasped with joy to see that the cherry trees and magnolias had burst into bloom in the week I had been indoors. It felt like Nature was celebrating with us and the bright blooms that lined the front yard gardens along our street smiled back at us as we proudly brought our healthy baby home.

And a month after that, we finally got our first family photo!

Olympia looks a bit skeptical

Best Laid Birth Plans

Prologue

Somewhere around the end of my first trimester, I started looking into natural birth classes. I had talked to a lot of friends who had had unmedicated, low or no-intervention births. I had seen "The Business of Being Born". I had read about Ina May Gaskin. Heck, I had even attended a friend's home birth. I believe that women's bodies know how to have a baby, and in many cases, they can do so with very little medical intervention. I liked the idea of a home birth in theory, but my general anxiety prevented me from exploring that path too enthusiastically. I chose a midwifery practice that includes an OB who would attend to any birth that got medically complex. We hired a doula. I researched hospitals with good reputations for supporting natural labor and have low c-section rates, and options like water birth. I wanted to labor at home as long as possible, using tried-and-true pain coping strategies, and then go to the hospital when active labor really got going. In order to do that, I knew we needed to educate ourselves and get serious about prep work.

We went to a Bradley Method childbirth class together and loved it. We both felt informed, empowered, supported, and eager to meet our baby. Throughout the 10 week course, we were coached with strategies to keep ourselves low-risk: proper nutrition, exercise, stretching, relaxation and massage practice, safe ways to get labor going when we had passed our due date (like walking, stretching, acupressure).

On the very first day of our Bradly class, our instructor handed out sheets of paper and boxes of crayons and invited us to draw our Ideal Labor and Delivery.

Here's what Les drew for us:

Home as Long as Possible (distressed chihuahua)
Baby doesn't arrive in transit
Three Pushes and OUT!!!

We were also encouraged to write a Birth Plan. You know, the politely-worded document you hand to your Labor and Delivery nurses when you check in, along with a box of chocolates and a sweet smile. Your Birth Plan outlines your earnest requests for a natural labor. Since the vast majority of women expect and want to use pain medication immediately or almost immediately upon getting to the hospital, the Birth Plan is intended to get everyone on the same page about your preferences and your wish to avoid medications and unnecessary restrictions on your labor-coping strategies. I want to go on the record that I don't judge women who want pain meds. There is no "right way" to have a baby. I do think that you should have options, and pursue the path that gives YOU the most confidence, calm, and security as you gear up to meet your new family member. For me, that path was to try for a natural, unmedicated labor.

Our Birth Plan was two typed pages, with separate sections for Labor, Delivery, Emergency Care, and Baby Care. It included requests like:

• Our wishes for a natural birth are respected and drugs will not be offered unless an emergency arises.
• Should Jill ask for pain relief, she will be offered non-medicinal choices for coping.
• Jill will be free to walk, change positions, and use the bathroom as needed, including laboring in the shower/tub and use of a birthing ball if available.
• Jill prefers not to have an IV; she will be allowed to eat and drink during labor, as desired, to maintain energy and hydration.
• Medical induction will be avoided, including stripping of membranes, amniotomy, Cervadil, and Pitocin.
• Labor will be allowed to progress at a natural pace.

The Plan went on in that fashion for the full 2 pages. I had given it to our Midwife, and they had sent it on to the hospital. I also had a hard-copy in my hospital bag, right next to the bag of fancy chocolate bars to hand out as a Thank You to the nurses who would have to put up with my screaming, tub-laboring, eating and drinking and walking to the bathroom-self for who knows how many hours. We were as "prepared" as we were going to be. Now we just had to wait for labor to get going.

About that Plan of Yours

I have to say, after the First Trimester of Non-Stop Nausea, my pregnancy was not anywhere near as gruesome as I expected. I felt pretty good most of the time, even up to that week of my due date. I continued working part time, and even worked up to The Day, figuring that I would rather be busy and distracted than sitting at home waiting to feel a contraction. My midwife practice has you come in for a check up on your Due Date if you haven't had any signs of labor yet. I had not had any, so I went in on Monday, April 13 hoping they could tell me whether they expected me to go late, or if I was dilated at all. I hadn't really felt any contractions yet. They hooked me up for a non-stress test, and I laid back in the Lay-Z-Boy with a stack of magazines and a big bottle of water and chilled out for about 30 minutes with Baby Girl kicking away.

The midwife came in to read the test results, and got a bit of a furrow in her brow. "Baby's heart rate is not quite what we'd like to see at this stage. It could be we just tested at just the wrong time, so if you have time, you could stay for another test or come back later today to re-test. The heart rate is still technically within the "normal" range, but it is pretty off from the other 4 non-stress tests you've had already. You may just want to go to the hospital for an ultrasound, just to be safe."

*** Somewhere in the distance, I should have heard the bzzzzzzcrunchchompzzzzchompcrunchzzz of our Birth Plan in the paper shredder***

I called the hospital from the parking lot, and they could not get me in until the next day. Ok. Cool. I'm sure everything is fine. The midwife would have told me if I needed to go to the hospital immediately. I'm sure everything is cool.

