I'm Bringin' Culture Back...

Well, hello!

Yes, I am the most inconsistent blogger ever.  Can I blame it on busy motherhood?  I don’t really feel like I can, because I know there are MUCH busier moms than me out there.

The truth is, I am actually writing a lot.  Because I am taking a writing class!  I am so excited about this.  You may remember from my first post that I once signed up for a writing class and bailed after the first day because I was too embarrassed to read my writing out loud (and if I am honest, I also thought the teacher was a nasty cow). 

So how did I come across this glorious class, and in Newmarket no less? (the place I used to refer to as the Culture Free Zone).  Well, I really started paying attention to my community paper.  Since I have been off work, I’ve been getting way too excited for the twice-weekly delivery of the Newmarket Era,  (which on Thursdays is stuffed with oodles of flyers and coupons – my latest embarrassing motherhood obsession – but that is another story).   In one of the Thursday papers I came across the “Newmarket Fall Activity Guide” which is a big booklet full of courses, classes, programs and cultural events for kids and families – and as I discovered, for just adults too!  I scanned the courses, thinking there was no way I was going to find anything interesting.  But wait, what is this?  A photography course?  Cool!  Cooking classes?  Why not!  And could it be….a writing course?!  Surely it must be lame…but it’s every Wednesday from 7-9.  The timing is perfect!  Sloan’s in bed, happily full and asleep.  I was intrigued.  So I signed up.

I really didn’t know what to expect, but within 5 minutes of the first class, I knew I made a good decision.  The group of people was so eclectic and interesting.  A construction worker.  A painfully shy teenager.  An elderly grandmother type with the softest, most delicate voice I’ve ever heard.  A self-professed “hockey mom”.  A physically challenged fantasy and comic book fanatic.  A singer-songwriter.  An Indian woman obsessed with poetry.  A mysterious woman whose kindness I can sense, but who also seems to carry pain in her heart.  And me, a new mom who has felt completely out of touch with her cultural side since moving away from the big city (which was five years ago).

Our “teacher” is kind, thoughtful and created such a safe, warm environment that we all seemed to feel comfortable to not only write galore during class, but share a particular piece towards the end of the two hours.  The format goes like this: we begin with a light meditation, to clear our mind and prepare ourselves to write.  We are then given a “prompt” and write for 10-15 minutes per prompt.  For example, one prompt was “I remember when…”.  And then you just go for it.  Then, after about an hour and a half of this (and a number of pieces in our notebooks), we go around the room and share a piece that we’ve written.  The rest of the class then comments on the piece – what stuck out to them, what really touched them, etc.  The rules are: everything is assumed to be fiction (so people don’t have to feel like they are spilling their guts), and only positive comments allowed.  It’s wonderful! Such interesting pieces! Such creative writing!  And such positive feedback!

I’ve never written so much in one sitting, and so many different things!  Each class we focus on a different aspect of writing, such as dialogue or description.  I truly feel like it’s making me a better writer.  And I absolutely love it.  It’s also been emotional at times.  My writing, as you know, is very personal, and some of the prompts bring out pieces that have literally brought me to tears (and allowed me to really write for something other than this blog – because as much as I spill here, there’s a lot more inside me that I could never really share publicly). 

One piece that has stuck out to me was from the prompt, “My Mother’s Hands”.  When I read this aloud my voice cracked in places, and when I was done I noticed a couple of the women in class had tears in their eyes.  I think it really touched on their relationship with their own mother, or lack thereof.  I know I am lucky to have the mother I have (what a reminder!), and I would like to share the piece with you now.

My mother’s hands.

So soft and so strong.

Even as a child I felt the strength in her, coming through her hands.  She would stroke my face and head in a way that made me feel like her love and calm was washing over me.   In theory, it was awkward – she would cover the side of my nose, forehead and chin, and with her whole hand sweep back, over my cheek and across my ear, coming right back to the exact spot where she started and stroke again, with the consistent repetition of someone petting a cat resting on their lap.

I craved that touch and she gave it in abundance.  She would often sing softly, or just hum, and it always made me feel so loved.

She always said I couldn’t possibly know how much she loved me and my brothers and sister; that only when I had a child of my own would I begin to get it. I never took those words in.  How could I?  You don’t get what you don’t get.  But now I know what she meant.

I now do the same stroke with my own daughter, an instinct that came to me the moment she was placed on my chest.  My hand went to that place on her face, and swept back with a gentle firmness that instantly took me back to my childhood, and I swear I remembered being a baby in that moment.

My mother’s hands have taught me many things: hard work, generosity, but mostly, they taught me love.

Thanks for reading, friends.

Xo Holly

I QUIT!

This post is going to be difficult to write.

I am sure it will be THE MOST difficult to share, that’s for sure.  That is because it is filled with shame, embarrassment, and I will be revealing a secret that only my good friends and close family know. 

I am a smoker.

I am one of "those" smokers, who has the following phrases locked down, and can recite them anytime I am encountered with someone who is shocked to find out I smoke:

- I only smoke occasionally

- I can quit any time, but I just don't want to because I enjoy it so much

- It relaxes me

- When I am stressed or upset, nothing calms me like a cigarette

In other words, I am full of shit.

