Jacob's birth story

"This is the best thing I've ever read," I thought to myself after reviewing Matthew's birth story a few weeks ago.

"There is absolutely no way I'm doing that again," I thought immediately after that. If the hour of transition hadn't been bad enough what with my moaning and dry sobbing through endless, continuous contractions, then the ten or so minutes of pushing through a crown of fire and thorns certainly sealed the deal. I was not going to have pushing like that ever again. I was getting an epidural.

That is, I was, if I ever started having regular contractions. I began having contractions early Sunday morning but I knew from previous labors that they didn't quite hurt enough to count, nor were they consistent enough for me to count. I scheduled an appointment for myself Monday morning (my actual due date) to see if they could do something to turn my self-diagnosed prodromal labor into real labor. Although it was a bit disheartening to learn that 30 hours of irregular contractions had only dilated me to 2 cm and 50% effaced, the visit was worth it to watch the nurse watch my tummy for a good 5 minutes during a stress test. The belts were a little tight so the baby in me did all he could to kick them off. For most of the stress test he was sticking his elbows and knees out to create visible bulges across my abdomen and rolling around to create ripples across my tummy.

The nurse stood there just staring for several minutes. "I've been in labor and delivery for 5 years, and I've never seen anything like this," she said. I had spent several nights enjoying this gymnastics show for the past few months, but this particular routine combined with her reaction made me giggle. After she left, the doctor stripped my membrane and I hoped for the best.

But it was not to be. The rest of the day was uneventful until my parents pulled up in their minivan which was filled to the brim with canned goods, boxes, and even a bassinet. They had made their long trek across most of the United States to help us for almost two weeks. It was as magical as it sounds.

The next few days we showed them around parts of New Haven -- the food trucks, bits of Yale, some parks, etc. My mom did an excellent job scouting out several of the grocery stores and filling our home with their contents.

But still no baby. Still no baby.

Lady Antepartum

 Then one afternoon that began to change. Although my contractions never made it to my back (which I had used to distinguish real contractions from fake ones for my last two labors), they became more uncomfortable and more regular as afternoon turned into evening. While Kevin and my dad watched Spiderman (now joining Big Hero 6 as one of the worst movies ever because I was exposed to it during labor) I timed the contractions until I was convinced they weren't going away.

"I'm going to call the hospital, but I'm going to time it so that they hear me try to talk through a contraction," I announced. At this point the contractions were about 6-7 minutes apart, so when it seemed like a good time I called. They assured me the doctor would call back soon. When the doctor did call, the timing was off.

"You sound awfully cheerful," she remarked. Rats, I thought. "You should wait another hour," she said.

"This is my third baby," I said, but it didn't change her mind. So I started throwing random items into the hospital bag and then sat around waiting for Spiderman to end. Once it was done Kevin and I headed to the hospital. Although I was grateful that I didn't have any contractions in the car, it made me worry. What if this didn't progress? What if all my contractions hadn't helped move things along? Luckily, once we arrived at the hospital, the contractions came every other minute so I stopped worrying. Then it was just more of the waiting game, bracing myself through the "internal organ hugs" (to quote Bunmi Laditan) and losing all traces of my previous cheerfulness with each hug.

Eventually the doctor showed up and checked me. "You're almost at 7 cm," she said, which wasn't too much of a surprise. Kevin and I walked with the nurse over to the delivery room where I made it clear I wanted an epidural. "Pushing hurt a lot last time. I don't want that again." She agreed heartily and the anesthesiologist showed up soon after.

When he stuck the needle in my back I flinched pretty hard, so when he told me "You're the best patient of the day," I didn't believe him, and I told him so. "You say that to everyone."

"Wow," he responded incredulously.

"He really doesn't," the nurse promised. "You're doing awesome."

The anesthesiologist kept me distracted from the rest of the epidural process by talking about Gordon Hayward and the NBA in general, and then before I knew it my thighs were beginning to feel numb. Hallelujah! I was laid down onto my left side to get it all numb, and then the doctor showed up with some residents and med students.

