MY BIRTH STORY

2:55 am, February 15 I woke to a gush. Three days past my due date, my water broke. I was terrified and exhilarated all at once. I hobbled to the bathroom for a gigantic pad and sat wondering if I should wake up Jared? Call the midwife? Or wait for contractions before waking everyone up at this unholy hour. It took me about 2 minutes before I decided I had to tell SOMEONE. I called the midwife and she told me to keep her posted, but until my contractions started and were regular I should try and get some sleep. Jared was next. It took a few moments to hit him, and we both lay back down to try and rest. I knew I would never fall asleep so I asked him for a blessing.  I felt like I was 10 years old the night before a trip to Disney, jittery with nerves and excitement, all while uncontrollably peeing my pants. I laid awake for another hour and a half before getting up and going into the nursery. Being in the baby’s room calmed me down a little, and I felt a few aches in my low belly. I texted a few friends and relatives, letting them know what was going on, and finally fell asleep for three hours wondering whether my baby would be a girl or a boy and if I was actually ready for this.

I woke up to a steady stream of text messages- and no contractions.

Ten a.m. rolled around and my midwife called to check in. She asked me to come into the birth center to be checked and to discuss my options. Jared and I drove into Riverside and stopped for a bagel. We took a few laps around Riverside Park. The day was gorgeous. It reminded us of the day after we were married when we took the same walk around the park. We watched some tightrope walkers balance just a few feet off the ground and a bunch of kids and dogs run around in the field. Shea, my midwife, asked us to pick up some castor oil and we dutifully did so, then headed in. I was dilated to 3 and almost completely effaced, but the contractions just weren’t coming. A first time mom whose water breaks first often has this problem, she said. The text messages asking where our baby was kept rolling in and a castor oil shot with a milkshake chaser came next. We stopped for some lunch and about an hour later the castor oil hit me. Oh did it hit me. Seriously, only do that if you are in the direst of circumstance. We watched Princess Bride, I felt at some point that I myself was hooked up to that life draining machine, I tried (and failed) to nap, I bargained with every known God from my seat in the bathroom, and yet still no contractions.

Shea checked in and asked me to bring out the big guns- the breast pump. Of course it was still boxed up, unused but we had to give it a go. As I struggled to put the pieces together I started to cry. Would this baby ever come? At this point I was doubtful. Jared pulled up a YouTube video, we finished putting the pump together and I gave it a go. After about 30 minutes, a contraction! Pump, pump, pump – another. Now we were getting somewhere. For the next few hours my contractions came steadily. Jared checked in with his Bradley book and helped me try and relax through each one. At this point I was exhausted. I was running on fumes and still running to the bathroom every half hour or so. The text messages where’s the baby where’s the baby kept coming- I cursed them all. Jared and I walked down to the park and did a few laps. Each contraction felt so satisfying. We got back home and I began to fade. I was falling asleep and the contractions were slowing down. I sent Jared to bed, and I labored for a while on my own, falling asleep on the couch, waking up to contractions every few minutes. At 3 am Shea called us back to the birth center and checked me again. I had made some progress, so she sent us back home hopeful but we had a deadline now- I had to keep progressing or I would need to transfer to a hospital where they would give me Pitocin and get this show on the road.

A few people told me, as I approached and then passed my due date, that I wasn’t miserable enough. That’s why the baby hadn’t come yet. I had a fairly easy pregnancy, and I felt at peace with going over my due date. But this was misery. This labor limbo was misery. I was afraid of the Pitocin. I knew it would jeopardize the natural birth I was striving for. I was afraid of infection now that my water was broken. I was exhausted. I was still pregnant. I was pooping my brains out thanks to the castor oil. When we got home, Jared and I kneeled down and I prayed. I prayed for the safety of my baby, for peace of mind, and for some kind of miracle to get this thing going. I decided to pump again, as morning rolled around again. And this time it worked.

Jared and I headed back into the birth center, getting there at 11 am. These contractions were different. They were deeply intense and I had to stop and rest while walking in from the car. Shea was satisfied that I was finally out of the woods and on my way to having this baby. Give me two hours of strong steady contractions she said and you can get in the tub. Jared and I were laser focused now. I had to pace the room or sit in a firm chair between contractions. When one would start, Jared would hold me up in a slow dance, rocking me through and rubbing my back. It didn’t make the pain go away but it gave me such comfort just to be there in the crook of his neck as he reminded me to let the tension go. The time seemed to fly and to stretch. I have never felt so focused in my life. Finally, I climbed into the warm tub and floated there. Relaxation was instant and savored the weightlessness that made my contractions just a fraction more bearable.