I went to work the next day, and then drove calmly to the hospital, checked in calmly, and rested in the dark room with the Ultrasound tech as she chatted about babies and baby girls and how exciting it all is. She, of course, said nothing about what she was seeing on the screen. I had to wait for a doctor for that. 

The doctor, who was apparently the on-call OB that day, came bounding in a few minutes later with a strained smile on her face. This was her opening line: "Are you ready to meet your baby?!?! We're going to induce you today!"

I thought she was in the wrong room. 

"I'm sorry, what's going on?"

"We're going to induce you today!"

"What is going on?"

"You have zero fluid left in your amniotic sac. Did your water break?"

"I'm pretty sure I would have noticed that.'

"Have you been slowly leaking?"

"I'm pretty sure I would have noticed that, too."

"Well, in any case, your baby is in distress. You are going to be induced. I have a call in to your OB and I'm just waiting to hear back from him about a plan. Call your husband, and ask him to get your stuff together. We're going to admit you. The nurse will take you down to Labor and Delivery."

She walked out, and I sat there, stunned and crying and still not sure what was going on, or how much Distress my baby was in. I was clearly in a whole lot of distress. I called Les. We made a plan. I told him to take his time and do what he needed to do and have dinner and everything, because I was just going to be sitting somewhere waiting for some New Plan to unfold. I texted our doula, and told her that the nurses said that "nothing would really get going until the morning". She thanked me for the heads up, and told me to keep her posted. This was right around the time that I found out that the OB who is part of my midwife practice was out of town. They would assign someone on-call. Awesome. I prayed it was not the bizarre, chipper woman I had just met. (It wasn't, thank God).

Let's fast-forward a bit, shall we?

They started the induction at 6:30pm on Tuesday, and stated the actual Pitocin around 9:30 that night, so I could "sleep through the early contractions". Yeah, right. Les "slept" uncomfortably in the fold out chair next to the bed. I tossed and turned and prayed most of the night. Morning rolled around and I was really starting to feel the contractions, but I couldn't enact much of our Pain Coping plan because I was hooked up to a bunch of monitors to keep track of Baby Girl's heart and my blood pressure, plus the Pitocin drip and an IV of antibiotics that I needed because I had spiked a fever. Joy. I was essentially bed-bound, though they did help me get everything on a portable pole so I could walk the halls a bit while the contractions were still walk-throughable. 

Here's the part where I call my doula, and discover that she AND her back-up doula are BOTH AT OTHER BIRTHS. Yep. Two other clients went into labor in the 12 hours since I texted her. I start to weep. Les gets the brilliant idea to call our Bradley teacher. There were 2 doulas-in-training in our class, one who had just finished up her certification a couple of weeks ago. We knew her. We liked her. We said a prayer that somehow, miraculously, she would have nothing better to do, and have instant access to child care for her own two small children, and would be overjoyed to come to the hospital for God Knows How Long with zero notice. Guess what? She was, and she did. I cried with gratitude. 

And for the next 4 hours or so, I pretty much just cried, screamed, mooed, and begged for help as the pitocin ramped up and my contractions kind of tore through me like lightning. And I couldn't really move from the bed. The midwife checked me, and I was only 3 cm dilated. I cried some more. She gently suggested that perhaps it was time for an epidural. I hugged her and shrieked YES!!! PLEASE! GIVE ME AN EPIDURAL! She knew, and I knew, that someone had to give me permission to surrender to the fact that My Plan was toast. 

Sweet Relief. I felt nothing from the navel down. They could amp up the Pitocin as much as they wanted, I couldn't feel a blessed thing. Even Les rubbing my legs felt like a strange, not-quite-sensation. Glorious. Les and I said a prayer of thanks for pain medication. I labored for what felt like a thousand more hours, but it was probably more like 8. Here's what you need to know about the hours of labor. Baby Girl's heartbeat was ALL OVER THE PLACE. I had a fever. They did not want me to progress too quickly, for fear that that would stress baby out even more. My bag of waters eventually broke, but, as expected, there was no fluid in it, only meconium. Another sign of Baby Distress. The Neonatologist came in to kindly and gently break the news that I could not have immediate skin-to-skin with her, could not nurse her right away, could not let the cord pulse, Les couldn't cut the cord... the NICU team would take her as soon as she was born. Les could go with her to the NICU if he wanted. 