"We're going to break your water, and that will probably speed up labor quite a bit." Once she had done that, she said, "If I don't hear from you I'll come back in 2 hours. But . . . I'll probably hear from you before then."

I then lay down on my right side to get that side numb so I could take a quick nap. I could tell I was going through transition, but the epidural had numbed the pain on my left side and taken the edge of the right side so it was a lot more bearable. Within about two minutes of closing my eyes, I felt something.

"I need to push," I told Kevin. He pushed the call button and the doctor came back in. The baby had descended further into the birth canal, but it still wasn't quite time. She left and I settled back down to take a nap.

Within five minutes, I felt the urge to push again. I didn't care if I was crying wolf. I needed to push! The doctor came back in and said she would stick around until the baby was born since it was definitely happening soon. The resident checked me and I had gone from the -1 station (according to the doctor's measurement a few minutes earlier) to the -3 station (that is, the baby had gone back up the birth canal). The doctor made kind of a funny face at that impossibility but let it slide. "We'll give it one more minute and then you'll be good to push."

"I don't know if I want to push," I said. "I don't think the epidural has kicked in enough."

"You should be numb there, so don't worry."

And then the pushing began. I figured out pretty fast that I wasn't numb in that region, and I also figured out pretty fast that it hurt. I let out the same primeval wails of agony and wordless roars as I had almost exactly 2 years earlier.

In moments of lucidity, I had the same thought over and over. "Seriously? Seriously? Seriously? I got that needle in my back to avoid this and I still feel it? Seriously? Seriously?"

I reminded myself that as soon as it was done it wouldn't hurt anymore. Soon a baby would slide out and all would be good. I just had to get him out! After 11 minutes of fire and thorns, he came out clutching his umbilical cord and screaming up a storm.

And then, oh, sweet relief! That's a big baby!" the doctor announced. "Do you want to guess how big?"

"8 pound range," I said conservatively. After I cuddled with him for a few happy minutes, the umbilical cord stopped pulsing so they cut the cord and weighed him. 8 pounds, 8 ounces. Big enough, that's for sure.

And absolutely perfect.

We sure love him!

Matthew's Birth Story

I was pregnant forever. Not the kind of forever that saw me waddling around past 42 weeks, but it was still forever. Especially because it was July.

By the time I was walking home from church with Kevin the Sunday after my due date, we were starting to get worried. After all, the clock was ticking down before our baby would be too young to go on an airplane, which we needed to do on August 8th, so our baby had to be born on or before July 31. I did have an induction scheduled for the 29th, which mostly alleviated that concern, but not that deep down I didn't want an induction because I wanted a natural labor.

Why? Great question. I think the main reason was that I had heard from labor and delivery nurse friends and birth story blog posts that there was a special, even euphoric feel that came a lot more with natural than medicated deliveries. I figured I could stand a few hours of pain (if that's all it was) for a bit of euphoria. (Wait. Is that why people do drugs.)

Also, I had heard that the recovery was better. Again, I figured I could stand a few hours of being extra aware of pain if it maybe meant I wouldn't need stitches.

So I prepared for natural. Not very much, but I did prepare. Basic things, mostly -- making sure I had enough protein and iron and green stuff in my diet, doing squats and Kegels and other stretches, walking and riding my bike, and doing pregnancy yoga for 15 minutes at a time, which was all I could handle before getting bored or being encouraged by Joseph to instead do "boy exercise" (demonstrated by him punching the air).

But what good was all this prep if I wasn't going into labor naturally? So I started going through website after website on how to go into labor. And, just like Thomas Edison, I found 1,000 things that didn't work. (But the pineapple was delicious anyway.) The closest I got was one morning when I couldn't sleep so I went through newborn pictures on Facebook to boost oxytocin levels or something and got one contraction out of it. But I had been having "real" (as opposed to Braxton Hicks) contractions for a few weeks, so it might have been a coincidence.

The next morning was a little more productive. It turned out to be 2 1/2 hours of false labor, and I eventually fell back asleep, but it still moved things along enough that by the afternoon I was in real labor. I finished packing the hospital bag with a few obscure items (you never know . . . maybe you will want to blow bubbles during labor to focus your breathing), dropped Joseph off with some angelic neighbors, and headed to the hospital.