About 30 minutes after getting into the tub my contractions intensified. I felt an insane amount of pressure and I felt my focus fracture. I felt feral. My body writhed with the contractions and all I could think of was running away. Running away from my body, from Jared, from the pain. But I couldn’t. There was a sign on the wall above my tub. You Are Brave. I stared at that sign and chanted it over and over in my head. Jared was being so sweet and handing me cold washcloths for my face and neck, and I wanted to kill him when he handed them to me all wadded up. PLEASE FOLD THEM FLAT PLEASE. The washcloth incident finally clicked in with my psycho brain that I was in transition. I remember telling Jared it was so hard and I couldn’t do it before my midwife came in to check on me. She told me as soon as I was feeling heavy pressure even between contractions she would check me. That was now I told her—right now. As I got out of the tub and walked to the bed, I knew this had to be it. And it was. I was at 9.5, so close.  I got back into the tub and I couldn’t help myself, my body was pushing this baby out.

Shea had me swivel my body towards her and brace my legs against the side of the tub. I pushed hard during my contractions, and felt them change. There were wide expanses between each one. Later Shea would tell me I was falling asleep between each one, but really I was just deep inside myself. I could feel my breathing, and I thanked my body and God for letting me rest. Everyone kept telling me what a great job I was doing and how I was almost there. I reached down and felt the baby’s soft head. It was unreal. I pushed and pushed but that head didn’t seem to move. I wanted my baby! After about 40 minutes of pushing I gave it one more insane push and a scream and felt the baby slip out all at once- from crowning to birth in one push. Jared says he remembers it in slow motion - all of a sudden there was a baby floating in the water. 1:55 pm. 

She handed my my bright eyed baby. It’s a boy! No It’s a girl! Sorry Echo, but you were a bit swollen down there! My girls eyes were wide open and her little tongue was going crazy. She barely cried. They tickled her back and she squawked a bit more. She had come out forehead first- occiput posterior, and I had pushed her out anyway. Head covered in black hair, gorgeous beyond belief even with a nice lump on her forehead from being squeezed. Jared cut her cord, and then held her while the midwives took care of me.  6 lbs 4 oz of pure joy. Echo Marie, you were so worth it.

FOR CATHY

Jared's Grandma Cathy was a spitfire. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, and she had that token Alexander sarcasm and wit I see in Jared and his father, Ed, down to a science. She always made me feel warm, and comfortable and loved. Jared and I's first year of marriage, she gave me a beautiful handmade quilt for Christmas. All the grandchildren had one or two, and now so did I. Some people are just born to be Grandmothers, I think.

Her passing was a shock. She was full of life and laughter. Laughter with others, and laughter at herself. She regularly cooked dinner for scores of people at church, sang in the choir and volunteered at hospice, all while keeping Grandad in line ;).

Jared loved her so, so much. I can see that reflected in the way he still talks about his trip to Cape Canaveral with his grandparents in the 6th grade- he wants to make those kind of memories for our little baby- and his reverence for her wonderful recipes. My first birthday as Jared's girlfriend he got Cathy to make me THE birthday cake. A 3 layer yellow number with rich chocolate icing. After that, I could tell maybe he really did like me.

After leaving the hospital he volunteered to make a family dinner. Cathy's crispy chicken never tasted so good. I think somewhere she's proud.

FOR PAPA

Papa was a chocolate milkshake. He was sushi and a crinkly grin and a diet coke with lemon. He was old westerns and old yarns. He was a nap in a comfy arm chair in the middle of the afternoon. My benefactor and landlord for 5 years.

I can imagine him, pugnacious and tan as a nut, sneaking into the Riverside Theater as a little boy. Strong and handsome, life guarding and diving from the highest platform at Kingsley Lake. Buying his wife a yellow rain slicker for Christmas when she asked for a new coat. I remember him driving me to the first grade, sitting in the cab of his truck so proud that my Papa was driving me to school. Sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over the scriptures, glasses on the end of his nose. Telling me I was crazy for getting a dog, and then sneaking Gilligan scraps of food at every opportunity. 

Papa called me little girl, or granddaughter. I will miss that. He was a man with a temper and a fierce loyalty, two things I have inherited. I loved telling him about our trips around the world, and he loved listening. A granddaughter who went to Egypt? To Norway? He was as proud as if he had gone himself. He collected. I remember coming over, and he was plopped on the sofa swinging a small ball of cord, pleased as punch over his monkey fist. He had every tool and could fix almost anything. He liked to tinker. He always wore a belt and suspenders, for good measure. 

 He let the little grandsons play with his special model cars. He was forever rummaging around for something sweet. He liked to tease, another habit of his I seem to have inherited. He didn't sugar coat, but he did love. When I was in the fourth grade I had to write a speech about my favorite person- it was him. 

He was so sick in the end, a shade of who he had been. I will miss him with all my heart. I miss his even more for my grandmother. I know I will see him again someday.  