You see, I care about my health.  I eat well.  I use all natural beauty products (since so many of the conventional brands have “cancer-causing” ingredients).  I make my husband feel guilty for the amount he smokes, because his amount is far more dangerous than mine (hello hypocrite).

Yet I smoke.  Every evening, after a day of healthy eating and using natural products, I would go outside and voluntarily poison myself.

Well, I DID.  A few days ago I got slammed with a cold/flu that knocked me off my ass.  Sunday was my worst-feeling day, which was the day my husband was out all day at the “Easy Way to Stop Smoking” seminar that I signed him up for without his knowledge, and then sent him to like a mom sending an unwilling child to camp for the first time.  I decided I would read the book, and he would do the seminar.  I am an avid reader, Jaime is not.  I knew the seminar would be more effective for him, and we had been talking about quitting together for a long time.  Jaime actually quit the night of our wedding, and didn’t smoke for a year and a half.  Then we went on a trip to Mexico with a whole bunch of people for a friend’s wedding and it all fell apart.  Plus, I didn’t quit when he did (see my earlier comment, on my “harmless” smoking habit).  I always felt guilty about this deep down, but like all smokers, I came up with bullshit justification that allowed me to push all rational thought from my mind in order to excuse my nasty habit.

Getting the cold, I now realize, was angelic timing.  It gave me the time to read the book, and of course I didn’t feel like smoking when I felt like crap.  And it allowed me the time to really let the book’s philosophy sink in; the most poignant point of all for me was to replace every craving for a cigarette with a celebration that you actually aren’t going to have it.  Because it’s gross, or ugly, or whatever it is to you that makes you feel ashamed to do it.

For me, it’s Sloan.  100 percent Sloan. 

Of course, the moment I found out I was pregnant, I did not dream of having a cigarette (OK, I dreamed about it, and fantasized about it, and really, REALLY wanted to do it - but I did NOT ever do it).  It was tough.  I was a pretty energetic preggo, and my social life didn’t change much while I was pregnant, except I wasn’t smoking or drinking.  I was constantly surrounded by it (sadly, almost all of our friends are smokers), but since no one we know smokes indoors (thank goodness), I was constantly alone many times throughout the evenings, while my friends “enjoyed” themselves outdoors. I’ve always smoked socially.  It’s part of my social life (as of course it is for most smokers).  So being forced to “quit” didn’t have the same effect as quitting for real.  People often asked me if I planned to quit forever, since I had gone so long without smoking, and my response was always a VERY weak “ummm…maybe”.  The truth was I was dying for the moment I could have another cigarette. 

Of course, when Sloan was born, the last thing on my mind was smoking.  I was so exhausted, and there was no aspect of my life that was truly social.  When she was sleeping, I let my head fall on the softest spot near me. 

But then I started to settle in to this baby thing.  I’ll never forget the moment I realized I could potentially smoke.  I was at a friend’s place, and they were outside smoking.  I had just breastfed Sloan and she was sleeping and I knew she’d be asleep for 3-4 hours.  And it hit me.  I NEED A CIGARETTE RIGHT NOW.  AND I CAN HAVE ONE!  I marched outside, grabbed the closest pack, and lit one up.  And it was so good.  SO GOOD.   There was a nagging guilt inside me, which I pushed away with force.  This was ok.  It was just one.  I had done research on smoking and breastfeeding, and one little cigarette would be fine.

EW.  Typing this is sickitating me.  But I will continue.

That one cigarette led to another…to another.  Before I knew it, my daily routine began to include a cigarette (or two, or three, or sometimes even four), after I had put Sloan down for the night and I knew she’d be down for hours.  After each cigarette, I would scrub my hands, brush my teeth and hang up my “smoking sweater” which I would wrap around myself in hopes of it catching the second-hand smoke, rather than my skin or hair (dumbass). 

But with EACH and EVERY cigarette, I felt GUILT.  I felt SHAME.  Sure, I had felt those things before (especially when non-smokers would see me smoke, and I could see the judgement in their eyes), but nothing like this.  My own mother, who doesn’t pull out the judgemental card very often, saw me smoking one evening after Sloan was in bed.  She was completely shocked, flabbergasted and clearly disgusted with me (she smokes “socially” too).  “HOLLY!!  You are BREASTFEEDING!!  What are you DOING?  You’re so into your natural stuff, yet you are SMOKING???  I can’t believe I am seeing this!!”  Talk about wanting to be swallowed by a sink hole and die.  I rambled off a bunch of bullshit (one cigarette a day won’t hurt, Sloan is sleeping, BLAH BLAH BLAH), but I knew she was right.  And I was SO wrong.  But away those thoughts went with each cloud of smoke I exhaled. 

EW.  I am so disgusted with myself right now I need to take a break. 

Continue…

But the guilt got worse.  Every time Sloan would stir in the night, and I had to go soothe her, I knew that no matter how hard I tried to wash the smoke away, the smell (and the chemicals) still lingered on me.  Every morning when I brought her into bed with me, she was cuddling up to our pillows and blankets that were against our smoky bodies and hair all night long while we slept (Jaime and I went so far as to have “Sloan Friendly Pillows” that would replace our sleeping pillows before bringing her in with me in the morning, but it’s not like I changed the sheets or duvet cover).  Does all of this sound like a silly pain in the ass?  It was!  

And we did all this so we could poison ourselves!