Oh, I forgot to mention something -- during dinner I let Kevin know for sure that I wanted to do it without the epidural. "Something you can do to help is breathe deeply so I can follow along." I felt the beginnings of a contraction, so I said, "Here, let's practice now." I focused on matching his breathing, and before I knew it, it was done.

On the way to the hospital, we hit mostly green lights, but right before the hospital we just barely missed a long light. The wait got progressively more uncomfortable, and when I was about done with a contraction, I said, "You know, most husbands don't follow traffic laws quite so carefully when their wives are in labor." He responded that it didn't seem like I was about to have the baby. Which was true, I guess.

And the people at the hospital didn't seem to think I was close to having a baby either. We sat on some chairs outside triage for a good ten minutes, wondering if we'd been forgotten. I stood up and leaned against the wall during a contraction, and right after that they let us in. Changed into hospital clothes, more waiting, talked to a nurse, more waiting, etc. I pulled out Harry Potter 3 and started to read when they came in to check. Lo and behold, I was at 7 cm! This was great news because I had gotten the epidural at 7 cm last time, so to already be at 7 cm felt like I had avoided a psychological pitfall. Still did more waiting, but eventually we got to go to a real room.

And then . . . more waiting! Waiting to get into the tub, that is. Med students and anesthesiologists and other nurses and the on-call doctor and everyone else had to come in and get my complete medical history (pausing occasionally for me to get on my hands and knees and listen to Kevin's breathing) and convince me to get an IV. (I ultimately decided to get the port put in, but they didn't hook me up to liquids so I could move around more easily. The nurse didn't find it very funny when I said it was like a contraction in my arm. Probably because it wasn't funny.) Finally, everyone left except my awesome nurse Amanda. And then I got to go in the tub!

It was relaxing. Too relaxing. After about 15 minutes in there I realized I wasn't having contractions anymore. And then when I did have one, it hurt just as much as the others. If it was just going to slow me down and not dull the pain, I felt like it was sort of pointless. So I got out and watched Big Hero 6 with Kevin. I tried sitting on a birthing ball, but it didn't help with contractions at all so I got back up on the bed. Eventually, the contractions became more regular, and the movie became less and less funny. I would look over at Kevin and see him smiling and think, how could he think that's funny? (Then again, he hasn't watched this clip with Joseph over and over again, nor has he been in labor for it.)

Incidentally, at this point I would have rated my pain at a 4, because I never go above that on principle.

At some point, nausea kicked in. Too much apple juice, I guess. I had Kevin sneak me some crackers, which helped, but I still felt miserable. The nurses came back and asked if I would like to be checked. I didn't know if I could handle hearing that I was still at 7 cm (or worse, that they said I was somehow back at 5 or 6 cm just because the measurements are so subjective), but curiosity got the better of me. And . . . still at a 7. And something like 50% effaced still. But the head was further down.

It was discouraging, but the contractions ramped up so I didn't have energy to be disappointed about it. (Except, of course, that the clock was ticking ever closer to midnight, and I had told Joseph the baby's birthday was today and I didn't want to be wrong.) I eventually asked Kevin to turn the movie off, and I hurried and turned on the most relaxing music I could think of spur of the moment. Like Charlotte Church and Vienna Teng. Not "You've Got a Friend in Me" or "Let it Go."

None of these.

Kevin was still doing a good job of breathing for me, but it wasn't enough. I started barking orders at him and Amanda. "Push on my back!!!!!" "Push on my back!!!!" I would get about 2 seconds between contractions before they started again.

At this point, I sort of split into two. There was Labor Me, the one who was hurting a lot, and there was Rational Me, who was sort of amused by the whole thing but wasn't particularly helpful. Kevin and Amanda would ask questions, and I would only respond, "I don't know. I don't know."

"Haha," thought Rational Me, "I read on some website that I would say 'I don't know,' and here I am doing it." The whole time I wondered why on earth I was doing this, or really anything in my life ever. "Self doubt! You're experiencing self doubt! Just like they all talk about!" But even knowing emotional signposts didn't make it better. "Let's just think about this rationally. Where exactly does it hurt? Oh, just that spot in your abdomen, radiating out into your back? Focus on that spot. It's not so bad, is it?" No, it still was bad. But trying to pinpoint it still helped.