THE LIFE OF THE HIGH STRUNG WOMAN

Am I asking too many questions?
Am I forgetting a question?
Why must I crave goat cheese at all hours?
Will we ever stick to our budget?
How much does a normal couple spend on groceries?
Do we really need to buy jugs of water?
Am I drinking enough water?
Why didn't they ask me first?
Ugh, why did they even ask me?
Have I done any good in the world today?
I wonder if I can eat popcorn yet?
I wonder if I put on too much powder today? Does my face look chalky?
I wonder what Jared is doing?
I wonder what Gilligan is doing?
Do I play with my dog enough?
Do I tell my husband I love him enough?
Do I tell him to often?
Is that even a thing?
Gosh I'm starving. Should I hold out til lunch?
CAN I hold out til lunch?
FOOD.


Roughly 3 minutes inside my head.

THE TREE

I have become obsessed with this tree in my yard.

The tree looks like a Dr Seuss character. It's covered in pink wisps. At night something magical happens and it lets out a heady, intoxicating fragrance like big ripe peaches.

I make a pilgrimage to the tree every night, sometimes twice. I walk around and wobble my head, sniffing all the while, trying to find the best spot in the yard. Sometimes it's 5 feet away, sometimes it's right next to a blossom. And I inhale again and again, greedily sniffing it all up.

It bothers Gilligan to the extreme. Why are you sniffing that tree instead of watching me urinate?

I also make visitor to the apartment come and sniff the tree. "You gotta smell this tree," I'll say. And they do. And they love it too.

I've been reading Jacob 5 over the last week or so. Its a parable about a the gardener caring for a tame tree that used to give great olives but in its old age has become sickly and pooped. He saves the tree by grafting in peices of wild olive branch. The new pieces are wild, the olives were probably bitter and everyone probably thought he was a little nuts. But it works!  This crazy wild olive tree saves the tame tree. More then that, they combine perfectly to become a new tree-- a healthy tree with delicious olives. Now I know what this parable means about the scattering of Israel, but I've been thinking in a different way lately.

I have been thinking a lot about wild trees. Tree's that smell like peaches and have pink fuzz all over them.

Sometimes, we get so set in our ways. The right ways. We put our blinders on and do our thing. Often this leads to personal decay and unhappiness. Especially if we are attempting to get different results and change and prosper--all by doing the same old thing.

So I invite you to look at your own tree. Your family or body or schooling or fitness or whatever you decide that tree is, and then look around. Go out into your yard and wobble your head and sniff out a pink perfume tree. And see what you do with it. See how it may change you for the better.

BUSY AS A BEE

I truly never understood the saying "there just aren't enough hours in the day"  until this year. I was never an over industrious person as a teenager and into my college years, but as days go by and I ripen up a bit, I can feel my A-type engine revving.

 I see in myself more and more the need to go and go and go. To make, help, carry, clean, decorate, cook, whatever there is to be done. Whether this is the product of Mormonism, the waning of adolescent depression, being a Manning or just a sign of -gulp/guffaw- "maturity", I could not tell you. I've always loved being in the thick of it, but lately I've been filled with enough initiative to make me think that maybe, just maybe, one day I'll be half the lady my grandmother is. Seriously, there is never a room she can not make cleaner or a yard that doesn't stand a good overhaul when Bonnie is around, and I mean that in the most sincere compliment.

 The way I am writing this makes me sound like superwoman, flying around and sweeping the floor clean with a golden broom, which could not be further from the truth. Its just remarkable when you can see the evolution of yourself. It's like looking forward and seeing the curvature of the Earth. It is rare to realize the change within yourself while it is happening. Hindsight usually reveals all of this in sparkling clean lines, but current change moves too fast to make out. I really do feel different though. Different from a year ago, yes, but different than 3 years ago-drastically. 

On my lunch break, I let Gilligan out for his afternoon T time, and then went to change my shoes so I could play with him in the back yard. I thought I should stay out there with him, but 5 minutes couldn't hurt, right?

I came out and he was no where to be found. The gate was wide open and my neighbors car was gone, so I knew just what had happened. I went out into the neighborhood and started calling the dog but he was gone. I didn't panic though. I felt very calm for a woman who is so frantically obsessed with a small helpless creature such as Gill. I said a prayer and I knew I would find him. I walked up and down the street calling him, finally getting a little choked up after 10 minutes of nothing. I tried calling Jared for ideas but then then the mailman stopped me and said "Oh a little dog? Yes, I saw him waiting at your front door so I let him into your building." I walked home and there was Gillian, shivering and wagging his tail in the foyer in front of our door. 