The thought of Sloan ever seeing me smoke filled me with dread.

And then it hit me (while reading the book).  As Oprah would say, I had an “aha” moment.  The only way to guarantee Sloan never saw me smoke was to never smoke again.  Obvious, right?  Well, until I looked at it that exact way, quitting seemed impossible.  That’s why the “Easy Way” book really helped me.  I won’t go into the details of the book.  All I can say is if you want to quit smoking (and let’s be honest, EVERY smoker wants to quit smoking), read it.  Open your mind to it.  I will share with you the one thing I took away from the book that I find the most helpful.  Every time you think about having a cigarette, and that sense of dread comes over you when you remember that you’ve quit, rejoice in the fact that you will NOT have that cigarette.  That you are now free of them.  FREE of them!  It sounds quite simple, and that’s because it is.  I am done.  I am a non-smoker.  And saying that feels better than that poison ever did.

Tonight will be my third night smoke-free.  The past two nights, when I’ve gone in to soothe Sloan or cuddle her (she got my cold L), I’ve smiled to myself knowing I am clean.  There is no smoke on my clothes, or in my hair or on my breath.  She is smelling mommy, pure and simple.  This morning, when I brought her into my bed, with our nice clean sheets, I let her wrap herself up in my blankets, and rest her head on my pillow (same one I used last night) and smiled to myself knowing it was all clean.  And it felt glorious.

Right Now

I have not taken the time to write this blog as I had planned or expected.  I honestly thought that having a baby provided more free time, not less.  I thought I would spend my year off enjoying each moment with my child, and also taking the time to consider what it is I really want to do in this life.  Where I want my career to go, where my unexplored interests will take me.  I thought I would write more, maybe even start a book (ha!).  But the truth is, I haven’t done much of that at all.

I read an interesting article online that someone had posted, written by a mom who rushes through life, and was blessed with a child who takes the time to smell the roses (read it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rachel-macy-stafford/the-day-i-stopped-saying-hurry-up_b_3624798.html).  She realized she was repeating a constant loop of some form of “hurry up” to her little girl, who really did not get what the rush was all about.  It really made me think.  I already am doing the same.  I am constantly looking to the next chunk of time, to my next chore, to my next errand, and all the while skimming through the moments as they happen. 

My job, as manager of my mom’s small business, had me running off my feet for almost 8 years.  Everything had to be done right now, the next thing had to be done right now, the thing after that, and after that…it all had to be done right now.  It ingrained into my psyche (and quite honestly was a great fit for my controlling personality).  There was no time to ponder, every decision had to be quick.  Questions had to be answered, people needed direction…all right now.  It’s the “nature of the business” and it really is.  We produce products.  We have deadlines.  We love our customers and they love us, because we value right now.  So when I stopped working, and Sloan came along, the gears didn't suddenly just change.  I still find myself, as I am settling her down for a nap, thinking in my head “hurry up and go to sleep!  I need a shower, I need to pay a bill, I need to fold the laundry, I need to fill out paperwork, I need to send an email, a text…I need to do something right now!” 

How unfair is that?

How ultimately sad is that?

I already know that before I know it she will be big.  She won’t fit in my arms, she won’t stay there contentedly as I rock her to sleep.  Moments pass, and moments become days, become months, become years.  Here I go with the clichés again, but now that I have a child I truly understand that time really does fly...and time needs to be cherished.   Rushing my mind through each moment doesn’t change the fact that that moment still takes the same amount of time to happen.  It does not speed it up, allowing me to move on to the next (and would I really want it to? Of course not!)  All it does is take my mind away from the present.  I miss things.  For nothing.

Interestingly though, the other night I was lying in bed with Jaime, and we were talking (as usual) about how incredible Sloan is.  I suddenly felt a rush of realization – I am happy.  And I said so.  “I am so happy.  So happy.”  I have never in my life said those words in that way.   They never came to me the way they did that night.  And I will always look back on that moment and remember the magnitude and significance of that feeling.  Once Sloan is asleep I always run through the day, finding myself missing her while she is sleeping.  I find myself thinking back to moments when I suddenly snapped out of my iPhone trance, or laundry folding zone, or any other mundane task and there she was, looking at me, waiting patiently for me to focus on her again.  I know it’s time to slow down.  I know it’s time to lose the distractions and relish the moments.  Because before I know it, they will be gone.

(FYI – this blog post was written over two of Sloan’s naptimes.  No babies were ignored in the writing of this post J)

The Warrior Has Arrived

Six and a half weeks ago I had a baby. 

I simply can’t believe how quickly the past few weeks have gone.  There’s cliché #1 that has proven to be true (“time flies”), along with pretty much every single other one: everything “they” say about becoming a mom.  I love this child more than life itself and I did so instantly.  I am exhausted but can’t imagine a world without her.  I somehow have no time to do anything, yet all I do is feed, burp, change, hold and rock my baby.  Getting a glass of water has proven to be a challenge (I joke that I need one of those hats that has bottles attached to the sides with straws that lead down into the mouth so I can have water whenever I need it, but honestly I am considering seeking one out).   The fear I had of becoming a mom is still there, but yet I know I can do it.  No matter how you feel about other people’s kids, you will love your own so unconditionally it’s ridiculous.