"Talk to me," I moaned to Kevin.

"What would you like me to say?" he asked. "I don't know. I don't know." "Tell me I'm beautiful and amazing. Tell me a story about myself just like we tell Joseph stories about himself." (Okay, maybe Rational Me wasn't all that rational, especially because I didn't say that out loud.) So he said . . . something. I think Amanda might have done better at talking to me and making me feel successful. 

Eventually, after laboring like this for about 20 hours (or maybe 1 hour . . . it's all the same when it hurts that much) it all became too much to handle, and I yelled, "I want to push!!!!" Amanda disappeared for a minute and came back with a midwife since the doctor was busy. I ignored her for a few minutes as I was hunched over the edge of the bed, my hair hiding my face entirely. Once I was done, I flipped my hair back behind me and looked at her, expecting some more compliments.

"That's a lot of hair," she said.

"I'm cutting it as soon as I have this baby," I said, and then she checked me. 

"All I feel is water. You're ready to push."

Suddenly, the room was full of med students and nurses again. I got back on all fours and pushed. And screamed. And screamed. Like a 3-year-old who's been told one Otter Pop is enough.

"Haha, this is just like the movies. Kevin would always say after I gave birth to Joseph that it wasn't like the movies because I didn't scream at all. But this time I don't have an epidural so it is like the movies."

"Stop screaming," they said. "Grunt instead." So I did my best to let out a wordless roar. Through it all, "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng was playing, reminding me that "how I am sure, like never before, of my reasons for defying reason."

"Oh, that was an appropriate lyric. Say, why is this taking so long? Seriously I thought it would happen with like one push, and I've done at least three now. Oh. Maybe I should try going on my side." So I got on my side, the nurses lifted my leg up, and after two agonizing pushes there suddenly was a head coming out.

And then the rest of him.

And then . . . oh, sweet relief. I didn't feel euphoric, but I didn't hurt anymore. It was just like my friends who said they liked running because it was like hitting their head against a wall. It felt good when it stopped.

After the umbilical cord stopped pulsing, they clamped it and handed him to me. With Joseph, I think they had washed him off a little bit first, so I was surprised to be holding Matthew in his somewhat slimy state. So, with all the maternal love that was in me, I gently said, "He's so slippery."

I could pass the smile test again.

After that wonderful time holding him, I said matter of factly, "I just want to get the placenta out."

So after that came out looking like a Rodent of Unusual Size, and after about 6 years of being stitched up with dental floss (that's really what it felt like) while needing frequent numbing shots, I finally had the chance to process what had happened. I just had a baby. I really did it.

And the verdict on natural? Well, it wasn't necessarily euphoric, even when it was over, and after the first 24 hours the recovery felt pretty much the same as with the epidural (I will say the first 24 hours were better this time around). But it was still an interesting experience, and it was cool to share it with Kevin.

At any rate, having Matthew around has been pretty much euphoric. So it was worth it.

Mother's love

Note: this is yet another post in my Proclamation series

Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children.

-Proclamation, 7th paragraph

The other day, I was looking at a blog post I wrote back in February. In that post, I talked about my fears about motherhood and nurturing as well as the conclusion I came to -- nurturing is part of our divine role, even if it isn't part of our personality. We can develop those feelings of love for our children, at least, that's what I hoped.

And what have I found? It's wonderful and complicated. I think I can sum it up like this: Love is a gift, and love is a choice.

What do I mean by that? Well, let's start with "love is a gift." Think back to your first major crush. Do you remember the wonderful, terrible feelings of infatuation that filled you with such joy that you could hardly stand it? Do you remember the thrill of holding hands for the first time with someone you really really liked? Those wonderful feelings -- I think they're a gift. The feelings of romantic love are a gift from God (probably manifested through hormones) to bring us joy and make us want to commit to another person.