After what seemed like days, I was finally 10cm and ready to push. How do you push when you cannot feel your lower half? Well, somehow I rallied, and my midwife helped me focus my energy to the right place. The OB who was assigned to us turned out to be incredible. Totally and completely sent by God. I liked him even better than my regular OB, and he and my midwife were a great team. It was a good thing, too, because after an hour and a half of pushing, they decided that Baby Girl needed to come out RIGHT NOW. The OB explained their concern for her heart rate, and how long she was in the birth canal, and suggested a vacuum. Bring it, I said, I want her OUT. The NICU team was standing by in the room with their special baby bed and equipment, Les had one leg, my doula had the other, the OB, Midwife, and at least 3 nurses were down near the Business End. They attached the vacuum to her head and informed me I had 3 contractions to PUSH THIS BABY OUT, or I would need a c-section. I had roughly 15 people cheering me on. It was a nail biter. The OB told me to push like I was turning myself inside out. On the third push of the third contraction, with a room full of people cheering, I felt her head come out. "ONE MORE PUSH!" yells the doctor. And out came the rest of her. I opened my eyes for the first time in about 10 minutes, just in time to see my beautiful, bloody baby stare at me with her huge eyes and start screaming. I collapsed as they whisked her away to the NICU team.

They were able to get her stable right there in the room, and, thank God in Heaven, let me hold her for 10 minutes before they took her to the NICU room and got her started on her monitors and IV antibiotics. I sobbed, of course. She was alive, I was alive. At the end of 27 hours of anxiety, determination, surrender, and plans being shot to hell, I was overwhelmed with thankfulness for modern medicine, pain medication, interventions, and highly-trained professionals who are compassionate, skilled, and empathic. We had a healthy baby. I survived. She was going to be OK. Les was a rock-star. My back-up back-up doula saved my sanity. And our feisty, skinny, wide-eyed little girl was worth every single second. 

Note her Cone-Head from the vacuum. It is much rounder now!

The best laid plans.

I know the plans that I have for you, declares the LORD. They are plans for peace and not disaster, plans to give you a future filled with hope. Jeremiah 29:11

Stay Tuned for Part 2: How a Week in the NICU Turned out to be a Huge Blessing

The Not-So-Brave New World

I have had roughly 437 ideas for blog posts since my last post in November. None have come to fruition. I've thought about writing about "green" baby products, pros and cons of various baby slings or parenting philosophies, or my take on the whole "anti-vax" debacle. I could have written some pretty funny posts about our Bradley Method natural birthing class, or my maniacal nesting-induced stuff-purging and organization projects. I've thought about writing about my genuine surprise that I am not more anxious than I am, and that I do not hate the extra-plush body that I'm walking around in for this season. I haven't written any of it.

The truth is, whether it be hormone related or just the fact that this is a sensitive and thoroughly new time and space for me, I have not been able to bear the idea of feedback, whether positive or negative, about the twists and turns we have chosen on this path. I physically cringe at the thought of reading any affirmations or skepticism or criticism. "You'll be great! You are going to be awesome parents!" feels just as scary as "Good luck with that co-sleeper. I hope you do better than we did!" or "You are a lunatic for trying cloth diapers", etc. Positive feedback hits my thin and stretch-marked skin as pressure and expectation. Skepticism and criticism are scalding and send my brain into a tailspin of self-doubt. Thankfully, I haven't really encountered any direct, personal criticism or skepticism, but I chalk that up to keep most of my opinions and our parenting plans out of the spotlight of the internet. And while part of me feels pleased with the sweet affirmations of my friends and family, another, shakier part freaks out with wondering whether we can live up to the hopes and expectations of others, or ourselves. We can't, of course.

I've already endured about seven months of "Let me tell you about my harrowing, near-death birth experience" stories, which have almost completely unraveled me on any given day. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful for all the experienced momma-friends who are brave and real and who do not sugar coat the hard stuff. I'm grateful for the advice and suggestions and wisdom they hand down, and I am eternally grateful for their promises to help me navigate the coming months. But there's something about writing from this trembling pregnant place of "doing the best we can with the information we have" for the entire interweb to read and, let's just say it, judge, that has me camped out in my safe little corner, stockpiling books and articles and notes from conversations with friends, keeping my opinions to myself.

A dear friend of mine flew under the radar for almost the entirety of her first pregnancy. She rarely returned phone calls, and didn't reach out to make plans for lunches or coffees or walks by the lake that we had enjoyed together for years. When she did call or text, we'd meet up briefly and she didn't say much. After her son was born, she told me that she had felt an intense self-protective quietude during her pregnancy, and spent a lot of time thinking and praying and reading and just "being pregnant" with her baby. I have not been anywhere near that introspective or meditative, but I finally understand the impulse to draw inward and just marvel. I'm too extroverted to go completely radio-silent, but I am much more selective with what I share and what I keep to myself.

The reality is, Les and I are imperfect, broken, excited, naive, first-time-parents-to-be. We're going to screw up. We're going to do things we regret. There will be wonder and awe and joy and tears and all of that. All of it. We'll be about as amazing as any parents who try to approach this adventure humbly, with our eyes fixed on Grace, who muddle through the best they can. Maybe once the navel-gazing season is over, I'll feel braver about writing more from my heart. For now, please accept this as an admittance of not-so-bravery on the "being authentic/putting your feelings out there" blogging front. There is a lot brewing over here, but I'm keeping most of it to myself for now.