And the biggest truth is that it really didn't matter in the end how she came into this world.  It seemed perfectly orchestrated to result in the moment when a big (9lbs!) beautiful baby girl was placed on my chest, bobbing her head around looking for food…before I knew it, Sloan had arrived.

On Friday, March 8^th Jaime and I checked in at Southlake hospital where I was examined to determine whether I needed Cervadil or not – a drug that softens the cervix.  To my surprise, I was 1 cm dilated!  I was sent home and told to come back at 7:30am the following morning. This was wonderful news – perhaps I would get my home birth after all!  I was 1 cm dilated – maybe overnight I would go into labour.  Call it wishful thinking, but I believed that night I was going into labour.  So much so that at 6:30 on Saturday morning I called my midwife telling her I thought I was in active labour, and perhaps I didn’t need to go to the hospital after all.  I was laughing and happy, and talking no problem – all signs, she said, that I was definitely NOT in active labour (and which I later felt like an idiot for even thinking once the real drama began).  I gave it a few more hours, and to my dismay everything stopped.  So off to the hospital we went. 

When I arrived I was in a mood let me tell you.  I had a bag full of comfy nighties to wear, I had my exercise ball and was armed with all kinds of pain management movement techniques and homeopathic remedies that I was planning to utilize once labour began.  And then I found out I likely couldn’t use any of them (except the homeopathy).  With Pitocin, you are on IV constantly, and you are also attached to the fetal monitor constantly.  I mean, I had to call the nurse when I had to go pee, so she could detach me from everything.  So rolling around on the exercise ball was out of the question – so was walking around.  I was basically confined to bed.  And I was told I couldn’t even wear my own nightie!  I fought for that though and the sweet nurse finally agreed.  However, I was furious and grumpy.   Now my ENTIRE plan was completely gone. 

And then the Pitocin kicked in.

Pitocin is no joke.  Within 45 minutes I went from feeling no contractions whatsoever to being in full active labour – intense contractions a minute apart, each lasting for 60-90 seconds.  I was caught off guard and terrified.  My doula arrived and helped me breathe through them, but they were so intense that the “break” in between didn’t feel like a break at all – I felt like I was still contracting, only not quite as intensely as the actual contractions.  I was in constant pain.  The only thing getting me through was the hope that this was dilating me quickly and I would have my baby soon.  Well, 5 hours, a lot of vomit and many contractions later, I was checked and was only 3 cms dilated.  I was so discouraged.  I was also told that the Pitocin was going to be increased to help speed things up, because if it didn’t increase there was a chance labour could actually stop.  I found out I was only on the first level of intensity of Pitocin.  I still had a long way to go.  Finally, by hour six, I decided to get an epidural.  I just knew I was going to have a very long labour, and the nurse assured me it was going to get much, much worse.  Plus, she added, the anaesthetist was right outside my room, and would be unavailable for the next 5 or 6 hours so if I was considering an epidural, now was the time to get it.  How can you turn that away?

Throughout the 6 hours that I was in epidural-free active labour at the hospital, I tried very hard to push the thought of an epidural away every time it entered into my mind (which was a LOT).  I wanted to hold onto something natural.  But I was reminded time and time again that the experience I was having was nowhere near “natural”.    And as it went on, I started to care less and less about my plan.  I needed to focus on delivering my baby, and my instincts were telling me (along with the nurse!) that if I continued this way I would soon be so exhausted that pushing would be even more challenging, if not impossible. This tapped into my C-Section fear (which at this point bordered on a phobia).  Plus, I must admit, I just wanted the pain to go away!  I had already vomited twice from the pain, and not being able to do many of the things that I planned to do to manage the pain made it much worse – even if it was just psychological (only downside – I now had no choice but to put on the crunchy hospital gown). 

Once I got the epidural, I felt relief like I have never felt before.  The nurse advised I sleep if I could, to “rest up to push”.  Well I took that advice and ran with it…or should I say cuddled up to it.  I went to sleep at 8pm, only waking when the nurse would come in to check me.  As the night wore on, my progress continued to be slow.  By 2am I was only 7cms dilated, but with very intense contractions that were lasting for 2-3 minutes each.  That’s when the nurse had me push to help dilate me – within an hour I was 10 cms and the real pushing began.  My labour was progressing so slowly, that the Pitocin was even beginning to tire out.  I had reached the maximum drip allowed, and my contractions started slowing down.  Towards the end, they were 4 to 5 minutes apart...but lasting 4 to 5 minutes each (now imagine that without an epidural!  I simply could not have done it).  My amazing nurse came to my head and said "Pretty soon, the doctor is going to come in, and she is NOT going to be happy with how long you've been pushing.  I know you want this baby out your way, so you have to give it all you've got.  I am off at 7:30.  We are having this baby before then".  I could have kissed her.  I looked at the clock.  I'd been pushing for three and a half hours by this point.  I was exhausted.  But her words motivated me something fierce.

Sloan was big.  And I am small.  The pushing was the hardest work I have ever done, but by far the most awesome.  My epidural was so good, I could feel everything.  I could feel my legs, I could feel the contractions, I could feel when to push, and most amazing of all, I could feel her moving down my birth canal and eventually I felt her come out.  I just didn’t feel pain, which 20 hours of active labour later, I was so grateful for.