And what I've found is that mother's love is the same in several ways. When Joseph first came out, I didn't suddenly love him, nor did I expect to. My thought process was this: Well, whaddya know, someone was in there all along. Then: he's huge! How did he fit in there? Then:  See, I told you all that he'd have hair!

And then they handed him back to me, all clean and tiny and wriggly.

"Here. You should do skin-to-skin and nurse him."

Abject terror. What were they thinking, handing me something so precious and fragile?

Luckily, we both survived the encounter. Over the next few hours and days, I really grew to love this little guy. When we got a few minutes alone at the hospital, I would tenderly pick him up (still somewhat terrified that I would drop him) and whisper, "Hi baby . . . I love you." (We didn't have a name for him yet.) I didn't really feel like those tender feelings came from me -- they seemed more like they were bestowed from an outside source.

Joseph at about 5 hours old.

And they grew. Even though I was incredibly sore for the first little while, I still looked forward to nursing Joseph because I knew that I would get a sudden rush of oxytocin that would fill my body and fill me with this overwhelming love for my baby and for everyone. I feel like that sort of love is a gift  from God, given to make us happy and to encourage us.

But love is also a choice. A few weeks ago, a lot of people were asking "So, what's it like being a new mom?" and I was having a hard time answering. "It's . . . hard. It's . . . fun."

We were past the zombie days and nights, the 15 dirty diapers a day, the 5 outfits a day, the arc de triomphes, and the worst of the crying. Why did it seem so much harder now?

There are a few obvious reasons. I moved across the country, away from all of my family. Suddenly Kevin had a bit more of a schedule so he wasn't there to help. And Joseph had a few colds which made life no fun.

But there was something else that made it hard -- the high from being a new mom had worn off. Although the mother instincts and hormones are still there, I feel left to my own devices a bit. That is, I feel like loving Joseph is more of a choice.

It surprised me. Goodness knows how many times I had heard from parents and church leaders and books that romance fades in marriage and that love becomes an action word. I hadn't realized how it would be the same for parenthood. But you know what? I'm grateful it is. I'm grateful that it doesn't always come as naturally and easily as I anticipated. It makes it so much more personal. It makes me comprehend that my capacity to love is indeed growing each time I consciously choose to love. And it makes me realize how much we need to choose to turn to God to "borrow" His love.  I believe that one of the major reasons we are set up in families is to experience that transformation from instinctive love to Christ-love.

As C. S. Lewis said in The Great Divorce:

"He wanted your merely instinctive love for your child (tigresses share that, you know!) to turn into something better. . . . You cannot love a fellow-creature fully till you love God."

New moon

Note: this post is word-heavy and probably boring. Skip to the videos at the end if you just want to watch a cute baby instead of read about new-mom angst.

Where have I been the past few weeks, you may ask? I've been on an oxytocin high thanks to this little guy:

Out of the hundreds of pictures I've taken, I still can't find one that does him justice. He's much cuter in real life.

Yep, Joseph Isaac Moon is here! I went into labor a little before 2 am on Saturday, May 26th and out he came at 10:36 am. (If you want more details, I'd be happy to send you the blow-by-blow, cm-by-cm tale, but I feel like it would not be interesting to most everyone. I dunno. I read every birth story on every blog I could find the weeks before he came out, but maybe I'm just weird. At any rate, it was a very non-horror-story labor so if you want to read one of those to know they exist, I'd be happy to send it to you. Suffice it to say labor went well, the Provo hospital was absolutely fabulous [I don't get why people are hating on hospitals these days since everyone was so nice and friendly and knowledgeable], and I am a fan of epidurals.) He was 8 lbs 2 oz and somewhere between 19 and 21 inches (he either grew a lot when we went to the pediatrician 4 days after birth or they didn't measure quite right at the hospital).