I give this long winded account of a dog gone missing because it has stuck in my brain for the rest of the afternoon. I am blown away by the ability we all have to listen to our gut instincts. I recognize that gut reaction as a prompting, the Holy Ghost, Holy Spirit, our conscience whatever you want to call it, told me not to leave that dog out there alone and I did anyway. It was a small and almost insignificant feeling but hey--isn't that almost always the case? That same feeling assured me everything would be alright when I saw him missing. 

I hope that busyness doesn't get in my way of listening to those little things. I hope that as I feel these rapid changes within myself, they are for the better. 

I also hope I can stop thinking of really vindictive, clever and evil ways to get back at my neighbors for always, without fail, leaving the gate open. But some things never change. 

THINGS WE WANT

Today I have to much free time and a lot on my mind, so I've got it in my head that I am going to WRITE.

That's why I like blogging. The words. I like when I read something and I think "Oh, I know that girl. She is me." The pretty pictures make me swoon and the clothes and crafts are inspirational. Comparison in the thief of joy somebody said sometime and boy, is it true. But the words are what tie me to blogging. If you ever want to have a laugh, go and dig up my old livejournal. Yeesh. I have been lackluster about my blog lately and I think its because there's just not enough heart here. I am a write. I am a word rambler. I am a story teller. In the new year I would like to change this, and put some real thought into making this blog what I want it to be: A record of me. A depiction of my life and what I'm going through that I can look back on, and hopefully one that others can commiserate with and say "Yes, I know that girl. She is me."

Anyway, this morning I'm thinking about the shame and the inner struggle that comes with WANT. I have been thinking a lot about Pres. Uchdorfs talk, The Good and Grateful Reciever.I often feel overwhelmed when I am gifted things. I do not feel worthy to receive them. My biggest fear is selfishness and self-absorption. What will people think if I make it known that I actually desire this or that? This battle has affected many parts of my life. Should I wear this outfit? What if people think I'm being flashy? Can I wear red lipstick? That's so much attention to my face. Can I tell this boy how I feel? What if it all turns out terribly? Can I write a blog? How vain!

Luckily, I usually push through in every inner struggle and I don't let the fears win out. But the struggle is still there! Confidence is hard won. As I grow older, it gets easier, but also presents a new level of crazy. Even now as I write this, I don't know if it makes sense. If I have touched the core of the issue. Hopefully you can make it out. Right now I want to be a better writer and a better memory keeper, and that scares me, but the desire and the results rule out the fear. Yes, I know this girl, this sheepish girl. She is me.

To the girl in the red pants

I've been seriously debating whether or not to write about this, mainly because I no longer hurt from it and it seems stupid to dredge up old feelings. I landed on a yes because I feel like I learned a huge lesson from it.

The central part of visiting California was for my husband and father-in-law to go to the U.S. Open at the Olympic club. I went for one day and they went for two. I'll keep the synapses short: it was a long day walking up and down the side of a mountain. Cellphones were banned. I wasn't exactly the happiest of campers.

We started following some golfers and I noticed a girl who was watching the same group. She was very pretty, very thin and was wearing the same bright red J.Crew pants as I was. I started thinking about how I wished I looked like that girl. I've never been a skinny girl. I wear a size 10 and most days I'm comfortable with that. I'm quite chesty and my shape has always been a big part of what makes me, me. But sometime when I'm on vacation and there are hundreds of pictures being snapped, I get a little down on the way I happened to look in that instance.

Later in the day, I noticed the girl in the red pants glancing at me. She was hanging out with 2 middle aged guys, and all of a sudden I heard one of them make a really mean remark about that "other girl in the red pants." This continued for a few minutes, each of them taking their jabs; apparently they had, for a split second, mistaken me for her in the crowd. Then they stopped because they realized I could hear everything they were saying.

I probably don't have to tell you how that affected me. I burst into tears. Jared grabbed me by the hand and we walked as far away as possible and I cried and cried. It doesn't matter how confident you feel, when someone says hurtful things like that it really rips your guts out.

The rest of the day i contemplated all the mean things I could go up and say to these people. All the ways I could embarrass and shame them. But I never said anything.

This made me have a huge reality check. How many times have I made off handed cutting remarks about a stranger? How often have I callously judged another person? I really want to be better, and I definitely have been since that day at the Olympic Club.

 

This is what I looked like that day. I snapped this crappy cell picture after we got home late. I don't think I look all that bad. I'm not crying in the photo, just red from a sunburn and making a weird face.

Like I said, I don't feel the anguish I felt that day anymore. I feel sadness that I have been  the girl in the red pants more then once. Here is a great quote from Dieter F. Uchdorf, a leader in my church:

"This topic of judging others could actually be taught in a two-word sermon. When it comes to hating, gossiping, ignoring, ridiculing, holding grudges, or wanting to cause harm, please apply the following:

Stop it!

It’s that simple. We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. God is our Father. We are His children. We are all brothers and sisters."