A total of four intense hours of pushing later, out came the baby.  The relief was indescribable, only trumped by the excitement to see my baby.  I looked at Jaime who had a dream-like, intense, teary-eyed look on his face.  “What is it?” I asked?  “It’s a….it’s a girl”.  I was in shock.  I was completely convinced I was having a boy.  I referred to my baby as a “he” the entire time she was in my belly.  When buying stuff for the baby while I was pregnant I would always navigate towards the blue stuff.  However, I oddly always dreamed I was having a girl.  And here’s some real honesty: I really wanted a girl.  I want a boy too…but I really wanted a girl first.  So when Jaime said those words, I was overcome with an excitement and a joy so profound it felt like an out of body experience. 

Suddenly she was in my arms, on my chest, her little perfect, slimy body wiggling around – rooting for the breast, knowing exactly what to do.  In an instant everything was worth it, and I honestly would have had 20 C-Sections to have her.  My plan no longer mattered; in fact it seemed trivial just like everyone said it would.   My midwife later told me that I would have most likely been transferred to the hospital by ambulance if I was at home.  I pushed for far too long by most standards (but since baby was fine, I was up for it, and had THE MOST amazing nurse ever – Fahima – I was able to do it without further intervention).  Plus, Sloan had shoulder dystocia, which is when the baby gets stuck after the head has come out.  Very quick thinking and a very skilled and fast delivery needs to happen in order to ensure the baby comes out safely.  The OB (since I was induced, it was a “transfer of care” meaning the on-call OB had to catch my baby, not the midwife) was incredible.  She gave me a quick episiotomy, jumped on the bed, reached in with both hands and twisted and pulled Sloan out safely (again, thank goodness for that epidural).  This is not to say that my midwife wouldn’t have handled it so well…but you never know. 

All I know is, my experience was beautiful – hospital, drugs, crunchy nightgown and all.  I had the man I love by my side cheering me on (and who later said that the 2 days in the hospital were the best of his life), and in the end we got to finally meet the most precious, gorgeous little girl who has made us ooze love in a way that we never thought possible.  

Letting go...

*Note: I started writing this post on Monday, March 4^th.  It is now Thursday, March 7^th and I am on my 8^th day being overdue.  I have also written a post with today’s perspective, which follows Monday’s text*

Monday, March 4^th, 2013

As I type, I am five days overdue.

I must admit, this post might be a bit of a downer.  I am feeling down.  I also feel quite silly saying that, because the reason I am down is because it seems things aren’t going according to “plan”.  After all my talk about being “ok” with my body and my baby making the decisions when it comes to this birth, I am frustrated and discouraged.  I am starting to feel like my home birth is not going to happen.

I have been examined twice in the past week and a half by my midwives, and both times I was zero cms dilated, and my cervix was nowhere near being “ripe”, it was long and altogether “unfavourable”.  Too much information?  Sorry.  It’s the truth.  When your cervix is not ripe, that means it is not ready for contractions, which means that most likely your baby is just sitting pretty in there, living its life like it has for the past few months.  Not wanting to go anywhere and therefore not initiating what I am desperate for – labour. 

I had to book an induction date.  It’s booked for Saturday.  When you are induced, you must go to the hospital and have your baby there.  Induction often leads to many interventions – exactly the interventions I wanted to avoid by having a home birth.  I am more likely to receive an epidural, more likely to need an episiotomy, more like to need forceps to pull this baby out…and most scary of all, I am more likely to end up in C-Section. 

The thing that really is not sitting well with me is the idea that we may have to force this baby out.  I can’t help but envision my baby in a nice, warm, safe environment – and then smoking him or her out against his or her will.  I’ve wanted this to be so natural, and induction is not natural!  Yet at the same time, I’ve been talking to this baby like a crazy person, begging him or her to please get moving, please do something!  Give me some sort of sign that you are on your way.  Give me the mucous plug, give me a mild contraction.  All it seems to be doing is shifting around like normal, trying to get more comfortable in there.  I’ve been drinking raspberry leaf tea, using Evening Primrose oil, walking like crazy, eating spicy food, having sex (which is no easy task by the way), and pretty much everything else any random online article tells me to try (I’ve even tried blowing up balloons.  How ridiculous!)

I also know I should be focusing on what REALLY matters.  My baby, healthy and happy and in my arms, which either way is going to be in about a week.  How he or she got there doesn’t really matter, right?  I know this is true.  But at the same time, I feel like that is a moot point.  I know my baby will be healthy because there is no way I would do anything to put my baby at risk in order to stick to the “plan”.  I am going to do whatever is necessary.  I am not going to ignore the advice of my midwives just so I can have my baby at home.  But that doesn’t change the fact that I really, really wanted to bring my baby into this world in our home, and I wanted the two of us to do it together, in our zone, with me putting into practice all of the tools that I have learned and prepared for over the last few months.  It’s just not how I ever, ever expected it to go.  I thought I was going to go early.  We have a “pool” at work, and everyone guessed the birthday, sex and weight of the baby.  I estimated 2 weeks before my delivery date.  Looking back, it was pretty absurd.  But I was convinced! 