And he is wonderful! I love seeing his bright blue eyes and watching him kick his legs around the way he did inside of me just two weeks ago. I love the way his eyes get big and greedy when he realizes that I'm about to feed him and how he opens his mouth like a baby bird. I love how he sticks his tongue out like a frog. I love the way he bonks his head on my chest when he wants food. I love how when we do tummy time he tries to crawl (though I don't love how frustrated he gets when he can't because there's really nothing I can do to help him out there). I love how surprised I was by how alert newborns actually are (they're just comatose for company, I've decided). And (I feel bad admitting this) I sort of like it when I'm changing his diaper and he hates it and starts to scream and it takes a few seconds for him to get the scream out and I'm like "wait for it wait for it" and then he lets out a piercing wail. (Disclaimer: I like this only because I know it will end as soon as the diaper change ends. I don't actually take pleasure in babies crying.)

Granted, it is hard. Before he was born I figured the hard things would be the diapers, the crying, and the sleep deprivation. Turns out diapers stopped being disgusting around Day 2. Granted, there are still times which are a little gross, like when he does what I affectionately and euphemistically call the Arc de Triomphe when I forget to cover him while changing him, but for the most part I don't mind the diapers. Crying is still hard, especially since he's getting fussier (they say around 2 weeks they get progressively fussier til about 2 months . . awesome), but in general I'm able to calm him down. And the sleep . . . well, every night is a new adventure. Last night I was asleep from 11 to 9 with only 2 wakeup calls, so today I feel like the waking up in the night isn't so terrible. But then again I've had some 3-4 hours of sleep sorts of nights too, so it fluctuates.

But what's really been hard is the feeding and the worrying. These days the hardest thing about feeding him is the timing. He doesn't have a set pattern so it's really hard to plan anything from naps to doctor's visits to trips to the library to even doing household chores. And nursing is hard and scary and wet and sticky and uncomfortable and worrisome at the beginning. But it's getting better.

The worrying is not. I worry about that little bit of congestion in his nose, how many diapers he's had in a day, his umbilical cord, if he's eating too little, if he's eating too much, if the spicy food I eat bugs him, the way he chokes and sputters sometimes while eating, if he'll stop breathing in the night, etc. And then to make it worse, I get so much conflicting advice from nurses and pediatricians and family and hospital pamphlets and books about nearly everything that I don't know what to do sometimes. (As a side note, I haven't updated my Facebook status "What's on your mind?" for a while now because the only thing on my mind is all this stuff and I'm loath to receive any more advice from well-meaning friends.) But then I figure that billions of people have survived being babies despite having somewhat clueless mothers, and it helps me not worry so much and helps me just pick and choose the advice that seems right.

Despite these hard things, it's wonderful. And he's adorable. And perfect. And this post has had way too many words and far too little of Joseph considering it's a post about him for goodness sakes! So for your viewing pleasure:

Unpleasant things

So I've had sort of a one-track mind the past few weeks. Well, maybe three-track. All I think about is labor, delivery, and baby. I checked out "What To Expect the First Year" from the library and it's been like some horror novel that I just can't put down, or a horror novel that I have to put down because it's too overwhelming. Which is kind of ironic because it seems like almost all of the book is spent reassuring you that things are normal and your baby will be fine.

As I've been fixated on these three ideas, the thing that I've started to realize is that the world is set up in kind of a funny way where pain and unpleasant things are often preferable to the alternative. For example, let's take labor. Labor sounds painful and miserable and terrifying with or without an epidural. Yet every time I feel something painful that may be a tiny contraction, I basically punch the air out of joy. Why? Cuz it means I'll have a baby soon! I would rather have that pain than not because of what it means. (Of course, I wouldn't mind if magically I was one of those people who didn't have painful labors.)

And then once you have the baby, well, they're a lot of work. Yet much as I don't really like the sound of crying, I am pretty sure that I would rather hear that baby let out a heartrending wail when he comes out than not.  And then I'd rather have to change a ton of nasty diapers in a day than deal with the alternative -- that he's not getting enough to eat. Or down the road, I'd rather deal with a fussy baby because he's teething than deal with a toothless wonder for a child. (Okay, they probably can fix that sort of thing, but it'd be better to have things as normal as possible.)

It's just such a bizarre paradigm shift. My whole life I've tried to make things as unpainful as possible. Yet now here I am, almost welcoming pain and unpleasant things because I know that they mean a lot more good things are coming. Gives a lot more meaning to "opposition in all things."