Thursday, March 7^th

I am now 8 days overdue.  There has been nothing new to indicate that baby is coming soon.  After my bad day on Monday, I decided to keep working on getting the baby to move naturally.  I continued with the evening primrose oil and upped my consumption of raspberry leaf tea.  Most importantly though, I decided to try to shift my mindset.  I began to use mediation and visualization.  I started with a long bath, soothing yogic music and visualizing my baby, safe and happy in my arms after having been delivered in our home.  I visualized the labour (in my home), I visualized my cervix softening and I visualized a safe, warm, comfortable me holding safe, warm, comfortable baby.  I then moved onto the exercise ball, where I bounced the hours away, all the while thinking happy thoughts. 

I got in touch with a homeopath, who spent some time with me discussing my fears, or thoughts, or whatever else could possibly be holding me back.  I told her of my (perhaps irrational, perhaps not) fear of C-Section.  She prescribed a remedy that she believed would really work.   Unfortunately it didn’t.

This morning I went to see an old friend who is now an acupuncturist.  I had a lovely appointment, I felt very relaxed and it was also lovely to see her after many years. 

But something was still missing.  I didn’t truly feel like I would be going into labour anytime soon.

I had an appointment this afternoon for an ultrasound and “non-stress-test” to see how baby is doing.  The appointment was at the hospital.  It’s the first time I’ve stepped into the hospital since I’ve been pregnant.  All of my appointments have been with my midwives.  I didn’t even do a tour at Southlake because I was so sure I was having a home birth.  The tests all went well, everything was positive and baby is doing fine.  However, my midwife (Yvonne) checked my cervix afterwards and….still no progress. None!  After everything I’ve done this week and last, nothing has progressed.  Meaning the likelihood of me going into spontaneous labour is still very small.

I had a long talk with Yvonne about the next steps (to induce as planned for Saturday, or try and get a few more days to see what happens) and it helped me gain some clarity.  I suddenly realized I have to let go…let go of the home birth.  I had to gather it all up in my mind and watch it float away.  As I am typing this I am weeping.  I feel a sense of loss of an experience that I was so connected to, so looking forward to my entire pregnancy.  I feel I am also sharing that with my baby, silently explaining to him or her that the home birth was not meant to be.  Or maybe it’s my baby who is silently explaining that to me.  I’ve heard it said that the baby chooses how they enter this world – whether it’s though a natural, vaginal birth or via induction or C-Section – it doesn’t always necessarily mean that baby decides to initiate natural labour.  Perhaps this is how the baby is choosing to come to us.  I will be going into the hospital Friday night for an induction. I needed to make that decision in order to move on with this process. 

I actually just took a break from writing and came across an article online about a woman struggling with fertility.  Talk about a little perspective – we are lucky and blessed to have this child and this child is lucky and blessed to have us.  Does anything else really matter?  

Of course not. 

"The Plan"

Jaime and I are planning a home birth.  

There, I said it.  We have a midwife and a doula.  We've done extensive research and have made our decision based on what we feel is best for us and our baby.  Yes, we realize that in choosing a home birth, the option for an epidural won’t be there.  Yes, we realize that not everything always goes to plan, and yes, we will go to the hospital if at any point the midwife recommends it.  We live 2 minutes away from the hospital, and we are prepared to go there if need be.

Firstly, I want to say that I believe – now stronger than ever due to my current pregnant condition - that growing and birthing a child is the most miraculous and strong thing a woman can do in her lifetime.  There is truly nothing like it as far as I've experienced.  How a woman chooses to have her baby receives no judgement from me.  I completely understand why women would choose to get an epidural, C-section, Pitocin, or go completely natural.  I also understand that sometimes a woman doesn't have the luxury of a choice.  Sometimes the professionals do what they have to do in order to ensure that baby is brought into this world as safely as possible – and that mom is perfectly safe as well.  This may involve interventions that maybe weren't considered in a “birth plan”.  The bottom line is, no one can really plan for or fully know what to expect when it comes to giving birth, including myself.  My "plan" could go out the window, and I am prepared for that.

All that being said I feel that a natural birth is the birthing experience that I would like to have.   I would like to experience everything, feel what it feels to bring this baby that has been a part of me for the past 37 weeks, into this world the way I was built to do it.  And I would really like that experience to be in our home. 

Initially, I didn't even consider a home birth.  Once I started seeing a midwife, people began asking me, “You have a midwife?!  You’re not having your baby at home are you??”  To which I would swiftly respond “No, no!  I will be delivering at Southlake.  Just because you have a midwife does not mean you are expected to deliver your baby at home.  Sheesh!”.  But the horror and disbelief in the eyes of those who asked me that question really resonated with me, and quite honestly peaked my interest.  I have known a number of women who have chosen to have home births, and their experiences were hands down, the most positive-sounding experiences I have heard from any of my friends who have had babies.  After hearing so many wonderful stories, why was it that so many people thought a home birth was insane?  Why was it that many of the women who I know who had epidurals spoke about labour as hellish, while the women who did so drug-free barely spoke about the pain, and rather described the experience as “beautiful”, “magical”, “empowering” and the like?  Were the latter just silly hippies who were in denial about what it was really like?  Was it spiritual nonsense?  I started to look into it, and luckily my husband Jaime was interested too. 

After hearing many stories, reading many personal accounts, watching a couple of movies and checking out a lot of statistics, it became clear to us that having a home birth wasn't as risky or dangerous as so many people believe it to be (as long as you have a no-risk pregnancy of course).  Midwives are professional baby-deliverers.  Unlike OBGYNS (and this is NOT to knock doctors, I have an enormous respect for doctors, being co-raised by one myself, and absolutely believe they are crucial in emergency situations), midwives specialize only in pregnancy and birth.  When they are at work, they are all about the baby (as opposed to OBGYNS who also deal with a multitude of other female concerns, many of which have nothing to do with pregnancy or birth at all).  Midwives are also with you throughout your active labour, while OBGYNS pop in occasionally, and most appear at the end of the pushing stage to “catch” the baby.  Many women state this is pretty much the only time they saw the doctor throughout their labour.  There is no doubt in my mind that I am in good hands with a midwife.  That, and the relationship you develop with your midwives over the course of your pregnancy becomes one of familiarity and kinship.  And something that I have found to be priceless: midwives believe (in fact, this belief is at the core of their practice) that women CAN deliver babies naturally more often than not.  They take the fear and stigma out of giving birth.  This is refreshing considering the world around us – a world that generally views childbirth as a horrendous, necessary evil that ultimately produces the love of your life – but not without a whole lot of pain and suffering.

What I find most concerning is the response generally received by other women.  I can’t tell you how many times I've been told, “You have NO idea what you’re getting into”, “you just WAIT until the contractions start, and trust me you’ll be begging for an epidural”, “you know, pretty much every woman PLANS to have a natural birth.  But once the contractions start, those plans seem pretty futile”, and my personal favourite: “Don’t be a hero” (I personally think any woman who grows a baby is a hero).   But I must admit, hearing these things over and over again started to blur out the positive stories I've heard from women who haven’t had epidurals.  I only have other women to turn to in order talk about these things – other women who have experienced birth, whose stories help paint a picture of what it will be like.  Their stories and comments started to make me question whether I can really do this thing.  And worst of all, they started to make me feel silly for even considering it.  After all, what the heck do I know about giving birth, and the visceral pain that accompanies contractions, and the exhaustion that it wreaks on your body and mind?  I really know nothing!   Sure, I have had debilitating, hyperventilation-inducing menstrual cramps most of my post-pubescent life (which when I think about those, I recall one time begging my husband to take me to the hospital for morphine…which of course only amplifies my uncertainty in my ability to give birth without drugs).  But from what I am told, even the worst menstrual cramps pale in comparison to labour contractions.  And when I am hearing mostly negative responses, laced with the implied “You can’t do that, sweetie”, why would I believe I can?  Not to mention the countless husbands/partners who often echo the same thing.

I suppose I can turn to the women who have shared their positive stories, but frankly they aren't the ones in abundance all around me.  Maybe one in ten to fifteen women I encounter tell me they didn't have an epidural.  Yet typically, they say it not with pride or boastfulness, but with a matter-of-factness that is so refreshing I could hug them.  I recently saw an old friend, who drove almost two hours with her husband and 2 kids to come to my baby shower, ONE WEEK after giving birth to a beautiful baby boy.  Before she knew my birth wishes, she started telling me about her birth experience (with both children) and how much she loved it – how she did it without drugs and had absolutely no regrets about that.  Of course, she acknowledged the pain – but it was an afterthought.  The experience of bringing her baby into this world, the feelings that went along with it, the sense of relief when he was finally out, the endorphins that pumped through her body – that was what she described.  I was so happy to hear this at a point when I was starting to feel so deflated.  It’s as though she was meant to be there to share this story with me, to give me back the feeling that made me want to have a natural home birth in the first place that I needed.

And as I am writing this I am realizing that those are the stories I need to cling to.  I suppose it’s a lesson in positive thinking: focus on the good, not the bad.  Think you CAN do it, not that you can’t.  That is the secret, I believe.  Besides, who doesn't want to be a hero?

I guess we're having a baby?

“Babe, my boobs are KILLING me…Maybe I’m pregnant…”

“You’re not pregnant, you said yourself you feel like your period will come any second”.

“You’re right….but I’ve been saying that since yesterday.  That’s not normal.  Something is different”

“Let’s just wait and see if your period comes”.

“OK….”

Two days later, I’m peeing on a stick.

My husband, Jaime, is downstairs watching World Cup Soccer with our friend John.  I told him I’d wait until John left to pee on the stick, but I've never been the best at resisting temptation so there I was.

I don’t think my heart has ever raced quite as fast and quite as hard as it was in the moments where I was waiting for the tiny digital screen to register “PREGNANT” or “NOT PREGNANT” (yes, gone are the days of the faint blue line.  Pregnancy tests have become completely idiot-proof, assuming you can read).  This wasn't the first time I’d ever done a pregnancy test, but it was the first time I just knew it was going to be positive.  My conveniently reliable cycle was suddenly throwing me for a loop.  I was only four days late, but I had never been this late before.  Plus, all I had to do was THINK about my boobs and they exerted sharp, aching pains.  Definitely not normal.

Sure enough, there it was.  “PREGNANT” in big bold letters, with “3+” beside it, meaning it estimated based on my pee alone (which is pretty darn amazing if you ask me) that I was at least 3 weeks pregnant. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god.  Holy shit.  Oh my god”.

This little monologue was followed by a completely neurotic jumbled loop of giggles, short panicked breaths and tiny moans of fear.  All the while, my husband and best friend, and the only one I wanted in the room with me at that moment was downstairs drinking a beer and watching World Cup Soccer with John.  Silly me, why couldn't I have just waited?  And did they just say the game was going into extra time??? Nooooo!!!!

I retreated to my bedroom, where the neurotic behaviour continued, all the while clutching the pee stick. Jaime later told me he could hear me pacing around and knew I had caved – and that the result was a resounding positive.  So while I was upstairs pacing like a tiger in a cage, he was downstairs trying to act normal all the while knowing he was likely about to become a dad.  I admit – I called my sister.  I felt slightly guilty telling anyone before Jaime, but this game wasn't wrapping up anytime soon and I needed to TALK!  Of course my sister was thrilled (about 10 years ago or more I bought a shirt, and she made me promise to keep it for when I was pregnant, because she was convinced it would be the cutest preggo top ever.  I kept my word, and gave it to Goodwill immediately after trying it on over my bump – moral of that little story, a top that may LOOK like a maternity top, does not a maternity top make).

Jaime and I had been “not trying, but not trying not to” get pregnant for about 6 or 8 months.  Which in my opinion is friggin’ trying.  We all know how babies are made.  To suddenly throw caution to the wind was a pretty huge step in the “trying” department if you ask me.  But it was a perfect way to segue from “HELL NO!” to “I think we can do this parenting thing”.  It felt less committal, kinda fun, and most importantly relatively stress-free.  The problem with doing it this way (at least for us) was the shock in the realization that this “non-trying-trying” actually produced a fetus.  DUH.  Because we weren't paying attention to the calendar, and because it didn't happen right away, it never really felt real.  I know that sounds naive  but it’s the truth.  Which I think can be proven by my crazy reaction to the test.  And Jaime’s...

I think every girl who wants kids dreams about the moment when her and her partner discovers they’re pregnant.  They’re both gleefully happy, he jumps up and down, she cries out of sheer joy, he embraces her and the excitement begins.  Well, in real life (well, in my real life), it didn't exactly go that way.  Firstly there was my freakish reaction.  When Jaime finally came upstairs after John had left, and I showed him the test, a look came over his face that I can only describe as bewildered.  He truly looked confused and puzzled at the concept, to which I remarked, “well how did you THINK babies were made?!”.  We did embrace, he did say he was happy, but all the while he had a clouded-over look that frankly slightly concerned me.  Then it was his turn to pace.  He went up and down the stairs, all around the house, in and out of every single room, all for at least two hours.  I finally gave up on asking him to relax and sat down to read “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (which I ran out to buy while he was pacing), and patiently waited for my attentive husband to come back from his other worldly state. 

Flash forward to now, months later, incredibly close to our due date.  The bewildered look has mostly disappeared, although I think we both still get it every now and then.  Jaime has been absolutely amazing and I can honestly say I fall more and more in love with him every day.  He takes care of me in a way that I know many women would be jealous of.  It took me a long time to accept this part of him.  I always felt I didn't need to be taken care of, that I was a strong woman who could take care of herself.  Now I realize it's OK to have both, and it's brought a peace to my life that I've always dreamed of but never knew how to get.  I can't wait until we meet this little creature that's been shuffling around in my tummy, and we can take care of our baby together.  I know it will be trying, I know we will be exhausted, but we have eachother, and we will do everything we can to never forget that. 

We are about to embark on something that billions of people around the world have done, yet it feels like the wildest thing in the world to us.  

Here goes nothin…

Just jump!

I’ve wanted to start a blog for a long time now.  Probably ever since blogging became a word.  I have been writing for as long as I can remember.  I’ve kept a journal since I was a kid (and shudder at the thought that I have no idea where most of them are – I can’t help but think my mother will find them someday – and now that I am pregnant have lately been fearing that my children will).

Whenever I’ve needed to blow off steam I write.  When I need to really think something through I write.  When I seem to be questioning life in general, I write. 

I once took a creative writing course but dropped it when the professor announced to the class, “Now, this isn’t your therapy – this isn’t all about spilling your guts”.  I became terrified at the prospect of writing anything else, and actually being judged (well, in this case marked) on it.  So I never went back.  That is actually one of my greatest regrets now.  

Fear made me drop that class.  And fear has been what’s held me back from starting a blog.  Since my writing is so personal, sharing it has always been pretty much off-limits for me.  Even when I am tapping away at my laptop keys on my couch, and my husband peers his head over my shoulder to see what I am up to, I quickly minimize the screen.  I’ve shown exactly one friend (Vanessa) and exactly one family member (my beloved sister) any of my writing, and that was years ago.  The feedback was lovely, but hey – what are they going to say?  You suck at this, give it up girlfriend?  Don’t think so. 

The fear then gave way to the question, “who would want to read what I write anyway?  Isn’t it a little narcissistic to believe that anyone would actually care what I have to say?”  But again, I suppose I can tie that into fear.  Really, who cares what people think about it?  I am doing this for me, that I know for sure.

Alas, here I am.  Finally ready to share with the world.  Or with whoever cares to read this thing.  I don’t know the “rules” about blogging.  I think I will just write what I feel like writing, share what I feel like sharing.  I am expecting my first child, so the initial posts are going to be very much centered around that.  But perhaps I’ll share some of my old writing too, and who knows what the future holds.  So here goes…